Private affairs : a novel (34 page)

'That's it? Just like that?"

"They'll take our houses—?"

"—and Gaspar's store—?"

"— and this church?"

Isabel nodded. "They buy them from us."

"Buy!" Cesar spat. "But they decide for how much!"

"Yes, but Saul says it's usually a fair price," Isabel responded. "Fair market value."

"Fair! To make us leave when we don't want to?"

The voices rose again. Elizabeth wrote swiftly, describing the people, their arguments, and Isabel's dignity and determination to keep the meeting orderly instead of a jumble of squabbling angry voices. She heard Maya say to Peter, "Now maybe I can't go to Stanford after all, even if Mama would let me. Maybe I have to stay and help my family."

"Help them do what?" Peter asked.

"I don't know. Fight."

"How 0 "

She shook her head. Tears were in her eyes. Peter stood up and shouted, "W r hat can we do?"

Isabel put up her hand to quiet the crowd. "We'll try to get an injunction to stop construction until next January, when the legislature meets again. If that doesn't work—and Saul doesn't think the chances are very good—then the only thing we can do is to try to get the bill rescinded next January."

"After they've already started work on the dam?" Maya asked.

"You can always stop something that isn't finished."

"How?" Peter demanded. "What the hell can we do?"

Elizabeth put her hand on his arm. "We'll think of something. I already have some ideas. After all, we have the whole summer to figure out how to make the legislature pay attention to us."

Private Affairs 217

It was not until two hours later, when they were back home in Santa Fe, that she realized what she had said. The whole summer. But weren't they moving to Houston, in June, to be with Matt?

Tony sat in a corner of the low-ceilinged room, unnaturally quiet, listening to Elizabeth interview Isabel. They'd been there since early morning, sharing coffee and sopapillas with honey, while Isabel talked about growing up in the valley, learning to make pottery in high school in Pecos, selling her first piece when she was twelve. "You must have been so excited and proud," Elizabeth said.

"Ecstatic." Isabel gazed through the window at the frail new aspen leaves trembling in the April breeze. "I thought I was really somebody; not just a little mountain girl, but somebody important. I expected to make us rich, and then leave the valley."

"For good?"

"Of course. All the young people want to leave. You've heard Luz; she can't wait to get out."

"But you didn't leave."

Isabel shook her head with a rueful laugh. "Didn't get rich. I gave it four years, then decided I had to live closer to where the galleries were. So I went to Denver. But I hated it; I'm not made for cities. So I went into the mountains—Central City and Estes Park—and I sold everything I made to the tourists. I was on top of the world." She laughed. "Really was, in those incredible mountains. Higher than ours, you know; more rugged, more spectacular."

"But you came back to Nuevo."

Isabel nodded. "I guess there was no way I wouldn't. I got married in Central City; I was pregnant with Luz. Her father was a gallery owner who told me I was the greatest artist in the west, and he made it seem an honor that he chose me to take to bed. But he hadn't figured on fatherhood and when I couldn't hide my round stomach he sent me on my way. Later, back here, I met my husband. The best father and husband in the world."

"But when you were in Central City, and pregnant and alone . . . ?"

"Luz was born there and then I started making the rounds of the tourist towns with my wheel and my pottery and my baby in a sling across my chest. I remember how her fuzzy little head kept knocking against my chin. But I knew I didn't want to keep that up: traipsing back and forth with no home for my little girl except under my chin, and no family—and Padre was asking me to come back and live with him after Madre died. Then there were all those pretty-boy ski bums who thought I

was fair game. I was prettier then, and I had my figure, and God knows I needed a man, and I bedded down with some of them, but they weren't serious about anything except skiing, certainly not a Hispanic girl with a baby. It was always a one-night thing. . . ."

Her voice trailed off. "What was it you hoped for from them?" Elizabeth asked softly.

"Mostly to say they wanted me 5 Isabel Aragon, not just a body they could take their pleasure from and then forget."

"You didn't want to marry again?"

