Chapter 3. Garstein
Forster Associates (Billings) Inc. was a prosperous enterprise, although by the late 1970s it was only a minor part of Alex's business interests. After a shaky start his investment in Rothwell's venture had paid off handsomely, not only in itself but in introducing Alex to major players in continental Europe when substantially more capital was needed for expansion. He now spent most of his time there, with an office in Nuremburg and occasional forays into Austria.
While he was away on one of these trips in 1979, Cyrus was taken seriously ill and died within a week. Connie had messages about his condition sent to Alex's office, but unfortunately the clerk left with instructions to forward anything important had been taken into hospital with acute appendicitis and complications, too suddenly to make other arrangements. As a result, Alex received the news only on his return, and the best he could do was to telephone his condolences. By then the funeral was already over, but he brought forward his next visit to the States in order to give them in person to Connie and the brothers.
Although he would never say so, he strongly suspected that to one of them congratulations might have been more appropriate; Conrad had been openly chafing for years over what he regarded as his father's continued interference after a supposed retirement, and now he would have a free hand. Alex, who had heard something of the situation, commented privately to Connie that he thought Cyrus's idea had been to spend much more time with her.
She sighed. "Yes, that was what he intended, and I did see a lot more of him than before, but he was worried by rumours about the business."
"What sort of rumours?"
"Mostly that Conrad wouldn't take sensible advice and was sailing too close to the wind financially, enough to get into serious difficulties if conditions turned at all nasty. I told Cyrus it wasn't any of his business any more, but he said it wasn't just Conrad who would suffer if the balloon went up, and he must try to keep the firm out of the riskier speculations. I'm not sure it had much effect, though."
"Couldn't Ernest do something about it?" Silly question, he thought immediately after saying it, and Connie confirmed that although Ernest had been anxious, he never had much effective influence on Conrad.
In early 1981 the anxiety was found to have been amply justified when one of Conrad's wilder deals proved to have been not only commercially but legally disastrous. He kept it to himself as long as he could so as to make his own arrangements, and the first the family knew was a letter to his wife asking her to join him in São Paulo. For all his faults he had been a good husband to her, so rather tearfully and despite many arguments against it, Sally eventually went.
Meanwhile, over months of thorough investigations, several other instances of malpractice came to light. In the end and to great relief all round, they implicated no one else in anything worse than unquestioningly following apparently legitimate and reasonable instructions. Nevertheless, besides the damage to its reputation, the firm was still liable to substantial penalties. Together with the losses already incurred, and especially in the general recession that followed, they threatened its very survival.
Ernest, left in charge, did his best to sort out the mess but eventually conceded that it was beyond him. He raised only token objections when Connie took matters into her own hands and begged Alex to come in and deal with it even if it meant running the whole business. If any more dirt should be uncovered, it was best kept if possible within the family, as she still regarded him. It was to say the least inconvenient for Alex, needing very much more of his time, energy and resources than he was really willing to spare just then, but he felt under an obligation and his sense of duty compelled him.
By the time the firm was back on its feet three years later, he held the largest single stake in its equity. However, he was anxious to give more attention to his other interests that had suffered a little from neglect over the past year or so, so Ernest was left to continue as best he could. He might not be brilliant, an honest plodder would be a better description, but that was the kind of manager that the situation then demanded. Despite the uneasiness in the personal relationship that had never completely subsided following Anne's death, Alex considered him competent enough in routine matters and to that extent trusted him completely.
Nevertheless Connie was anxious that Alex should not lose touch altogether, and he in turn had a great affection for her, to the extent that with little sense of humour he often bridled at mother-in-law jokes told in his presence. He therefore returned more often than the demands of business really dictated. She once suggested that in the present circumstances it would be sensible to close his Billings office and consolidate the two concerns, but although he saw the point and promised to think about it, that was as far as it got. The old gut feeling told him that it might be wiser to maintain the distinction and again he followed it.
After one of these visits, he was preparing to leave when he heard on the radio that a prominent local business, Watermans Engineering, was about to file for bankruptcy. It was no surprise to him, as months before while considering it as a possible minor investment he had been given a tip that it was not as sound as it looked. However, shortly afterwards Ernest's wife Sylvia had bought a substantial block of shares in it. She had not asked his advice, nor even mentioned her intention, as at the time their relations were at one of their occasional low points, so he could not by any stretch of imagination be held to have any legal responsibility, nor more than the slightest trace of the moral variety. However, he had a vague memory of having heard her talk about the possibility, causing him to feel uneasily that perhaps he ought to have warned her when he heard about the suspicions and in failing to do so had let himself down a little. Although he knew the memory could easily be spurious, he could not entirely dismiss it, and the thought niggled him for the rest of the day.
Refuelling his car for the long drive north, he noticed on the forecourt one of the same model as he had first owned, and in an unwonted fit of sentimentality went across to have a look at it. There was evidently some problem as the driver was delving into the engine compartment, but emerged on hearing approaching footsteps and Alex realised that the face was faintly familiar. The other seemed to have the same idea; he looked surprised, then doubtful, and then said tentatively "Alex Forster, isn't it?" "Yes. I'm sorry, but who ...?" Then it clicked. "Garstein!" That wasn't the man's real name, but the only one that Alex had ever known him to use.
They had been near neighbours in their childhood, often walked to school together and became quite friendly. He gathered that the parents were Jewish immigrants whose families had drifted west after escaping the Ukrainian pogroms. The lad's grandfather had learned the hard way that being at all conspicuous was bound to invite trouble from one quarter or another, and on arriving in the USA had adopted a common English surname, much to his wife's indignation at this denial of the cultural heritage to which she was passionately devoted. Her grandson, deeply attached to her, had picked up something of the same spirit and to give it some practical expression insisted among his friends on being called simply Garstein; his "official" name was never mentioned except among the closest intimates, a circle to which Alex did not belong.
"Got a bit of a problem?" Alex asked after a minimum of the obligatory enquiries about each others' well-being since then.
"More than a bit, I'm afraid. She simply died on me. Just after I'd filled her up, too - maybe stirred up some crud in the tank, but I've a nasty feeling it's probably more than that. She's been playing up a bit lately. No wonder, I suppose, at her age. I had to push her away from the pumps. I was poking around in case there was something I'd missed before, but nothing that I can find. I'll have to leave her to be sorted out. Luckily I know a decent mechanic"
"Hard luck. Can I give you a ride anywhere?"
"He's within walking distance, but thanks."
"To get you home, then?"
Garstein grimaced. "It's not just round the corner, you know."
/> "I dare say. Where is it?"
"Way up north. Beyond Ashton."
"Well, I'm going that way in any case. No problem."
"What? You're not just saying that, are you?"
"No, I'm on my way to Billings, practically passing your door."
"Well, that would sure get me out of a pickle."
Garstein transferred a few packages into Alex's car and guided him to his friend's workshop. There he seemed to be taking rather a long time in the office, and Alex went across to see what was holding him up. "More trouble?"
"Yes, Joe's had to go to the dentist and the kid here doesn't know me. They've had some unpaid bills and won't take on any job without a deposit."
"You'd be leaving the car. It probably has antique value by now."
