The Immigrants (33 page)

“San Mateo and Sausalito. We’re at opposite ends of the world.”

“Nonsense. That’s no excuse for either of us, and I’m as much to blame as you are.”

“And guilt,” Jake said. “I go through the whole thing without a scratch, and you get torn to pieces.”

“No, no. Look at me.” He patted his stomach. “As good as new.

I can even eat Mama’s spaghetti. Come down to San Mateo, please.

Do you know how much she asks for you?”

“We will. We certainly will. Steve, can we talk to you in confidence?”

“Absolutely.”

“All right. We’re here for a loan.” And then he and Clair spelled out the story of Higate. Stephan listened, and when they had finished, he said, “Can I ask you one question?”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you go to your father?”

“I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t,” Stephan said. “I know. All right. I heard rumbles. Tony and Mark have lunch ev ery couple of weeks or so, and it drifts back to me. The point is, you want a mortgage on a piece of industrial property whose industry has been destroyed—so in that sense it’s worthless.”

“We don’t look at it that way,” Clair said. “We want to buy a home. And it isn’t destroyed. There are two good stone buildings, a wooden barn, and nine hundred acres of wonderful land. Jake and I have talked about this and nothing else for days now. We think we can grow grapes for market. We also think we can bottle grape juice and sell it.”

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“So does every other winery,” Stephan said.

“All right. It won’t be easy. But the land is there, and we have water. You know what water is worth. We can raise cattle. We can do any number of things.”

“Look at it this way. If I gave you a mortgage of thirty-five thousand dollars, the interest would be al most three thousand a year.

Not to mention the taxes and the fact that you have to live. How can you possibly make it?”

“Give us a chance,” Jake argued. “We’ll work our asses off. We think we can do it.”

“You say you have about thirteen thousand dollars. You can’t spend it all. You need some capital to begin. Cattle cost money, and from what you tell me, the place is probably a shambles. Now I’ll tell you what I want you to do. Go back there to the Napa Valley and offer Gallagher thirty-five thousand dollars.”

“But we can’t,” Clair cried. “He needs the money so desperately.

They’re old people.”

“You are babes in the woods—both of you, if you will forgive me. He hasn’t the chance of a snowball in hell of selling that place, and from what you say he must either sell or starve. Thirty-five thousand is a fair price. Those structures are worth five thousand if that, so you’re paying thirty thousand for the land, and that is a damn good price. You’re not cheating him.”

“But he won’t sell for that.”

“Believe me, he will. Then I’ll give you a mortgage for twenty thousand from the bank, which can pass by the examiner. I’ll also take a personal mortgage, a sec ond mortgage for ten thousand more, which I’ll talk Pop into. That will leave you, after legal fees and everything else, over seven thousand dollars to get you started.

And you’ll need it, every cent of it.”

“You’d do that for us?”

“Oh, what’s the use?” Stephan sighed. “You’ll blow the whole

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thing. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take tomor row off, and I’ll get Sam Goldberg, my lawyer, to come with us, and we’ll drive up there and set the deal. Only one thing, one promise, neither of you is to say one word until the sale is set. I’m going to offer Gallagher thirty thousand and we’ll close it at thirty-five. But only if you sit there quietly and listen.”

The following day, after three hours of listening to Steve and Sam Goldberg haggle with Mike Gallagher, Jake and Clair Levy became the owners of the Higate Winery at a sale price of exactly thirty-five thousand dollars.

Dan took his car across to Oakland to meet Jean and the children and Wendy Jones. Their stay in England had turned into a matter of fourteen weeks, during which time Dan’s life had come to focus entirely around May Ling and the house on Willow Street. He was in different to what the servants in the place on Russian Hill thought of his coming and going. He confided in Mark—to whom it was not news—and one evening Mark and Sarah were guests at Willow Street, partaking of a sumptuous Chinese banquet, which May Ling pre pared, and before the evening was over, Sarah’s tight-lipped disapproval disappeared in the warmth of May Ling’s charm. Dan was quite sincere in what he pro posed to do; on the other hand, Mark had a number of unspoken thoughts about the fifteen-million-dollar credit line that the Seldon Bank had extended to them.