"Sure, if I loved somebody. But friendships would have been fine, too, if they'd been real. I wanted somebody to care about me. And it turned out the only ones who did were in Nuevo."

"So you came home."

"That was it. Home. Sanctuary, almost. I knew it the minute I walked into this house and sat down. I belonged."

She talked on as Elizabeth asked about her father and Luz, her neighbors and her work. She brought out her new pottery and briefly described her experiments with glazes and raised patterns using ancient designs—"I can't say much about them; they'll get stolen"—and showed sketches of pieces she had sold. "But I'll tell you something," she added as she slipped them back into a leather portfolio. "I'm thinking about getting out of the pottery business."

"I see," said Elizabeth.

"You see? That's all you have to say? You're not surprised? Good Lord, you already know what I'm going to say!"

"Tell me. Then I'll know if I'm right."

"You probably are, my opposite sister. It started in the church, with all that applause. ..."

"And you said you could get to like it."

"Right. And then at the hearings, when I saw those shifty-eyed bastards deciding what was good for us, and not giving a damn or even knowing anything about us, I thought, why not? I'd be a hell of a lot better representative than they are."

"So you're going to run for the legislature."

"By God, you are my sister; you understand me better than anyone. Well, you're right. I'm giving politics some thought. What would you say my chances are?"

"I think you'd knock out the opposition. You were wonderful at the hearings; you look like everybody's mother, so a lot of men will vote for you; and you've been helping people with their problems for thirteen

years, which means everyone knows you. I don't see how you can lose. What about Tom Ortiz? Will he run again?"

"He's getting old. He's represented this district—if you can call it that —for thirty years. I think he's tired. And if he isn't, people are tired of him. You really think I can't lose?"

"I'm not an expert. But I think you can't lose."

"Nice words. I haven't decided, you know. I just think about it while I make my pottery. But I must say, that was one good feeling, standing there, being applauded. I think about it a lot."

"What else do you think about?"

"Oh, what happens when Luz is gone, how Padre is starting to forget things, the fact that I'm for sure not going to find another man, which changes the way I think about my life. ..."

Their low voices, soft and intimate, asking and answering, wove around each other until midafternoon, when Elizabeth finally closed her notebook. "Thank you," she said. "You've been wonderful."

Isabel put her arms around Elizabeth. "Real friends are even harder to find than good men. You keep the loneliness away. I'd do anything for you." Tony stood up and she jumped. "You were so quiet I forgot all about you. Come again; we'll let you do some talking."

"You and Elizabeth do it much better than I," he said, and ducked his head as he went through the low doorway. He waited in the car while the women kissed each other goodbye; then Elizabeth got in behind the wheel and drove off.

He watched her in silence, admiring her profile. Keeping her eyes on the road, Elizabeth said, "You're supposed to be watching the scenery."

"I prefer watching you. Besides, I saw the scenery driving up here."

"It's different when you see it from the other direction."

"That's what I keep telling you. If you see things from my point of view, everything looks quite different."

She laughed. "My single-minded Tony. I am not going with you to your Italian villa; I am not going with you to your mansion in California. Let's talk about Isabel."

"Let's talk about why you called me your Tony."

"Did I? But you know I meant my friend Tony. Now tell me: did you like her?"

"Of course. A good woman. Dull, but how can one dislike her?"

"She is not dull."

"She is to me. She's dedicated to her father, her daughter, her pottery, her valley. She's not beautiful or clever or sophisticated; she's not sexually arousing or bitchy. She's a very good, honest, direct woman whom we

both like. She is also dull" When Elizabeth was silent, he asked, "What difference does it make? She's your friend, not mine; I'll never see her again. What I really want to talk about is you. No, don't frown. I mean I want to talk about your interview with her. Do you know how good you were?"

"I know I'm good at interviewing, Tony. I've been doing it for a long time. This one was special, though. Isabel and I cooked it up to make trouble for Ballenger."

