The Gold Coast

by Kim Stanley Robinson

  “See, look. The Burger King Whopper has indisputably got the best meat. Check it out.”

  “Isn’t that some kind of bug there, Tash?”

  “No! Let’s look at yours if you dare, you know they make those Big Macs out of petroleum byproducts.”

  “They do not! In fact they won the slander case in court on that!”

  “Lawyers. Look at that meat, it’s sludge!”

  “Well, it’s better than the double Jack Abe’s got, anyway.”

  “Sure, but that’s saying nothing.”

  “Hey,” says Abe. “The Jack’s are adequate, and look here at the malt and fries you get at Jack’s. Both absolutely unmatchable. Burger King malts are made of air, and McDonald’s malts are made of styrofoam. You only get a real ice-cream malt at Jack’s.”

  “Malt? Malt? You don’t even know what malt tastes like! There hasn’t been malt in this country since before the millennium! Those are shakes, and the McShake is just fine. Orange-flavored, even.”

  “Come on, Jim, we’re trying to eat here. Don’t make me puke.”

  “And the McFries are also the best. Those Jackfries, you could inject drugs with those things.”

  “Ho, Mr. Get Tough! Your fries are actually shot puts in disguise! Get serious!”

  “I am serious! Here, Sandy, you be judge. Eat this, here.”

  “No, Sandy, mine first! Eat this!”

  “Mmff mmff mmff.”

  “See, he likes mine better!”

  “No, he just said Burger Whop, didn’t you hear him?”

  Sandy swallows. “They taste the same.”

  “What kind of a judge are you?”

  Abe says, “Best malt—”

  “Shake! Shake! No such thing as malt! Mythical substance!”

  “Best malt, best fries, perfectly standard burger.”

  “In other words the burger is disgusting,” Tashi says. “There’s no fighting it, the basis of the American body is the hamburger, the rest is just frills. And Burger King has the best burger by miles. And so there you have it.”

  “All right,” Sandy says. “Tashi, give me the patty out of yours.”

  “What? No way!”

  “Yeah, come on. There’s only half left anyway, right? Give it to me. Now Abe, give me the bun with the secret sauce. Not the other one, that’s blank! Ahhh, hahahahahahaha, what a burger, Jesus, give me the secret sauce. Jim, hand over that smidgin of lettuce, right, okay, and the ketchup in its convenient poison-proofed pill-sized container. Fine, fine. Abe, hand over the malt. Yeah, you win! Hand it over. The fries, hmm, well, let’s just mess them all together here, on the seat here, that’s okay. Where’d that ketchup go? Slip down the straw, did it? Squirt it on there, Abe, and watch out you don’t get it all on one fry. Right. There we have it, bros. Le Grand Compromis, the greatest American meal of all time! Fantastic! Dig in!”

  “Whoah.”

  “Think I’ve lost my appetite, here.…”

  When they’re done eating, Sandy takes over the controls and turns them back toward home. It’s late, he’s got another full day tomorrow.

  They track down the Newport Freeway, on the underlevel, the adscreens hanging from the underside of the upper level, flashing over them is a colorful subliminal parade of words, images, images, words. BUY! NEW! LOOK! NOW! SPECTAC! They slump back in their seats, watch the lights streak in the car windows.

  No one speaks. It’s late, they’re tired. There’s a feeling in the car that is somehow … elegiac. They’ve just performed one of their rituals, an old, central ritual that seems to have been a part of their lives always. How many nights have they cruised autopia and talked, and eaten a meal, and looked at the world? A thousand? Two thousand? This is how they were friends together. And yet this night it feels, somehow, as if this may have been the last time they will perform this particular ritual. Nothing lasts forever. Centrifugal forces are tugging on all their lives, on their collective life; they feel it, they know that the time is coming when this long childhood of their life will have to end. Nothing lasts forever. And this feeling lies as heavy in the car as the smell of French fries.…

  Sandy punches a button and his window slides down. “An eyedropper for the road?”

  After they enter SCP’s parking garage and Abe and Tash have walked off to their cars, Sandy gestures Jim back to him. Scratching his head sleepily, he says, “Jim, have you seen much of Arthur lately?”