"Maybe, but it's not here, is it? He wants a deposit, and I ain't got enough with me."
"How much do you need?"
"Hell, I can't expect you to fork out after only just meeting."
"Never mind that; how much?"
"Well, if you could possibly lend me twenty dollars ..."
"Right, no problem."
On the way north Alex fended off Garstein's embarrassing gratitude by asking what he was doing these days. "Oh, this and that. There's a bunch here I do the odd bit of troubleshooting for."
"A sort of consultancy?"
"I suppose you might call it that. How about you?"
"Mostly finance."
"You must be doing fairly well out of it, if the car's anything to go by."
"Yes, I've been lucky"
"You always were!"
The fifty miles to Ashton passed quickly and Alex was about to take the turn-off into the town but Garstein told him to carry on. Three miles further they crossed a river; after another mile and entering a forest Garstein warned him to slow down, then pointed out a boulder beside the road on the left and told Alex to turn on to an ill-defined track just before it.
They continued along the track for perhaps half a mile, and Alex commented on being really out in the wilds.
"Yes, it is pretty isolated, but it happened to suit us when we built the place."
"We?"
"Oh, didn't I mention my wife? We did it between us." Alex was astonished. He remembered nothing of Garstein's being particularly adept at any kind of construction; on the contrary, the model aircraft he built invariably fell to pieces on crashing at the end of the first short flight (hand-launched, of course - there was no chance of a take-off from the ground), while his Erector models seldom looked much like the illustrations in the manual, and if mechanical never worked properly. Presumably the wife had been the brains behind the project, and very likely much of the brawn too.
Something curious had happened to the forest around them. For the first quarter-mile or so from the road, the trees around the track had been tall and healthy-looking, but now Alex remarked that those beside the track seemed to be getting more and more stunted and deformed.
"Yes. According to local legend, the land hereabouts was cursed in the distant past after the settler who lived here had killed the son of a shaman."
"Sounds a silly thing to do."
"It does, rather. There'd been a good deal of trouble between newcomers and natives who hadn't actually settled here but regarded it as their own province, and it was probably a part of that. I don't suppose there was much in the say of official justice around here in those days, but after a good deal of argument about what actually happened, the locals - the few of them there were - set up a sort of kangaroo court. The natives swore that it was deliberate murder, but no one took much notice of them, and the other settlers accepted the story that it had been more or less accidental when he caught the boy trying to steal a goat. They made him pay compensation, probably only nominal if there's any truth at all in the whole business, but he wasn't any too pleased even at that, and the father naturally was furious."
"What were they all doing in the middle of a forest, anyway?"
"Don't expect too much logic in a folk tale. But whatever actually happened, if anything, it's true that nothing will grow well in the ground just here, and that's odd, because most of the land in these parts is particularly fertile; it's famous for seed potatoes, of all things. But when Minna wanted a bit of garden, I found I had to bring in a load of soil from outside. It's more likely to do with some local peculiarity of mineralisation than anything the old shaman could have done or said, but that's just my theory - not even a theory, just a guess - and I've never had it tested."
The deterioration in the trees continued to the point of leaving an apparently natural clearing, very roughly circular and perhaps a hundred yards across. A little off-centre was the house, and Alex was pleasantly surprised; it looked well designed, and as far as he could see well built and maintained. Minna's contribution must indeed have been predominant. Then again, perhaps his memory of Garstein's incompetence might be a shade exaggerated. However, as they were drawing up on the more open side, he glimpsed a shed behind it that looked considerably more ramshackle, and a comment on its condition slipped out before he could stop it.
Garstein laughed. "Oh, that. It's just a shack we put up in a hurry to use during the main work. I was going to knock it down, but by then there was so much stuff we couldn't conveniently keep in the house that we left it. It came in handy, too, when we decided we couldn't really manage without a fridge and I put a small generator in there. Better than having the noise in the house itself. But I never got round to making a decent job of it."
"I must say it's more like I'd have expected from my memories of you at school."
Garsrein chuckled. "You know what? It's the damnedest thing. It wasn't until my army medical that it turned out I had extreme long sight. I simply hadn't been able to see properly, specially close to. That's why I had so much trouble reading."
"Didn't your family realise something was wrong?"
"Ma had had it dinned into her all her life that we must never seem in any way unusual, and besides, she probably couldn't bear to think that she'd produced anything defective. Pop never took much notice anyhow. But a simple pair of glasses made a world of difference."
Another thought struck Alex; "I wonder you got permission to build here."
"Permission? I never thought to ask. There'd been a house here before - that old settler's, I imagine - so we just went ahead and used the original foundations. No sense in starting from scratch when we had those, and we couldn't see any objection. In any case, no one else ever comes this way."
"You can't rely on that. It'd be best to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to yourself."
"You sound like my grandfather!"
"That was his advice, was it? Wise man."
Alex offered to help carry in the parcels, and Garstein insisted he should come in anyway for a coffee and to meet Minna. She proved to be a humorous, chubby little woman, delighted to meet an old friend of Garstein's and eager to provide coffee and cookies. They were of her own baking, of course, and Alex truthfully complimented her on their quality. She thanked him effusively for bringing her husband home, and Alex repeated that it was no trouble as he was passing that way for his own reasons. "Is that something you do often?"
"Occasionally, when I've business in Billings and Idaho Falls."
"Then you must call to see if we're in. And some time bring your ... Oh, there I go again, putting my foot in it as usual. I didn't ask if you were married."
"I was, but she died. Quite a long time ago."
That put a damper on the conversation, and soon afterwards Alex said he had better be getting along. Garstein saw him to the car. Alex noted with amusement that there was no suggestion of repaying the twenty dollars, but that was a triviality best overlooked; it could give the credit side of his moral account a slight boost that he felt it needed. Garstein had been looking rather thoughtful for the last few minutes, and on the way asked diffidently if he could beg another favour. "Wha
t's that?"
"I don't usually talk about it, especially in front of Minna, but my health isn't too good, and there's a chance I might drop dead any time without much warning. And there's something else: I sometimes have to go away for quite long spells, weeks or more. If you're coming by, could you call in to see that she's all right?"
With only slight mental reservations, Alex agreed. Apart from anything else, it gave an additional lift to his damaged self-esteem, and in any case it wouldn't really be any trouble unless he was in tearing hurry.
"And there's yet another thing. I'm really pushing it, but now I've started ..."
Alex wondered what was coming next, but told him to go on. "It's crazy, I know, but Minna and I have a particular fondness for the house itself; in a way it doesn't seem like just an inanimate possession, more a part of ourselves because of all the work we put into it, but something that will probably outlast us. When we're gone, if you're still around, could you see if anyone will look after it for us?"
"Well, I can't make any promises. I may be a wreck myself by then. But I'll keep it in mind."
"I can't ask more than that. Thanks."
Over the nest few years Alex faithfully kept his promise to call in on the increasingly infrequent occasions of travelling that way, and always found a hearty welcome. Once, however, Minna was there alone, and rather cagey about Garstein's whereabouts, disclaiming any knowledge of his work. Alex realised that any question about his activities had always been delicately side-stepped and wondered whether they were entirely legal, but that was none of his business and he never pressed the point. His next visit happened to be only a few months later; Garstein was back by then and Alex noticed a suspicious-looking scar on his forearm, explained as the result of a flying chip from chopping logs, but to Alex it looked more like a superficial gunshot wound.
