Dali’s Elephant

by Bunting S

There was a time in our twenties when written communication could be complicated. In a time before internet, we were constantly updating our address books. It was easier when we were going to school as our permanent address would be at our parents’. However, it became a bit trickier as we went off to college, away for our first job, or even journeyed abroad. Always an avid letter writer, I was excited by the sight of an unopened envelope addressed to me—the anticipation of news from a friend. I am sure that letters to me sat abandoned at many of my former addresses. After moving so many times, it seemed useless to get the post office to forward them. It would be like a series of dominoes—one address following the other.

I started writing Veronique Letarte when I was ten as part of a project in my French class. I can still remember the exhilaration when I received the first letter accompanied with a tiny image taken in a photo booth. In English, she introduced herself:

My name is Veronique.
I am ten years old.
I live in Lyon.
I have a sister and a brother.
I like tennis and go to the beach.

I looked up Lyon in the Atlas and in the encyclopaedia. It looked like a big city and was famous for its wine—Beaujolais as I learned later. I had always dreamed of foreign lands and liked everything different. France seemed particularly attractive. It had promoted itself well for its sophistication, fashion. and cuisine.

I examined the small black and white snapshot. It was of a girl with light brown hair in a high ponytail. She was attractive in the French way, but not beautiful. I couldn’t see her clothes, only a light scarf draped stylishly around her neck.

What she must have thought of me!

Je M’appelle Sophie
Je suis dis ans. (I made a mistake already and corrected it.)
J’ai dis ans.
J’habite Tabusintac
J’ai une chiene, une caniche. Elle s’appelle Mademoiselle de Paris.
J’aime lire.

I wondered if she would find Tabusintac in the Atlas. Even if she did, I was sure she would never be able to learn what it was like. I would have to tell her in the next letter. I hoped she would be impressed by dog’s French name. I wondered if we had anything at all in common. From what she listed as her interests, she seemed sporty, something I was absolutely not.

What started as a school assignment for pen pals turned into a real friendship as we decided to keep writing after the required year. I followed her tennis competitions and the subjects she was taking at school, little things that happened in her family. I had the impression that what I found so exotic in her life was almost tedious for her. She only really became animated when she and her family went on summer holidays to Spain. She would describe the food, the little apartment by the beach, swimming in the Mediterranean and how she was learning more and more words in Spanish. As the years went on, she wrote of the boys she met there. I was impressed. I was still struggling in French and her letters in English sounded fluent and confident. I had no experience with boys.

I left my small village on the east coast of Canada to study Communications in Toronto and ended up working in news. None of my relationships turned into anything long-term. They were pleasant while they lasted, but weren’t particularly missed when they ended or fizzled out. I suppose I wasn’t ready. I was a single young career woman in the big city. I got a lot out of my job and the people I worked with, who became my friends.

What I did miss was travel! Veronique, of course, had perhaps been the first one to introduce me to the allure of different cultures.

Veronique studied Modern Languages at the Jean Moulin University in Lyon, concentrating on English, French and Spanish. She fell in love often. She had a new romance every semester—Bertran the philosopher, Julien the cool motorcycle rocker,

Théo the rebel, Benoit the actor, Simon the nature-lover, to name the most popular ones. She fell hard for them, and breakups were always difficult. The end of her love affairs taught me many French swear words and expressions such as j’en ai marre, connard. dégénéré.

In addition to spending her summers at the beach in Spain, Veronique went for a semester during her last year of studies to Barcelona. Excited, she wrote that she felt more at home in Spain than in France; there weren’t as many rules. It was more relaxed and of course there was the sea. It wasn’t a surprise then that after she graduated, she got a job and moved there.

“It is heaven to be back in Spain again,” she wrote. “I have a job as an au pair with a nice family in Barcelona. I look after two adorable children, Jordi, and Alba. They are mischievous but very sweet. I take them to the park and to the beach on weekends. They are helping me with my Spanish. Sophie, you should work with French children. They would teach you French. It is amazing how much you can learn from a child.”

