My Mission With Maurice Chevalier

By Jacques Tocatlian

My Mission With Maurice Chevalier

Around The World In Eighty Missions

I was in New York on one of my missions to the United Nations to represent Unesco at a meeting. I had been to the UN on several occasions before. In fact, I had established, over the years, a fairly good reputation as a dependable, serious and resourceful international civil servant. But, after what had happened during this last visit, I no longer knew how I stood in the eyes of my colleagues. I was not quite sure whether to laugh or cry.

It all started in Paris, in the middle of that week, where I left Unesco headquarters in a great rush to catch my flight to New York at Orly Airport. After a sleepless night at my Manhattan hotel, I was not in top shape on the next morning when I walked down Lexington avenue towards the UN Building.

I was happy to be in New York again. It is in New York that I made my first baby steps at international meetings soon after I had joined Unesco in 1965. I always loved Manhattan, notwithstanding the horror stories I kept hearing about it that made you wish to live in a bank safe. As a Parisian, used to intense city-life, I always found New York City congenial and alluring. I love its many attractions and points of interest. Its international flavor. I love its spirit and ferment, its pace and rhythm, its liveliness and energy. True, the city has some aggressive and scary aspects, but it always makes me feel alive. Walking down the streets and seeing the variety of ethnic groups and the assortment of clothes and colorful attires reminds me of the entrance hall of the Unesco building in Paris on an international conference day when delegates come from the four corners of the earth.

A story that I find fascinating about New York city is that concerning the purchase of Manhattan. It is said that the first Director-General of the New Netherlands province, Peter Minuit, purchased the island in 1626 from the Brooklyn Indians with pieces of bright cloth, beads and other trinkets valued at 60 guilders – about $ 24. At the same period, back in France, an architect by the name of Le Roy was supervising the construction of the Château de Versailles, ordered at great expense by the king.

When I reached East 42nd street I turned left towards the UN building and stopped to look at the display of suits at a shop-window. The glass acting as a mirror, I could not help but observe my silhouette. The light brown Yves Saint- Laurent suit I was wearing was indeed very stylish. I noticed, however, that my shirt had not survived the eggs-and-bacon breakfast and was no longer immaculate. I automatically said the single most appropriate French word for the occasion: merde !

If I pulled the tie a little bit to the left I could hide the damage. The overall appearance was not ugly. I was about forty then but the problem was already around the waistline. As Brigitte used to say: too many cocktails, business lunches and exotic dinners! I took a deep breadth and pulled my stomach in. I still looked inflated. Had I been taller, it would not have mattered so much.

Well, well… for a man of my age, I was not too bad. My hair was curly and dark and my valentino-style mustache not unattractive. I needed to go on a diet. As Scarlet O’Hare used to say, “I’ll think about it tomorrow !” I looked at my watch and walked towards the UN building. I had been standing at the shop-window for several minutes and had looked only at myself. All is vanity !

When I arrived at the UN building, Mr. Brown’s new English secretary welcomed me and walked me to the meeting room. She was not exactly beautiful but very stylish. With her long legs and striking outfit, she attracted attention. On the way, she made a comment which was to have a determining effect on the rest of the day. She simply said, “Your English is very good, Mr. Dupont. And your charming accent reminds me of Charles Boyer or rather of Maurice Chevalier.” She giggled. So did I.

The subject of the meeting was the protection of the world cultural and natural heritage. In an attempt to ensure the protection and conservation of the world’s cultural heritage, Unesco had adopted in 1972 a convention and was now in the process of establishing a Fund and an International Committee to supervise the program. The meeting in New York was meant to assist in coordinating this effort with a number of programs in the UN family and in some Member States.

There were some twenty participants around an oval table. The meeting started on time. The Chairman made his introductory remarks and I delivered a brief statement on behalf of Unesco.

The representative from Sri Lanka immediately asked for the floor and began, what seemed to me, an endless speech. He spoke very demurely in a monotonous cadence and in a very soft voice – as though he was about to share with us an ancestral secret. The rhythmical effect was instantaneous. In no time my mind wandered away from the meeting room and back to Mr. Brown’s new secretary.

Why did she refer to Maurice Chevalier ? Did she intend to flatter or tease me ? Was she not too young to have known either Boyer or Chevalier ? Perhaps she had recently watched on TV Cole Porter’s hit “Can-Can”, with Shirley MacLaine, Frank Sinatra and Maurice Chevalier. Or, maybe, Vincente Minnelli’s old musical “Gigi”. Oh yes, bubbly “Gigi”! What a wonderful musical ! A few seconds later I was miles away from the meeting room …and years back into glittering, gay Paris. There was enchanting Leslie Caron, all arms and legs, gracefully dancing about. There was charming Louis Jourdan. He, too, has an accent. Doesn’t he ? There was Maurice Chevalier – the very personification of Gallic gallantry. And Shirley MacLaine performing a naughty can-can dance. Didn’t the cast of Gigi also include Eva Gabor ? Or was it Zaza Gabor? In any case, all the Gabors look alike . Don’t they ? How come they never age? They claim to have caviar and champagne for their daily breakfast. Do you believe it ?

I was still with Shirley, Zaza and Eva when I suddenly realized that the Chairman was looking at me with an intriguing smile. He could not have possibly guessed what had been going on in my mind. Could he? The intervention from Sri Lanka was over. The room was dead silent.

Staring at me, the Chairman said, “I am sure our distinguished representative from Unesco would like to react to Mr. Arianayagham’s intervention, since his proposals, if implemented, would imply a strong involvement on the part of Unesco.” With a dignified and masterly gesture in my direction, he added, “ Mr. Dupont, the floor is yours.“

Needless to say I did not want to speak! I did not have the slightest clue as to what proposal had been tabled. I could not even begin to pronounce Mr Arianayagham’s name. I had not asked for the floor. Instead, I would have wished for the floor to open under my feet and swallow me. As I procrastinated in silence, everyone turned attentively in my direction.

Finally, I said “ Well, well, well…”

I do not know if I sounded like Maurice Chevalier or Louis Jourdan, but the effect was not exactly brilliant. I must not have come across as terribly intelligent, for the surprise was now general. I remember a similar experience had occurred many, many years earlier in my school days. A teacher had caught me daydreaming and had scolded me embarrassingly while the rest of the class laughed. But it did not matter so much then. It mattered now!

“What makes you hesitate, Mr. Dupont ?” asked the Chairman.

I was then suddenly inspired by the witty politicians on French TV who can address any question and speak on any subject for any length of time without really knowing what they are talking about. It was, indeed, a bewitching challenge.

So, I said something along the following lines : “We have now a lot of food for thought” (Did we really ?) “The proposal is very interesting, but it presents some complex aspects which require thorough reflection.” (Who could disagree with that?) “In any case,” I added, “before I give you my opinion, I would very much appreciate listening to the reactions of the other participants and benefit from their comments on the subject which I intend to fully take into account in shaping my position. I shall not fail, of course, to share my thoughts with you after that.”

I looked around. The participants seemed satisfied and somewhat flattered. I was proud of myself but, unfortunately, not for too long. As each one of them spoke, I began the agonizing operation of trying to guess what on earth Mr.

Arianayagham’s proposal was all about. The puzzle was intellectually fascinating. From their comments I had to swim upstream to discover the source. I soon felt I was drowning instead. Oh! If only Mr. Arianayagham had missed his plane in Colombo! If only Mr. Brown’s secretary had not offered to take me to the meeting room!

The comments around the table added perplexity to confusion. Fortunately, after a painfully trying stretch, God had mercy on me and the Chairman decided to break for lunch. Whew! The torture was momentarily suspended.

I rushed to Mr. Arianayagham, and without trying to pronounce his name, I asked for a copy of his intervention. He did not have a typewritten one, but courteously lent me his handwritten notes.

Lunch consisted for me of an excruciating deciphering exercise. I do not think that Jean-François Champollion suffered as much as I did when he decoded the Egyptian hieroglyphics on the Rosette stone. The worse part was yet to come. Once deciphered, the proposal did not really make sense to me. I was experiencing sudden apprehension and fear – what is commonly known as panic.

But I took several deep breaths, bravely gathered all the bureaucratic skills in me and eventually synthesized an elegant general statement out of the various comments I had heard in the morning and what I could make out of the intervention. In other words, I put some of the pieces of the puzzle together. When I read the result to myself I was surprised. I wondered if Pablo Picasso was ever surprised in looking at some of his paintings, after adding various eyes, legs and noses.

In any case, at the beginning of the afternoon session I delivered my statement on an empty stomach. The Chairman nodded. The other members gave signs of assent. Only Mr. Arianayagham seemed puzzled by my puzzle. The meeting moved to other items on the agenda and at around 6 p.m., to my great relief, it ended.

No one had asked me to clarify my statement. Had they done so, I would have committed harakiri right then and there. I am sure the Japanese delegate to my left would have graciously accepted to advise me on the general procedure. But nobody asked.

On my way out of the room, the Rapporteur timidly inquired whether he could use my very statement, which he thought was so good, to summarize the discussion in the final report. I agreed and then wondered if the Rapporteur, or anyone else for that matter, had really understood what it was all about. As long as I live, I shall never explain this mystery. And as long as I live I shall never again daydream at a meeting.

I ran out of the building and within minutes I had a huge steak with fries and onion rings, washed down with some Cabernet Sauvignon.

