The Immigrants (34 page)

Of course I have heard of Francisco Goya.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re so goddamn beautiful. He’s my hero.”

“Who?”

“Goya. You know, he was doing a portrait of the Duke of Wellington. The Duke said something that of fended Goya, and Goya picked up a plaster cast and threw it at the Duke. Unfortunately, he missed him.”

“You’re a bloodthirsty little wretch.”

“I am not. Unfortunately, I live in a world where the artist is despised. What do you think Cezanne was paid for those paintings you own? Nothing. He couldn’t give them away. Your husband makes more in one hour than I earn in a year.”

“Shall we start?”

“One word, and I offend you. Now listen to me, about Goya. He painted a beautiful woman called ‘La Maya.’ Two paintings—one with clothes, one nude.”

“I know the paintings.”

“So. I want to paint you nude. I am almost finished with the

t H e I m m I g r a n t s

2 7 1

portrait. One sitting nude. I make the sketch, and then I finish it myself.”

“Dear Gregory, you’re out of your mind.”

“No. Listen to me,” he said emphatically. “I am making no advances. I am a professional. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. I have drawn from the nude a thousand times. It is nothing, nothing.”

She studied him thoughtfully and coolly. The notion was titillat-ing, dangerous. “My dear Gregory,” she said, “I don’t pose in the nude. I am not an artist’s model.”

“Nonsense. You posed in the nude for Calvin Braderman.”

“And how do you know that?”

“He told me. Not that you could recognize anyone from a Braderman smear.”

“If I did, that was a long, long time ago. I’m thirty-seven years old.”

“And still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

“What would you do with the painting?”

“It’s yours if you want it. Or I’ll change your face. Or I’ll destroy it. It’s yours. I only want to paint it.”

Still she stood, measuring him thoughtfully. Then she reached up, pulled loose the piping tied behind her neck, shook herself slightly, and then stood naked as the chiffon gown dropped around her feet.

Her body was still youthful, her breasts firm and unsagging, her long limbs as unmarred as those of a young girl.

“Well, get to work,” she said as he stared at her. “It’s cold in here.”

Jean’s interview had taken place on the second day after Dan’s return to San Francisco. He had been in New York City for the past three weeks, with the ex ception of a trip to Albany, where he spent two hours with Governor Alfred E. Smith, and another quick

2 7 2

H o w a r d F a s t

trip to Miami, Florida. Smith was testing in his own mind and in the minds of others the possibility of his being the Democratic candidate for President in the election of 1928, and he had sent word to the coast that he would be more than receptive to a talk with Lavette.

Dan never thought of himself as a Catholic layman. His religion had died with the death of his father and mother, and he had not been to confession since then. Nevertheless, he had been born a Catholic, and Smith was intensely interested in what observations he could provide concerning the West Coast.

For the first time in a long while, Smith’s questions forced Dan to reflect on himself, not simply as a person but as a man in relation to a religion and a society. Was he a Catholic? Was he an Italian, an American, an atheist, a freethinker—or was he driftwood, a rudder-less boat? Or was it true that he could never bring him self to force the divorce from Jean because under everything he was still a Catholic?

A lost Catholic, a burned Catholic, a failed Catholic—but still…

Smith—the pink cheeks, the bulbous nose, the shrewd, small eyes—was watching him, and he felt like asking, “What kind of a Catholic are you, Governor?” A ridiculous question. Did anyone know what kind of a Catholic he was?

“What do they say about it out there?” Smith wanted to know.

“I don’t know the West Coast. It’s another country, another way of thinking.”

“It is and it isn’t,” Dan replied. “Of course, the whole damn thing is different. We don’t think the way you think here. We’re too new. My father-in-law, who heads up the second largest bank in San Francisco, is the son of a placer miner turned banker, and my own father was an immigrant fisherman from Marseille. My mother was Italian. That might mean something on Nob Hill, but it doesn’t mean a hell of a lot anywhere else. Nobody gives a damn whether I’m a Catholic or not.”

t H e I m m I g r a n t s

2 7 3

“And when it comes to voting?”

