A Letter From The Publisher, Jun. 30, 1952

Any correspondent worth the price of a cable toll knows that, in moving to a new post, he will inherit a desk calendar covered with mysterious scrawls, address books with unidentified phone numbers, a bewildering assortment of old news clippings, and a series of phone calls meant for his predecessor. W ith perseverance, he usually succeeds in living down the ghost of his forerunner. But Cranston Jones, who recently became TIME’S correspondent in Rio de Janeiro, thinks he will always be haunted by a triple-decker ghost named White.

Ever since 1947, TIME’S bureau in Brazil has been inhabited by one White after another. First there was Bill White, now in TIME’S Washington bureau, who established the White dynasty in Brazil. Next, in April 1950, came Frank White Jr. (no kin to Bill), who used the same office, same yellow jeepster, same office staff, same apartment, and same maid. Finally, at the beginning of this year, Art White (no kin to either) moved into the same background, inherited the same perquisites of office and began hearing the same jokes about men named White that had beleaguered Frank.

For Jones, this triplicity of Whites before him has taken on a weird, nightmarish character. For one thing, many people look at him suspiciously when he announces that he is a TIME correspondent named Jones. For another, everywhere he goes he learns that Senhor White has been there before him. At a cocktail party, one indignant lady told him: “This is not meant to be personal, but for us in Rio TIME without Whites is no longer TIME.”

Says Jones: “Now the dynasty of Whites is receding into history. But a terrifying thing is happening. All three are blending, becoming one superman known as simply White, who knew everybody, went everywhere, held every imaginable opinion. When I discuss household problems with Maria, the maid, I am again up against this paragon Senhor White. This fabulous journalist, it appears, liked many fruits for breakfast, no fruits and no eggs, eggs with bacon and four eggs.”

Jones and Maria have drawn up a chart for easy reference, using Maria’s designations: White the married, who liked lamb and pork, but no shrimp; White the father of Cricket (Frank White III), who liked fruits, eggs, bacon and pastries; and White the criança (youngster), who refused milk and potatoes for fear of becoming White the fat. Now, when the name of Senhor White comes up, Maria goes to the kitchen, consults the chart and points out which one she means.

The last two Whites had troubles of their own. As end man in the series, Art White, now in TIME’S Paris bureau, ran into more complications than Frank. When cable company employees called him at night, he admitted he was Mr. White and said he would take the message. But they were puzzled over his changed accent and fumbling Portuguese, by contrast with Frank’s fluent command of the national tongue. Art later heard that one cable company worker was spreading the story that poor old Mr. White was going deaf, couldn’t understand a thing that was said to him any more.

Frank had neglected to tell Art about an agreement he had made with other tenants of their apartment building. All the neighbors had decided to have an exterminator on the same day to get rid of the cockroaches in the building. One day Art received a call at his office from a neighbor, asking whether he was willing to agree on the date of “C-Day.” “When I asked for more information,” he says, “her voice dripped ice, and it was obvious she thought I was trying to duck my share of the expense. I explained I was not Frank White, but Art. Since she had known Bill White, too, this was too much for her to swallow, and she bade me a gracious good-bye and hung up.”

Frank says that being second in the series was a fine thing, most of the time. Plumbers appeared automatically to repair the gas heater and doctors knew where to come.

Christmas invariably brought a handsome, if misdirected, selection of cards. All this more than made up for the blank look on the faces of host and hostess when Frank and his wife arrived at parties in response to invitations addressed tc Senhor and Senhora White.

Frank belatedly recalls a note of warning which he neglected to pass on to his successors. It seems that Frank wrote a story about Basilio, a 250-lb. ex-wrestler reputed to have the worst temper in all Brazil. Basilio didn’t like the story, Frank heard later. From the security of TIME’S Bonn bureau, Frank cabled me recently: “My advice to Cran Jones: if a large, cauliflowered party shows up in my bureau, don’t tell him your name isn’t White. Neither he nor probably anybody else in Brazil would believe you.”

Cordially yours,