That was in fact his last call at the house for many years. For a time he had been very glad to have kept his own business separate from Broadbents, as it enabled him to trust his judgement on investments that Ernest would never have countenanced, but now that his business was chiefly in Europe that consideration no longer had much force. In the current circumstances he realised that Connie's view had gained more, and he transferred the Billings office to his partner there who for some time had been dropping increasingly broad hints that he would like to buy him out. Alex kept thinking that he ought to make a special visit to Ashton, as it was little more than an hour's run anyway, but there was always some reason, or rather an excuse, for delaying. The cue for his next visit came from an entirely unrelated event.
One spring day in 1995 he had an urgent call from Connie to come for a family conference on a matter too delicate to discuss, or even describe, on an insecure line. Alex thought such caginess decidedly over the top, but knowing her almost obsessive concern for the family's honour, especially since Conrad had blotted the escutcheon, he though it most probably something to do with that. So it indeed turned out, though not in quite the way he had imagined.
When he arrived, to find that Ernest and Sylvia were already there and had been partly briefed, Connie told him that a Senhora Martinez had arrived from São Paulo with ten-year-old twins she claimed to have been fathered by Conrad. A query about it to his last known address had gone unanswered.
"Doesn't seem very likely," was Alex's comment.
Connie was not at all so sure: "He is getting on a bit, I know, but fatherhood in the sixties isn't so very unusual."
"I wasn't thinking so much of that. It just doesn't seem like him. I'd have called him if anything a bit puritanical."
"Well, yes. But people can change, especially in an alien environment. Think of Byron's dictum."
"What was that?" chipped in Ernest, who had never cared much for poetry but in this instance was curious.
"If I've got it right, 'What men call gallantry, and the gods adultery, is much more common where the climate's sultry.' I suppose Brazil's sultry enough. The blood tests show that it's possible, although they can't give a more positive indication, of course. I know Conrad always seemed strictly ethical, but he gave us one nasty surprise. Cyrus used to say that morals are indivisible, and that a man who would cheat in his private life couldn't really be trusted in business, so I dare say it may work just as well the other way round."
"Maybe. We just can't tell. More to the point, now that the woman's here, what are her demands?"
"That's putting it too strongly. Let me give you the story as she tells it. She was widowed fifteen years ago - one of those casual street crimes you hear about - and went back to live with her parents. Conrad hired her to help in the house while Sally was ill a while back, and you can imagine what might have happened - I don't say it did, mind you, but he wouldn't be the first man to take unfair advantage in that way, and I don't suppose the last. When Sally recovered, the job finished and the woman was back with the parents. They're religious types of the 'Thou shalt not ...' school, and while they wouldn't actually throw her out after the twins' birth, they made it fairly clear that she was not really welcome. Somehow or other she managed to stick it for about three years, which seems to show remarkable resilience, but then a particularly snide remark made her snap. She managed to support herself and the kids until earlier this year, but then the economic crisis finally beat her. Conrad couldn't, or wouldn't, do anything to help because Sally would be bound to find out and he couldn't bear to face the music, so she decided to throw herself on our good nature. He provided her with our address and enough cash for her fare and a month's lodgings: at least he had the decency to do that."
"To pass the buck, you mean," commented Ernest sourly. "But it sounds as plausible as any story we're likely to get."
Again Alex asked what she was asking for. "Just enough to live on and give the kids a more or less decent education."
"So she's got her priorities right. She could hardly ask for less, if she's thought about it at all. I think we should give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, if she is telling the truth we do have some obligation towards her."
"I don't see why," Sylvia objected. "I know Conrad's my brother-in-law, but he did cut himself off pretty completely from the family. And supposing just for the sake of argument that there is an obligation, once you start giving her money you never know where it will end."
"That's right. So we don't give it to her; she earns it."
"What do you mean?"
"You hire her as a live-in maid and sponsor her application for a work permit. That way she gets a home for herself and the kids and a reasonable amount of pin money besides. We don't need to be niggardly - or over-generous, for that matter. I'm happy to chip in, if you like. If she's genuine she'll probably jump at it. If not, nothing doing."
Connie thought this a reasonable suggestion, but one thing bothered her: Betsy Fellows had been maid to the family for longer than anyone could remember, and how was she going to take it?
"That does need very careful handling. You probably haven't noticed, being with her all the time, but she's definitely getting rather frail. Hardly surprising, after all; she must be - what? Late sixties, at least, probably a good deal more. She could have retired long ago if she'd wanted to. All you can do is to make it as clear as you possibly can that there's no thought of putting her out to grass until she's ready for it herself, and the Martinez woman is to help, not supersede her. Then we just have to hope it will work out."
At that point Betsy herself appeared with coffee and cookies. There was nothing wrong with her hearing and Alex wondered how long she might have been just outside the door. He consoled himself with the thought that anything overheard in such circumstances was likely to be the truth, and hoped that Betsy would follow that reasoning.
Connie thanked her, then asked her to bring an extra cup and show Mrs. Martinez in. Alex wondered what to expect, and was pleasantly surprised by the reality: not by any means the floosie he had half expected, but a respectably if poorly dressed woman of
about forty with a modest demeanour. After the introductions, Connie explained that for reasons she would probably understand, they had decided not to pay her off - the woman's face fell - but they had another proposition to put to her. There was room for discussion of the details, but in principle it was the only offer on the table.
The woman looked apprehensive but said she understood, and Connie described the scheme and its implications to her in some detail. It took a little while to sink in, but then she broke into smiles. "Ah, Senhora, it is much more than I had hoped. Thank you a thousand times!"
"Don't thank me; thank Mr. Alex - it was his idea."
"No, please don't," he said good-humouredly. "It would be too embarrassing."
She nevertheless crossed to him, looked into his face for a couple of seconds, then solemnly took his hand and kissed it. Alex bowed to her, and she returned to her place; dignity maintained all round.
This little ritual left a stunned silence, which after a few seconds Connie broke with "Well, I take it that that means you agree. I'll have a proper contract of employment drawn up and than we can start the application for a work permit. By the way, do you wish to be addressed simply as Senhora or by your name?"
"I am quite happy to be called Maria."
"Thank goodness," Ernest said. "I was afraid it might turn out to be something like Concepcion or Assuncion."
"Ah, they were my elder sisters."
"Were?"
"They disappeared five years ago."
"So there's no one left to look after your parents?"
"I have a brother who does what he can."
"I see." Alex looked thoughtful, but left it at that.
"Well, now," said Connie, breaking the mood. "I think we should introduce the boys to the family. Where are they, Betsy?"
"In the kitchen with Martha."
"Who is no doubt spoiling them rotten with cookies."
"Very likely," she said rather tartly, but then it was many years since she had had to put up with children in the house and the prospect must have been unsettling.