I was experiencing wanderlust. I was actually also learning Spanish. I visited South American friends, and was offered a job at an English language newspaper, which I accepted before going back to Toronto to get my work visa. Unfortunately, it was a case of bad timing. All foreign journalists were being kicked out of Colombia at the time because of negative reports on the government and the revolutionary group FARC. I was disappointed. I had been anxious to experience somewhere different.

Of course Veronique fell in love again—this time with a Brazilian of Japanese descent, who was studying Medicine in Barcelona. It seemed serious this time and lasted longer than her other relationships. His name was Raphael. When he finished his medical studies and moved to intern at a hospital further down the Spanish coast in Valencia, Veronique gave her notice to the family and moved with him. She wrote how intelligent, charming, and handsome he was, and that she felt she was so fortunate to find such love. Of course, it wasn’t easy for her. She couldn’t work as an au pair as she was living with Raphael. So she was tutoring in French to Spanish school children. To be honest she could probably have given English lessons. Her mastery of my language had immensely improved, and she was virtually fluent.


In my life there were still no men. Working in news required long hours. I was often on the overnight shift, which played havoc with both my social life, and my routine of meals and sleep. I loved my job, but I decided to take time off to travel. I asked Veronique if I could visit her in Valencia, then flew to Paris, took a train into Spain, and stopped at Valencia.

*  *  *

What I noticed most when I arrived was the quality of light. Everything glowed. Palm trees graced streets lined with historic buildings stretching out to the sea. I took a taxi to Veronique’s apartment and waited as she’d instructed in a small café in their low-rise apartment complex. Veronique and Raphael were at work so I sipped a café con leche and read my book.

“Sophie, is that you?”

I looked up and there was Veronique, recognizable from that small photo I had of her when she was ten. She still had long caramel coloured hair, now tied up messily on her head, and the same tawny skin. Her clothes were plain and formal but neat and worn stylishly: a simple skirt, a cotton blouse, and a coloured scarf. I felt I knew so much about her, but I had never seen her smile, or heard her voice.

“Did you have a good trip? Sorry you had to wait.”

“I did have a nice trip. Paris was wonderful. And the train ride through France and Spain magnificent. But I am so glad to be here, and to finally meet you in person. This is the best part of my trip.”

She led me upstairs to their small apartment. After dropping my luggage in their tiny guest bedroom, I went into the kitchen to talk with my friend. Veronique put away some groceries she had bought on the way home.

“We eat very late in Spain. We can have a little snack now if you are hungry.”

We chatted in the bright kitchen, and then started to make dinner.

“I bought fish for tonight. Raphael likes fish.”

Raphael came home about ten o’clock and we had dinner. He was attentive to me.

“Tell me all about yourself. I’ve always wanted to visit Canada. Perhaps to live there.”

“That’s interesting. I’ve always wanted to visit Brazil.”

Then we went on to talk about our different countries, and he told me about the history of the Japanese in Brazil.

“I didn’t know there was a large Japanese population in Brazil,” I confessed.

“The biggest Japanese population outside of Japan,” Raphael said. “I am fourth generation. My great-grandfather came by boat from Okinawa to work on the coffee plantations. He was treated like a slave. But finally each generation did better. That’s why it’s so important I do well in my medical studies. Make my family proud. And the Japanese in Brazil proud.”

“My family were immigrants too,” I said, thankful to have something in common with him. “I am also fourth generation, but my ancestors came from Scotland.”

Raphael nodded.

“Then there’s Veronique. Pure French for generations and generations going back to this king, that war.”

I didn’t know what point he was trying to make but his tone was condescending. I was relieved when that conversation came to end when smoke billowed out from the kitchen.

“Oh, mon dieu,” screamed Veronique, “I left the burner on.”

We rushed into the kitchen. Veronique grabbed a dishcloth and quickly snatched the pot off the stove and threw it into the sink which she filled with dish washing liquid and water. Raphael scowled.

“That was such a stupid thing to do. Try to be more careful, Vero.”

“It was an accident,” I said. “Probably my fault. She was distracted by me being here.”

“There’s no excuse. The fire could have spread and destroyed everything.”

“But it didn’t. It’s only a pot.”

Veronique, highly agitated, rigorously scrubbed at the blackened metal.

“Let me see,” said Raphael. “It’s ruined”.

“It’s not ruined. I got a lot off. It just needs to soak overnight.”