“It’s the New York thing as much as anything else. We’ve got a different set of prejudices, Oriental and Mexican. The kind of anti-Semitism and anti-Catholic bias you got here just doesn’t exist out there, not in the same way.”

“Have you ever thought about politics, Dan?” It was Dan from the very beginning. Suspicious at first, Dan melted easily under the governor’s charm and flattery. “You’re rich and powerful and still young. I don’t mean ward politics. But there are people who’d rather have an embassy than a million bucks.”

Dan grinned. He had an open, boyish grin that Smith liked.

“Ambassador? Hell, Governor, I never finished high school.”

“You don’t get smart in school, Dan. You bring it there. All right, just let it sit a while. We’ll be looking for support, and if you can find some respectable money that isn’t Republican, make a note of it.”

Aside from his trip to Albany and routine meetings at the New York offices of L&L Shipping, Dan’s main purpose in the East was to investigate a company called Pan American Airways, which had just gone into opera tion. Ever since Lindbergh’s nonstop flight to Paris, Dan had been intrigued by the notion of air travel. The first Pan American flights were from Key West to Ha vana. Dan traveled to Miami and took the flight in both directions, and on the sleeper back to New York, he lay awake most of the night, reliving his experience on the big trimotor plane. He was so filled with it that when he sat down with Mark back in San Francisco he could talk of almost nothing else.

“It’s the face of the future,” he said, “and it’s open, Mark, wide open. Do you know how many miles of air transport there are in America right now—fourteen thousand. And not more than a thousand miles of it has decent equipment. We’re back a hundred years when the railroad started. Fourteen thousand miles would not even take care of California.”

2 7 4

H o w a r d F a s t

“Dan, don’t get carried away. What makes you think people will ride in airplanes?”

“Would you?”

“I don’t know. It’s a scary proposition.”

“Well, I did—Key West to Havana. And it was mar velous. Mark, that place is booming. We think we got something at Waikiki— well, Miami Beach has got it beat all hollow. They’re buying and building like people gone mad. They showed me sand lots that went for fifty dollars an acre six years ago, and today it’s fifty thousand dollars. It’s going to be big, big. It’s going to make Atlantic City look like a village when it comes to re sorts. As much sunshine as we got out here, and warmer, and only an overnight train trip from New York and Philadelphia. I looked at some beachfront that we could pick up for a song—”

Mark exploded. “No!”

“Easy, old buddy. Why not? Why not think about it?”

“Dan, do you realize how big we are already? I’m almost fifty, and I’m tired as hell. We both of us have all the money we need.”

“It’s not the money. It’s doing it.”

“All right, all right. We’ll discuss it. Meanwhile, May Ling called here. Did you tell her you were going?”

“No, I didn’t think I’d be gone this long.”

“Did you write to her? Did you telephone her?”

“God damn it, Mark, what is this, a cross-examination? I’ll see her tomorrow.”

“It’s none of my business, but—”

“You’re damn right. It’s none of your business.” Mark stared at him, and Dan said, “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m tired. I haven’t been home yet—I haven’t even changed my clothes.”

“It’s all right,” Mark said gently. “We’ve been to gether too long to let something like this get to us. Only—”

“Only what?”

t H e I m m I g r a n t s

2 7 5

“While you were gone, Feng Wo resigned. I think he couldn’t face you.”

“What in hell do you mean he resigned?”

“Just that. No explanations. He resigned.”

At age ten, Joseph, May Ling’s son, was a testimony to the virtues of miscegenation. Tall for his age, he prom ised Dan’s height without his bulk. He was long-limbed, slender, his features a re-finement of his father’s, his black hair slightly wavy. His dark eyes were set wide apart, his skin, where it was not burned by the sun, the deep ivory color of his mother’s. He was a quiet, introspective, and thoughtful boy who responded to Dan’s boisterous advances with increasing unease. Now, on this day, he opened the door for Dan without greeting.

Dan’s arms were filled with packages. He dumped them onto the sofa in the living room before he turned and swept Joseph up into the air. “Damn it, you’ve grown. But I can still do that, right? What do you weigh?”

Joseph shook his head and shrugged.

Dan, unwrapping the packages, had not yet noticed that there were two crates sitting in the room. He was intent upon unveil-ing his gifts. “Dumb presents,” he ex plained. “I know you got a catcher’s mitt. This is a first baseman’s mitt—gives you a choice.

