15 April 2020. Timo at Britt-Marie's
Gone, gone , gone—Britt-Marie’s is no more. The dark interior with massive curved wood alter piece —a setting for a clock, most likely, in some long forgotten European establishment—shipped to America in a crate padded with straw, bound tight with baling wire—the slats of rough Carpathian hardboard—then repurposed here in the white village—Albany—set up behind the bar of what would be become the Bacchanal, a clientele primarily female—wine, in all its vintages—the place somewhat notorious. And later repurposed again by the wandering Czech maestro—I never knew his name, only that he had a good eye and excellent taste--with paintings on the walls, real paintings, in earnest, not cafe decorations—someone’s soul shared with the world. And many unusual kinds of beer—pilsner, budvar and the like—and that was in the ’70’s, before such variety was common. The Russians we knew used to go there—Fima, I remember—the atmosphere a kind of Moravian chic—more Brno than Paris, leaning over one of the small tables with a glass of wine, telling off-color stories in languages only half understood. That came to an end too—and then a dormant period, neither fish nor fowl—Britt-Marie a mere remnant of its former self. You’d walk by, but all was lonely—until Timo arrived. How on earth did he find the place—and transform it so. Fernanda’s friend—a girl from from one of my classes—she told me his name—but those were my walk-by days—I’d look in from the sidewalk. Timo behind the bar, in black, with the avuncular straw hat—a pork-pie, brim turned up all around, in the Puerto Rican manner—except that Timo was from México—he never wore this on his sleeve, but there was something in his eyes—and a sense that anything was possible.You only became aware of this over time—an adventurer, especially with the music. Some nights the place would be all dark, filled with Braziileiros—the tables pushed into long rows, boisterous, lots of wine in jugs, sound of Portuguese spilling out onto the street. Or, a few nights later—the rosy-faced woman with high cheeck bones and a semi-beehive—reminded me of Rose Maddox—and her guitar-player partner, older, quite a bit older, in the western shirt with carefully buttoned cuffs—and they knew their stuff—some real crowd pleasers. Up-rhythm and good pickin’. A sophisticated audience, too—all the locals from Down Home. I got their card one night—I was passing b y right after the end of their show, as they packed the instruments into the back of an over-sized camper-truck, ready for the road…. Timo behind all of this, of course—a magic attraction—how did he find them? How did they find him? Never advertised (someone told me it was to avoid buying a cabaret license)—so everyone learned by word of mouth. Just like me—I’d be walking down the street, half a block away, and already the physical feeling of he music would reach out—make me wonder who was on… I’d stand in the doorway, crack it a bit—Timo always waved—and someone would want me to come in—but I’d tell them, no, I liked it better from outside—which was true, that half-way sound through the glass and the old wood, even more magical…
Well, he gave it up. Not sure when. One of the periods when I was away, summer of 2018 most likely. I’d started one of my nighttime walks, but no hint of the music, and when I came alongside the windows—Café-Wine Bar in gold and black—they were covered over from the inside, and everything dark.
I’d seen Timo once in between—at the Albany pool—he was there with a youngster--someone I didn't recognize, who seemed like family. His son, he said. Slightly awkward, I could see he was trying to give the boy all of his attention. Responsibilities—is that how he put it? But with a smile…always with a smile…