Back at the hotel I watched a little bit of TV and promptly fell asleep. My night was haunted with wild, confusing dreams. Maurice Chevalier was all over the place. He thanked Mr. Brown’s secretary for managing to invite him to the meeting. He complimented Mr. Arianayagham for his constructive proposal, while Gigi was trying to seduce the Chairman. In his best Gallic accent, Maurice Chevalier told me that my statement was fine, but did not make much sense. Shirley, who apparently has all sorts of connections up there, was trying to obtain some heavenly clarification for what was going on. The participants danced around the oval table, drinking Cabernet Sauvignon. A disgraced Samurai wanted to pierce his belly. Eva Gabor said that generations to come would cite this meeting as a model of clarity and coherence, while her sister, Zaza, wrapped up in the UN flag, with her right arm stretched out like the Statue of Liberty, talked at great length about caviar and onion rings.

When I woke up next morning I was exhausted.

Old Pics Of The Tocatlian Clan

A short video of some old pictures of the Tocatlian clan spanning one hundred years.

A Dress For Zeinab

By Jacques Tocatlian

A Dress For Zeinab
Around The World In Eighty Missions

The meeting in Morocco had been scheduled to last three days. It was a restricted, semi-formal consultation, at the invitation of the Government of Morocco, to help finalize an important project for international assistance on the theme of: ‘A national strategy for the protection of the rural environment.’

The World Bank was represented by Mr. Larry Thompson, a very powerful man, with a huge cigar and a thick Texan accent. Mr. J. Subramaniam, originally from New Delhi, spoke for the UNDP – the United Nations Development Program. With my French accent, I answered for Unesco, while the European Community was in the Germanic hands of Helmut
Streitz. Mr. Makoto Takahashi, from Tokyo, represented The United Nations University. For three days this impressive Tower of Babel was to communicate in English with francophone Mohammed Fassi-Bekkari – the distinguished representative of His Majesty King Hassan II.

Unesco’s collaboration with Morocco had been steady and intense over the years. It included inter alia a campaign for the preservation of the city of Fez, the establishment of a regional school for library and information sciences, support to the Institute of Studies and Research for Arabization, and many projects in the fields of education, culture and science.

In Morocco, a Unesco Secretariat Member was treated as a benefactor and made to feel welcome. No wonder I felt good.

As expected, the meeting started with a fireworks of greetings, thanks, blessings and benedictions. We were told that our presence had honored the country and that we had brought sunshine with us ! The truth of the matter was that we had left rain and clouds behind us in Brussels, Paris, Tokyo and Washington and found a radiant sun in Rabat.

In the Arab world, you are often sprinkled with artful compliments, warm congratulations, poetic wishes, soft greetings and fastidious regards. The higher your position, the more excessive the civilities.
I find it most interesting to observe two Arabs meeting in the street. They shake hands several times, gently bending forward, and while holding each other’s hand and continuing to shake them, they start a ritual litany of polite invocations, praise and laudations. “How are you ? God bless you. How is your health ? Praise God. How are the children ? God bless you all. How are your parents ? Is their health good? God bless you. God bless you” ( Did anybody sneeze ?) All of this talk is usually abundantly showered with “Hamdullelah” – to thank heaven for being so good.

In the Arab culture, when you meet a friend you are expected to inquire about everyone, but never about the wife. That is considered unbecoming ! Arab modesty and decency have no room for such improper questions. After ten minutes have elapsed, after many questions are asked but few answers provided, the two friends recover their moistened hands and reluctantly part, each proceeding on his own way.

If they meet five or six more acquaintances along the way, they will reach their final destination an hour later. It does not matter at all. In any case good manners do not allow a respectable adult to run. Being in a hurry is generally considered vulgar. Etiquette demands that you take your time in walking, talking, eating, greeting a friend. The local social code says nothing about being late.

The notion of time is indeed fascinating; it constitutes an intriguing difference among people of different countries and often becomes a source of misunderstanding. Being late, being kept waiting, changing or missing appointments is not perceived the same way in different cultures.

In our international organizations, such as Unesco, which have adopted the Western way of doing business, it is essential to know how much lead time is required for each activity and how far ahead to request an appointment or schedule a meeting. Planning is crucial; schedules are sacred. This is the case for example, in Northern Europe. But as we move south, these plans and schedules take a much more flexible character. Once we cross the Mediterranean Sea, they become amorphous and rare. An appointment made several weeks in advance slips the mind. A Moroccan friend once told me that they believe Europeans and North Americans have a kind of devil inside who drives them crazy; they always hurry to get someplace, when the place would still be there, whenever they arrived.

The same friend told me that when the buses were introduced to connect major cities in Morocco, the authorities had to explain their usefulness. “You see, instead of taking three days with your donkey to travel to Marakesh, you can get there in three hours with the bus.”

“Oh, yes,” answered the Arab on the donkey “ and when I get there so early, what will I do?” But let us go back to the meeting which was only 30 minutes late to start. Once the opening greetings and civilities were over, another hour was spent puzzling over each other’s accents and in trying to decode what was really being said. When Mr. Subramaniam suddenly decided to speak French so that His Excellency Fassi-Bakkari would better grasp the point he was making, we were desperately lost. Somehow, the Indian accent does not mix well with French. (Does it mix well with Indian ?) Helmut Streitz uttered each word emphatically and managed to make everything he said sound important. However, he sometimes tended to place the verb at the end of the sentence, as it is done in German. By the time the verb made its appearance at the end of the sentence, you had forgotten what the beginning was about. German minds must function in a very special way. When Mr. Makato Takahashi spoke, on the other hand, mixing the “l’s” and the “r’s”, his Excellency Fassi-Bakkari softly asked his neighbor in what language was the statement being made.

While listening, an old French saying about the way languages are spoken in their native context came to mind. It goes something like this : English is chewed and swallowed, German is spit, Italian is sung and French is spoken. It does not say what you do with Japanese.

After a while our internationally-attuned ears gradually became accustomed to the cacophony and we proceeded fairly smoothly. In international circles that happens all the time.
Mr. Mohammed Fassi-Bekkari told us that the constant increase in population in Morocco aggravated the problem of unemployment, especially in the rural areas, where it took a chronic form. Problems related to housing, health, education, communications, trade and finance were dramatically deployed before us. The overall picture was gloomy. Very gloomy, indeed. The problems discussed, however, bluntly contrasted with the opulence of the meeting room, its rich ornamentation and fantastic arabesques. The ‘one-thousand-and-one-night’ Palace in which we were meeting made me wonder if we were actually talking of the same country.

At the end of the first day’s meeting we were taken back to the hotel. No social event had been scheduled for that first evening because we were asked to read and digest tons of documents for the next day. Larry Thompson wanted to stretch his legs and do some shopping at the big Bazaar.

I asked for directions at the Hotel reception, when the Director, Mr. Mustapha Bakri, said, “Monsieur Dupont, if you could wait five minutes, I have to go myself to the ‘Souk’ to buy a dress for my daughter, Zeinab, and both of you could come along.“ So Mr. Thompson and I waited for five Moroccan minutes – that is about 30 regular ones – and at around 6 p.m. the expedition started.
The whole Bakri family had gathered for the occasion: nine year old Zeinab, who needed a new dress, her mother, her father, the elder brother, a few sisters, a lady neighbor, Larry Thompson and me. The neighbor, Mrs. Mounira Mahjoub , was the key person of the expedition, since she was the technical expert on the matter. No one in the whole neighborhood ever bought a dress without the benefit of her advice. In the Bazaar she was known, respected and feared.

Many stores in the Souk have what you may call ‘pullers-in’ who stand outside the store and entice potential customers to enter the establishment. They inform you persuasively that the prices are low, the quality high, and the bargains exceptional. They tell you “You do not have to buy. Just come in, look around and have a Coca-Cola.” In fact, you should keep running. If you show the shadow of some vague interest, they will never let you go. As Mustapha Bakri stopped to look at one window display with some curiosity, he was a dead duck. We were all dead ducks. In no time the puller-in pulled us all in.
We were offered tea, coffee, and lemonade. Mr. Bakri explained to Larry Thompson that it was considered rude to refuse and that drinking did not mean that we had to buy from that store.
I stood in one corner to watch the scene and drank (or rather chewed) my Turkish coffee. The mother sat herself at a strategic point, next to expert Mounira, from where they could dominate the whole battlefield and direct operations. Little Zeinab stood on a raised platform having tried on a green and pink dress. Mr. Thompson asked if it was for Halloween.

While cooling herself with a palm leaf, Mounira commented on the dresses with disdain and asked questions with overtones of belligerency. It was explained to us that the bargaining tactics had been fixed ahead of time. While Mr. Mustapha Bakri and his eldest son were to remain calm and courteous, the two ladies criticized without respite. The idea was always to minimize every thing and never show the slightest enthusiasm. Everyone spoke. Little Zeinab, the only one really concerned, was told to be quiet.