Raphael hit the wall with his fist.

“Keep scrubbing, Vero. I’m not buying another fucking pot. I’m going to bed. I have an early day at the hospital tomorrow. I want to see a clean pot when I get up.”

And he left.

Veronique’s shoulders tensed, her teeth clenched, and her expression remained motionless. I offered to help her clean the pot. We took turns trying to scrape away the burnt crust. But eventually we had to give up. What it needed was a good soak.

I tumbled into bed, tired from my long journey, but woke up sometime later to Raphael shouting and banging things.

*  *  *

I joined Veronique in the kitchen in the morning. Raphael had already left for work. Her eyes were red, and she had several bruises on her arms. She was scrubbing at the pot.

“I’ll never get it clean. Raphael says he wants to see it look like new.”

I took over scouring the pot while Veronique made me coffee and served me some bread.

“I think the pot has to soak more,” I said. “Or …why don’t I buy you a new pot? That way we could work on scrubbing this one when Raphael is not home. But we would have a shiny clean one to make him happy.”

Veronique agreed. She told me where I could buy a new one, and got ready for her classes.

“You know, he is not really like this. It’s just some things set him off. We don’t have much money. He put himself through medical school. He works hard and hates to see anything wasted.”

“I understand”

But I didn’t understand. Veronique was a kind, intelligent women. She had given up a lot to be with him. She was tutoring when she could be working in a school. She knew how to cook delicious French and Spanish dishes. She didn’t deserve this treatment. A new pot was a small price to pay for peace.

I went out and bought an exact replica of the pot. Then I explored the city. I ended up in a beautiful park. The sun was shining. Flowers grew among the orange trees that Valencia was famous for. A bittersweet smell livened the senses. I wandered around and came to a small open enclosure where I saw the oddest thing. A baby elephant was prancing about, its trunk was swaying, and its mouth was stretched in what looked like a smile under ageless myopic eyes. An elephant in Spain?  Bizarre!


It came over to me and let me pet and talk to it. I stayed there until it was time to meet Veronique at the apartment. I made sure that I knew how to get there again. I was in love. It was such a pleasure to be near an exotic animal so full of life. It was as if I had the creature all to myself. No one else was around.

*  *  *

When I got back Veronique was making coffee.

“Here’s the new pot,” I said. “I think it is the same.”

“Thank-you for that. I put the old one under the sink behind cleaning supplies to soak. I might get it clean yet. But at least now I can take my time.”

“We’ll put the new one to use now. What shall we make for dinner?”

“Ah, tonight we are going out. You don’t want to be stuck every night in the apartment.”

We met Raphael at a small restaurant near the harbour. He asked me if I was adventurous in food. I nodded and he ordered for us all. First, we had salad, then sautéed green beans and garlic. The main course was something I would have never ordered. Eel. It was cut into small pieces smothered in garlic and was quite tasty, not tough as I had expected.

Raphael watched me eat with a good-humoured smirk on his face.

“The Spanish delicacy at Christmas is a dish of baby eels with garlic. It looks like a bowl of grey pasta.”

“Oh,” I said. “I am not sure about that.”

He laughed.

“Delicious but so expensive.”

Veronique was quiet but Raphael was chatty, speaking very good English. He asked me what I had done all day and then he told me more about the elephant.

“You’ve heard of Salvador Dali, right?”

“Yes, I love his work. Especially the blue Santiago El Grande. That’s in a gallery in the city I used to live in. I could stare at it for hours. And have.”

“Well, Air India commissioned Dali to create something they could use for corporate gifts. He designed an elephant-themed ashtray. Only of course, as with everything concerning Dali, the elephants were not normal. They had long skinny legs.”

“Only Dali! Always something weird! But in a good way. Artistic,” I said.

“For payment,” Raphael continued, “Dali demanded a real elephant. He called it Sursus, which meant something like Super. It lived with him for awhile in Cadequés but became too much. It was sent to Barcelona. Then it came here.”

So, my baby elephant was one of the Spanish painter’s eccentric ideas. That made it even more interesting.

*  *  *

I spent mornings exploring historic buildings, walking by the harbour and in the afternoons, I bought a bocadillo for lunch and ate it on a bench near the baby elephant, going up to the bouncy little animal after my lunch to pet it and talk to it.