  “Oh, a little. Once since we got back, I guess.”

  Sandy considers what line of questioning would be best. “Do you know if he’s involved in anything, you know, anything more serious than those posters he puts up?”

  Jim blushes. “Well, you know. I’m not really sure.…”

  So Arthur is involved. And Jim knows about it. Meaning that Jim may be involved, too. Possibly. Probably. It’s hard for Sandy to imagine Jim taking part in sabotage actions against local industrial plants, but who can say? He is one to follow an idea.

  And now it’s Sandy’s turn to consider how much he can say. Jim is one of his best friends, no doubt about it, but Bob Tompkins is a major business partner, and by extension he has to be careful of Raymond’s interests too. It’s a delicate question, and he’s tired. There doesn’t seem to be any pressing hurry in the matter; and it would be better, actually, if he had more of substance to tell Jim, if he decides to speak to him. He’s certain now that Arthur Bastanchury is working for Raymond, and pretty sure that Jim is working with Arthur. The question is, does Raymond work for anyone? That’s the important thing, and until he learns more about it there’s no use in upsetting Jim, he judges. Truth is, he’s too tired to think about it much right now.

  He pats Jim’s arm. “Arthur should be careful,” he says wearily, and turns to go to the elevator. “And you too,” he says over his shoulder, catching a surprised look on Jim’s face. He gets in the elevator. Three A.M. If he gets up at seven, he can reach his dad before lunch in Miami.

  54

  Jim gets several days in a row at the office of First American Title Insurance and Real Estate Company, which is good for his bank account if not for his disposition. On one of these days Humphrey comes in grinning triumphantly. “We’re doing it, Jimbo. We’re building the Pourva Tower. Ambank approved the loan package, and the last papers were signed today. All we have to do is reconfirm the other financiers within the next few days, so it’s just a matter of doing the computer work quickly, before anyone cools off.”

  “Humphrey, you still don’t have any occupants for this building.”

  “Well, we’ve got all those interested parties. Besides, it doesn’t matter! We’ll get them when the building is there!”

  “Humphrey! What’s the occupancy rate for new office buildings in OC? Twenty percent?”

  “I don’t know, something like that. But it’s bound to change, so much business is moving in here.”

  “I don’t see why you say that. The place is saturated.”

  “No way, Jim. There’s no such thing.”

  “Aggh…” Nothing he can say to that. “I still think it’s stupid.”

  “Listen, Jim, the rule is, when you have the money and you have the land, you build! It’s not easy getting the two together at the same time. As you know from how this one’s gone. But we’ve done it! Besides, this one will do well—we’ll even be able to advertise that it has a filtered view of the ocean.”

  “Filtered by the whole bulk of the Santa Ana Mountains, eh Hump?”

  “No! You can see down over Robinson Rancho, a little bit of it anyway.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Build another empty tower.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Jim. Our only problem is to make sure everything moves along as fast as possible.”

  Jim goes home from his clerking in a foul mood. The phone rings and he grabs it up. “What!”

  “Hello, Jim?”

  “Ah, Hana! Hey, how are you?”

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, no, I always answer t
he phone like that after a day at the office. Sorry.”

  She laughs. “You’d better come up here for dinner then.”

  “You bet! What should I bring?”

  And so an hour later he’s tracking into the hills, out the Garden Grove Freeway, across to Irvine Park and the Santiago Freeway, and then up narrow, deep Modjeska Canyon. Hana lives beyond the Tucker Bird Sanctuary, up a narrow side canyon, in a converted garage at the end of a gravel drive, in a grove of big old eucalyptus trees. The main house is a small whitewashed colonial-style cottage; its general modesty doesn’t hide the fact of the secluded, wooded yard, the exclusiveness of it all. Hana’s landlord is rich. And Hana?

  Her garage has been turned into a painter’s studio, mostly. The main room fills most of the place, and it’s stacked with canvases and materials like her studio at Trabuco J.C. Kitchen and bathroom have been partitioned off in one corner, and a bedroom not much bigger than the bathroom is in the other corner. “I like it,” Jim says. “It reminds me of my place, only nicer.” Hana laughs. “You don’t have any of your paintings up.”

