He left early the next morning after breakfast and gassed up the car and changed the oil. Ram headed west on 80, took the Napa cutoff and drove toward Calistoga, then turned west and followed the River Road along the Russian River until it dumped into the sea in Jenner, where he stopped for a lunch of fish and chips at River’s End. He ate in the bar, talking with patrons and questioning the bartender more fully. The bartender eyed him warily until Ram pulled out the assignment letter to show him who and what he was. Afterwards, the bartender loosened up and began to talk more easily, directing Ram to who might be able to provide greater detail. Ram took notes and jotted down the names and numbers of possible sources, then paid his bill and drove north on One, heading toward Mendocino County.
It’d been years since Ram had been up this way—not since that time before the Refugio poetry festival when he spent the night at the hotel in Caspar—but not much had changed in this part of the state, largely because the locals had successfully resisted development forces who wanted to widen the highway and rezone the agricultural land and turn the cattle and sheep ranches into subdividable lots. Whenever Ram stopped, and whoever Ram interviewed, all said the same thing: that was the developers’ agendas, and only through vigilance and local organization had they been able to turn the proposals aside. Ram stopped at Fort Ross, Timber Cove, Stewart’s Point, and Gualala and heard the same story again and again, making notes, leaving his card, and talking to all who would go on the record with him.
The developers who wanted the road widened and the land rezoned were out-of-towners; Silicon Valley millionaires who’d cashed out of San Jose or Sunnyvale and were trying to make more millions by gobbling up coastal properties and hoping that local politicians would carry their water. The ranchers were almost done, except for a few old-timers of Mexican, Portuguese, or Russian descent. The fishermen and abalone gatherers were on their last legs; the hippies from the sixties were little more than a memory, but the organizations they’d formed twenty years before, which were now run by their heirs, still fought on, battling the speculators whenever a new plan appeared. Ram wondered how long they’d be able to last, for the opposition was strong and their efforts were increasing as all the local newspapers said.
That would form the political backdrop for the piece Ram would write, but he still needed to collect the local color for the historical part of the story, and began to search for it. At a ridge-top estate near Stewarts Point, Ram stopped to interview a young rancher. He showed Ram around the main house, directing his attention to the photos of his ancestors who had been working this land for the past five generations. Ram was about to leave when the young man’s wife wheeled out the grandfather who spoke only Portuguese. His grandson agreed to interpret, and Ram asked the old man questions about the family and the ranch and what he had seen since he’d been living there. As his son translated, the man nodded that he understood what Ram was asking, his eyes clear and his mustache neatly trimmed. Ram was in mid-question when the old man raised his hand to stop Ram so he could speak. Ram inched forward to the edge of his chair until his knee nearly touched the old man’s. Then the old man began.
“We came from Oporto many years ago. Him,” he said pointing to a photograph of a man as old as himself, “Don Antonio de Silva, he was the first padrone of the de Silva Rancho. Then my grandfather, Don Luis, then my father, Don Ambrosio, then me, Don Esteban de Silva,” he said, his eyes closed. “When I was a boy, there were very few Anglos here other than the Stewarts and the Rostovs and some other Russians. You rarely heard English spoken—not ever in town,” he said loudly, tapping his chair for emphasis. “Now, they are everywhere, trying to take what we have. Our world may be over, but here, in this house, built by my great-grandfather’s own hands, nothing is different from when I was a boy. This land of our Rancho is like a part of my body. We will not leave here, even if they send an army to move us. Here we were born. Here we remain. And here we will die—one way or another,” the old man said, motioning as though firing a rifle. The padrone whispered something to the granddaughter, and she spoke back to him in Portuguese. The old man raised his voice to her and she stopped and did as he asked her to do, helping him rise out of his chair so he was upright when he shook Ram’s hand and supporting him as he bowed.
It sent a chill down Ram’s spine. The old man saw Ram’s reaction, and his eyes glistened. Ram gathered his things to go. The young man walked him outside.
