The vibration of the engines was hypnotic. Miguel turned his head to look across Lieutenant Artigue at the darkness outside. The collector rings of the engine exhausts glowed cherry red in the night and occasionally a spark flaked away to vanish in a fiery streak. It seemed that the airliner was suspended in limbo, timeless and formless. It was just such a setting a man needed, Miguel thought, to think of his future. Because in this setting, the future was completely, absolutely academic. You could have no sure knowledge that the earth had not vanished, leaving this tiny cocoon of life behind in the unlimited gulf of interplanetary space. And so theoretical a thing as a human future, with risings and retirings, meals, friendships, work, love—faith, hope and charity—could be regarded coldly and impersonally as something having no connection with the celestial I.
The first consideration was Nora. She would probably meet the plane in New York. His physical desire for her was a sharp hunger. But Nora wouldn’t be alone. She was, and he had to keep remembering it, just what J.C. called her: Artfilm’s Love Goddess. A valuable property simply didn’t disappear for an unspecified number of days in bed with her lover. This Ziegler would undoubtedly be with her, and there would surely be some studio hangers-on, the customary flotilla of them. So after nearly a year away from her he could only expect a small part of her time and attention when he reached New York.
Next, there was Karl Olinder. Karl was going to be bitterly disappointed by the unfinished script in the brief case. Perhaps, Miguel thought, he could make Karl understand why he had not been able to do any work. A faint hope, really. How could he make Olinder understand when he was unsure himself? Olinder had always been critical of Miguel’s working habits and this fiasco was the worst yet. For weeks on end he had not been able to write a line, had not been able to build the book out of the rough first draft stage. It tantalized and tortured him. And Hillyer Press had a stake in the book now. They had given a sizable advance strictly on Karl’s recommendation.
Judging by the empty feeling in my middle, Miguel thought with a twinge of disgust, I’m afraid to go home.
Home. The word kept cropping up where it had no business to be. Perhaps one day he would have a home—a place in Cold Water Canyon or maybe even a ranch in the San Fernando Valley near Frank Steinmetz’s forty acres. Money wouldn’t be a problem if he could stick to the screenwriting job.
Strange, he thought, that he had lived in so many places without ever feeling that he had a home. When he was a child he had imagined that everyone belonged somewhere. He had even been a little jealous of his friends because they had this something that he lacked. But even then he had never doubted that he would find such a place for himself. He had been so sure it was only a matter of time and that mystical quality adults spoke of as “maturity.”
He had understood that home wasn’t a place, exactly. It was a state of being. That made it harder to achieve because you had to rely on other people. But there were times—that summer of 1932 at Del Rio, for example—that it had seemed near at hand.
Remembering that summer now, Miguel understood that there are pivotal times in life. Times that determine the future course of living just as surely as topography determines the course of a stream or river. That summer must have been such a time for the Rinehart family.
He could remember the first time Essie brought Becky Coulter to the house on Fitch Mountain. Was it fate or design that Luis should be there that one weekend out of the summer? And when did Raoul see her first? It must have been sometime between July and early September, but Miguel couldn’t ever recall seeing his father and Becky in the same room. Not then. And Raoul wouldn’t have noticed her then, in any case. She was unstylish, to say the least, with her Dutch-cut hair and her long-waisted middies and navy-blue skirts. He remembered Luis taking her to one of the Del Rio dances. In late July. It must have been late July because it was after Billy Alberg blew the skin off his right hand with a cannon-cracker.
That was the way of dating those things at that age, Miguel thought. It was after Billy hurt his hand, so it was after the Fourth of July, and it was before the Collingwoods’ German shepherd bit Junior Freeborne on the buttock and his mother made him take down his pants in front of everyone while she painted the bite with arnica, because that happened around Labor Day after most of the summer residents had returned to the city.
Becky and Luis, Miguel thought, remembering his brother. Luis was the handsome one; just above middle height with a narrow head and thick black hair, dark skin and brown eves. Miguel had blue eyes and fair skin; the only family resemblance lay in the coarse cap of black hair and the thin aristocratic nose.