  “God no. I like to be able to relax. I mean, imagine sitting around looking at your mistakes all the time.”

  “Hmm. They all have mistakes?”

  “Sure.”

  She’s staring past him at the floor, throwing her sentences out casually. Attack of shyness, it seems. Jim follows her into the kitchen, and helps her take hamburgers out to a hibachi on the gravel drive.

  They barbecue the meat and eat the hamburgers out on the driveway, sitting in low lawn chairs. They talk about the coming semester and their classes. About Hana’s painting. Jim’s work at the office. It’s very relaxed, though Hana’s eyes look anywhere but at Jim.

  After dinner they sit and look up at the sky. There are even some stars. The eucalyptus leaves click together like plastic coins. It’s a warm evening, there’s a touch of Santa Ana wind blowing, even.

  Hana suggests a walk up the canyon. They take the dinner materials inside, and then walk up the narrow, dark road.

  “Do you know much about the Modjeskas?” Hana asks as they walk.

  “A little. Helen Modjeska was a Polish actress. Her real name was something longer, and very Polish. She married a count, and their salon in Warsaw was very fashionable. The salon members got the idea of starting a utopia in southern California. This was in the 1870s. And they did it! The colony was down near Anaheim, which was also a utopian project started by a group of Germans. The Modjeskas’ thing fell apart when none of them wanted to do farm work, and the Modjeskas moved to San Francisco, where she took up acting again. She became very famous there, and the count was her business manager, and they did well. Then in the late 1880s they returned, and bought the place up here. They called it Arden.”

  “As You Like It. What a nice idea.”

  “Yeah. This time it was a life of leisure—no farming. They had vineyards and orange groves and flower gardens, and a big shady lawn, and a pond out front with swans in it. During the days they rode horses around their land, and in the evenings Helen gave readings from her various roles.”

  “Very idyllic.”

  “True. It seems unreal, now. Although it’s funny, up here I can imagine it happening. There’s this feeling of being completely cut off from the world.”

  “I know. That’s one of the things I like best about living up here.”

  “I believe it. It’s amazing you can get that feeling anywhere in OC.”

  “Yeah, well, you should see Santiago Freeway at rush hour. Bumper to bumper.”

  “Of course. But here, and now…”

  She nods, touches his upper arm. “Here, follow this trail. This little side canyon is pretty long and deep, and there’s a way up to a lookout point over Riverside.”

  They hike through trees, up a steep-sided narrow canyon, one without a road at its bottom. Hana leads the way. Jim can hardly believe it; they’re out in the bush! No condos! Can it be real?

  The canyon’s sandstone walls steepen until they’re in a sort of roofless hallway, moving single file up a steep trail through the brush and trees. There’s a stale, damp smell in the air, as if the sun seldom reaches the canyon’s bottom. Then the walls lay back, and the canyon opens up into a small amphitheater filled with live oak. They turn back and up, and climb the walls they had previously been under, until they’re on a ridge; there’s a view back down to the scattered lights in Modjeska Canyon. And off to the east, as Hana said, there is a long fuzzy band of light, just visible: the Highway 15 corridor, in Riverside County.

  “Whoah. You can really see a long way. Do you come up here often?”

  He thinks he sees a small smile, but in the dark he can’t be sure. “No. Not often. Look here.” She walks to a big oak. “This tree’s called the Swing Tree. Someone’s tied a rope on that big upper branch, out away from the trunk. You take it”—she grabs the thick rope with both hands, just above a knot at the end of it—“and walk back uphill with it—and then—”

  She runs down the hill, swings off into the space above the canyon, makes a slow turn, flies back in and runs to a halt.

  “Whoah! Let me try that!”

  “Sure. There are two ways to go—you can run straight out and come straight back in, or you can take off angling out away from the tree, and that’ll put you in a circle and land you on the other side of the trunk. You have to be sure to go hard that way, though, to get around the trunk all the way.”

  “I see. Believe I’ll go straight out, this time.”

  “Good idea.”