While she was gone, taking Maria with her, Alex raised a point that perhaps ought to have been considered earlier. If Maria's story were to be accepted wholeheartedly as true, then Connie must be supposed to be the children's grandmother and they should address her accordingly from the start; it would simply confuse them to start off with "Mrs. Broadbent" and then change over later on. On the other hand, employing Maria as a domestic servant implied a significant doubt about her story, and in any case it would be improper for the children of one in that position to treat any member of the family with such familiarity. That appeared to be the direction they were taking, but it would be best to have a conscious decision on it.
To Sylvia, Alex's query at last brought home a horrifying realisation. Although childless herself, she had never quite given up hope of pregnancy despite disapproving of artificial means; within her own mind if never mentioned openly, she could not wholly rule out the possibility of a miracle. For reasons never explained, Conrad's Sally had steadfastly refused to contemplate having children, something she had carefully kept quiet until after the wedding since she rightly suspected that otherwise Connie would have thrown some kind of spanner into the works. Sylvia could thus assume uniquely, however hypothetically it might be, the status of potential mother to the next generation.
With little imagination, she had not noticed the threat to that position posed by the arrival of Maria and her children. In fact it had never occurred to her until then that Maria's story might actually be true, still less that it might be believed. Now however it was being given serious consideration, and Sylvia's unthinking incredulity instantly flipped into total conviction of Maria's genuineness: the next generation had already arrived, and. the only shred of comfort for Sylvia was the doubt over whether it should be recognised as such. That must not be allowed to happen. She therefore insisted on maintaining a strict employer-employee relationship, and put that view forcefully without disclosing her real reasons. At bottom, she was ashamed of them. Fortunately for her, that was already the trend of opinion and it prevailed.
Evidently Maria shared it, as she was quite formal in introducing João and Felipe, who were both overwhelmed by the luxury of the house compared with anything they had known before and remained completely tongue-tied. It was immediately obvious that they and Maria would need a complete change of wardrobe, and Connie, sensing something of Sylvia's mood if not the reason for it, sought to engage her in the process by deputing her to supervise the shopping. All was of course to be charged to Connie's account. Maria thanked her profusely, and Betsy took her and the children to see their new quarters.
Alex was quite unaware of the storm he had unleashed in Sylvia's mind and before going to his own room, offered in all innocence a hundred-dollar bill for some extras, only to be overwhelmed by the fury of her refusal. "There you go again, crashing in like you always do," she practically screamed at him. "Why don't you, just for once, try minding your own bloody business for a change?" With that she stormed out, slamming the door.
Ernest looked horribly embarrassed and mumbled a barely-audible apology on her behalf. Alex was dumbfounded by the outburst and could only turn in bewilderment towards Connie. She, equally nonplussed, shrugged, sighed and said she had no more idea than he had of what it was all about. "I'd leave her to it for the time being, Alex. Anything else would probably make matters worse."
She was right, as Alex had already realised. However, Sylvia had unwittingly hit a nail on the head: there was one matter of business that he should indeed have minded but had neglected unconscionably for far too long. He could not remember the last time he had acted on his promise to look in on the Garsteins. True, he no longer had any other occasion for going that way, but it was not really much of an excuse for balking at so short a distance. The matter of Conrad's putative offspring had taken less time than he expected, and he had no commitments for the following day. Although there was no real call to explain the situation to Connie, he did so in any case and she agreed that of course he ought to go.
There was something else on his mind, too. "I've been thinking about the twins. If they're going to school here, they'll need pretty intensive tuition beforehand or they'll never catch up with their age group."
"That's true. I hadn't given it any thought."
"And have they any English?"
"I gather Maria tried to teach them some, but didn't get very far."
"So they'll need a crash course in that, for a start. At their age they'll probably take to it fairly easily, but I can't see Maria being able to afford it unless you're absurdly over-generous in the matter of pay - which I certainly don't recommend."
"What do you suggest, then?"
"Well, in a sense I seem to have taken over Conrad's position. I'd like to pay for whatever's needed to prepare the kids for mainstream education."
"That's very generous, Alex. Though I hate to think how Sylvia's going to react after this afternoon's outburst."
"It'll be best if she doesn't know anything about it. I'm not suggesting you should actually lie, but if you could somehow give an impression that it's all part of the remuneration package ..."
"I'll see what I can do."
With that out of the way, Alex turned his mind to the trip north. It was a long time since he had kept a car of his own for the relatively infrequent road journeys he now had to make in that area, but there was a standing arrangement with a hire firm and a quick telephone call confirmed that a suitable model would be waiting for him first thing the next day. That morning was crisp and bright, so that Alex was in a cheerful mood as he set off. He silently thanked whatever powers might be that he had not been cursed with a workaholic disposition and could enjoy the excursion without qualms, except of course for having delayed his visit for so long. The sun glinted off the tips of the mountains to the east, and he wondered how much snow there had been that winter. He noticed minor
changes in the topography since he had last been that way; the odd side track had been upgraded or fallen into neglect, occasional buildings had been refurbished or half-collapsed, a previously uncultivated area was now being cropped. In a moment of anxiety, he wondered whether he would still be able to distinguish the marker to Garstein's track, as the boulder might easily have become overgrown with vegetation.
On that point he was quite right, and despite slowing down more than usual after entering the forest, he very nearly missed it. Undergrowth had invaded the earlier part of the track itself and the car could only just get through. Alex belatedly wondered if he would find anyone at home; for some reason the possibility that he might not had only just occurred to him. It was therefore with some relief that on reaching the clearing he noticed a wisp of smoke from the chimney.
Other appearances were less encouraging. The house had evidently not been painted for years. One of the gutters was sagging, and the down pipe broken near the base, although a sheet of tarpaulin had been tacked to the wall behind and a rough channel scraped out to take the water away. One broken window pane had been replaced by boarding, and some roof shingles had been displaced or were missing altogether. The general air of neglect was painful.
The step up to the front door creaked ominously underfoot, and Alex hastily shifted his position away from the centre. A first knock brought no response, but after a second, he heard a very faint "Come in!" from inside. The door had sagged a fraction away from its post so as to scrape against the floor, and Alex was chary of forcing it for fear of causing more damage. He squeezed through a minimal opening and after the brilliant sunshine outside, failed for a moment to see anyone in there; then he noticed a strangely shrunken figure wrapped in blankets in one of the two easy chairs. Garstein blinked myopically at him, and in a rather feeble voice said "Who is it? Excuse me a moment," then reached out a shaky hand to a pair of spectacles on the table beside him. Fitting them took some effort, but once achieved enabled him at last to recognise his visitor.
"Alex! It's good to see you," he croaked, after apologising for a fit of coughing. "I'm sorry I couldn't come to the door; if I move too quickly after a nap I'm liable to collapse, so I have to take it gingerly."
Alex mumbled something inconsequential; he was too shocked by the state of affairs to be altogether coherent. The room was hopelessly untidy. Half a dozen books had fallen from a shelf and been left in a heap on the floor, while several mugs were scattered around; some with dried remains of unidentifiable beverages visible in them. He thought of how house-proud Minna had always been, with everything neatly in its place, and depending on the season usually a few vases of flowers placed to brighten the room. Now the nearest thing was a moribund pot plant that Alex did not recognise.
Garstein seemed to sense his thought. "It isn't the same without Minna," he said. "You won't have heard, of course. She died about five years ago, very suddenly. I always thought I'd go first."