The salesman helped to change dresses, to straighten them, smooth them, under a constant fire of negative remarks . The amazing thing was that the whole ceremony took place in a jovial atmosphere. Everyone smiled. All of Mounira’s critical comments were received by the salesman with a grin or laughter. He, no doubt, knew the rules of the game. I could very well imagine what would have happened to our two Moroccan ladies if – Heaven forbid – they had taken the same attitude in a Parisian boutique! But in the Bazaar the event was considered a kind of amusing ceremony with its special protocol and code of conduct.
For one thing, time did not exist. Most Moroccans carry around their wrists big gold watches. The richer the Moroccan, the bigger the watch. I suspect the watches are there for two main reasons: as a status symbol and for decorative purposes. In any case, the buying ceremony went on and on and on.

Needless to say, Thompson had no idea about what was going on. I ventured to ask him, teasingly “Is shopping the same in a U.S. mall ?”. We laughed. Everybody was smiling or laughing. Nobody was buying.
Now, Mounira had taken one dress in her knowledgeable hands and was standing at the door, holding it to the sun. She was feeling it, looking through it, pulling it, smelling it. Was she going to bite it ? You could guess that things were coming to a climax.

Trying to be as detached and nonchalant as possible, she asked for the price. Having heard the answer, they all stood up, instantaneously . Mr. Bakri and his son laughed – as if the price given by the salesman was a joke; the mother looked bewildered; Mounira acted flabbergasted, pulling the young girls out of the store; while the salesman attempted to argue and the puller-in tried to stop everyone from going out. The scene continued on the sidewalk until we turned the corner onto another street.

Similar commotions took place in two other stores. Mr. Bakri explained to Mr. Thompson that one should never buy from the first store, no matter what. By going around you establish the real market value of the merchandise you want to acquire and then you can make the right choice. Mr. Thompson asked why there were no price tags on the goods. That seemed like a very strange idea to Mr. Bakri, who looked very puzzled. “How could one do business if you have price tags on the merchandise ?” he asked.

Mr. Thompson and I were tired, but did not dare go back to the hotel on our own. We would never be able to get out of the labyrinth. One good thing was that we were not thirsty, having benefited from the hospitality of three stores. By now I was getting addicted to Turkish Coffee and I would be able to read those technical reports all night. Meanwhile we followed the party like docile sheep and gave up any thought of shopping for ourselves. After a full day’s work on Sheik Mohammed Fassi-Bakkari’s development project we could not take any more negotiation.

To our great amazement, we suddenly found ourselves back at the first store to bargain for the first green and pink dress – the Halloween one. The arguing went on and on. On three occasions the party moved towards the door and was pulled back. The salesman looked several times at the ceiling, invoking Heaven. Mr. Thompson and I instinctively looked at the ceiling as well. There was a big fan in motion , trying to cool the atmosphere. At one point Heaven must have listened since both sides eventually reached agreement. The dress was purchased. More lemonades were served and probably many jokes made, for everyone smiled and laughed. Going back to the hotel Mr. Thompson said, “You are right, Mr Bakri, you could not have all of this business with price tags !”

The next day, the meeting was uneventful. We worked hard and made great progress. Perhaps, some of us now knew how to bargain. By the end of the day the project document was in fairly good shape as far as the substantive content was concerned. Our host looked delighted. None of the Agencies present had any major problem with it, which augured well for the international financing the Morrocans were aiming at. The next day was going to be spent tightening it up and trying to rewrite it in one language. A national strategy for the protection of rural environment was born !

That evening we were to be treated and rewarded for the good work we had done. Sheik Mohammed Fassi-Bekkari invited us to a typical Moroccan restaurant to which tourists are seldom taken. Apparently it was the real thing ! As we entered the place, we were struck by the decor and the fantastic interlacing patterns of flowers, foliage and fruits, the fountains, the mirrors, the gold, the incense, the soft music. Many Hollywood movies came to mind. I could see Yvonne de Carlo dancing wrapped up in seven veils.

More than any other Middle Eastern people, the Moroccans have adopted and, so to speak, become addicted to every spice that has come their way en route to Europe from the Far East. They use them at discretion to make up some very rich combinations. The smell in the dining room was most inviting.

As soon as we were seated, a sumptuous succession of colorful dishes was paraded in front of us. The meal took place only a few inches above the ground. We crouched and squatted on lavish cushions and divans. Only the Moroccans looked relaxed and comfortable. Helmut Streitz, Larry Thompson and I seemed caught in three different, but equally uncomfortable, positions which would surely interfere with a normal digestion. Our Japanese and Indian colleagues seemed to do better than we. They must have practiced Yoga before coming to the meeting. Come to think of it, the Lotus position is particularly suitable for a Moroccan banquet.

The first dish was of Tunisian origin : ‘Brik à l’Oeuf’. Meat, onion and egg wrapped up in a thin sheet of dough and deep fried. It is delicious but it is imperative to bite the ‘Brik’ at one end, keep it tilted so that the egg will not escape, and gently bend it as you eat it. A delicate technique that develops with practice and experience. For Helmut and Larry, their first ‘brick’ was a disaster. Fortunately for Makoto Takahashi, he was too polite to quickly bite on the ‘Brik’. He observed how the Moroccans ate it and watched what went wrong on the other side of the table and managed quite well. He even seemed to have introduced some improvements of his own in handling the it. That is Japan for you !

Then we were served various tagines; A ‘Lamb, prune and honey Tagine’, which our host explained was a specialty of Fez. The sweetness of the honey was gently counterbalanced by the ginger, pepper and saffron. An amazing combination. The ‘T’faia Tagine’ which followed was a dish brought back by the Moriscos, five hundred years ago, when they had to leave Spain after the Reconquista. At that point I could only think of my stiff legs which I had decided to stretch under the low table. For some reason I could no longer move them back.

When the ‘Couscous Royal’ was served I could tell that Larry Thompson was in great pain. His husky body was ill adapted to Moroccan comfort. In answer to a question, Mohammed Fassi-Bekkari explained that this national dish of Algeria, Morocco and Tunisia was made of fine ground wheat grain steamed over a stew, with lamb or chicken, a variety of vegetables, chick peas and raisins.

“Until recently”, he added “every family would send its wheat to the local mill to be ground to the degree of finesse they preferred. Then the grain was submitted to a delicate and time-consuming treatment with flour, to keep each grain separate when steamed. Nowadays it is, unfortunately, bought ready-made for the sake of expediency.”

Who would guess that industrial food processing was altering the tradition even in this part of the world. If industrialization could have only raised the level of the tables by a few inches!
At that point, I had pins and needles all over my body. When I was presented with ‘Moroccan brochettes,’ ‘Kofta and eggs’, and ‘Stuffed vegetables’ I began to panic. Some of the Moroccan guests around the table ate in the traditional fashion with their fingers, showing a dexterity which is impossible to imitate. They would hand to us between three fingers a piece of ‘mechwi’ dripping with grease. We were told that it was extremely rude to refuse.

I could no longer feel my legs. They were simply dead. Finally a Moroccan belch of satisfaction announced that we were approaching the end of the ordeal. After the sweets, the dates, the dried almonds and nuts, the mint tea ceremony, the hand-washing ritual, and a few speeches, blessings and invocations, the lavish reception came to an end.

I tried to stand up. It must have been obvious to the smart and strong servants that some of us had a serious problem. They helped everyone and, in my case, literally rescued me, as from under an avalanche. In the process, my pants split open.

Instinctively I put my hands on my buttocks to assess the damage. It was not a small crack. More like a crater. By holding my hands in that position I began to draw attention to myself. I then tried a nonchalant composure, debonairly walking out, but carefully avoiding to have anyone behind me. Impossible. Our Moroccan hosts insisted to let me go first, gently bending and gracefully calling for heavenly protection. I bent back, thanking them. The crack seemed to widen, with every salutation.

Lying in bed, that night, I thought about those two past days and recapitulated their events. We had worked hard, achieved our main objectives and had a good time. I was satisfied to realize that in the 12 or 13 years I had been with the Organization I had made headway and gained ground. I was then forty-three or forty-four years old and felt more confident and poised. I had gained enough experience to feel self-assured and relaxed. I enjoyed the international dimension of my work, disencumbered of the apprehensions of my earlier years. I relished those positive thoughts and felt happy and serene.

I wished I could share a mission with my wife and daughter. Difficult as it may be, I wanted to find some future occasion to do so. We were in the habit of taking yearly vacations with Brigitte and Françoise in France and abroad, but that was different. I wanted them to feel and share an official mission with me.

It was getting late and all that thinking on top of the ‘Couscous Royal’ was preventing me from sleeping. I suddenly remembered that outspoken lady on the plane to Senegal who had said to me, “You International Civil Servants attend too many banquets to discuss the causes of starvation in the Third World !”

Smiling, I whispered to myself, ‘Hamdullelah’ and gently drifted down the tides of sleep.

Copyright © 2000 by Jacques Tocatlian

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright conventions.

No part of this book, text and drawings, may be reproduced or transmitted, in any forms or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

London With Spaghettini

By Jacques Tocatlian

London With Spaghettini
Around The World In Eighty Missions

I remember when I got off the plane I found Heathrow airport crowded. The sky was blue, but everyone had an umbrella. I guess, in England you just do not trust the weather forecast.

As I was finding my way to the exit, I heard a beautiful baritone voice calling across the airport loudly enough to wake the dead: “Signor Dupont. Signor Dupont.” I immediately recognized the chubby silhouette of Dottore Giovanni Spaghettini.