  He seizes the rope, runs outward, flies off into space. It’s slow, dark. Air hoots in his ears. He feels a little point of something like weightlessness, or weight coming back, at the outer limit of his ride—hung out there for a moment—then it’s around and back in, whoah, got to run quick on touchdown. “Great! Fantastic! I want to do it again.”

  “Well then we’ll just have to take turns. My turn now.” She takes off with a quick sprint. Dark shape floating out there, hair flying wild against the stars—creak of rope against branch, up above—flying woman coming in from deep space, right at him—“Whoah!” He catches her up and they collide into a hug.

  “Oops. Sorry. Took off at an angle, I guess.”

  He flies again. It’s funny how simple all the real pleasures are (did he think that?). It’s a long rope, the flights last a long time. Don’t try to figure out how long, Jim thinks. It doesn’t matter. Avoid timing, distance records, etcetera.…

  After a few straight in-and-out runs, Hana takes the rope and runs out to the left, swings free of the ground, curves out, then left to right across the sky, spinning slowly, until she comes back in to the right side of the trunk. Round the horn. It looks lovely. “Let me try that!”

  “Okay. Take off hard.”

  He does, but leaves the ground before he gets that last push-off step in. Oh well. Flying, here, spinning in a great circle, long seconds of a deep dream-flying calm. Coming back in he turns to face landward and notes that the tree trunk is going to—oops—

  He just manages to turn sideways as he crashes into the tree. He tumbles to the ground, stunned.

  He’s lying in leaves. Hana has rushed over and is crouched over him. “Jim! Are you okay?”

  He pulls her down and kisses her, surprising them both.

  “Well, I guess you are.”

  “Not sure, though. Here—” He kisses her again. Actually, about half his body is sore indeed. Right ear, shoulder, ribs, butt, thigh, all of them are pounding. He ignores them all, pulls Hana onto him. The kiss extends off into a long sequence. Her hands are running over him very gently, making sure he’s still all there. He reciprocates, and their kisses get a lot more passionate. Time out to breathe.

  They’re in a great drift of leaves, between two big roots that run over the hard ground. Leaves, whatnot—it’s probably better not to investigate too closely. The leaves are dusty, dry, crunchy under them. They’re lying side by side now, and c
lothes are giving way. In the dark Jim can just barely see her face against his, nothing more. The lack of visual stimulation, of the image, is disorienting. But that look on her face—all shyness gone, that small inward smile … his heart thumps, his skin is flushed or somehow made more sensitive, he can feel better, the rough uneven ground under his good side, his bad side throbbing in the cool air, crackling leaves, her hands on him, their mouths, whoah—when has a mere kiss ever felt like this? And it’s Hana Steentoft, his friend, here; the distance gone, the inwardness turned out onto him, the friendship suddenly blooming like a Japanese paper flower hitting a bowl of water. It’s exciting! They make love, and that’s more exciting yet. Jim’s body goes into a kind of shell-shocked mode: such a sequence of intense sensation! He mentions it to her at a certain still interval and she laughs. “Better watch it, you’re going to be wanting to crash every time before you make it.”

  “Kinky indeed. Can you imagine it? Getting intimate—oh, excuse me—”

  “Stand up and run straight into the wall—”

  “There, okay, I’m ready now.…”

  When their giggling subsides, Jim says, “I’ll only do it with you. You’ll understand.”

  “You’ll only do it with me?” Quick grin, mischievous movement against him—“Yes”—and they are back in the world of sex, a duet collaborating in the most fascinating variations on a theme: the kinetic melody with its intense blisses, accompanied by crackling leaves and the odd squeak, hum, moan, grunt, whoah, exhalation, endearment, giggle, and a whole lot of heavy breathing. It’s incredible fun.

  55

  They sleep together cuddled like spoons. In the morning Jim wakes to find Hana already at work, painting at a table in the main room. She’s put on a bulky sweater and army fatigues. He watches her, noticing the brusque concentration, the tangled hair, the tree-trunk legs. The indirection that is not really shyness, but some unnamed cousin to shyness. She gets up and walks into the kitchen, passes a mirror without even noticing it. He gets up to run give her a hug. She laughs at him.