"I don't give a damn about Ballenger, whoever he is; I'm talking about Elizabeth Lovell. You got her talking, you controlled the interview, you got intimate revelations that she wasn't always aware she was telling you. And when she did know you were on personal territory, it didn't bother her, because you were interested and sympathetic, not curious or prying." He gave a long sigh. "If I could do that, I'd be popular forever. You are wasting a brilliant talent on a handful of newspapers. You should be sharing it with the world."

Elizabeth looked at him briefly before turning back to the narrow road. "What does that mean?"

"It means you should be on television."

"I'm a writer, Tony. I don't like television. It's too fast, too superficial."

"You wouldn't be on television if someone offered you a show?"

"What kind of show? How can I answer? It doesn't matter; I probably wouldn't. I really do love to make words appear on paper in the right order, not toss them at a camera and never see them again. Anyway, I'm not about to move to Los Angeles, or anywhere, to chase the fantasy of an audience of millions. I like what I'm doing, and it's real: I'm in twenty papers; that's more than I ever dreamed of." She made the turn at Pecos and picked up speed on the empty road. "What did you mean about someone offering me a show?"

"I didn't mean your own. I meant being part of mine. Didn't I offer that long ago? I don't recall whether I was serious or not, but now that I've seen you in action I am very serious. Elizabeth, let me talk to my producer about you. Just to get his opinion. The show could use some jazzing up—oh, Christ, I didn't mean that, don't frown again, you're so much more beautiful when you smile—all I meant was, next fall, after summer reruns, we're going to want something new and different, for variety, for sparkle. . . ."

"To postpone the rainy day when you go into politics?"

There was a pause. "Who said that?"

"My husband."

"I see. He got it wrong."

"Did he? A few minutes ago you talked about being popular forever." "No one is popular forever. Even God gets bad ratings."

"Then what did you say at Keegan's dinner?"

"That television and politics are alike. They both give top rewards to people who can convince an audience that the bullshit they're spouting is genuine conviction, coming from their own brains. But you are genuine," he went on. "And since your talented husband is the latest to fall victim to my father's charm, there is all the more reason for you to expand your career to include television. After all, what will you do when your offspring are gone? Nobody to clean house or cook for, no young ones to keep on the straight and narrow . . . what will you do for excitement? Sit alone all day at a typewriter? You could do that part of the time— there's no need for you to give up your writing—but for the rest . . . some live action, a challenge for your interviewing skills, new people . . . Are you listening?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said.

"Then you will notice I'm not talking about Italian villas or California mansions. I'm talking about one slot of ten or fifteen minutes a week, on 'Anthony.' You'd be amazed how much information can be packed into fifteen minutes. More than in one of your columns. Let me talk to my producer. That's all I ask. He may not like the idea, in which case I'll probably have to give it up, at least for a while. A producer is like a spouse: you compromise or you get a divorce; and I can't handle divorces from wives and my producer as weD. So we can talk about it again next time I'm in Santa Fe; by then I'll know what he thinks. Is that all right?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said again. Tony made a small sound, almost a hum of satisfaction, and settled back to enjoy the scenery.

As proudly as a queen, Isabel Aragon stands beside the Pecos River that flows through Nuevo. When she stretches out her arms they are like the mountains around her, embracing the valley where she was born. "This is what they want to destroy," she says. "Restless people in a restless country, forever tearing down, throwing away the past, like orphans who don't recall their roots and don't know the meaning of home. Little men who only feel strong when they're shoving somebody around and ripping things apart. Listen, you little men out there! This is our home! Our roots are three centuries deep in this valley! Fifteen generations are buried here and we hold in our hearts their dreams and

jokes and sadnesses, and our own, that grow from the soil of this valley. Some of us sold our land, lured by money and promises. But now we're going to show you how people fight for their home. We are going to buy back our land. You think we can't? Watch us. We'll work every day, every night until we have enough money, and until then we're going to hold up your project by making a stink in the legislature that will make the manure on our farms smell like gardenias. Because we will not let you drown our town. . . . "

Elizabeth's story included Isabel's earthy retelling of Indian and Spanish legends, and modern tales of the people in the valley who brought her their problems, and it ended with Isabel standing before the old church.