"Yes, I remember your saying so. You'll miss her badly, I'm afraid."
"Yes, I do" he fell silent for a while and Alex wondered what more he could say without being unutterably trite, but then Garstein went on. "And it isn't just missing her. I've let her down badly."
"How come?"
"It's rather a long story."
"Well, I'm in no hurry, if you can bear to tell it."
Garstein seemed eager to get it off his chest and started his tale, but was almost immediately interrupted by another fit of coughing, and Alex offered to fetch him a drink. Garstein started to accept, then suggested that if he could manage the stove, he could make a coffee for the pair of them. "Only instant, I'm afraid. I can't be bothered with the real stuff these days."
"That'll do fine."
Alex had to hunt for matches, but found them eventually, together with other necessary materials. He also had to wash a couple of mugs before using them, then took them through. "Right, fire when ready."
"OK, here goes. You never met Minna's cousin Lucy, did you?"
"I never met any of her family."
"No, of course you didn't; silly of me. Well, the two were always very close. She married a man called Tim Marshall, one of a business family in Rexburg. I don't know what position he had in it but he always seemed to have plenty of money and I got the impression he didn't do all that much to earn it. At any rate he seemed able to get away whenever he felt like it, and they were always going off on trips together. They often asked us to join them, all expenses paid. I was a bit uncomfortable about it - well, a good deal more than a bit - but it was kindly meant, not showing off at all, so we couldn't always refuse, and I must say that Tim did us proud."
"They weren't always expensive jaunts. One of their favourites was to drive over to the other side of the Tetons - do you know that area?"
"Not particularly well; nothing much apart from Yellowstone."
"Well, there's a fairly big lake over there - Jackson Lake - and a string of smaller ones. Near one of those is a spot that they particularly associated with a happy time in their childhood, and in fine weather they'd often up sticks, throw a few provisions into a hamper and make a day of it. Nothing much, just lazing around and chatting for the most part. Possibly the odd bit of fishing. I used to like those occasions; Minna would provide some of her baking, I could easily take along a bottle or two of something interesting, and I didn't need to feel a complete free-loader."
"One day we were held up on the way after a horrendous pile-up on the road. There were smashed-up bits of wreckage all over, and not a chance of getting through until it was shifted. While we were waiting I asked a patrolman what had happened. He wasn't completely sure, but as far as he could make out, a couple of young tearaways had decided to have a race. They were neck and neck and neither would give way when someone came from the other direction - a young family evidently minding their own business and perhaps not paying as much attention as they should to what was happening ahead. The mother was killed outright, two of the kids might survive but it wasn't very likely, and the father had a broken leg with a lot of minor injuries that were the least of his worries. It sobered us up, I can tell you. We had mortality very much in mind that day, and we got on to talking about what we wanted done with our own remains when the time came. I think it was Lucy suggested that we should be cremated and the ashes buried there where they'd spent so many happy times together, and everyone thought it a great idea."
"A few years later, Tim and Lucy had to go off to a family conference about a crisis that had been developing for years but suddenly blown up. There was a nephew, Carl, an amiable fellow but a bit of a dreamer with ambitious ideas that he never bothered to think through systematically. When a bit of extra money came his way he'd insisted on setting up his own independent business in Boseman and apparently assumed that he could run it more or less by the seat of his pants, relying as usual on his personal charm to get him out of any difficulties. It didn't work with his creditors, and it caused real trouble with the wife of one of them - probably nothing serious, but the other guy didn't see it that way. He'd never had an ounce of patience with any sort of discipline, and that included keeping proper accounts, so his affairs were in a hell of a mess but no one could tell just how bad it was."
"The idea of the conference was in the first instance to stop Carl switching about between blind optimism and black despair, get him to face reality, and then whether he liked it or not to set up a proper analysis of his actual position. Until that was done there was no point in attempting more than damage control. In the longer term, depending on just how crippling his liabilities might prove to be, they would try to stave off personal bankruptcy and see what if anything could be done about his business. Frankly I thought it a waste of time. I didn't believe there was a cat in hell's chance of getting him to run the show properly."
"Be that as it may, that evening Lucy phoned Minna to say that they'd made a good start and things didn't seem quite as black as they'd feared. Quite bad e
nough, but she was very cautiously optimistic about salvaging something from the wreck. She didn't say why, and we never found out any more because on the way back she and Tim were both killed in an accident. As we'd promised, we buried their ashes in the spot by the lake, and Minna made me swear to do the same for her if her time came before mine. I'd always expected to go first, so it seemed just a formality."
Garstein paused; he seemed to be having some difficulty in controlling his emotions, but after taking a gulp of his neglected coffee, managed to continue. "I was wrong, of course, but when she was taken from me I couldn't bear to part with what was left of her. I kept telling myself I'd do it when I didn't feel her loss so keenly, but that time never came, the months and years dragged on, and I still haven't done it. Now I'm too feeble and I've broken the one and only serious promise she ever asked me to make since our wedding." His composure finally broke and he collapsed into a losing struggle with his tears.
Alex thought it best to let the fit pass, but an idea had occurred to him. His conscience, much exercised of late by painful memories of past gaffes and misdemeanours, had been further troubled by realising how badly he had neglected his old friend; now he saw a way of restoring some of his self-approbation. He knew himself well enough not to mistake it for altruism.
"You say you're too feeble?"
"I know it isn't far really, but I couldn't drive that distance now even if the old car would make it, and I don't think that's very likely."
"But you'd be OK as a passenger?"
"Well, yes, I imagine so, but ... You aren't suggesting ...?"
"I've got the day free. It's a lovely run up there, and I'll enjoy it. How long would it take you to get ready?"
"No, I can't put you to all that trouble." But the refusal was only in the words, not the voice; Garstein's heart was obviously not in it, and little persuasion was needed.
"Have you a box for the urn?"
"No need. I'd rather carry it as it is, if you don't mind."
"Of course not."
He checked the back door, locked the front and clipped the keys to his belt loop. "It's just a matter of habit, really. No one ever comes this way, and there's nothing worth stealing in any case, but Minna always insisted." He found the urn, raised as though inviting her to take a last farewell of the house, then joined Alex in the car. In the same way as nearer the road, the forest undergrowth was encroaching into the clearing, but presumably because of the local infertility it was weedy stuff and scarcely impeded turning.
The trees cast heavy shadows, but the sun was quite high and the main road was mostly in sunshine, although little could e seen on either side. Garstein was silent and Alex reluctant to interrupt his thoughts, until they crossed the Henry's Fork river and the landscape opened out. At Last Chance Garstein commented that he and Tim often used to spend a day fishing there.
"Catch anything?"
"Tim usually got a decent trout or two. I never did much, but it was a pleasant day out. It let the women get on with their stuff without bothering us."
Alex, never an angler, remembered the apocryphal story of an old man's occupation while waiting for a bite: "Sometimes I sits and thinks, sometimes I just sits."
"Not much chance of that with fly fishing."
"No, I suppose not."