It was afternoon now, the setting sun harsh and glaring, making Ram shield his eyes as he looked west. A fog bank was gathering on the horizon while they chatted.
“What do you think will happen now?” Ram asked the young man.
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“It depends on whether you can hold out and keep the developers at bay. A few spec houses or a subdivision or two won’t kill this place. But if they get the highway through, then you’re cooked.”
The young man nodded, pulled out a cigarette, looked about furtively, and then lit it. “The wife,” he said. “She doesn’t like it.” Ram nodded and smiled, then walked with him to where the dirt ended at a post-and-wire fence. Beyond it, sheep were making their way slowly up the bluff.
“A couple of years ago, there was a reception held for ranchers at the Grange Hall in Gualala—just the young ranchers like me and my cousins. Some of them were there—the developers and their lobbyist, a guy with a French name who spoke a little Portuguese.”
“Middle-aged guy with a beard and a Beatle haircut named Emile?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Because that was Emile Donner, and if they’ve got Emile Donner, then they mean business. They’re getting their ducks in a row.”
The young man inhaled, blew out the smoke, and nodded. “Oh, they meant business all right. Offered us a lot of money and said they’d allow us to keep our Rancho’s if we’d back the highway plan.” He shook his head and laughed. “I was starting to lean their way too. When I got home, I changed my mind. The old man found out what was going on. He and a few other padrones had got the wives together while we were at the banquet, and none of them—not my wife, or those of my cousins—would support the way we were starting to go. They made it clear there would be consequences if we bought into their plan.” He laughed, shook his head, took one last drag, then put out the cigarette and field stripped it. “I told the wife I would think about it, but her actions over the next weeks persuaded me. She was cold and stiff with me during that time; wouldn’t make love with me and went off to read every night after putting the children to sleep. The other wives were the same way toward my cousins.”
Ram laughed.
“Something funny?”
“It’s not that it’s funny,” Ram said. “It’s just an old tactic that always works. Same thing happened in Greece a long time ago.” The man cocked his eyebrow and looked at Ram to see if he was bullshitting. When he saw that he wasn’t, he began to chuckle.
“To tell the truth, I’m glad we didn’t go through with it. When that happens—or if that happens, the freeways I mean—then we’re over. It’s like the old man said: this is our life, this is who we are; we are defined by our land and how we make a living on it. Otherwise, we’ll just be a bunch of old Portuguese farts with fat wallets sitting in a bar somewhere.”
Ram looked at him and shook his head. “It’s funny that way, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It seems as though men measure themselves by how much they have. They make a contest out of it—to see how much they can get. With the women, it’s more about the kind of home and the kind of life they have. They’re not much interested in the idea of getting more, just for the sake of getting more and keeping score—at least not the ones who are worth a damn. The ones who do seem to wind up in the big cities, marrying up the ranks and getting more with each new husband.”
“You think so?”
Ram shook out a cigarette, lit it, and offered the young man
one. The young man declined.
“I’m afraid I do,” Ram said. “If you want to stay happy and live well, stay here and don’t sell. Keep on your guard, because they’ll be back, and they’ll do anything, especially if they’ve got Emile Donner. He’s as slick as they come.”
They made small talk for a few more minutes. The young man told Ram about his sheep and prize horses and what sports his kids played. The light was falling when he walked Ram back to his car. When they got there, Ram gave him a few of his business cards and asked him to give them to his cousins so they could call him if they wanted to talk. Ram realized that he hadn’t gotten his name. “I never asked you your name,” Ram apologized.
The young man looked at Ram and smiled. “Eusebio,” he said. Then something seemed to overtake him as though he remembered something. He now stood formally erect like the old man did, bowing slightly from the waist, saying in a grave voice, “I am Don Eusebio de Silva, and you are always an honored guest at this Rancho.”
Ram smiled and bowed his head. “The honor is entirely mine, Don Eusebio.”