Always joyful and lively, when Spaghettini represented Italy in an international meeting, you could rest assured that it would never lack luster or sink into dullness. Giovanni Spaghettini was colorful, imaginative and unconventional. He always seemed to be performing on stage in front of a wide audience, even in a confidential, tÍte-‡-tÍte conversation. His repertoire leaned more towards the Allegro, vivace, fortissimo… con agitazione . When the subject was serious or sad he would dramatically change his facial expression to convey the proper concern or emotion. You almost expected to hear a Puccini aria in the background.

After the usual warm greetings, he asked to be accompanied to the airport bank in order to exchange money. Spaghettini was a well-traveled man and this was not his first visit to London. Nevertheless, he said that he had never fully understood the local monetary system.

At the bank counter he soon became entangled with pounds, shillings, and pennies. He was wondering whether half a crown was still in use. He said with a smile, “Two shillings and sixpence used to make half a crown, but a crown no longer exists. Strange isn’t it?”

I kept saying, “Giovanni, the line behind us is getting longer and longer.”

“Don’t’ you worry,” he replied “In England queuing up is a national pastime.”

With Heathrow being far from the center of London, taxis being expensive, and Spaghettini in the mood for experiencing the English way of life again, we decided to go the cheap way – that is, by bus and subway. Spaghettini decided he wanted to understand the rationale behind British town planning. He had read somewhere that an attempt to introduce parallel streets in England was made after all towns had been completely built.

So, there we were, trying to solve the elaborate quiz of London. In the process I lost him on the Bakerloo underground line at Piccadilly Station, but found him again, squeezed between two orange-haired punks, at Oxford Circus. The next time the subway door opened, we were ejected with our luggage together with a few superfluous passengers.

In the streets of London we twisted and turned around until we found Bond Street. We were surprised that motorists in London, unlike the Roman and Parisian kinds, yielded at pedestrian crossings. “Sono dei gentlemen !” Giovanni kept saying.

I observed, “Giovanni, you seem to like it over here.”

That was a mistake. He stopped in the middle of Bond Street, put down his luggage and began his analysis of the British. “I like them because they have a deep sense of fairness and spare other people’s feelings. They are basically very decent people. Very polite. They do not like to cause any trouble in public. I also admire their eccentricity. You know, Jacques, they prefer quality of life to wealth. A form of snobbery, I presume. To Latins, it may seem strange that they camouflage their feelings. We may think it is hypocrisy, but it is not. It is the way they are taught to behave by their nannies.”

As soon as I could say a word I suggested that we proceed towards the hotel because we were blocking the traffic with our luggage. We moved fifteen yards and he stopped again and put down his luggage. Spaghettini needed his hands to fully express himself. ” You know, Jacques, what I like here is the sense of democracy and the media. Fantastic ! The power of the media on British life is outstanding. Newspaper circulation is so much larger here than in any other country. And the BBC is the most objective of all televisions. Don’t you think?”

I nodded, picked up my luggage and started walking again. Spaghettini followed and continued to talk, but obviously with both hands busily carrying the luggage he could not gesticulate. Nevertheless, he kept explaining that he did not care for the rigid class system, the well-known British ethnocentricity and a certain arrogance. The fact that they felt superior bothered him.

“True,” I said “the British are not generally credited with humility. Neither are the French for that matter.”

In addition, what bothered Spaghettini is that he could no longer tell whether puritanism or permissiveness dominated life in the United Kingdom. He found it disconcerting that both aspects were concurrent. He put down his luggage again and said that the British deserved an international trophy for their sense of humor.

“Can we award them the trophy,” I asked , “once we have found the hotel, please ?”

No. He had to rest. With both hands free to punctuate his speech he went on saying, “An Englishman is prepared to laugh at himself and at any of his defects. To the bewilderment of foreigners, he can make jokes that no one but an Englishman can understand. A Frenchman, such as yourself, my dear Jacques, may pride himself on the clarity of his intelligence, his Cartesian logic or his wit. But only an Englishman can greet adversity and make fun of himself with such unique humor ! Do you remember who said:’ English is understood practically everywhere, and the English practically nowhere’ ?”

We asked our way to the hotel where all the participants of the Meeting had been booked, but to no avail. A lady who had lived on that street for thirty-two years had never heard of it. We walked some more while Spaghettini continued his in-depth analysis of the United Kingdom. Eventually the Lord had mercy on our souls (and legs) and with a great sense of triumph we found the hotel.

It was quaint, charming and totally antiquated. No comparison with some of the luxurious hotels we had come across on our way. “I am afraid,” we were told upon our arrival “there is a slight problem with the heating system. A pipe has burst.” We were also made to understand that pipes in that hotel sooner or later always burst in winter and, in any case, it was not healthy to keep bedrooms over-heated, as they do on the Continent.

A nice fire was lit in the open fireplace in every room. Spaghettini said jovially that England was “molto romantica !” However, for no understandable reason, once in a while the wind came down the chimney and blew smoke into the room and romanticism out of the window.

After a little rest, all the participants gathered in the hotel lobby and walked together to the meeting place. I immediately went to see Sir John to tell him that Unesco was in full agreement with his plan, that I would support it during the meeting but, because of budgetary restrictions, we could only offer moral support. Very elegantly, Sir John said that moral support was all that mattered. I felt good. Looking straight into my eyes, he added convincingly, “Jacques, you look remarkably well.” I felt very, very good, indeed.

The meeting’s main objective was to advise on the preparation of an international conference our hosts wanted to convene on ‘information technology in the library school curriculum.’ They were looking for support and contributions and, because of the international dimension of the planned conference, they had invited Unesco.

When I entered the meeting room I overheard Sir John telling the Greek delegate, Kharalambos, that he looked remarkably well. He looked rather greenish to me. I glanced around the table. They were all smiling. Undoubtedly, they had all been told by Sir John how well each of them looked.

I sat at my place, next to Mr. Brown from the United Nations. I do not know why on earth I did not find anything smarter to say than, ” I was in New York last year and met your new English secretary. Very efficient, indeed.”

“Oh, yes,” he said “By the way, she is not English but makes a commendable effort to sound so.”

“Where is she from ?” I asked.

“From Oshkosh, Nebraska,” said Mr. Brown.

The meeting started and I was not going to let Mr. Brown’s secretary from Oshkosh, Nebraska, Maurice Chevalier or anyone else distract me this time. I listened carefully.

Under the elegant and skillful chairmanship of Sir John, the meeting proceeded very smoothly. We have to admit that in international circles where English is often the common language, English participants are at a great advantage over the rest of us. Not only do they handle the language superbly but they also possess the traditional British diplomatic dexterity and, consequently, make very good moderators, excellent rapporteurs and astonishing chairpersons. What they say is often difficult to fathom but it is said with such elegance! Things which may meet resistance or hurt someone’s feelings are left unsaid. You do not always know where you stand, but they make it clear for you. Some call it ‘diplomacy’ others ‘hypocrisy’. Whatever it is, they are masters at it.

That day, nothing could possibly disturb Sir John in his function. Every difficulty was surmounted, every enigma clarified, every problem solved elegantly, placidly, eloquently. And if things seemed to take the wrong turn, a little English humor would do wonders. Sir John had no inhibitions about making a fool of himself, if need be, to relax the atmosphere with a few bursts of laughter in order to obtain what he wanted. At the end of the meeting we were totally hypnotized and agreed to almost everything.

Now, we had less than two hours to rest, freshen up and go to dinner at Sir John’s house. On the way to the hotel, Giovanni Spaghettini stopped at the laundry to collect his shirt. Instead of a shirt, he was given back a pair of Victorian panties with lots of lace. I can still hear his fine baritone voice exclaiming, “Mamma mia! Mamma mia! Ma come si f‡!”

An hour later, we were all clean and shiny, ready to go. We decided to buy some flowers before getting a cab to Sir John’s. Some of us stood in line at the flower shop and waited for a long while. The shopkeeper had to discuss the weather with every single customer, while a complying queue stood by, each one serenely awaiting his turn to comment on the weather. It is astonishing to discover the incredible variety of statements that can be made about a single dreadful, rainy day. In England, an educated man must know how to talk about the weather : the weather we had the past days, the weather we are having, the weather we should have had, the weather we will have. Pierre Daninos said that when the good Lord created the world, he thought of a changing weather so that the English could discuss it.

After paying for the flowers, we suggested that Mr. Spaghettini offer the bunch, on our behalf, to the lady of the house, since he was known to be able to deliver lyrical speeches with the most flowery vocabulary. But from another point of view the choice was incongruous. Poor Mr. Spaghettini was short and chubby and tended to disappear behind the huge bouquet.

We entered one by one, in a sort of procession, and were greeted at the door by our hosts . Mr. Spaghettini – his view obscured by large red dahlias – tripped over the last step and landed at the feet of Sir John’s wife.

When the commotion was over and we had resumed our best composure in harmony with the style of the house, Mr. Brown, his eyes twinkling with delight, whispered in my ear, “We had asked him to deliver a lyrical speech not to kiss her feet.”

Having finished our sherry, we entered the dining room. At the table, I was placed between Mrs. Van der Loan from the Netherlands and Ms. Pringgoadisurjo from Indonesia. I had known both ladies for a long time but had never dared call Ms. Pringgoadisurjo by her name. The spelling scared me to death and paralyzed my tongue. An American friend of mine had once said, “When in doubt about a name, you can always say ‘hi, there!’” Ms. Pringgoadisurjo must have wondered why I always called her “there” whenever I greeted her.