Time was passing quickly. I felt completely at home in Valencia and felt close to Veronique. She was exactly as I imagined her to be. Perhaps we were comfortable with each other as we had poured our hearts out, divulged our secrets, expressed our dreams to each other since we were a young age.

On Friday we prepared dinner at home. We cooked with the new pot but the old one was slowly getting clean. We still kept it under the sink. After dinner we went out to a local bar to have a drink. It was always tense when Raphael was around. He was always criticizing her, calling her fat or stupid, mentioning things she failed to do.

Veronique didn’t work on weekends and as it was my last day, she suggested we go to the beach. Raphael had to be at the hospital so wouldn’t be with us. Veronique came alive by the sea. She seemed more relaxed and less restrained. Her sporty side revealed herself and she ran joyfully up and down the beach, and swam skilfully in the warm water.

I didn’t know how to bring it up. Relationships are always a delicate subject to discuss. But I was concerned about her. I decided to mention it in an informal way.

“I am going back to work next week. I hate to leave. It is so nice here. What do you think you’ll do? Stay in Valencia?”

“Depends on Raphael.”

“Ah yes, Raphael, will you stay with him?”

“Of course. I love him. You can see how handsome he is, how interesting, how intelligent.”

“Yes, but I’ve noticed he is hard on you at times.”

“Things will be better when he has finished his internship.”

I let it go at that.

*  *  *

It was my last dinner. We bought ingredients to make paella, the famous Valencian dish. Raphael came home and headed to the shower before dinner.

“Vero, the shower is full of fucking sand. You can’t even clean up after yourself.”

“That was probably my fault,” I said.

“Don’t interfere,” he warned, and I went silent.

He appeared to be in a better mood during dinner. He even offered to make the coffee.

Veronique and I were chatting quietly when we heard a cupboard slam in the kitchen.

“You sneaky little bitch.”

He came into the dining room holding the old pot that was still partly coated with a layer of burnt crust under an inch of soapy water.

“What’s this? Vero, what’s this? You thought you could hide it on me?”

Veronique cringed. “I will get it clean. It is just taking a little longer than usual. We bought a new one.”

Raphael slammed the pot on the table, making the plates and glasses jump.

“You lied to me.”

When he threw the pot at Veronique, I tried to intervene, but he shoved me away against the wall. The force of his thrust made me hit my head and fall forward.

“You keep out of it. You’re trouble. We are much better without you. Glad you are leaving”

When he stormed into the bedroom, Veronique went into the kitchen. I could hear her crying. I went into the spare bedroom and started to pack.

“I think it’s better if I leave.”

She just nodded. She seemed to be in a daze.

I gathered my backpack and left, promising to write. As I was leaving for Paris early in the morning, I didn’t opt to get a hotel room. It wasn’t cold out so I went to my usual park and sat on the bench next to the baby elephant. I wondered how it was like to live with Dali. Was he always so eccentric and outrageous? Did he ever do anything normal? Anything everyday?


In the morning, I blew a kiss to my animal friend and set off for home.

*  *  *

Correspondence between Veronique and I was not as regular as it was before. I received one letter saying she had moved to Brazil where Raphael had got a good job at a hospital.  Another said she had left him forever and had gone back to France. The last mail I received from her was an embossed card from San Paolo inviting to me celebrate ‘the union of Veronique and Raphael’ in Brazil. Although it was a place I had always wanted to visit, I shuddered, and tossed it away. Veronique and I never communicated again.

I often thought of her, and our lives shared together over the years, first through letters, and finally meeting up in Spain. I am about to start on my own adventure, this one perhaps permanent, in Scotland, the land of my ancestors. We all make choices—for good or bad—about where to make our home. Veronique had chosen Spain because it called to her, and Brazil because of a man she loved. Who was I to judge?

I thought of the baby elephant and how through the whim of an unconventional artist, it was displaced from family and home in a strange land. No choice there. Yet, there was pure joy of life in him, a joy I try to take with me throughout my own life wherever I go. Have you ever seen an elephant laughing? Really something to brighten your day!

© 2025 Bunting S  All rights reserved.

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