They crossed the continental divide and came to West Yellowstone. Alex asked if it was time to stop for a meal, but Garstein had dozed off and made no response. He stirred slightly when they stopped to pay the entrance fee to the park, and Alex took the opportunity to settle the urn a little more firmly in his arms but left it at that. He was however concerned; from his searches in the kitchen it seemed very unlikely that Garstein had been feeding himself adequately, so when they reached Old Faithful he insisted that they should have a respectable meal in the cafeteria. In any case the angle of the light, combined with drifts of vapour from the geyser overflows into the Firehole River, was making difficulties in driving and a break would be no bad thing.
The meal over, they hurried on past West Thumb, along the gorge of the Lewis river, out through the southern portal and on into the Grand Teton national park. After the dominance of lodgepole pine in Yellowstone, the more varied vegetation was a welcome contrast, especially with the afternoon sun picking out the brilliant green shades of the spring growth. Once past Jackson Lake, Alex had to rely on Garstein's navigation along minor roads until they came to a viewing point beside a smaller lake where they parked.
It was a clear, still day, and the lake was like a millpond, with only the occasional circle of ripples from a rising fish to disturb the image of the snow-capped Tetons beyond, but time was passing and Alex was becoming too anxious about the approach of nightfall to spend much time admiring the view. Garstein, who had been rather abstracted for the past half hour, suddenly asked if Alex had a spade. Neither of them had thought of that before setting off. As it happened there turned out to be a snow shovel in the trunk, not very good for the purpose but perhaps a little better than nothing. Behind the tool kit Alex also found a large cabinet screwdriver that a previous user of the car must have left behind and might be better for loosening hard ground. What he really wanted was a mattock, but he would have to make do with what was available.
Garstein took a while to get his bearings, as he remarked that things had changed considerably since his last visit, but eventually found the peculiarly twisted stump that marked the beginning of an indistinct path through the trees, not quite parallel to the shore line. It was even more overgrown than his own home track, and Alex rather wished to have worn tougher clothing but said nothing. After about half a mile they came to a glade where a gap in the surrounding forest gave a narrow view of the lake and mountains.
In the centre was a stubby square pillar, about three feet high and slightly tapered up to a slab on the top that looked as though it might at some time have supported a statue or other adornment. The whole had once been painted white, but much of the coat had peeled away while what remained was now stained and shabby. There seemed to have been some sort of inscription carved into the stone, but Garstein said they had never been able to make anything of it and it might have been merely an abstract design.
Embedded near the foot of the pillar were two fairly large stones that Garstein said marked the locations of the Marshalls' ashes. He would have liked to place Minna's urn next to Lucy's, but he could not now remember for certain which way round they were, and it was not especially important. He hunted around for a third similar stone, but found nothing of the kind in the glade and had to search further afield. Meanwhile Alex attacked the ground at what he judged to be a suitable spacing from the existing interments. As half expected, the snow shovel proved completely useless, and he found the best way to proceed was to break up the soil with the screwdriver and scoop it out with his fingers. He tended to lose as much as he removed, and progress was painfully slow, so that he toyed with the idea of placing the urn on its side rather than upright, but abandoned it as insufferably disrespectful. In any case it would mean widening the hole, which would be almost as troublesome as deepening it.
Eventually he had a hole adequate to take the urn, and checked that it could be stood stable and upright with room for what he hoped would be an adequate overlay of soil, but took it out again so that Garstein himself could perform the final ceremony in whatever manner he chose. That immediately raised the question of where in fact was Garstein? Alex had not checked his watch on arrival, but the man must have been gone the best part of an hour or even more, and the prolonged absence was worrying. There would be no point in searching as he had no idea in which direction to go, calling Garstein's name met no response, and Alex was at a loss to think what he should do. Fortunately his quandary lasted only a few more minutes: he heard clumsy movements approaching, and soon afterwards Garstein appeared.
Alex's relief was tempered by anxiety as Garstein was breathing heavily and evidently in some physical distress. On Alex's insistence he
found a log to serve as a seat and rested for a quarter of an hour until he seemed to have recovered as well as was likely. However, he did have a stone: after much searching he had found a tree, evidently uprooted by a gale, leaving a pit in which was just what he wanted. The problem then was finding his way back, as he took a few false directions before realising his error. He apologised for the anxiety his prolonged absence must have cause, and Alex untruthfully assured him that it was no matter for concern.
He then showed what he had done. Garstein approved, took from his pocket a small article that Alex could not see distinctly but supposed to be a favourite trinket of Minna's, put it in the hole, packed it round with soil and reverently positioned the urn over it, then stood for a few minutes with head bowed in almost silent prayer. Alex wondered how long Kadish was supposed to take, as the sun was sinking towards the mountains. Eventually Garstein ceased praying, gave an immense sigh of relief, and thanked Alex profusely for taking a colossal weight off his mind. After that a reaction seemed to set in and he started shivering violently. Alex insisted that he should rest, and got him to sit propped against the other side of the pillar while the loose soil was replaced and tamped down with the stone in position. He seemed recovered enough by then for Alex to leave him and wash his hands in the lake; it took longer than expected as the gap between the trees was obstructed by fallen branches, and twenty minutes had passed before he returned.
He found Garstein still propped against the pillar, his head bowed. "Are you ready to go?" went unanswered, and Alex anxiously raised the head. Garstein was calmly smiling, but there was no trace of any pulse.
Alex was again in a quandary. He had no idea where he might get medical attention, and anyway it was almost certainly too late to do any good. He very much doubted his own ability to carry the body back to the car along that heavily-obstructed path, and after a sudden death should it not be left undisturbed pending investigation? Then again, not as a legal consideration but weighing very much more heavily in Alex's mind, Garstein had been extraordinarily reluctant to be parted from Minna's ashes, and having at last kept his promise seemed completely at peace where he was.
The light was beginning to fade and he decided to let things be for the time being. Just as he turned to go, he remembered one further near-promise he himself had made ten years earlier: to take care of the house. With the utmost care to avoid unnecessary disturbance to the body, he unclipped the keys and put them in his pocket.
Back at the viewing point he took another look at the marker stump, and thought it reminded him of some well-known figure but could not think what. It was a total irrelevance, of course, but for some reason it seemed important to him so he made a fairly accurate sketch of it in his diary. Subsequently he kept it safe, but never managed to identify the original, if indeed the whole idea was more than an aberration of his own mind.
He ought of course to report the death, but to whom? The nearest possibility would be in Jackson, and that would be on his best way back to Idaho Falls, so he set off southwards. In the town all public offices were of course already closed for the night, and he could find nowhere where he might sensibly make his report, so he carried on over the Teton Pass and through Sun Valley back to the Broadbent mansion. He would sleep on it and think tomorrow about what to do next.
He was no clearer in his mind the next morning, and asked Connie's opinion of the situation. Taking together the facts that Garstein's real name was unknown, he appeared to have had no living relatives, and the remains lay in an unfrequented spot in Wyoming, she frankly thought it most unlikely that any official in Idaho would want to know about them with all the bureaucratic complications that might ensue. Letting the matter rest would do no harm to anyone, and that was what she recommended. With some considerable misgivings, Alex concurred.