At the beginning, the atmosphere was solemn, in spite of the urbane and courteous efforts of our hosts. It was partly due to the stately surroundings, to the shyness of some of us and, no doubt, to the widely accepted clichÈ defining the English as class-conscious, snobbish, exclusive and arrogant. I noticed Mr. Brown was gazing all around. Was he looking for some informality? That was too soon. Wine had not had its relaxing and buoyant effect yet.

The table was set with exquisite taste. I noticed that the British hosts and guests had their hands under the table. All the rest had theirs on the table. As Spaghettini would say, this is what their nannies had taught them. As it is always the case in England, all the cutlery to be used during the meal was placed to the right and left of each plate. The impressive number of forks and knives indicated that we were about to have a feast. An English feast, no doubt, but a feast all the same. As I was observing the cutlery, I suddenly remembered the day I had been taken to the Saint Louis Hospital to have my appendix out and had noticed at the corner of the operating room all the torture instruments arrayed on a table, ready for use.

Table manners are, of course, arbitrary. They differ from country to country and, in some societies, acquire an exaggerated importance. The regulations involved seem to have been created by the ruling class and imposed on the rest. In England, great attention is given to the strict application of such rules. You are expected to keep your fork in your left hand and your knife in your right hand at all times. The passage of the fork from one hand to the other, as Mr. Brown did after cutting his meat, is disdainfully considered in England as a juggling exercise fit for the circus. After cutting the meat, the knife is supposed to push the morsel and a sample of vegetables on top of the fork. English peas, which are notoriously big and hard, may constitute an insurmountable obstacle. But, ours being an international gathering, it did not matter too much. You could tell by looking around that table etiquette was far from standardized.

The rules of conversation also differ from country to country. In England, numerous are the subjects which are considered taboo, at least in the upper class. Anything polemical, critical, controversial, political, sexual, religious, personal, contentious, or anything which may embarrass or hurt anyone, is to be avoided. You are allowed to make fun of yourself, talk about sports, say something nice and, of course, discuss the weather. Silence is very much appreciated. These English rules had originally tinted those prevailing in America. However, the latter have become looser and more flexible with time. One very ‘British’ rule concerns the topic of food. As opposed to countries, such as Italy, France, China or Thailand, where table conversations may very well include reference to food and cooking, in England it is considered ill-mannered, if not vulgar. Such topic is never, never broached at Buckingham Palace. Remember!

We had had several courses and several glasses of Chablis and Margaux, when suddenly Spaghettini, either innocently or provocatively, broke the ice by saying, “At the beginning of a meal in Italy we say ‘Buon’appetito,’ in France ‘Bon appetit,’ in Germany ‘Guten appetit’ or ‘Mahlzeit,’ in the US we now say ‘enjoy.’ What do you say in England?”

After a little silence, Sir John’s wife demurely answered, “In England, we are not expected to enjoy food”. Pandora’s box was now wide open! Every one felt obliged to refer to how tasty the Dover Sole was…how palatable the pudding… how green the peas.

Spaghettini was in heaven. He had managed to drag everyone closer to the kitchen oven. He spoke at great length of Italian cuisine, explaining in minute detail how one prepares ‘risotto con le vongole’ and ‘scaloppine di fegato di maiale.’ “Oh, you should taste, at least once in your lifetime, ‘l’imbrogliata di carciofini.’”

At this point, everyone had gradually stopped eating our English dinner and had been carried away in spirit miles away into a Trattoria. You could almost hear the mandolins.

Then, our Italian delegate, self-appointed leader of conversation, decided that it was the French cuisine’s turn. “Signor Dupont,” he said “tell us all about the ‘Cassolettes d’escargots.’ Do you know how to prepare the ‘Coquilles Saint-Jacques au foie gras’?”

Fortunately, before I could attempt an answer, he was already describing ‘Les Anguilles au vert.’ Since we were in the middle of a culinary discussion, Mr. Brown asked Spaghettini the origins of his name. I had been intrigued by this unusual name – to say the least – but had never dared ask. Unfortunately, I could not hear the explanation as Mrs. Schl‰ger from Austria gently drew me deep in the preparation of a ‘Linzertorte” while Kharalambos was showing how to roll grape leaves.

By now, everyone was baking, roasting, frying, boiling, stewing, poaching, broiling. It had turned into an international cooking orgy right under the nose of astonished Sir John! A loud thunder suddenly silenced all the cooks and established law and order. You could hear the rain. Mrs. Van der Loan quickly referred to the storm and in no time the conversation shifted back into the safe topic of the weather. Sir John’s wife looked relieved.

Nevertheless, we continued to drink, talk and laugh. By then, thunder or no thunder, all the international diplomacy and the English reserve had dissolved in the Chablis. I do not know who gave the signal, but I found myself standing in a queue on the way out. Thanks and greetings were exchanged. As I remember, we did not look remarkably well any longer.

There was a lot of rain. The lugubrious black cabs that had been ordered stood in line as in a funeral procession. I was glad that Spaghettini had not suggested to go by bus and subway this time. Miraculously, after a while I was in bed and quickly fell asleep. As usual, after a full busy day crowned by a heavy dinner my night was tormented by a confusing dream.

We were at Buckingham Palace. Her Majesty had a purple hat on and was staring at Spaghettini with surprise as he spread rose petals all over, graciously dancing a Boccherini Minuet. Her Majesty explained that the fireplaces were lit because the pipes had burst. Spaghettini was trying to have Mrs. Van der Loan accept the pair of Victorian panties with lace he had been given at the laundry.

Then Mr. Arianayagham from Sri Lanka ( what was he doing here?) asked her gracious Majesty to explain how the social classes were organized in England because he did not know where he belonged. It was explained to him that people can be cast as ‘upper middle’, ‘middle middle’ or ‘lower middle. And proceeding down the ladder as ‘upper working class,’ ‘working class proper,’ ‘lower working class,’ etc.

“And how do you assign a class?” he asked.

“Simply by the dress, the origin, the address, the accent – especially the way you pronounce an ‘h’ and, of course, the way you hold a fork”.

At that point I was astonished to hear Brigitte saying what she thought of the English and other participants at the meeting. To my great embarrassment she said that the English were badly dressed, were obsessed with horses, gardening and cricket, and their mannerisms were faintly ridiculous. The Swiss and the Belgians were dull, the Spanish and the Italians were noisy and the Germans were too German.

I began to run away when Sir John asked me if I agreed to what my wife was saying. The first door I found led me into the kitchen, where I stumbled over some escargots, walked over scaloppine, tripped over a smoked trout, slid on grape leaves and finally slipped and fell on Mrs. Scl‰ger’s Linzertorte.

Fortunately, at that moment a loud clap of thunder put an end to my dream and established law and order into the rest of my night. Bonne nuit !

Copyright © 2000 by Jacques Tocatlian

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright conventions.

No part of this book, text and drawings, may be reproduced or transmitted, in any forms or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

My Mission With Maurice Chevalier

By Jacques Tocatlian

My Mission With Maurice Chevalier
Around The World In Eighty Missions

I was in New York on one of my missions to the United Nations to represent Unesco at a meeting. I had been to the UN on several occasions before. In fact, I had established, over the years, a fairly good reputation as a dependable, serious and resourceful international civil servant. But, after what had happened during this last visit, I no longer knew how I stood in the eyes of my colleagues. I was not quite sure whether to laugh or cry.

It all started in Paris, in the middle of that week, where I left Unesco headquarters in a great rush to catch my flight to New York at Orly Airport. After a sleepless night at my Manhattan hotel, I was not in top shape on the next morning when I walked down Lexington avenue towards the UN Building.

I was happy to be in New York again. It is in New York that I made my first baby steps at international meetings soon after I had joined Unesco in 1965. I always loved Manhattan, notwithstanding the horror stories I kept hearing about it that made you wish to live in a bank safe. As a Parisian, used to intense city-life, I always found New York City congenial and alluring. I love its many attractions and points of interest. Its international flavor. I love its spirit and ferment, its pace and rhythm, its liveliness and energy. True, the city has some aggressive and scary aspects, but it always makes me feel alive. Walking down the streets and seeing the variety of ethnic groups and the assortment of clothes and colorful attires reminds me of the entrance hall of the Unesco building in Paris on an international conference day when delegates come from the four corners of the earth.

A story that I find fascinating about New York city is that concerning the purchase of Manhattan. It is said that the first Director-General of the New Netherlands province, Peter Minuit, purchased the island in 1626 from the Brooklyn Indians with pieces of bright cloth, beads and other trinkets valued at 60 guilders – about $ 24. At the same period, back in France, an architect by the name of Le Roy was supervising the construction of the Château de Versailles, ordered at great expense by the king.

When I reached East 42nd street I turned left towards the UN building and stopped to look at the display of suits at a shop-window. The glass acting as a mirror, I could not help but observe my silhouette. The light brown Yves Saint- Laurent suit I was wearing was indeed very stylish. I noticed, however, that my shirt had not survived the eggs-and-bacon breakfast and was no longer immaculate. I automatically said the single most appropriate French word for the occasion: merde !

If I pulled the tie a little bit to the left I could hide the damage. The overall appearance was not ugly. I was about forty then but the problem was already around the waistline. As Brigitte used to say: too many cocktails, business lunches and exotic dinners! I took a deep breadth and pulled my stomach in. I still looked inflated. Had I been taller, it would not have mattered so much.