Jean, somewhat paler than usual, but otherwise un changed, greeted Dan with some words on the agony of the endless train trip, kissed him dutifully on the cheek, and made no apologies. Dan asked for none. The chil dren were shy and unhappy, as if he were a stranger to them, but Jean assured him that they would have to be angels not to be out of sorts after that awful journey.

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During the ferry crossing and the drive home, Jean chatted about England and her aunt and uncle and the various people, titled and otherwise, whom she had met. Wendy Jones maintained a smug silence, and when Jean asked about Hawaii, Dan replied that it had been interesting. It wasn’t until they were alone, after dinner that evening, that he told Jean he had something of great importance to discuss with her.

“Can’t it wait, Dan? I’m utterly exhausted.”

“It shouldn’t take very long. I think it’s best that we talk about it right now.”

“Very well. If you insist,” she agreed.

“I want a divorce, Jean.”

“Oh? Really?”

“You don’t seem very surprised.”

“Should I be? And what then? Are you thinking of marrying your Chinese mistress? Really, Dan, it’s not done.”

“I don’t want to talk about that. I’ve put it to you straight. Our marriage is a joke. We’ll both be better off out of it.”

“Will we? How can you be so sure?”

“Jean, let’s not play games. We haven’t slept in the same bed in years. You have your life. I have mine.”

“Really. You’ve worked it all out. But where would you be if you hadn’t married me? There’s more to mar riage than rutting.

You’d still be down at Fisherman’s Wharf.”

“I won’t argue. I’m asking for a divorce now.”

“I’m sure you understand that in California there’s a thing called the Community Property Law?”

“You can have whatever is coming to you, this house, the children, and everything else the law speci fies.”

“The answer is no.”

“But why?”

“Because the Seldons do not divorce. Because I am quite satisfied with things as they are now. Perhaps be cause I still have enough

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affection for you not to see you throw yourself away on that little Oriental tramp.”

Dan fought for control, contained himself, and man aged to say quietly, “I want the divorce, and I will not take no for an answer.”

“But of course you will, Danny dear. My father has just given you a credit line of fifteen million dollars. That’s a great deal of money, Danny. You’ve already contracted for the ships, and my father informed me that work is due to start on your Hawaiian enterprise. Will you wash all that down the drain? This is becoming very tiresome. I don’t mind what games you play with your mistress, so long as you are reasonably discreet, but there will be no divorce. Now I’m going to bed.”

On the twenty-sixth of August, in the year 1927, the Lavette house on Russian Hill was host to two photographers and a feature writer from the
Chron icle
. In part, the occasion celebrated the fact that Jean Lavette had been the prime mover in the first compre hensive show of French Impressionist paintings to be held in San Francisco; and indeed eight paintings out of her own collection were the nucleus of the show, two Cezannes, three Sisleys, a Pissarro, and two lovely Re noir nudes—all of them to be photographed in her own home before being moved to the Memorial Museum. While it was questionable whether the Renoirs could be reproduced in the paper, the photographer included them. He also photographed various aspects of the house, the living room having just been redone with a Chinese-Chippendale motif, set off by Japanese prints, Mrs. Lavette’s most recent passion. And, of course, the Lavettes and their two handsome children, Thomas, age fifteen and Barbara, age thirteen. Thomas favored his mother, tall, slender, blue eyes, and fair skin; Barbara was darker, gray eyes under a mop of chestnut hair—both of them extraordinarily handsome children.

After the pictures were taken, Mr. Lavette excused himself, pleading a business appointment that he could not put off. Jeff Woodward, who was doing the inter view for the
Chronicle
, shook hands with the tall, heavy man, whose face revealed neither pleasure nor displea sure, and then gave all his attention to Jean Lavette, by no means the first to fall victim to her charm and beauty. She wore her thirty-seven years with ease and grace, secure in the fact that she was still considered one of the most beautiful women in her circle.

