This post is another fictionalized yet true-to-life account of the reality of hospitality in the Venezuelan interior. People and place names are fiction, but based on true experiences. El Duo is an obvious reference to El Pao.

Lunch was the major meal of the day in Venezuela then – a cultural reality to which Americans quickly adapted. The boy’s father, like most other men in the mines and offices of the El Duo mining camp, came home for lunch and returned to his labors an hour later.

“Adam, he is such a good man; we should feel privileged to be of some help. Surely lunch is no big deal. Remember, we are commanded to hospitality.”

“Yes, and we’re also commanded to work for our food!”

“Adam! He is 78 years old!”

“And he can walk 5 kilometers to our home. And, besides his telling you, how do you know that? He doesn’t look a day over 50 to me.”

“I can’t believe this! You would have me ask for ‘his papers’, as if I were some … some … Nazi official? Mr. Gregorio is an old man; a widower. He is not asking for charity. In fact, Mildred has told me that he works people’s gardens in the labor camp, and….”

“And why don’t they feed him, then?”

“Well, Adam, he works without pay! Don’t be such a…a…such a … garlickeater!”

He raised his eyebrows, looked sideways at her, “Don’t tell me: Johnson, right?”

The running gag in the household was that the boy’s mother read Samuel Johnson, but only to carefully annotate the words the great man of letters would use as snubs. She admired the “Age of Johnson,” which his father referred to as the “Age of Insults.” 

She nodded deeply, deliberately, but stayed on point, “He does this as a service for them. Anyway, I have no doubt they do feed him. And without grumbling too! And, you know what? Many of those families accompany him to church on Sundays. I feel we have a part in that and the least we can do is invite him for lunch. For Pete’s sake!”

“Well, you don’t exactly ‘invite’ him to lunch; he just ‘shows up’ for lunch.”

“OK. You are trying to provoke me, right? I mean, I cannot believe my husband would be so … giddybrained he would throw an old man, who is beloved of many and who has been a blessing to many, out on the street. Tell me you are not urging me to do that.”

“Giddybrained?” with barely suppressed laughter.

“I know you are not being serious.  Here, have some chicken and rice and shut your mouth.”

“Shall I eat with you and my son and daughter, or with him?”

“If you can stand the smell, go out and eat with him!”

This conversation, with multiple variations, took place at least once each week, much to the boy’s delight, for he enjoyed and laughed at his parents’ repartee. His little sister, Louise, was too young to understand intellectually, but she caught the spirit of it all and laughed along with the boy.

Mr. Gregorio was unusually tall for Venezuelans in that part of the country: about 5 feet 10 inches. He walked slowly, with a barely noticeable limp. He dressed, like most, in khakis. He had thick eyebrows and bright, black eyes. What the boy most remembered about him was his full, thick head of black hair, combed straight back and with barely any streaks of gray. He would also eventually remember his calm speaking: a trait not too common in the Venezuela southeastern interior.

“Adam, seriously, did you know he was diagnosed with cancer 5 years ago and the doctors gave him about 6 months to live?”

“And he’s still alive 5 years later…”

“You are being sarcastic again, and unbelieving, but I’ll let that pass. His story is quite moving, actually. He kept visiting the doctors according to their instructions up at the hospital ….”

Adam was about to insert another needling remark, but knew he was about to pass beyond that convivial pettifoggery, which is usually appreciated among intimates and friends, and into the dangerous realm of cynical fatuousness, which is not. He began to listen intently, quietly, as Margaret handed a steaming pot to Eleana, the housemaid-nanny-and-indispensable-help around the house, and sat next to him.

“After a year of visits, he asked his doctor, ‘Can you explain why I’m still living? I mean, about a year ago, you told me I had about 6 months to live.’ 

“The doctor could not explain; and Mr. Gregorio said, ‘Well, I’d like to offer you a possible explanation. You see, when you told me that, I went home and I knelt and I asked God to show you that you do not control life. Only God controls life. He alone determines who lives, and for how long, and He alone determines who dies. I am ready to meet my Maker and Redeemer. But I don’t think you are. So, I prayed for you, doctor. And I believe the Good Lord has kept me alive for your sake.’

“Adam, it’s now been 5 years and that doctor has been going to church every Sunday. That doctor is, of course, Dr. Ramirez.”

Everyone in El Duo knew that the doctor’s wife and children had been killed on the El Duo road near Las Posas. In that area, the road has what Adam called a “dead man’s curve,” which is dangerous enough; however, in this case an added danger is that the curve is at the edge of a precipice. Their car careened off that cliff. The bodies were found because of the buzzards seen flying overhead a day or two later.

“Mr. Gregorio knows he will die soon, Adam, and he, more than anyone else, is astonished that he is still living and kicking. He knows he’s on borrowed time and he wants to do all he can with what he has left.

“You are right: he does ‘show up’ every week. But you know what? He’s a joy to all of us. We enjoy his company and his stories. There is a sort of intangible ‘comfort’ that we all sense when he’s here, sitting at that table in the car port. Little Louise, who doesn’t understand nor mind unpleasant smells or body odors, spends the most uninterrupted time in his presence. I like people with whom children are comfortable. 

“I think we need him more than he needs our lunches. In a sort of strange way, he probably knows that, and so he comes to us to accompany us every once in a while. He amply fulfills that old English proverb: the company makes the feast.”

“I’ve been having fun with you, honey,” the boy’s father said, unnecessarily but with a warm smile, after a few moments of silence. “Of course, he’s welcomed in this house as often and as long as he wants.”

After lunch, more conversation, and a short nap, it was time for him to return to the office. He headed for the carport. A few minutes later, not having heard the car drive away, the boy stepped out and saw his father talking with Mr. Gregorio and, after a while, offering him his hand. He then walked to the car, a red, 1952 Oldsmobile 88, turned the ignition, backed out of the carport, and drove away.

As it turned out, Mr. Gregorio did not live beyond that year. And the boy accompanied his parents to his funeral, held at the little cemetery in a jungle clearing in the outskirts of the labor camp, known as the Otro Campo. Dr. Ramirez was there too.

An American cattleman with business interests in Venezuela once wrote his personal impression of Venezuelan society saying that it was the most open and cordial in all of South America. He further noted that, unlike the Argentines and Brazilians, who used hotels or restaurants or clubs to entertain visitors, the Venezuelans entertained in their own homes; in that respect, he concluded, they were very much like the Americans. We will have occasion in future posts to tell of what Americans in the early to mid-20^th century came to know as “Latin Hospitality”.