He had a lot of business in Europe, so that it was the next spring before he could again make the journey to Ashton, and he wondered what might be the condition of Garstein's house. After almost a year there was almost certain to be some deterioration through natural causes, and quite possibly damage by human agency now that the place was unoccupied, so he was relieved to find no sign that anyone had entered or even approached the clearing since his last visit, nor of more than trifling structural failures. The key turned in the lock with no great reluctance, and everything seemed much as he remembered it except for a foul smell in the kitchen. Of course, the generator had run out of fuel and food in the refrigerator had rotted. Fortunately it was all wrapped and not too disgusting to take a little way into the forest for burial. If the bears detected it and fancied digging it up, they were welcome.
It came home to him that keeping his word to Garstein would need more attention than his irregular visits could afford, and he wondered how he might go about arranging some more systematic care-taking. After much thought he decided that an enquiry at the Post Office was the most promising line of approach, so he locked up again and went back into the town. He had been wondering what kind of story to tell; he objected on principle to lying, and besides, improvisation carried serious risks of conflicting with facts known to others but not to himself, so there was the least danger of coming unstuck if he kept as close as possible to the actual events without revealing the risky parts of them.
Half a dozen customers were waiting at the counter, and two or three more came in while he was waiting, but he waved them ahead of him as his business could be more time-consuming and he did not really want it to be overheard by anyone not directly concerned. After they had left, he asked if the counter clerk could spare him a little time to advise on a rather difficult situation. "Sure, pal, what's the problem?"
"Well, I've just come back from a long trip abroad and found something left for me with relatives in Idaho Falls." He did not need to mention that it was he who had left it there. "It was a set of keys belonging to an old friend who was convinced he was dying and had no one else he could ask; would I do him the favour of looking after his bit of property near here? For personal reasons he had a strong sentimental attachment to it and couldn't bear the idea of leaving it neglected. I've just been to check, and it looks as though no one's been there for months, so I take it he was right about dying. Now obviously I want to do what I can to keep my promise, but I'm out of the area too much to keep a regular eye on the place, and I wondered if you could suggest where I might find someone reliable to do it for me. They'd be paid for it, of course."
"Hmmm. Do you mind if I ask where this property is?"
"In the forest, to the west of the highway about five miles to the north."
"Sounds rather like the old Garstein place."
"That's it!" This was an enormous relief; whatever its legal status might be, Garstein's living there was evidently known and accepted without question. A whole range of possible complications had been wiped out in an instant.
"Well, now," the clerk continued, "I think you may be in luck there. Iris Carter used to be very thick with Garstein's wife - Minnie or something like that, wasn't it? - and don't tell her I said so, but I happen to know she could use a little extra regular cash. She's as honest and reliable as anyone I know. Shall I call and check whether she's in just now?"
"That'd be very kind of you."
"Right. Oh, just to be on the safe side, have you some ID?" Alex produced his driving licence which the clerk duly noted in his log before making his call.
"Iris? Hi there. It's Steve Hall at the Post Office. I've got a guy here who's been asked to look after Garstein's place ... Yes, it seems he died a little while back ... No, I don't know any of the details ... Anyway, the point is he can't make a proper job of it personally and he's looking for a sort of part-time caretaker. Might you be interested? ... Right, shall I send him along now? ... Right-oh. His name's Forster, by the way. 'Bye."
"Sorry, Sir, I rather jumped the gun there - got carried away a bit. Would you rather have explained your business to her yourself?"
"No, it doesn't matter in
the least - saves me the trouble, in fact. I'd been wondering how to go about explaining it and you've done far better than I should. You've been extremely helpful, Mr. Hall - thank you very much indeed."
"You're very welcome. Now I'll just draw you a quick sketch map ..."
He did so, with a little verbal explanation, Alex shook hands with him and followed the directions to the Carters' house.
Iris Carter was a plump, rather worried looking woman, apparently in her mid-forties but quite possibly five years or more either side, who greeted him with "Mr. Forster? Come on in." The house was simply furnished but neat and evidently well kept, which was a promising start. He explained that in rather peculiar circumstances he wouldn't bother her with, Garstein had asked him to take care of his house, and it was a responsibility he took seriously. However, he spent most of his time away from there, often out of the country altogether, and in his opinion the task needed more regular attention than he could give it, say a quick visit every couple of weeks and something more thorough every few months or after a storm. The idea was to keep the place reasonably clean, check for damage and make the necessary arrangements for repairs. Quite a lot of those would probably be needed straight away after several years of general neglect. He would set up a maintenance fund on which she could draw with the approval of his attorney, and for herself he offered the monthly payment that Connie had suggested might be the going rate; would that be acceptable? "Quite satisfactory, Sir, thank you."
He asked if she had time for a visit to the place so that he could point out some things he had already noticed needed attention. "It'll have to be fairly quick one, I'm afraid. Joel's due back in a couple of hours and I don't want him wondering where I've got to
"Your husband?"
"Yes, and he expects a meal ready when he comes."
"Right, let's get a move on."
He was not in the mood for idle chatter but eventually felt that some attempt at conversation was called for on the way. "I believe you knew Garstein fairly well, Mrs. Carter."
"Oh, for goodness' sake call me Iris. I can't bear formality."
"Right, then, Iris. Was that right?"
"Yes, although it was Minna I was really friends with."
"I remember her particularly for plying me with cookies whenever I visited."
"Yes, she was very proud of those."
"She was right to be." That exhausted Alex's ideas for a while, but approaching the river he commented "You'll miss her, I imagine."
"Yes, it was a great shock when she died."
"What was it? The cause, I mean. Garstein didn't say."
"Pneumonia, I think. Quite sudden. He never got over losing her."
"I know." He was about to elaborate, but realised it might stray into dangerous territory, and was saved from indiscretions by having to look for the marker.
Approaching the clearing he commented on Garstein's scepticism about its having been cursed by a long-dead shaman. "Oh, that old story! I don't believe a word of it. Though something's wrong with the soil, no question about it. Joel once took a bucketful to see if anything would grow in it, and it was pretty useless. Seeds never germinated, plants generally died within a week. Nothing thrived."
"So you think Garstein may have been right about something noxious in the mineral content?"
"I dare say. It seems as likely as anything."
Alex pointed out the various things about the house that he had noticed needing attention, and Iris thought that Joel could deal with most of them. "Then do make sure he charges the proper rate for the job."
"OK, if you insist."
"I do. Not over-charging, mind you." To avoid offence he made that humorous.
"He'd never do that, I'm sure."
In a kitchen drawer he found a spare set of keys and entrusted them to her. "I'm glad I found these; it means I can keep the others and don't need to bother you if I ever turn up unexpectedly."
That was a new idea to her. "Do you think you'll be using the place, then?"
"I hadn't given it much thought, but it might be convenient on occasion." It might indeed, he thought privately. Connie had always insisted keeping his room ready, but although she was remarkably sprightly for her age, she was probably well into her nineties and he strongly suspected that after her passing Ernest and Sylvia would be considerably less welcoming, especially after the events of the previous year. "Yes, Iris, I see what you're driving at. I think it would be a good idea to keep a bed made up and a basic stock of imperishables in the place for the odd occasion when I might need it."
"Right, I'll see to it. Long-life milk, dry biscuits - matzos perhaps - tins of corned beef, coffee, sealed packets of cheese that would keep long enough to rotate with my own stock, that sort of thing ..."