She re fused to bow to the style of short, shingled hair that had swept the country, and she wore her thick, honey-colored hair in a

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bun at the nape of her neck. For the interview, she was dressed in a yellow and blue printed voile, long wide sleeves and a cowl neck, and a knee-length skirt relieved by a wide sash. Woodward noted her clothes and reminded himself to check with the fashion editor, remembering that Jean Lavette had been voted one of the three best-dressed women in San Fran cisco, not at all a small distinction.

“Would it be correct to say, Mrs. Lavette,” Wood ward asked her, “that your interest in art extended through your entire life?”

“If you mean did I color pictures with crayons when I was six, the answer is yes. In all seriousness, I became a collector only after my marriage, and compared to collectors like Mr. Crocker and your own Mr. De Young of the
Chronicle
, I am the merest tyro.

However, I must admit that art is the moving passion of my life.

Yet it is not enough to be just a collector.”

“Would you elaborate on that?”

“The collector must be a patron. Oh, there’s no great trick to buying a Renoir for thirty-two thousand dollars. It only requires that one possess the thirty-two thou sand. But to find a young and gifted artist, and to be willing to pay a thousand dollars for a canvas no one else will touch—and thereby give life and sustenance to a talent that may some day be recognized as great as Re noir’s—that, Mr. Woodward, is my notion of a proper collector.”

“And your husband? Does Mr. Lavette share your enthusiasm?”

“In another way,” Jean replied, impressing Wood ward with her sincerity and straightforwardness. “His taste is more basic than mine, but nevertheless quite good. You know of his long association with shipping. His instinct is toward paintings of life at sea. He has two Winslow Homers and a Turner hanging in his study. Later, we can step in there and see them, if you wish.”

“But basically, you are the collector.”

“Oh, yes. Even if my husband was of a mind to col lect, I don’t know where he would find the time.”

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“And right now, as I am given to understand, your own portrait is being painted by Gregory Pastore. May I ask why you chose Pastore?”

“Of course. It goes back to what I said before. Pas tore is only twenty-seven, but marvelously gifted and unrecognized. He is not one of the moderns. Please let me insist that my taste is eclectic.

You will remember—oh, perhaps not, you were so young then— but when the modern artists exhibited in the Sixty-ninth Armory in New York, I talked myself hoarse in defense of Duchamp and Walt Kuhn and the others. I love modern art. But when it comes to my own portrait, well, if Thomas Eakins were alive today, I would cast myself on my knees before him and plead with him to paint me—” She smiled ingenuously. “I am a very vain woman, you must understand.”

“My goodness, with reason,” Woodward said gal lantly.

“But, alas, poor Eakins is dead. Pastore painted both my children—very much in the style of Eakins, and so I chose him. I am afraid my husband demands that a portrait resemble the subject. As a matter of fact, I have a sitting at eleven. So I am afraid—”

“Yes, of course. I’ve already taken up too much of your time. Just one last question. Do your children share your enthusiasm?”

“Thomas paints. Yes. And he is talented. But Bar bara—I’m afraid she’s very much like me.”

Woodward thanked her. It was already almost eleven, and she knew she’d be late. Pastore was furious when she was late, and when she entered his studio, in an old loft at Hyde and Bay streets, he was already pac ing back and forth with annoyance. He was a stocky, muscular man, with a full beard, curly hair, and black eyes.

In some ways, although he was rather short, he reminded her of the young Dan Lavette. He had the same drive, the same fire.

“Half-past eleven,” he spluttered. “You rich women—you do not know what time means. Time is all I have.”

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“Please don’t scold me. It’s so unfair. Do you know why I am late? Because I was praising you to the sky to Jeff Woodward, who is doing a piece for the
Chroni cle
.”

“Who will he write about, you or me?”

“Both of us, I trust.”

“Good. Thank you.” He pointed to the screen. “Go. Change your clothes.” She kept a filmy gown of sky blue chiffon at the studio, her costume for the painting.

From behind the screen, she asked, “Do you ever sweep this place, Gregory? It’s filthy.”

“I am an artist, not a housemaid. Tell me something, Jean, have you heard of Francisco Goya?”

She came out from behind the screen, barefoot, her hair loose, the blue gown falling almost to her ankles. “What a stupid question!