I always wanted to look like Luis, Miguel thought ruefully, and I never did. He wondered now if maybe, then, he had been a little afraid of Luis. Luis, a grown man of twenty-three, working for Raoul, dating Becky, laughing and dancing with an urbane charm.
Miguel had been thankful for Anson. It was to Anson that Miguel turned for guidance. It was Anson who showed him how to sand the wings of his scale-model Fokker D7 into an airfoil shape. It was Anson who taught him the Australian crawl. And it was Anson who gave him the run of the boxful of books he kept in his tent at Del Rio, the textbooks and reference books he had used in his last year at Cal, before transferring to the California School of Arts and Crafts.
With Anson’s books for guides, with Breasted and Suetonius for comrades, Miguel visited the far, beautifully named places of the world: Troy, Samarkand, the Valley of the Kings.
That July of 1932 came to an end in a blaze of midsummer heat at Del Rio. It grew too warm to walk, too warm to swim. Dogs lay panting on the gravel road, undisturbed by traffic. The summer houses lay creaking and silent in the breathless air.
Anson lay in the hammock strung between the two madronas outside the kitchen windows and Miguel sat on the ground, picking at a trail of ants with a twig of hazelnut.
Miguel had just finished Anson’s copy of The Lives of the Twelve Caesars. He drove the twig into the ground and said, “Golly, Anson, I liked the one about Gaius Caligula.”
Anson laughed tolerantly. “Perfect example of the ills of hereditary kingship.” He dragged his feet to slow the hammock and said, “Look, when you’re a little older, I’ll give you some other stuff to read. History is okay, you can learn from history. But you want to absorb a little social theory. Thorstein Veblen and Karl Marx. The blueprints,” he added somewhat sententiously, “of the world of the future. The kind of world you’ll live in, kid.”
To Miguel, the notion that he would actually live in The World of the Future was exciting. It brought to mind great shining cities with aerial highways and crowds of people in jumping belts like those in Buck Rogers and sides filled with strange-looking craft, like arrows.
“Have you given any thought to what you want to be when you grow up, lad?” Anson asked.
Miguel unconsciously brushed his hair back with his fingers as his father had taught him to do. “I don’t know, Anson. An archaeologist, maybe.”
“Pottering around in old graves isn’t for you, kid,” Anson said.
“Maybe an aviator, then,” Miguel suggested, hoping for Anson’s approval.
“Anyone can learn to fly, lad. Even old man Eubanks learned to fly. That’s a skill, not a profession.”
Miguel shook his head in perplexity. “I guess I don’t really know yet. What are you going to do, Anson? Keep on designing houses?”
Anson reddened. “Don’t get smart-alecky,” he said. “I get enough of that from Essie.”
“I’m sorry,” Miguel said. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” The searing sun filtered through the treetops, dappling the house with light and shadow. Miguel could hear Concha singing softly as she prepared the afternoon meal. Somewhere, down by the river, a snipe shrilled.
Anson lay back and let himself be mollified. “You ought to start thinking about the future,” he said. And then, in a voice tinged with Weltschmerz, he added, “Sometimes you wait too long. How old are
you now?”
“Eleven and a half. Almost twelve.”
“Well, it’s not too early to think about things, laddo. Take it from me. What are you interested in?”
Miguel felt rather foolish saying, “Just about everything, I guess.” But it was true. It seemed to him that this summer he was seeing the world for the first time and there was no part of it without interest for him.
“But what do you like to do?”
“I like to draw,” Miguel answered tentatively.
“Ever think about commercial art? Sandy Johnson’s old man is a CA.”
“A what?”
“Commercial artist, kid. They get along all right, don’t they?” Miguel doubted that the Johnsons got along all right. Sandy never had any money. Somebody always had to treat him when they went to the Del Rio store. And if Sandy couldn’t even buy a Nehi without having to borrow the money, Mr. Johnson must be pretty poor.
