The Matriarch of the Night!

The Matriarch of the Night!
By Tatiana Pahlen

          While I was reading a Farewell column of Winston Groom, dedicated to Elaine Kaufman in the New York Post, I stopped for a big sigh at his opening line, “What I remember most is her great hearty laugh.” I recall that very laugh, which is oddly haunting me now as aptly depicted by the author of Forrest Gump.
          I’ve been visiting Elaine’s Saloon for over twenty years. First time I emerged in the vibrant, ever-busy spot was in the company of a captivating young publisher, Morgan Entrikin, the head of Grove Atlantic and Taki Theodoracopulos, the writer and editor for London Spectator, also known as an international playboy billionaire who dated Brigitte Bardot in her heyday. Both are independent and original thinkers, the men I spent endless hours with to chat about everything: from literature, poetry and philosophy to history and politics. At times we debated until the wee hours. The memory never fades where the challenge of the brain plays a big part.
          As soon as we arrived she left her usual table and joined us. The conversation never dried up. She wanted to know who are the best and new writers on the rise, their names and what are their tales were about.
          Years later, whenever I was back at Elaine’s she never failed to ask about Morgan. She had a special place in her heart for him.
          Ah, the hearty laugh. Once we were sitting in the large group when Elaine sent us a round of drinks, as we were about to leave. A friend of mine, Charles Kepps, looked at his watch exclaiming. “My God! It’s 2am!” He reached for another cigarette and lit it up. It was the time when smoking was not prohibited in the restaurants. Bloomberg was still an unknown, obscure resident of Boston, working himself up to become the mayor of New York.
          “I must be up before 7am and sober,” Charles whined sipping Irish Baileys, complements of Elaine. “How am I supposed to do so?” He took a deep draw, slowly puffing out a long plume of smoke and slouched on his seat. “The three of us, Bill Cosby, the Surgeon General and I have to come up with the killer campaign slogan and I was to deliver some drafts to be chosen from. I didn’t even start crafting this crap.” I expressed an interest to hear more about the campaign. He evolved, “The campaign is against Tobacco, Alcohol and unprotected Sex.” The latter word came out slightly suppressed. His cheeks were blushing, but it could be just the liquor that caught fire. “Interesting!” I smacked my lips. “So, let’s think of it now,” I ventured. “All of us!” Elaine tuned to our discussion moving her head closer to the center and everyone drank for her hospitality. “My idea,” divulged Charles “was something like, If You Want Sex, Think Again! If You Want Drink, Think Again! If you Want Smoke, Think Again!” We all looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. “How about this,” I stirred up silence. “If You Want to Interrupt Sex with Alcohol and Tobacco, Think Again!” I waited for a second before rolling the punch line: “Protect your Sex!” I never saw Elaine laughing so hard. Her whole body was moving wildly and her deep voice sounded like belly moans, uttering: “That would work! Ha-ha! Cosby would like that! But it might be a hiccup for the Surgeon General.” Charles took the last drag from his stub before letting it die in the ashtray. “I’ll work on it, no worries. The night is young.” Elaine sent for another round, the act she repeated on the rare occasion.
          Once, on the way to Elaine’s I spotted a white stretch limo parked at the sidewalk. Usually her clientele is discreet and avoids at any cost such extravaganza. No one wants paparazzi hovering and feasting on him or her like bed bugs. Most of them were afraid to go near Elaine; she would chase them out with the broomstick if not the trash lid. My friends were already sitting at Elaine’s table, silently scolding me for being late. It was somewhere around Christmas 1999, (the only time I wear my bright red blazer). The dates are correct, as documented in my poem devoted to Elaine, which will be introduced later.
          A flock of young ladies, flashing away their cameras, were posing with no one else but James Bond himself in the flesh. Sean Connery was at the bar area swigging on a bottle of beer beaming in the center. Surprisingly Elaine didn’t pay attention to the group. So were the rest of the tables carried bold names regularly, such as Woody Allen, Alec Baldwin, Harrison Ford, Halle Barry to name a few, except Vincent, a known face of The Sopranos sitting next to me on my right and his wife Maureen on his left; the latter was busy chatting with Chris Noth, best known as Mr. Big since the smashing HBO show “Sex in the City” hit the screens.