The rest of the trip followed in the same vein as Ram wound through hill, dale, and headland, over the old California he loved best, avoiding all the freeways and major towns whenever possible, staying at small country inns and bed and breakfasts in Gualala and Point Reyes Station and La Honda. In Refugio, he thought of driving up to The Arbor to check on the ranch but thought, ‘What’s the point? It’ll only bring on thoughts of Vera.’ He had a part-time caretaker now who lived in the guesthouse, a Japanese kid named Kenji who he called from time to time to check on the place. Instead, he drove south through Carmel, past the Highlands, and all the way to Big Sur where the good weather played out at Bixby Creek. From here south to Santa Barbara, the coast was socked in with fog, or so the weather reports said, and it was here that Ram turned around and headed north, turning east at Izquell onto Holy City Road, winding through the mountains where he stayed a night in the Horsehair Hotel in Waddell Creek, avoiding all human contact except that which was absolutely necessary; buying his food at grocery stores and staying out of restaurants and bars.
He made one final stop before heading home, staying at a hotel in San Juan Bautista and exploring the Mission town that he’d only visited once before when he was a boy. For a day and a half, he wandered about the village, exploring the church, the museum, the livery stable, the Mission grounds, and the old cemetery. When he had his fill, he drove northeast, toward Mt. Diablo, and climbed to the top. It was a bright day and Ram surveyed the land he loved which now lay below him.
He could see Mt. Tamalpais and Mt. St. Helena in the northwest, Mt. Hamilton and the Santa Lucia’s to the south, and off to the northeast, beyond the Sleeping Indian, the trapezoidal shape of Lassen, while directly below him, the Delta waters emptied into San Pablo Bay. He felt good and sensed an incipient wholeness beginning to form in him at his center. He grinned and let out a piercing yell. Then he got back in the car and headed through the Delta up toward Sagrada, where he knocked off a draft of the old California story before going to bed. The next day, he polished it further and faxed the finished copy to Les Beak who called the next day to say that he loved it and would run it the Sunday after next. He started the dam/flood control story next and spent the better part of the week rambling through the foothills and interviewing engineers and politicians over the phone. As it was with the first story, so it was with this one. Beak said he thought it was fine and that it was an important issue that hadn’t been covered properly until now. He ran it two weeks after the first story came out…
…Ram took the 46 cut off from 101, through Paso Robles, then wound south on One, motoring easily along the coast. He looked in the rearview all the while and paid no attention to anything other than that which helped ensure his survival, pulling off to the shoulder whenever suspicious seeming vehicles lingered too long in his rearview or alongside his blind quarter without passing. He hadn’t eaten in almost two days and the cumulative effect of this and Ram’s generally frazzled condition were beginning to take their toll. In Morro Bay, he pulled off the highway and ordered two hamburgers and a vanilla shake at a Foster’s Freeze. He held it down for fifteen minutes before throwing up. The gas station attendant said Ram didn’t look good so Ram took his advice and drove to a motel. He checked in, unloaded the trunk, and walked to the back where his room was located in a corner of the second floor. He brushed his teeth, stripped naked, and got under the covers. When he awoke, it was midmorning.
For the rest of that day, Ram wandered Morro Bay, a beach town with gimcrack gift shops and restaurants by the waterfront. When he’d had enough window-browsing, he entered a restaurant called The Breakers and ordered clam chowder, garlic bread, and a crab Louis, looking out on the gray sea surging around Morro Rock one hundred and fifty yards offshore. Occasional squadrons of pelicans passed in front of the plate glass window. Sometimes, a surfer or two in wet suits paddled out to try their hand on the waves…
It was getting onto four o’clock when he got up to call The Big E. The receptionist told him the same thing she’d been telling him the past two weeks—that Mr. ReEves was busy but Ram could leave a number that he could be reached at.
“These voicemails don’t seem to be working too well, so I’ll tell you what,” Ram said. “Tell The Big E that I’ll be in town for the next few days and I intend to see him.”