Anson took out a pipe and filled it self-consciously. He hadn’t been smoking very long. Tm talking to you the way an older brother would, kid. You have a good mind. I’d hate to see you waste it.”
Miguel felt warm inside, but modesty compelled him to say, “I don’t get very good grades in arithmetic.”
“Hell,” Anson said rakishly. “Arithmetic isn’t everything.”
“My father says it is. He says you have to know figures if you want to get along.”
“Your old man,” Anson said with a degree of grudging tolerance, “is a businessman, not a creative thinker.”
Miguel considered that. Presently he asked, “Are you and Essie going to get married?” It seemed to him that it would be the best of all possible things that could happen, having Anson for a real brother-in-law.
Anson studied his pipestem. A faint breeze rustled the madrona leaves with a whispering insistence. Miguel spread his open shirt to it gratefully and waited for Anson to answer him.
“Well, now,” Anson said finally. “You know Essie. Marriage is a serious step. Particularly when a man is expected to give up his political ideals.”
“Oh,” Miguel said.
“She ever say anything to you about it? Getting married, I mean?”
“Not to me. But she did talk to Luis.”
“And what did he have to say about the idea?”
“Well,” Miguel said unwillingly.
“Hell, lad. You can tell me.”
“He said you ought to get a job before you start talking to Essie about marriage. But you know Luis, Anson. I wish you would marry Essie.”
Anson reached down and tousled Miguel’s hair. “I have one Rinehart on my side, anyway.” He smiled knowingly and said, “There won’t be any worry about jobs in the fall. Just let’s get those Wall Streeters out of Washington.”
“You think I could get a job, Anson?” Miguel asked.
Anson laughed. “You? What do you want with a job?”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind having my own money, of course.
And I think I’d like to work on a magazine or a newspaper. That’s really what I’d like to do.”
“There are worse ideas,” Anson said.
“I like to write down what I see,” Miguel said thoughtfully. “Do you?”
“Yes. I keep a diary, you know. Not every day or anything like that. More a journal. Like Pepys.” Miguel studied Anson’s face for a moment, wondering whether or not Anson was preparing to laugh at him. Finally, he said, “I’m going to learn to type and be a writer.”
“It takes more than typing,” Anson said. “You have to live,” he said mystically.
Encouraged, Miguel declared, “Oh, I’m going to.”
“I mean really live,” Anson said. He regarded Miguel appraisingly for a moment. “You like girls, kid?”
Miguel was nonplussed. “Sure, I guess so, Anson. They’re okay.” Actually, he didn’t know any girls except Essie. The ones in school either confused him or repelled him.
Anson tapped the pipestem against his teeth and finally said, “I imagine you’re rather on the young side yet. But you’ll learn.” He sighed heavily. “We all learn the hard way.”
Miguel felt uncomfortable. He struck at a beetle plunging like a microscopic tank across the rough, leaf-strewn ground.
Presently, he said, “You’re the only one I’ve ever told about my journal, Anson. Don’t mention it to Essie, please?”
“Mum’s the word, kiddo,” Anson said smiling. “Between us men.”
Miguel expanded visibly. He wanted to say something pleasant to Anson. “Essie really likes you,” he said. “I mean she’s stuck on you. Essie stands up for you all the time.”
Anson assumed a mask of indifference. “Your old man, I suppose.”
Miguel felt a pang of guilty disloyalty. Since Anson had become one of his lesser gods, it troubled him that Raoul had nothing good to say about him.
“Dad doesn’t dislike you, Anson,” he lied. “He was a little angry about what happened with the house. The money, you know, and everything—“ Anson’s expression grew pained and Miguel hurried on, compounding the untruth. “He really thinks you’re a very promising young man.” The enormity of the prevarication shook Miguel to the core and he stopped short.
“Ha, ha,” Anson said hollowly.
Miguel decided to change the subject. He was already becoming adept at guiding a discussion around conversational shoals.
“Anson, do you believe in God?”
Anson laughed urbanely.