Well, well… for a man of my age, I was not too bad. My hair was curly and dark and my valentino-style mustache not unattractive. I needed to go on a diet. As Scarlet O’Hare used to say, “I’ll think about it tomorrow !” I looked at my watch and walked towards the UN building. I had been standing at the shop-window for several minutes and had looked only at myself. All is vanity !

When I arrived at the UN building, Mr. Brown’s new English secretary welcomed me and walked me to the meeting room. She was not exactly beautiful but very stylish. With her long legs and striking outfit, she attracted attention. On the way, she made a comment which was to have a determining effect on the rest of the day. She simply said, “Your English is very good, Mr. Dupont. And your charming accent reminds me of Charles Boyer or rather of Maurice Chevalier.” She giggled. So did I.

The subject of the meeting was the protection of the world cultural and natural heritage. In an attempt to ensure the protection and conservation of the world’s cultural heritage, Unesco had adopted in 1972 a convention and was now in the process of establishing a Fund and an International Committee to supervise the program. The meeting in New York was meant to assist in coordinating this effort with a number of programs in the UN family and in some Member States.

There were some twenty participants around an oval table. The meeting started on time. The Chairman made his introductory remarks and I delivered a brief statement on behalf of Unesco.

The representative from Sri Lanka immediately asked for the floor and began, what seemed to me, an endless speech. He spoke very demurely in a monotonous cadence and in a very soft voice – as though he was about to share with us an ancestral secret. The rhythmical effect was instantaneous. In no time my mind wandered away from the meeting room and back to Mr. Brown’s new secretary.

Why did she refer to Maurice Chevalier ? Did she intend to flatter or tease me ? Was she not too young to have known either Boyer or Chevalier ? Perhaps she had recently watched on TV Cole Porter’s hit “Can-Can”, with Shirley MacLaine, Frank Sinatra and Maurice Chevalier. Or, maybe, Vincente Minnelli’s old musical “Gigi”. Oh yes, bubbly “Gigi”! What a wonderful musical ! A few seconds later I was miles away from the meeting room …and years back into glittering, gay Paris. There was enchanting Leslie Caron, all arms and legs, gracefully dancing about. There was charming Louis Jourdan. He, too, has an accent. Doesn’t he ? There was Maurice Chevalier – the very personification of Gallic gallantry. And Shirley MacLaine performing a naughty can-can dance. Didn’t the cast of Gigi also include Eva Gabor ? Or was it Zaza Gabor? In any case, all the Gabors look alike . Don’t they ? How come they never age? They claim to have caviar and champagne for their daily breakfast. Do you believe it ?

I was still with Shirley, Zaza and Eva when I suddenly realized that the Chairman was looking at me with an intriguing smile. He could not have possibly guessed what had been going on in my mind. Could he? The intervention from Sri Lanka was over. The room was dead silent.

Staring at me, the Chairman said, “I am sure our distinguished representative from Unesco would like to react to Mr. Arianayagham’s intervention, since his proposals, if implemented, would imply a strong involvement on the part of Unesco.” With a dignified and masterly gesture in my direction, he added, “ Mr. Dupont, the floor is yours.“

Needless to say I did not want to speak! I did not have the slightest clue as to what proposal had been tabled. I could not even begin to pronounce Mr Arianayagham’s name. I had not asked for the floor. Instead, I would have wished for the floor to open under my feet and swallow me. As I procrastinated in silence, everyone turned attentively in my direction.
Finally, I said “ Well, well, well…”

I do not know if I sounded like Maurice Chevalier or Louis Jourdan, but the effect was not exactly brilliant. I must not have come across as terribly intelligent, for the surprise was now general. I remember a similar experience had occurred many, many years earlier in my school days. A teacher had caught me daydreaming and had scolded me embarrassingly while the rest of the class laughed. But it did not matter so much then. It mattered now!

“What makes you hesitate, Mr. Dupont ?” asked the Chairman.

I was then suddenly inspired by the witty politicians on French TV who can address any question and speak on any subject for any length of time without really knowing what they are talking about. It was, indeed, a bewitching challenge.

So, I said something along the following lines : “We have now a lot of food for thought” (Did we really ?) “The proposal is very interesting, but it presents some complex aspects which require thorough reflection.” (Who could disagree with that?) “In any case,” I added, “before I give you my opinion, I would very much appreciate listening to the reactions of the other participants and benefit from their comments on the subject which I intend to fully take into account in shaping my position. I shall not fail, of course, to share my thoughts with you after that.”

I looked around. The participants seemed satisfied and somewhat flattered. I was proud of myself but, unfortunately, not for too long. As each one of them spoke, I began the agonizing operation of trying to guess what on earth Mr.

Arianayagham’s proposal was all about. The puzzle was intellectually fascinating. From their comments I had to swim upstream to discover the source. I soon felt I was drowning instead. Oh! If only Mr. Arianayagham had missed his plane in Colombo! If only Mr. Brown’s secretary had not offered to take me to the meeting room!

The comments around the table added perplexity to confusion. Fortunately, after a painfully trying stretch, God had mercy on me and the Chairman decided to break for lunch. Whew! The torture was momentarily suspended.

I rushed to Mr. Arianayagham, and without trying to pronounce his name, I asked for a copy of his intervention. He did not have a typewritten one, but courteously lent me his handwritten notes.

Lunch consisted for me of an excruciating deciphering exercise. I do not think that Jean-François Champollion suffered as much as I did when he decoded the Egyptian hieroglyphics on the Rosette stone. The worse part was yet to come. Once deciphered, the proposal did not really make sense to me. I was experiencing sudden apprehension and fear – what is commonly known as panic.

But I took several deep breaths, bravely gathered all the bureaucratic skills in me and eventually synthesized an elegant general statement out of the various comments I had heard in the morning and what I could make out of the intervention. In other words, I put some of the pieces of the puzzle together. When I read the result to myself I was surprised. I wondered if Pablo Picasso was ever surprised in looking at some of his paintings, after adding various eyes, legs and noses.

In any case, at the beginning of the afternoon session I delivered my statement on an empty stomach. The Chairman nodded. The other members gave signs of assent. Only Mr. Arianayagham seemed puzzled by my puzzle. The meeting moved to other items on the agenda and at around 6 p.m., to my great relief, it ended.

No one had asked me to clarify my statement. Had they done so, I would have committed harakiri right then and there. I am sure the Japanese delegate to my left would have graciously accepted to advise me on the general procedure. But nobody asked.

On my way out of the room, the Rapporteur timidly inquired whether he could use my very statement, which he thought was so good, to summarize the discussion in the final report. I agreed and then wondered if the Rapporteur, or anyone else for that matter, had really understood what it was all about. As long as I live, I shall never explain this mystery. And as long as I live I shall never again daydream at a meeting.

I ran out of the building and within minutes I had a huge steak with fries and onion rings, washed down with some Cabernet Sauvignon.

Back at the hotel I watched a little bit of TV and promptly fell asleep. My night was haunted with wild, confusing dreams. Maurice Chevalier was all over the place. He thanked Mr. Brown’s secretary for managing to invite him to the meeting. He complimented Mr. Arianayagham for his constructive proposal, while Gigi was trying to seduce the Chairman. In his best Gallic accent, Maurice Chevalier told me that my statement was fine, but did not make much sense. Shirley, who apparently has all sorts of connections up there, was trying to obtain some heavenly clarification for what was going on. The participants danced around the oval table, drinking Cabernet Sauvignon. A disgraced Samurai wanted to pierce his belly. Eva Gabor said that generations to come would cite this meeting as a model of clarity and coherence, while her sister, Zaza, wrapped up in the UN flag, with her right arm stretched out like the Statue of Liberty, talked at great length about caviar and onion rings.

When I woke up next morning I was exhausted.

Copyright © 2000 by Jacques Tocatlian

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright conventions.

No part of this book, text and drawings, may be reproduced or transmitted, in any forms or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

The Bibliotheca Alexandrina

By Jacques Tocatlian

The Library of Ancient Times

As we know, the Ancient Library of Alexandria gathered within its walls the largest collection of scrolls ever assembled at the time and attracted scientists, philosophers, mathematicians, historians, critics and poets from the Hellenistic world. It pioneered the concept of research as a collaborative effort and developed a tradition of testing theory by means of observation and experiment.

History tells us that it is in this Ancient Library that the circumference of the earth was calculated; the brain identified as the focus of intelligence and the function of the heart isolated; the natural sequence of disease proclaimed; the technique of map drawing developed; the continents and constallations mapped; the rules of syntax elaborated; and geometry systematized.

The Greek geographer Strabo described the Library as part of a richly decorated complex of buildings and gardens. The Library, was divided into departments; it contained ten large research halls, each devoted to a separate subject, botanical gardens, a zoo, dissecting rooms and an observatory. It also served as a copying shop, a publication office and a translation center. The whole environment was organized to facilitate discussion, research and reflection.

The Great Library was eventually distroyed after several centuries of existence. There are many theories about the causes of its disappearance. Some historians believe that it was partly lost to fire and partly destroyed by earthquakes; others blame Julius Ceasar, fanatical Christians, or ultrareligious Arabs, (see Mostafa El-Abbadi’s book The Life and Fate of the Ancient Library of Alexandria, published by Unesco in 1990).

