Stealing Fire

by Win Blevins

  “Oh, I know, I know,” said Mrs. Wright, for once clinging to Mr. Wright.

  “For a fee I’ll get you safely to Taliesin West. From there you’re on your own.”

  “Yes, please,” Mrs. Wright said. “I’m terribly frightened.” Tears covered her cheeks.

  I sat while the two Wrights comforted each other. They weren’t ashamed to cry in front of me. I’m sure they couldn’t help themselves. I let it wind down, no words. I put myself inside a place that is fierce as water. Flexible. Reflective. Destructive. Careful. Vibrating with energy.

  Mrs. Wright pulled herself together first. “Mr. Goldman, every one of our students becomes our family. Helen … we loved her dearly. She was steady and has an extraordinary eye for nature and design. A terrific future in front of her. Who would try to hurt her?”

  “Fire,” said Wright. “Fire and fire again.” The man was stripped bare to his bones. Yes, this was someone worth taking care of.

  We waited. They held each other.

  “Mr. Wright,” I said, “it’s almost time to get out and wave.”

  She put her fingers in his hair, ran it back. “Can you manage?”

  I wished I could spare him, but I couldn’t. He had given his word, and I couldn’t give up that much money.

  “I’ll be ready. It won’t be the first time I had to promote myself when work was the last thing from my mind.”

  “I’m going to walk out on the platform with you,” I said.

  “A bodyguard?”

  “A friend. Unless there is something that needs taking care of.”

  “I’ll be ready for the crowd.”

  I walked him to his compartment, his tube of blueprints in one hand, leaning on his walking stick with a carved ivory head with his other hand. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and recovered himself.

  “For now we’ll put these feelings aside,” he said to me. “When you are ready to meet grief, it’s there, waiting. No avoiding it.”

  I shook his hand white-man style, firm and steady, to help him feel solid.

  He went away to wash up, getting ready to wave part of his one-thousand-dollar dining tab away.

  I found a conductor. “I need help. It’s urgent.”

  “Just say the word.” Santa Fe conductors are taught to listen to security people.

  I told him to send a wire asking for solid information about the fire. In particular, I wanted to know about any deaths.

  * * *

  I went to the compartment, kissed Iris good morning, shaved, and went to the back of the train to stand next to Mr. Wright while he waved and cried out, “What a great railroad! Hop on and go to Los Angeles! Or Chicago!”

  Then we eased our way back to the leather booth where Mrs. Wright sat.

  She stirred milk in her tea and said, “You’ve decided to protect us after we get off the train?”

  “Yes.”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “I know that.”

  “You only have the faintest idea of how not-easy it will be, Mr. Goldman.”

  “I’ll raise my fee if he gives me too much trouble.”

  More arched eyebrows. “You can certainly present him with a larger bill.”

  “Your tone … You don’t want me on the job.”

  “I do. I like you and your wife very much. That’s why I’m warning you that it won’t be easy,” she said. “One train ride and we’ve already been threatened by a lowlife, and had a fire, and a death.”

  Just then the conductor strode up and handed me the telegram. His smile hinted at the news.

  NO DEATHS IN FIRE. HELEN FINE OKAY. HER WALLET MAYBE THERE BY ACCIDENT.

  Or maybe as a threat.

  I handed the piece of yellow paper to the Wrights.

  They threw their arms around one another. They hugged and smooched. And again came tears of a mountain.

  * * *

  I waited until Iris joined us, we all had breakfast—I had eggs Benedict, which I love—before I broke the news. “We’re off the train in Albuquerque.”

  “Taliesin is closest to Flagstaff,” said Mrs. Wright. “That’s where we disembark.”

  “Which is what everyone expects,” I said.

  “What is in Albuquerque,” clink, clink, spoon against the china teacup, “and how shall we get to Taliesin West?”

  “We’ll go to my family home in Santa Fe. It’s historic, big, and I can protect you there. The house is in a walled courtyard off the plaza. We’re only about fifty miles from the depot in Albuquerque. I’ll have a car waiting for us at the train station.”