          The scenery developing in front of us largely amused Vincent and I, as we were conveniently facing the bar. Suddenly I blinked and the ladies were gone and the only person at the bar was Sean Connery. Colors of red perhaps drew his attention. He stared at me like a bull at the matador. I engaged myself in the trivial conversation with Vincent, but the Soprano man was no fool and continued observing the act of James Bond, watching him like a hawk with his arms crossed. 007 ignored the audience making suggestive jesters my way, visibly inviting me to the bar. That was unthinkable, especially for a guest sitting at Elaine’s table; to trade the chairs was considering as a slap on her face. Elaine was known for not taking prisoners. Thankfully her back was turned to the bar and Charles was feeding her with another juicy plot born in collaboration with Dick Wolfe for a future episode of Law & Order.
          At one point my eyes locked with Sean Connery’s where I read that I was an object of his desire for the night. Finishing his beer he ordered another one showing his patience was wearing out. I always loved the guy, by my proud nature was unbreakable.
         “I’m not moving” my eyes replied to him. His expression was, “Think what are going to miss. You might regret it later.”
         “I know!” my eyes sighed.
         “I’ll give you another five minutes to think it over. I insist.” I sensed a slight begging in his deep brown and forever gorgeous eyes. Vincent didn’t miss a beat, but remained silent, enjoying the act.
         “So, are you ready?” James Bond was flirting like a teenager. My eyes expressed endless regrets.
         “Sorry, can’t do it!” He took a swig from his Heineken bottle finishing it in one gulp.
         “Well, it’s your call! The aging satyr eyes’ sparkled violently”
         “I know!” I sighed.
         “My other half won’t forgive me for that! He is your biggest fan. I foresee him scourging me for the rest of my life answering why I rejected you.”
         "So what stops you then?” He studied my surroundings at the table. My eyes led him towards Elaine.
         “Her? You can’t leave the table because of this woman?” he shrugged the thought off.
         “She is not just any woman, she is Elaine, the matriarch of this place!” I resisted. My body straightened.
         “I don’t get it!” He looked puzzled.
         “I happened to be her guest and she won’t take such disrespect easily in front of all of those “Soprano” hit men.” Vincent leaned back sneering and nodding.
         “Your loss!” He left the bar stool and slowly moved towards the exit. Before his arm reached the door, his eyes made another attempt.
         “I have a car waiting at the door.” His eyebrows went up.
         “I noticed, the white limo, I saw it on the way in; it’s rather flashy,” I implied.
         “I know! The idiots sent a wrong dispatch, I wanted a simple wagon!” His thick, caterpillar eyebrows now frowned.
         “Well, as long as it moves,“ I consoled.
         “Listen, lady, it’s your last call. Are you coming with me?” He rocked his tall torso toe to heel. My eyes at that point were forced to shift away as a furtive Vincent interfered with the culmination.
         “So, what d’you think of that scene when I was at the Hospital room?”
         “Are you talking “Soprano”?
         “What else, silly"?
         “I think you had red lipstick on and didn’t look pale enough for playing sick,” I reasoned.
         “Are you serious? No one else said so.” He sounded hurt. While he was recuperating from the blow, I stole a second from the small chat to check out the door. James Bond was still there gazing passionately. Tearing, I shook my head waving him off and watched his pensive look deepened, before his distinguished frame disappeared for good. Later that night I wrote a poem, which was attributed to Elaine. I enclosed it in the small bag along with the necklace made of large colorful stones she fancied and presented it to her on her birthday in February. She seemed pleased with the poem. I never told her the story behind it, but somehow I believe she knew every move that happened behind her grotesque assertive back.