The Revival of an Idea

The revival of the Library of Alexandria, by the Egyptian government with the assistance of Unesco and the international community, is an attempt to transpose the ancient idea into modern terms and play an educational, cultural and scientific role throughout the region. The new Bibliotheca Alexandrina is a public research library integrated within a complex of specialized libraries, museums, exhibition areas, educational centers, a planetarium, a library and information school and an international conference center. As such, it is a center for learning, tolerance, dialogue and undesrtanding. It is an Egyptian institution with an international dimension, under the auspices of a universal Council of Patrons and directed by an International Board of Trustees.

In his address at the inauguration of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina on 16 October 2002, in front of 800 personalities, including heads of states, queens, ministers, Nobel-price winners, scientists, writers and artists, H.E. President Mohamed Hosni Mubarak emphasized the need for dialogue and cultural interactions as the main alternative to violence and tension – which is one of the functions of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina.

The Role of Unesco

It is not surprising that Unesco, which was created to promote education, science, culture and sharing of knowledge was intimately associated with Egypt in turning the dream into reality. Some fifty years earlier, the greatest archaelogical campaign of all times was also achieved by Unesco on the very same land to save some 80 temples, including Abu Simbel and Philae.

Egypt requested the assitance of Unesco in the Revival of The Ancient Library of Alexandrie in 1986. As the Director of the Office of Information Programs and Services of Unesco at the time, I was very fortunate to be put in charge of the project. By the very fact that I was born in Alexandria, this assignment became for me an infinite source of stimulation, pride and satisfaction.

With the assistance of a number of international experts, we carried out the first phase of the Feasibility Study, a series of basic technical studies, prepared the Architectural Brief and organizd an international architectural competition The Director General of Unesco launched an international appeal for support.

The project was started off in Egypt under the auspices of President Hosny Mubarak. The University of Alexandria donated a site of 45000 square meters for the future Library, on the waterfront on the very location of the ancient Royal Palace , believed to be close to the probable site of the Ancient Library, On 26 June 1988, President Hosny Mubarak and the Director General of Unesco, layed the first stone of the Library. The project had moved fast and it had caught the interest and imagination of the international community. A large number of articles began to appear in the international press, officials from various countries approached Egypt and Unesco to express their interest, and institutions began to offer their assistance. The project had gained a great momentum.

The organization of the international architectural competition further promoted the project, internationally. Over 1300 architects from 77 countries registered; 524 entries were received and submitted to the International Jury composed of seven architects and two librarians.

It is interesting to recall that the Snohetta team from Norway, who won the competition was in itself international; its ten members who worked on this project originated from six countries. The team recognized that a great sensitivity was needed to succesfully complete the project. A high degree of group interaction was maintained and a great deal of reseach and reading was done. A special trip was made to Alexandria to investigate the atmosphere of this undertaking before beginning the actual design of the competition entry. Their effort was later crowned with success.

The bold Norwegian design had now to be implemented for which substantial funds were needed. An International Commission for the Bibliotheca Alexandrina was set up with the participation of Chiefs of States and high level personalities. The meeting of the Commission took place in Aswan under the chairmanship of Mrs. Suzanne Mubarak from 11-12 February 1990. It was a great success from every point of view. The 18 members of the Commisssion signed the Aswan Declaration that endorsed the project and called for the international community to support and cooperate in the completion of the Library. The response to the appeal was immediate. A sum of US $64,000,000 was collected. The final cost of the Library was to be in the order of $ 220 millions.

Translation of a Design into Stone, Steel and Glass

In October 1990, a project agreement was signed by the Government of Egypt and Unesco setting up the institutional framework and the organs of the Project. Unesco appointed a Project Manager in February 1992, to oversee the building construction. A legislative structure was created in Egypt which made the Library an autonomous juridical entity tied directly to the President of the Republic.

Archaeological excavations on the site, which uncovered ruins of Roman villas and beautiful mosaics, delayed the tender action concerning the first phase of construction (the foundations and ground engineering works), which was eventually launched in 1994. Nine companies had pre-qualified from among 34 groups. On 15 May of that year, the contractor selected, Rodio/Trevi (Italy) – Arab Contractor (Egypt) Joint Venture, officially began Phase I.

Three hundred and fourteen thousand cubic yards of dirt were excavated. One thousand workers toiled day and night The construction work involved the most advanced technology available; the proximity of the sea demanded particular precautions to prevent any water infiltration. A waterproof wall, reinforced by an anti-earthquake system, was erected. It represented the largest circular continually reinforced diaphragm wall in the world, 160 m. in diameter. Six hundred and two bell bottom pillars were sunk 40 m. into the ground to support the weight of the building. Phase I was completed on 31 December 1995, at a cost of $59 million.

Phase II (structure, services, fit-out and external works) which followed was carried out by Balfour Beatty (UK) – Arab Contractors (Egypt) Joint Venture, at a cost of about $117 million.

The Building

If you happen to visit Alexandria in Egypt, you may be surprised to find on the sea-shore, along the row of old buildings, the bold, modern structure of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina.

As you examine it, you see a cylindrical structure, inclined towards the sea and partially submerged in a reflective pool of water. The sloping roof allows indirect daylight to enter the reading rooms. An Aswan granite wall, engraved with calligraphy, inscriptions and symbols from both past and present civilisations, is wrapped around the cylinder. Within the plaza, a large sphere houses a science museum and a planetarium. In the heart of the Library a space – 160 m. wide and 80 m. deep – creates a feeling of grandeur. The floor of this space terraces along 7 primary and 14 secondary levels which produce an impressive flowing space of cascading books. The book stacks extend behind each terrace, protected from light. In the Library prevails a luminous and serene atmosphere which incites study and reflection.

The Chairman of the Jury of the Architectural Competition, Mr. John Carl Warnecke, USA, in commenting on the design of the Library remarked that it is “ in the form of a circle, which becomes its predominant symbol… it expresses a basic continuity to man’s existence. The sun is a circle. The moon is often an emerging circle. The site of the Library looks out on the ancient harbor of Alexandria, which is in the form of a circle. The circular plan of the Library thus relates to all these elements. The circle is a symbol of unity and continuity that embraces the past, present and future… The cylindrical masonry form emerges from the earth like the rebirth of an earlier form.”

The Organization of the Library

The Bibliotheca Alexandrina consists of :

1. The Main Library, which is a universal library designed to serve researchers and the public at large.
2. The Taha Hussein Library for the blind and visually impaired.
3. The Young People’s Library, conceived to orient 12-to-18 years old to all the services in the Main Library.
4. The Children’s Library, geared towards children aged 6 to 12.
5. The Audiovisual, Multimedia and Music Library which offers a selective collection of CD/DVD, audiocassetes, video tapes, records, slides and photos.
6. The Microfilm Reading Room which contains a manuscript collection in Arabic, Turkish and Persian.
7. The Rare Books Reading Room which offers rare books, facsimile prints, limited collections and dedicated books.

In addition, the Bibliotheca Alexandrina includes the Science Museum, the Calligraphy Museum, the Alexandrina Museum, the Archeological Museum, the International School of Information Studies, a multipurpose room, an exhibition area and the Conservation and Restoration Laboratory. On the same site are the Planetarium and the International Conference Center that can accomodate 3000 seats. In that sense the new Bibliotheca Alexandrina is not a simple library, but indeed the true revival of the ancient one.

The Library is wholly automated and possesses a computerized catalogue. The Library Information System was designed and installed by a French firm with the financial support of the French Government. The different departments are developing databases for the main disciplines covered The program of the International School of Information Studies was developed and the Restoration Laboratory to preserve rare books and manuscripts was established, with assistance form the Italian Government. Library Staff were trained in the latest software and library management software in the US and Europe.

The size and content of the collection is a very important aspect which has drawn the greatest attention of the Library Management. Collection development – which consists of the selection, evaluation, weeding, replacement, preservation, and retention of library materials to best support the mission of the Library – is managed in a modern and pragmatic way. Today, collection development increasingly entails the provision of information through a balance of acquisition and access. Access has become central to the ongoing process of maximizing the acquisitions budget while, at the same time, increasing the availability of resources to the library’s patrons. Print or multimedia resources are acquired traditionally or provided through some form of document delivery. Electronic resources are also either acquired or accessed to, by lease. This represents a significant shift from the historical emphasis on acquiring strong collections of print resources for long-term access and use. Less than ever can a library attempt to acquire all available materials across an extensive range of teaching and research areas, as the ancient Library of Alexandria once did. Times have changed. The Bibliotheca Alexandrina’s aim is to provide essential print and multimedia resources for teaching, learning, and intertainment as well as print research materials, on a selective basis, together with licensed and purchased access to remote electronic resources for all library users.

The Collection Development Policy of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina is printed as a public document that describes existing collection strengths and future collecting activity in order to inform users, potential donors, and funding authorities of the principles that govern the selection and retention of library holdings and of the library’s collecting priorities.

It is important to emphasize that The Bibliotheca Alexandrina, as part of the larger global community, considers Intellectual Freedom to be fundamental to its mission. The administration of the Bibliothrca Alexadrina adheres to the Statement on Libraries and Intellectual Freedom of The International Federation of Library Associations and Institutions, IFLA. For instance, it supports, defends and promotes intellectual freedom as defined in the UN Declaration of Human Rights; it believes that human beings have a fundamental right to access expressions of knowledge, creative thought and intellectual activity; it believes that intellectual freedom is a core responsibility for the library and information profession.