“Mother says I shouldn’t ask about such things. You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to.”
“Ask away, kid. I’m at your service,” Anson said, letting the hammock rock gently.
“Well, Essie is Catholic—”
“She sure is,” Anson said fervently.
“And Concha, too. They go to Mass and all that. I’ve gone with them. But the thing I don’t see is how they know that what the Fathers say is all true. Most of the prayers are in Latin and the Fathers mumble so and Essie and Concha don’t know any more Latin than I do—“ Miguel shrugged in perplexity.
“Religion isn’t meant to be understood, kid,” Anson said darkly. “It’s the opiate of the masses.”
“It’s what?”
“You’ll get the picture when you read Marx. You’ll see. It’s all so beautifully simple. Everything fits.”
“I guess,” Miguel said probingly, “that Karl Marx was a pretty great man.”
“It took the Soviets to appreciate him. His writings are like a light in a dark world, kid.” Anson’s pipe had gone out and he puffed it alight furiously.
“A really great writer?” Miguel asked humbly.
“Writer, philosopher, dialectician. A great social planner,” Anson said with feeling. “A truly great human being.”
“As great as Mary Baker Eddy?”
Anson stared at Miguel with shocked disapproval.
“The discoverer of Christian Science,” Miguel prompted.
Anson raised his eyes to the treetops. “Ye Gods,” he breathed disgustedly. His pipe went out again and he put it in his pocket. “How about going in the house, kid, and seeing what’s keeping your sister Esther.”
The summer wore on; July gone and a sultry August beginning. Time on the river passed with a slow and dreamlike tempo. There were days of activity, swimming and roaming with Tom and Billy, but there were other days when it seemed that the sun hung motionless in the sky, burning down into the green water, illuminating the depths with a shadowless light.
There was in him, Miguel sensed, a drive to solitude, even in the flush of this burgeoning summer. So when he couldn’t see Tom, and felt too restless to read, he would slip away from Concha to wander along the shore of the river, splashing in the rocky pools, feeling the hot sun on his bare legs and back, and the warm firmness of the sand under his naked feet.
He made long entries in his journal, sometimes illustrating them with sketches. The whiplike green motion of a watersnake, the shape of a madrona lea
f, the low flashing light of a snipe.
Concha and Maria disliked his wanderings, but he had become adept at evading them and he managed to range as he pleased.
He liked to hide himself in the glade of wallows and watch the bathers from the French resort, the Villa du Soleil, romping in the shallows.
People of all ages, from toddlers to grandfathers, ran and shouted and splashed in the water. Their exuberant laughter rang across the river and their voices were a babble of strange sounds and inflections.
They would leave their fleet of battered buses on the gravel road and plunge down the steep banks toward the river in a noisy avalanche, laden with baskets of food and wines.
They were loud, contentious, and unfailingly delighted with themselves and their surroundings.
With unrestrained enthusiasm, they danced and sang and drank their red wine and spread their picnic cloths on the rocks.
The women were dark and most of them were fat and clumsy-looking, their flesh overflowing their black woolen bathing suits. They all seemed to be having such a fine time that Miguel often wished he dared join them. Instead, he contented himself with remaining the hidden observer, savoring the delicious feeling of omniscience it gave him.
It was like looking through a telescope at people far away, watching them while they went about their tasks not knowing that they were being observed by someone protected by distance and anonymity.
There were other days when the beach lay still and empty with the murky water flowing past it silently, stirring the half-submerged branches of the willows.
Miguel would sit in the glade and watch the river, wondering how he could ever describe in words the things he saw in that riparian stillness. Or tiring of that, he would stand on the beach and skip flat rocks on the water, watching them strike the surface once, twice, three times, making a thin splash each time and a complex of concentric and interlocking ripples.
And there were days when the sun hid behind a high, thin cloud layer, and he cast no shadow as he walked along the water’s edge. Strange days, with a muted tension in the air as though all the world and the river were listening for some far-off, marvelous sound, a cry of ecstasy that was surely coming soon, soon.
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