These three books, well they got the best pictures Scribner’s in New York could provide,
Robin Hood
,
The White Company
, and
Moby Dick
. Knowing your mother, I bet you read them all.”

“Only
Robin Hood
,” Joseph said. He was looking at the books.

“They’re just beautiful.”

“Glad I’m back?”

He nodded soberly.

2 7 6

H o w a r d F a s t

“Where’s Mother?”

“Upstairs.”

“May Ling!” Dan roared. “Home is the sailor, home from the sea!” Then he noticed the crates. “What the devil!”

Joseph was watching him unhappily. May Ling came down the stairs. He was prepared to take three steps and sweep her up into his arms, but something in her face stopped him. He looked at the crates again. May Ling stood in front of him, her hands loosely clasped, her hair tight in a bun, She was wearing a simple, al most severe Chinese-style dress.

“Your father resigned, walked out.” He hadn’t meant to say that.

“I know.” She said to Joseph, “Go upstairs to your room, just for a while.”

The boy walked slowly up the stairs.

“Why isn’t he in school?”

“Because it’s summertime, Dan. There is no school.” She walked over to him, put her hands on his cheeks, and drew his head down for a kiss. He saw the tears in her eyes.

“Why are you crying? What the devil’s going on here? What happened?”

She drew him over to a chair. “Danny, sit down here. We’re going to talk.”

“Talk? I come here after a month, and you tell me to sit down and talk?”

“That’s just it, Danny—after a month.”

“Darling, I was away. You know that.”

“Do I? Or did you forget to tell me?”

“Mark told you.”

“Danny, what am I supposed to do? Accept you as if you were a child? Joey is more responsible than you. You were here a month ago, and for three weeks before that I didn’t see you.”

“I was in the Islands.”

t H e I m m I g r a n t s

2 7 7

“You’re always somewhere. But not here.”

“Wel , I’m here now. Suppose you tel me what’s going on. Feng Wo walks out on me—and what the hell are those crates doing here?”

“Danny, I sold the house.”

“You what?”

“I sold the house.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, you must believe me,” she said slowly. “I came to the end of my rope, Danny. I have a son ten years old—with no name. Who is his father, they ask him? Mr. Wo. Where is Mr. Wo? Ten years old, and day and night he has to lie. Will you tell him why his name is not Lavette, why he has a father who slips in and out of here, a father he reads about in the newspa pers? Yes, he reads, Dan, and he asks me questions, and one day he walked over to Russian Hill, and all day he stood in front of that mansion of yours—and who is the beautiful lady who lives there and comes out of the house and steps into a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce? And who are the young man and the young woman who live there? Well, tell me, who is the Chinese boy who stands in the street and watches? Just tell me that—”

“Now hold on,” he interrupted. “Just hold on.”

“No. No, Dan. You are going to listen to me, because all this has been bottled up inside of me for years, and now I must say it. Your son is a wonderful boy. You don’t know that, but he’s a remarkable, beautiful boy. He’s not only intelligent, he’s wise—wiser than any ten-year-old has the right to be. And more depleted, if you understand what I mean.”

“Will you give me a chance to say something, to ex plain?”

“You’ve been explaining for years. Well, I came to the end. I sold the house. My father resigned because it became too much for him as well as for me. All these years, has he ever mentioned our relationship?”

“No.”

2 7 8

H o w a r d F a s t

“Because he worshiped you. Because you were the wonderful Dan Lavette who could do no wrong. But that too comes to an end.”

“What in hell are you talking about?”

“We’re leaving San Francisco. While you were gone, I went down to Los Angeles. There was a job open at the University of California library for someone who could deal with Oriental languages. I got the job. It doesn’t pay very much, but it’s enough. We rented a little house in Hollywood, close by the campus. My fa ther and mother will live with me—”

“My God, May Ling, why? Why?”

“Dan, don’t you understand why? I took the job as Mrs. Lavette.

My son will go to school there as Joseph Lavette, whose father is dead. He will be able to stop lying—no, but most of the lies will stop. He’ll be able to hold up his head.”