The number of books in the Bibliotheca Alexandrina is still small, fo the moment. The Library was designed to contain a maximum of 8 million books, compared with the national Library of France’s 12 million and the US Library of Congress’ 18 million. But, as mentioned earlier, acess to a large reservoir of information is secured. Among the precious possessions, one can cite , for example, a hand-written manuscript of the historian Al-Makrizi, copies of the Holy Quran written in Ottoman-style calligraphy, a copy of the first edition of the New Testament printed by Johans Gutenberg in 1456, ‘La Description de l’Egypte’organized by Napoleon during the French expedition in Egypt, and a manuscript of Sahid Muslim’s Anthology of prophet Muhammad’s Hadith. The Library also hosts important documents, maps, microfilms relevant to the Suez Canal, as well as an electronic record of 300 rare historical photographs featuring the phases of the Suez Canal construction. The Library also has a collection of rare coins and a gallery of historical paintings featuring the history of Alexandria. It has signed an agreement with the Egyptian Television that will provide to the Library a selection of its cultural and educational programs to gradually construct an important audio-visual archive collection (4000 hours/year).

The strategies applied for building up and enriching the collections include negotiations with specialized and private libraries in Egypt; contacts with monasteries and mosques concerning originals or copies of manuscripts; negotiations with museums around the world to obtain texts and reports of the pharaonic period; negotiations with specialized libraries in other countries to obtain Greek classical texts translated into Arabic and rare historical documents; preparation of agreements with foreign countries to establish exchange mechanisms; and establishing a collection of administrative, legal and cultural archives covering the history of Egypt and, in particular, that of Alexandria.

Dr. Ismail Serageldin, Librarian of Alexandria and Director of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina, is known to be an energetic and pragmatic intellectual. He began with a strategy that impressed many observers : obtaining an exemption from civil service and from purchasing rules so that the library can hire and fire at will, pay competitive salaries and buy what it needs without interference from Government authorities and customs. He created in the Library a team spirit and a profound commitment to excellence

In the short span of its existence, the Bibliotheca Alexandrina has developed many programs, consolidated its institutional structure, further developped its Human Resources and trained its staff, sposonred activities in science, humanities and the arts, refined its mission and focus, issued several publications, and organized succesful international seminars to address concerns of the world community, such as the ethics of science and technology, freedom of expression, youth employment, and the role of science in education.

The Library also counts among its achievements the founding of seven specialized research institutes, the establishment of many museums, the addition of tens of thousands of books, and the organisation of scores of concerts, exhibitions, conferences, lectures, seminars, workshops and meetings. ( On the average per year: close to a million visitors, over 500 events, including 140 Concerts, 130 Movie shows, 110 Theatre presentations, 35 Plastic Arts exhibitions). The Annual Reports of the Library are an impressive record of achievements, to be consulted. In the words of Mrs Suzanne Mubarak, Chair Board of Trustees “Rarely in the history of institution-building has so much been achieved in so little time by so few. Like the Ancient Library of Alexandria, the Bibliotheca Alexandrina is becoming synonymous with diversity, culture, dialogue and learning; a place where minds meet and cultures flourish.”

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This post reproduces material form the Collection Development of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina as well as from a Chapter I contributed (Bibliotheca Alexandrina: Reborn from the Ashes of History) for the book Library and Information Systems: From Alexandria Heritage to Social Networking, Sarad Ranganathan Endowment for Library Science, Bangalore, 2009.

 

The Legend of Armand Tokatyan

By Jacques Tocatlian

All through my childhood, my Uncle Armand was to me more of a legend than a real person. When my father talked about his famous brother, Armand, who lived in the United States, and sang at the Metropolitan Opera, I did not think that I would some day actually meet him. The United States was   in those days, very very far from Alexandria Egypt where we lived.

The letters from Uncle Armand arrived at the rate of one or two a year, often accompanied by a series of photos, which added to the fascination since he was usually dressed up for Pagliaci, Traviata, or Cavaleria Rusticana. I knew he had a son, Leon, and a daughter, Gloria – my cousins – but knew very little about them. My Uncle had even modified his name, at the request of his Impresario, from “Tocatlian” to “Tokatyan” – easier to pronounce and remember. In fact, our family name had already been modified once from the original spelling “Tokatlian” to Tocatlian. In Armenian, the name means originating from Tokat – a city north-east of Ankara, Turkey.

My own brother was named Armand, after our Uncle. What fascinated us as kids were the stories we heard in the family about Uncle Armand. Apparently, it all started towards the latter part of the 19th century in Plovdiv, Bulgaria – known as “Philipopoli” at the time. Grandfather Gabriel, who was a pharmacist, had fled Istanbul and the problems Armenians were encountering with the Turks. He had at the time only one daughter, Eugenie, who later married Leon Chichmanian and gave birth to our cousins: Garbis, Yervant, and Marie.

In Plovdiv, Grandfather Gabriel and Grandmother Virginie had several sons. The one before last was Armand,born in 1894, and the last one was my father, Lucien, born in 1899. I do not know how many years they lived in Plovdiv nor how many children they had. Besides Armand and Lucien, I know of Leon who studied painting in Paris, died young in a horse carriage accident, and was buried at the Pere Lachaise Cemetery.

At one point early in the 20th century, Grandfather decided to return with his family to Turkey. They sailed to Istanbul, but were not allowed to disembark. As Armenians, they were probably considered person non grata. Grandfather inquired from the Captain where the ship was going next. “To Alexandria,” he said. So they went and settled in Alexandria, Egypt.

As a pharmacist, Grandfather had no problem establishing himself in thriving conditions. He acquired a pharmacy downtown, which he named “La Pharmacie du Phare”, after the lighthouse of Alexandria, and lived a life of ease in good comfort. The children went to private French schools and were given a good education. Eugenie played the piano, Lucien played the flute, and Armand sang.

Early in life, Uncle Armand showed a great interest in singing. As years went by, he would not hear of any career in life other than that of an opera singer. With the prevailing mentality of the time, Grandfather did not want one of his sons to become a singer. It must have been a conflicting situation. It was eventually resolved when Uncle Armand expressed the wish to study tailoring in Paris. So he was sent at considerable expenses to France. Years went by. For one reason or another, he found an excuse to extend his stay in Europe.

One day, Grandfather, sensing a problem, asked a friend who was going to Europe to check on his son. When the friend came back, he informed Grandfather that Armand had studied no tailoring all these years, but had sang instead ,here and there, even in cafés of the Latin Quarter,  and had began to establish a reputation as a singer of  talent. He brought back many newspaper articles by famous critics and strongly advised Grandfather to encourage his son in this direction, which he did. Armand went to Milano in 1919 to seriously study voice. His operatic debut took place in 1921 as de Grieux in a procuction of Puccini’s Manon.

On February 14, 1923, he had his debut at the Metropolitan Opera, New York, where he regularly appeared with The Company until 1946, concentrating in French and Italian repertories. During his career, he sang in most European capitals, was applauded by the world critics,  was crowned with success, acted and sang in Mexican films.

On March 10, 1940, Armand madetelevision history, by participating in the first televised performance by the Metropolitan Opera, as he sang Canio’s “Vesti la giubba” to conclude the telecast of Act I of Pagliacci.

Immediately after the war, he participated in a country-wide fund-raising series of concerts for the benefit of Armenian families in Europe who wanted to migrate to the States. Eventually, Armand Tokatyan gave a last concert at the Hollywood Bowl – I believe in 1949.

In the summer of 1958, I visited him in Whittier, California, where he had retired and taught singing. The legendary Uncle was real. He was then 64.He unfortunately passed away two years later, a few months before my father came to the United States. They had been looking forward to seeing each other again after some forty years…

Some of his performances include:

Date	Opera	Performers
09.19.1927	Turandot	Roselle, Tokatyan, Pinza, Merola
01.28.1933	La Traviata	Bori, Tokatyan, Tibbett /Serafin
05.16.1936	Carmen	Castagna, Tokatyan, Royer, Bodanya /Papi
05.15.1937	Mignon	Tourel, Tokatyan, Rothier, Antoine, Matyas /Pelletier
01.06.1940	Lakme	Pons, Tokatyan, Pinza, Petina, Cehanovsky /Pelletier
02.10.1940	La Boheme	Sayao, Tokatyan, Dickey, De Luca, Cehanovsky, Pinza /Papi
01.25.1941	Madama Butterfly	Albanese, Tokatyan, Browning, Brownlee, De Paolis/Papi
03.25.1944	Cavalliera Rusticana	Flesch, Tokatyan, Valentino, Votipka /Sodero

On September 2, 1997, when Grace Bumbry was interviewed after she made her operatic farewell, she was asked whether she had a natural voice. She responded by saying:

“I had a natural voice. I remember my teacher, Armand Tokatyan, said to me, “Your voice was so beautifully placed and your first teacher did such a wonderful job, that you don’t have a lot to do, but you have to know what to do when you get older, when you get tired. When the voice is working well, anyone can sing well, but when you don’t feel well and don’t feel like singing, you have to know how to get the voice there.”

Copyright © 2000 by Jacques Tocatlian