  “But what about all the others?” said Wright. “The Fellows and apprentices on board with us?”

  “They’ll get off at Flagstaff as planned.”

  “I don’t think I like this,” said Mr. Wright.

  So, first showdown. “You and I came to an understanding about who calls the shots in this situation.”

  He looked down at the tablecloth.

  Mrs. Wright shook her head and gave a small smile. “I think Mr. Wright will have a good time in New Mexico.”

  “I think I can keep him alive in New Mexico.”

  “What could be better?” the old man pitched in.

  Crisis passed. I gave Iris a small smile.

  Olgivanna Wright—what an unfortunate name—said they usually drove in a caravan from Wisconsin to Arizona, and that cars with the other students were already in Flagstaff, waiting. They even carried their own trailer to cook in—they called it the dinky diner.

  “Why take the Super Chief this time?” I said.

  “We couldn’t bring everyone who works with us on the train, but for the special group, members of Frank’s inner circle, we chose to ride the train. It’s a special occasion.”

  “What for?” said Iris.

  “He just got back from New York. His plans are approved for the Guggenheim Museum. It looks as if all foreseeable roadblocks are finally down, and we received a very nice commission for the plans from Mr. Guggenheim.”

  “Who handles your business money?” I said.

  “Wes Bosley.”

  “Has he got the check?”

  “Mr. Wright is carrying it with his designs for the museum. I cannot tell you how many drafts there are. The number changes all the time—it is the biggest project he has ever had.”

  “The Guggenheim. I haven’t heard of it.” I resisted the impulse to act more sophisticated than I am.

  “It will be across from Central Park in New York City. Nothing like it ever designed or built before. Some members on the planning board got damned stubborn. Fortunately, Mr. Guggenheim has faith in my vision.”

  “Very unique plans for this building,” Iris guessed.

  “Yes.”

  “Structure must be unique, too.”

  Pride perked his voice up. “Extraordinarily so. Every building within sight is a box. The museum will be a balm to the eye. It is a series of concentric circles, smallest at the bottom, biggest at the top.”

  I gulped.

  Iris recovered, grinned, and said, “Probably some people would like to get their hands on those plans.”

  Frank tapped them with four fingers. They were never out of his reach.

  Mrs. Wright looked up from her empty teacup into my eyes. “Yes. He has enemies. These plans are truly unique. Some rival architects would like to get their hands on them and publish the drafts with derogatory comments. Try to slow down the project.”

  I said, “Maybe destroy it?”

  “Possibly. Of course, there are copies, but Frank works by continuous innovation, changing his plans as he goes along. The drafts he’s carrying are the most current.”

  This was giving me a headache. “So there is a lot of money at stake. A lot of commissions.”

  “And prestige. Sometimes I think architects are more interested in prestige and legacy than money, although Frank does love to spend it. It’s part of his identity as a free spirit. A genius.”

  “Which
helps bring in the commissions.”

  “Exactly.”

  “There are other architects who’d like to have the commission for that museum,” I said.

  “You cannot imagine how many.”

  I couldn’t.

  I ordered Mrs. Wright another cup of tea. I had coffee with chili powder in it. Perks up my brain.

  Iris spun us in another direction. “Tell about the young woman, the one who did not die in the fire?”

  “She came to Taliesin, pestered her way in the door, showed Mr. Barnes some plans she’d drawn. He was impressed and set up a meeting with Frank. She became one of us.”

  “A tremendous break for her,” I said.

  “Aside from Fellows, who pay to learn,” said Mr. Wright, “we also have benefactors.”

  Benefactors? You’d think these people were running a charitable foundation to put vets back to work or find jobs for war widows.

  “What exactly,” I said, “does a benefactor do?”

  “They pay me to design plans for houses, whether or not they have specific plans to build now.” He shrugged.