Bits of Ice
(To Elaine Kaufman)

If you’ve been trapped
into luring eyes
hitting on nothing,
but sharp bits of ice,
don’t call it Challenge,
run, flee away,
shove off your chances
to be squashed again.
Find other ways
to exhaust your pain;
wish to stab your Ego?
Get drunk at Elaine’s!

December 22, 1999

          Elaine cut anyone down to size effortlessly, the fact well known among her regulars! Since she departed on December 3, 2010, I found many on line biographers rushing to unveil Elaine’s life, but none of them revealed that her background was originally from Kiev. She was true American by birth, but Ukrainian by heritage. She always wanted to visit the city of her ancestors and was curious to learn about the history of her forefathers’ land. I never had chance to ask her if she fulfilled her desire. I told her that I traveled there and fell in love with Kiev and their giant Kashtan trees, in English called Horse Chestnut. There is a difference between usual Chestnut and Horse Chestnut, the latter ones bloom glamorously and their fragrance is overpowering.
          Originally Kiev was the capital of the Eastern Slav state, called Kievan Rus, which was formed by Prince Oleg in 879. The biggest country in Europe at the time, it reached the height of its glory under prince, St. Vladimir (980-1015) and his son Yaroslav Wise (1015-1054). The bitter struggle for power between the Yaroslav’s sons brought the country to a civil war, before the Mongol attacked Kievan Rus in 1236 and ruled the country for 200 years. In 1322 Moscow emerged as a new Capital of Russia and Kiev became an outskirt ruled by Lithuania. Even the word Ukraine in Russian sounds like Outskirt.
          Ukrainian population grew as runaway serfs arrived from neighboring Lithuania and Poland promoting a new language and culture, which later was transformed into Ukrainian and officially recognized as a separate Language in 1820. Between 1360 -1599 the country was ruled by Polish and Lithuanian. Ukrainians fought many wars with Poland, Turkey, Austro Hungarian Empire, Crimean Tartars and Germans. By the year 1634 Ukraine became a province of Russia by unifying with a powerful neighbor, which was considering a lesser enemy at that time. By the year of 1795 Ukraine was largely divided between two empires, Russia and Austria.
          The first Ukrainian short-lived independence was proclaimed on January 22, 1918 by the first Ukrainian president, Vinichenko. After World War I, Ukraine was sliced into three parts; the biggest chunk went to the USSR and was named The Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic in 1921. The Western part went to Poland and a tiny portion to Czechoslovakia. In 1933 Stalin took millions of Ukrainian lives by staging a famine; the red commissars brutally took away all produce and food storages from the hard working peasants; their fields were burned. Ten million Ukrainian farmers died senselessly of starvation, which was tantamount to genocide.
          In 1939 USSR and Nazi Germany split Poland and the Western Ukraine that produced a short reunion with the rest of Ukraine. Under Soviet regime, the Western part of the nation rejected the communist utopia. In June 22, 1941 Germany declared war on USSR and days later in June 30, 1941, Ukrainian nationalist Stepan Bandera declared another independence with the support of Germans who aimed at weakening predominant Russia. It was then that Kiev once again became the Capital City, but this time it was the heart of the Ukraine’s. Most Ukrainians fought against the Nazis on the side of Russia.
          During World War II, Stalin’s tanks retook the territory, adding Ukraine to the Soviet Union and swiping along the way the other independent republics, which later became the Eastern Bloc. Ukraine was destined to become an independent again. The big day occurred on August 24, 1992 under the former Soviet party apparatchik, Leonid Kravchuk, whose presidency lasted till 1994, during the drunken era of Boris Yeltsin with massive thievery by turncoat party elites.
          All that I poured out into Elaine’s perceptive ears as we sat down one night together for a girly chat. We started with weight watching tips, (weight was her ongoing battle), moving on to our upbringings and backgrounds. It was one of the special rare moments we shared, revealing our vulnerable sides to each other.
          This Friday I stopped by at Elaine’s to pay tribute, just in time to hear Father Pete’s spontaneous announcement, (apparently a pal of Elaine’s), who rose from his seat, his fork clinking against the glass, commanding full silence in order to toast in her honor. He made a short and humorous speech: “She is here with us tonight and worrying if I’m going to spring for another round of Scotch, as I speak!” Standing at the overcrowded bar, my friend Tom, an avid marathon runner, in a flash ordered me a Johnnie Walker Black, so I could partake in the solemn moment. Everyone stood up; their voices joined together, “Farewell, Elaine!” I tuned in: “Farewell, the One and Only One Matriarch of the Undying Night!”

December 10, 2010