"You've got the idea."
"Right, I'll do that."
Returning to the town, Alex gave her two hundred dollars to be going on with and promised that back in Idaho Falls he would get his attorney to send her a proper contract, nothing complicated of course, which he was sure would be a pure formality but would put the arrangement on a business-like footing. It would include all the details of payment for anything beyond the basic retainer, which would be automatic. "And if there's a problem with anything in it, I'm sure it can be sorted out amicably."
"So am I, from what I've seen so far. And thank you very much for your trust, Sir."
Back at her house, she asked if he would stay to meet Joel, assuring him that he wouldn't be in her way as she prepared the meal, but he declined, being anxious to start things moving on their agreement. He was much easier in his mind travelling south than on the outward journey, and the first thing he did on his return was to call his attorney's office to arrange an appointment with Mr. Weinberg for the next day.
Ushered into Weinberg's office in the morning, he was astonished to find a man vaguely familiar in appearance but about thirty years younger than he expected. "You surely haven't had a face lift, have you, Joe?"
Weinberg laughed. "Obviously you haven't heard - I'm sorry about that. I'm Harry Weinberg. Pop had a stroke in the New Year; he's made a good recovery but decided he'd had enough, so I was brought in to fill the gap from an associated firm in Rexburg. Are you happy for me to take over your affairs?"
"Well, if you do as well as your father, I'll have no complaints. Give him my good wishes, by the way."
"Thanks, I shall. I haven't his experience, of course, but I'll do my best. Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?"
Alex explained the story of Garstein's request, skated over the circumstances of his death, and detailed the arrangement he had made with Iris Carter to look after the place. What he wanted was in the first place to make a legal contract with her, and then to set up the maintenance fund that he had promised. Would Weinberg be ready to administer it on his behalf? It would mean approving unusual items of expenditure, of which there would probably be a great deal in the early months if not for much longer, and an occasional visit to see what was actually being done with the house. He had at first intended only to maintain it in more or less the same condition after essential repairs, which was clearly all that Garstein had contemplated, but on reflection he might want to make some more extensive improvements.
"Well, that doesn't sound unduly onerous. But building work isn't my forte. I know a good man in Rexburg who could deal with that side much better, and of course he's that much closer as well."
"Trustworthy?"
"Very much so, in my experience."
"So be it, then."
"But one thing puzzles me: you've only taken on the job of looking after this house, but you talk of possible improvements. Who actually owns it?"
"I imagine the land belongs to the State, though it seems there was some question over whether Garstein had any right to build there in the first place so I haven't pursued it. The house itself - goodness only knows. He doesn't seem to have had any natural heirs."
"It s
ounds like a case of res nullius - nobody's property. From what you say it seems very unlikely that there are any official deeds, or unofficial ones for that matter if such a thing could exist. I'd better make some discreet checks."
"Very discreet, I hope."
"Of course. But as it is, you are clearly exercising the responsibilities of ownership, and I imagine if the question arose you could make a pretty convincing case for the rights that go with it. Though I gather you don't want to press the matter."
"No, I don't want to risk stirring up things that I might regret. Let sleeping dogs lie."
"Right, I understand. I'll draw up the necessary paperwork. One thing - what's the name of the house?"
"Everyone seems to refer to it simply as 'Garstein's place'. I don't know that it has any other."
"Well, 'Garstein's Place' will probably serve as well as anything, though to be on the safe side I'll qualify it as 'known as' in the document. "
"Fair enough."
The first time that Alex did stay overnight in the house, a couple of months later as a trial rather than from necessity, brought home to him that the amenities indeed left a very great deal to be desired. The few electric lights were of low power, in the bedrooms and by the back door; otherwise the basic oil lamps were fiddling to use and at best barely good enough for reading; the wood stove in the kitchen was probably just about adequate for cooking, and spread enough heat into the rest of the house for an ordinary summer evening but no more; there was no way of telling how much water had been pumped into the storage tank in the loft until it overflowed, and some sort of indicator was needed - a possible design basis occurred to him. Worst of all was the privy, a small hut outside over a hole in the ground. What it would be like in the northern winter did not bear thinking about, and how Garstein and Minna had fended off pneumonia for so long was a mystery.
He consulted Joel Carter, who seemed know about such things, and between them they concocted a programme of improvements that Carter could either put in place himself in his spare time or get done by specialists. When Carter totted up the likely costs, including on Alex's insistence what he considered a reasonable charge for his own time and effort, they came to a sum that alarmed him, and he asked whether Alex was really sure about it. "Oh, yes, there shouldn't be any difficulty there."
Joel was still more than a little nervous about it, and later confided in Iris that he had two worries: was the money really there, as he didn't want to be left with unpaid bills especially on the scale involved, and if it was, where did it come from? Iris thought that anyone who had put so much trust in them on such slight acquaintance must be trustworthy himself, and Joel conceded that it looked probable, but the argument was flimsy. "Well then, the next time you have to go into Idaho Falls, why not ask to see Mr. Weinberg and explain your worries?"
When it came to the point, Joel was rather diffident about expressing them, but Weinberg understood well enough. "You're anxious in case he's in drugs, illegal arms or prostitution, I suppose."
"Well, something like that."
"You're very wise to want reassurance." That cheered Joel up immediately. "But you've no need to worry. Mr. Forster's business interests are perfectly legitimate. I can't go into detail, of course, but I don't think he'd mind my saying that they're mostly a matter of helping to start up a new business venture in return for shares in it, waiting for it to become successful, and then selling the shares at a profit."
"But what if the new business isn't a success?"
"Then he loses out. But that happens very rarely; he seems to have a nose for the ones that are going to work out well. The sums that can be made that way are sometimes quite staggering. I'm not saying he's in that league, and certainly not that the sort of figures you mention would come out of petty cash, but they wouldn't put any strain on his position. He's not a man to let them, according to my father, who knew him pretty well."
Joel was greatly relieved by this and relayed it to Iris when he returned home, but to his surprise she was rather doubtful. "It's really a kind of gambling, isn't it?"
"In a way, I suppose it is, but there's skill in it, not just luck, and it's used for a good purpose."
"That depends on the kind of business he funds."
"We've been assured it's legitimate."
"Yes, but only by his lawyer. He'd be bound to say that."
"Well, I've made some enquiries about Weinberg's firm and it seems to be well respected but on the old-fashioned side - the sort I like to deal with, not one of these modern sharks. Do we really have to poke our noses in any further? Anyway, when we talked about this before, you were all for trusting Mr. Forster. What's made you change your tune?"
Iris had no real answer to that, just vague anxieties. She could only repeat a quotation she had read somewhere about great wealth rarely being achieved without some sharp practice. "But 'rarely' doesn't mean 'never'. And from what Mr. Weinberg said, we're not talking about really great wealth, just enough for the work on Garstein's place to be easily afforded."
"That seems a pretty monstrous amount to me."
"Oh, well, have it your own way. Fret about it if you must, but don't expect me to lose any sleep over it. And whatever you do, don't go and offend either of them with your fancies. I've a feeling there are hard times ahead, and we'll need all the friends we've got."
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Garstein's Legacy Page 3