  “Basically,” I said, “benefactors give you money because they believe in your work. Sometimes a plan turns into a building. Sometimes it doesn’t. But the plans are still valuable.”

  Ahhhh … Iris saw the lightbulb blinking over my head. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

  “All of them may be built someday,” said Wright. “I expect that they will.”

  “For now,” said Mrs. Wright, “they give us money to keep Taliesin going. I believe we’re in black ink in Wisconsin, at least.”

  “They just give money to you?”

  “To support the work. The Kaufmanns, their home is called Fallingwater. The Guggenheim and that house will probably be remembered as Frank’s greatest achievements. They believe in him and want to make sure he is remembered long after he’s gone. As a matter of fact, their son is studying directly with Frank, as was Helen.”

  “I’m more keen about the ones that are truly going to be built,” said Mr. Wright. “I have one in Bel Air, California now.

  “That one is amazing. It seems to grow out of the earth just like the humped rocks behind it. In fact, Helen, who luckily is alive? Her father has commissioned that one.”

  Jake Fine?

  Eight

  The next stop was Albuquerque, and the Wrights were waiting for us in the dining car. Payton had finally crawled out of whatever hole he’d fallen into, and they’d told him they were getting off the train early. I had asked them not to tell anyone exactly where they were getting off, but the Wrights said one person must know so they could make up a tale about why they weren’t with the group.

  Payton was chosen. He would get off at Flagstaff, as planned, and make sure everyone headed for Taliesin West. We would wire ahead when the Wrights were on the way there. I’d escort them from Santa Fe to Taliesin, and Payton would know when to expect us.

  “Payton is always a worrier. He wanted me to leave the plans for the Guggenheim with him so they could work on the elevations until I got there,” Wright said.

  “How could they do that without you?”

  “The plans are done, well, nearly so. Now the levels will be drawn with different colored pencils. They’re used to doing that part of the detail work.”

  “Sounds like more than details.”

  “I have a group that knows what they’re doing.” His eyes sparkled. “And to think, it’s only taken me fifty years to assemble such a crew.”

  And up came Payton. His Pretty Boy looks and his talent for kissing up were not qualities I admired.

  “Frank,” he said, “I don’t like to leave you.”

  “You’ve got a bold imagination, but you’re not in the protection department.”

  Payton was average height, but he wasn’t average build. The clothing he wore now was different than the suit I’d first seen him wearing. The T-shirt and jeans defined his body. He was tough, compact, and solid.

  “Just a short separation, Payton,” said Wright. “We’re simply taking a different route to Taliesin. We may even beat you there.”

  The old man was fast on his feet with a lie. A spontaneous embellishment, my grandfather would call it.

  “Well, it’s time for us to get outside and do my bit to pay off my extravagance.” Wright patted the man on the shoulder. Payton stood still, looking at him, waiting. He had been dismissed, knew it, and wasn’t happy about it.

  Albuquerque at last. Iris and Mrs. Wright got off the train through the doors of connecting cars. A porter helped them with their luggage. As far as anyone could tell, it was just me and Mr. Wright walking toward the platform of the last car, ready to perform. And Payton was behind us, looking dubious. Payton said, “You’re sure about taking off before we get to Flagstaff?”

  Wright said, “Don’t worry. And remember, I’m counting on you as I always do.”

  That was the magic button. Payton disappeared.

  I held Mr. Wright’s arm until we got onto the platform of the last car. He gently pushed me away when we were in view of the crowd. I understood. No matter how old a person is, they want to stand on their own. We’re fully alive until one day when we aren’t, and we all want to be treated with dignity up to the end.

  The crowd gave Wright plenty of cheers.

  I had arranged to have a car ready to drive the four of us into Santa Fe. Unusual request, but for Mr. Wright, the railroad was willing. They’d heard about the fire at Taliesin West. The newspapers had already picked it up off the wires, without mention of a death. Taliesin West, it was reported, had been deserted for the summer, other than a caretaker, his wife, and a few Fellows who arrived in advance.