“Mr. ReEves is unavailable, Mr. Le Doir. He’s planning on traveling—”
“—to Timbuktu? To Washington D.C.? Wherever it is, I don’t care. Just tell him what I said and that I’ll be in touch because I won’t be leaving town until I see him. Have a nice day.” Ram hung up the receiver, paid his bill, and spent the rest of the afternoon combing the beach, watching the sunset from atop a rock with pelicans passing in front of him.
At the motel, Ram turned on the TV and surfed the cable until he came upon a movie. It was John Huston’s The Dead, the last film that Ram’s friend Manfred Koenig and Houston had worked on together. Ram thought about the last time he’d seen Manfred, in Hungary on that winter day when Vera was the second lead in The Magus…
…He remembered that miserable day of drenching rain when his train bound from Paris pulled into the Budapest train station and the events of that day and the week following, considering the tatters of what might be called his career.
This had all happened during the time he and Vera were living in the Pyrenees district of Paris and on the assignment that brought him to rain-soaked Budapest. He was working for Lumière, but under a new editor since Donna Pearl’s retirement. The new editor was Spencer Blood, a professor of cinema studies at Cambridge five years Ram’s junior. When Blood heard about The Magus and Vera’s upcoming starring role in the project, he called and offered Ram the assignment. Ram was hesitant to accept, wondering whether that was such a good idea. Blood told him to think it over and Ram said he’d do that and get back to him. That evening, when Vera returned, Ram mentioned Blood’s proposal.
“You should do it,” she said. “It’ll be fun with you there.”
He cocked his eyebrow and looked at her across the kitchen table.
“You really think so?”
“Of course, it will. Why not?”
“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for me to come. The film sounds interesting and I’ve never been to Hungary before, but I’m afraid I might be in the way.”
“You’re crazy. How would you get in the way? I’ll be acting and preparing for scenes. You know how that goes.”
“Yeah, I know how that goes,” Ram said dryly. Vera looked back at him coldly, then warmed somewhat.
“Oh, come on. That happened a long time ago, and we got through that.”
“Barely,” Ram said.
“Suit yourself then. I’m making the picture and you can do what you want. But I think it would be nice if you’d cover the film for Lumière. It’s a good assignment and you’ll be able to spend time with Manfred. And the fact th
at you’re covering it and you’re married to me certainly can help the film. It’ll be great publicity. We can explore Magyar country. Maybe go to Romania to see Dracula’s castle,” Vera laughed, smiling widely.
They spent a lovely evening together, drinking wine and lying naked on the rug in front of the fireplace, making love and playing music until the wee hours when they fell asleep in one another’s arms under a comforter. When Ram awoke, he showered and put on coffee. It was cold and rainy still, although spring would be here shortly. After breakfast, Vera and he went to the flea market at St. Ambroise and shopped for a tea set, an antique silver place-setting, and an old fauteuil. On Sunday, they went to the cinema in the afternoon and finished off the day with a drawn-out dinner at a Chilean restaurant near their apartment. Then they went home and made love again. On Monday, Ram called Spencer Blood and accepted the assignment.
While he had Blood on the phone, Ram reminded him that he had three features in the can for Lumière and that he’d paid his own way to Berlin for the last assignment for them. “I think it’s Lumière’s turn this time,” Ram said. “If you want me on board for this, that’s my condition.”
Blood offered a compromise. “We can’t pay your expenses for travel, but I’ll tell you what. We can pay you for what’s in the pipeline—at least for 50% of our agreed-on fee—and you can use it for the trip to Hungary.”
Ram agreed to the new terms, which included expenses, and told Blood not to send a check, but to direct wire the thousand pounds via American Express, which he’d retrieve in Vienna. Sure, he could ask Vera for the money or take it out of his own account back home and transfer it to his bank in Paris. But Ram and Vera maintained their own financial affairs independent of one another and Lumière owed him the money anyway, and Ram was fed up with spending any more money of his own travelling on Lumière’s behalf, so he insisted on the money wire arrangement this time around, and Blood agreed to it. “I give you my word, Ram. I’ll send it as soon as I get off the phone,” he said.
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