  When we stepped off the train in New Mexico, it was almost evening. The Sandia Mountains rose above us. There were already so many stars in the sky. Home … So much finer than gazing at cement pillars and gray buildings in every direction, stacked so high that they formed gray pools of light that met up with buildings on the other side of the street. For me, evening in a city is a sad time. So much light and bright color and indigo blue that people miss. Look up, and you’re lucky to see the moon.

  Instantly, reporters surrounded us on the platform asking about dates for the Guggenheim, about Fallingwater, asking Wright where and when his next lecture would be. Asking him if he was going to hole up in the desert and look at ruins for inspiration. Was he interested in Indian people, since they seemed to worship nature? Any clues about the fire? I hustled him along. Wright wasn’t pleased with my nudges, but he cooperated.

  In the crowd of reporters I thought I saw Payton’s face. Similar shoe-polish black hair. Whoever it was, there was something haunting about the man. When he turned into profile, I thought I saw a sly smile. Too dusky to see well. I pushed my edge of crippling worry away, keeping my eye on Wright. When I turned back, Payton’s apparition was nowhere in sight. Dusk clouds your soul and your vision.

  It was time to move out of the crowd.

  A car with the railroad’s emblem had pulled into the front of the parking lot, and Iris waved us over. It was a Cadillac roadster, plenty of room, with a driver waiting in the front seat. I loaded our bags in the trunk, including all the books and knickknacks Iris had bought in Chicago. We had a lot more stuff than I remembered. The Wrights had sent many of their belongings with Payton to Taliesin West.

  I got everyone settled inside the cushy car, and opened the door on the driver’s side.

  I said to the driver, “You can get out now.”

  “What are you talking about? This is my rig.”

  “You’re a driver hired for the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe. But I’m taking the car.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Probably,” I said, “and you never want to mess with crazy people.”

  He sat there, his jaw hanging down to his chest.

  “I’ll square it with your boss,” I said, “but I don’t want anyone to know where we’
re headed.”

  “Santa Fe. The boss told me to take you to Santa Fe.”

  “Wrong.” No way I wanted him to know our destination, and I was willing to risk my boss getting angry about that.

  “You a local?” I said to him.

  “Used to be.”

  He didn’t look Mexican or Ladino, he was sandy-haired, but he spoke with a slight accent. One I couldn’t make out. Santa Fe is the real melting pot of America, and one of the oldest. He could be lying about himself, maybe not.

  “Look, I’m responsible for these people,” I said, “and I want to take a few back roads.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “It’s annoying to say turn right here now and left up there at the sheep pen,” I said, “especially in the dark and through the Apache reservation.”

  That stopped him.

  “Here are the car keys. If I lose my job, you’ll pay for it.”

  “I understand.”

  “The tank is full. Don’t get lost.”

  “I know the rez.”

  “I bet you do,” he said, and walked away.

  “Well,” said Mr. Wright, “that seemed quite a bother over nothing.”

  I turned around in the driver’s seat and eyeballed him. “From now on, you’ve got to believe that anything could be something.”

  “I have a lifetime filled with betrayals and unhappy surprises that I can dig up to fuel my paranoia, Goldman.”

  “I’m not trying to be dramatic. I want you to take your situation seriously,” I said. “You owe a gangster money. There was a fire at Taliesin West, accidental or not.”

  “Could be a coincidence. The information we have is so sketchy,” Mrs. Wright said.

  “If I believed in coincidence, I couldn’t do my job.”

  “Do you think this whole mess is about money? Unimaginable.” That was the Frank Lloyd Wright of the three names, and all that comes with it.

  “I can’t see clearly if I don’t have quiet to think. Watch yourself, watch who’s around you, and don’t argue with me.”

  I started the engine, told them to cover up with the blanket in the back, and we headed for our family’s old home in Santa Fe. We stopped in at a Bernalillo diner on Route 66. Everyone had a cup of coffee, and I used the phone booth.