Auraria: A Novel

by Tim Westover

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Thus passed the two weeks that preceded the Day of the Evening Star, the holiday that commemorated nothing but an invented story. Despite the short lead time, the bookings at the hotel had increased in anticipation of the event. The banquet would cost far more than these additional bookings would bring in, but no matter. It was imperative that this nascent holiday succeed on its debut, or the first tourists, returning disappointed, would ensure that the hotel never lived to celebrate the day’s anniversary.

  A special train arrived with refrigerated cars, disgorging ingredients into waiting pots and pans. Holtzclaw watched a troop of employees unfurl tablecloths in the dining room. A passing air current caught one end of a silver-spangled cloth, tugging it from the hands of its handlers. The middle of the cloth shot upward to the ceiling, and the cloth danced and played far out of reach.

  “Now, Mr. Bad Thing, don’t you have some piano to play?” said Cannie. “Leave us alone to get our work done.”

  The air began to come out of the tablecloth, and it descended slowly. Cannie grabbed the corner of it, and the tablecloth sprang to life again. It lifted Cannie off the ground; her toes skittered across tabletops.

  “Abigail! Abigail!” called Cannie, clinging to the hem of the tablecloth.

  Abigail appeared from the employees’ passage. “This is why you can’t get that melody in ‘Summer Afternoons,’” she scolded. “You’re always messing with the tablecloths instead of practicing. Get back to the piano, if you ever hope to get any better. Or do you want me to hire somebody new?”

  The tablecloth deflated. Cannie tumbled to the tabletop; the cloth, inanimate, fluttered over her.

  “It’s been this way all day, Holtzclaw,” said Abigail.

  He followed her down the elevated employees’ passage into the kitchen outbuilding, where she issued orders to a team of white-aproned cooks. Copious helpings of paprika went into one pot; some sort of sea creature into the other. Holtzclaw was unable to count the number of tentacles per creature; they knotted together in a mass within the broth. A giant oven like a mouth consumed dough and expelled crusty bread. A lean boy stood knee-deep in feathers that he had stripped from game birds; the carcasses were stacked beside him like cordwood.

  Abigail turned to a small stove that held a single large pan. Inside were flakes of color—green, yellow, and orange.

  “Ms. Thompson, what’s this one?”

  “Wild ramps, scrambled with eggs, and a sweet potato hash.”

  “It’s not enough for a banquet portion.”

  “The New Rock Falls will be open,” she said. “For any that have an appetite for its sort of food.”

  “Do you think anyone will come?” said Holtzclaw.

  “The regulars would like to be fed.”

  From across the kitchen came a sharp snap and a yelp of pain. A cook did battle with the largest lobster that Holtzclaw had ever seen. It was four feet from head to tail, dark brown with pink spots. The cook held a colander in front of his face and had a long meat fork in the other hand. He lunged for the lobster, but the lobster blocked deftly and executed a perfect riposte.

  “It’s only an old and ornery creature, and it wants compassion,” said Abigail. She gathered the creature in her arms. It looked up at her with its dark points that were its eyes. Its claws waved in the air but did not snap. Abigail drew it closer to her chest. Then she put a knife between its eyes and pressed until the shell cracked. Yellow goo oozed from the wound, and the lobster was still. She handed it back to the cook.

  “The way you were holding it,” said Holtzclaw, “I thought you were going to spare its life. Release it into the lake.”

  “You can’t put a saltwater lobster into a freshwater lake,” she said, “no matter how much mineral water you give it. Better to let its ghost flow freely away.”

  A tall pot filled with water at a rolling boil began to rock back and forth, and peeled potatoes began to spring and leap from within. Each potato had a horrible face, with red eyes tilted inward and leering row of teeth.

  One potato leapt from the pot and landed on Holtzclaw. It set into his tie with its starchy fangs. Instinctually, Holtzclaw struck at the attacker and smashed it against his chest. Now he was covered with particles of scalding potato. His wails were cut short by a second assault. Other potatoes were springing higher and higher from the water. Abigail found a cutting board and slammed it over the pot.

  “Holtzclaw!” said Abigail. “Be useful for once and hold this down.”

  Holtzclaw pressed his weight against the cutting board as Abigail ran to the larder and returned with a tin of Pharaoh’s Flour. It was still sealed. She put her fingernails under the lip and pulled; the seal pulled up with a sucking sound, and Holtzclaw caught a whiff of a desert breeze. The laughing face of Amenhotep winked at him—it was so much more pleasant than the grinning leers of the potatoes.

  Abigail lifted a corner of the cutting board and tipped in a draught of Pharaoh’s Flour. Instantly the pot stopped rocking. The grinning mouths were gone. Inside were only peeled potatoes, boiling facelessly.

  “All day, Holtzclaw,” said Abigail. “All day.”

  •

  Holtzclaw sat across the table from Shadburn, who occupied the central seat at the head table. To Shadburn’s right and left, following the custom of alternate seating by gender, were women. On one side was a railroad baroness, whose husband was on a late evening hunt with the Sky Pilot. On his other side was an actual baroness. Her title continued to be inherited even though the barony from which it derived had fallen into the sea during an earthquake four hundred years ago.

  Holtzclaw too was flanked by women, or at least the idea of them. The chair to Holtzclaw’s left supported a frail form clad in a black dress. She was the owner and operator of a Carolina corundum mine.

  The chair to Holtzclaw’s right should have been occupied by Lizzie Rathbun. He needed no introductions from the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society when he asked her a week ago for the pleasure of her company. She had assented then, but when Holtzclaw came to collect her, she gave her excuses. She said that a small party, like the one Holtzclaw had put together for this Evening Star trifle, demanded the same level of preparation and charm from Ms. Rathbun as a spectacular ball. She felt that, in this case, her investment would not be adequately rewarded. For a more spectacular event, she would be sure to appear in fine style.

  Her rebuff wounded him, and he could not conceal his ill humor while he sat at the banquet table. He looked across her empty chair at an ovine man, a politician. He had tight white curls in his hair, and he bent low to consume salad by pressing it between his fat lips. The eighth seat, between the actual baroness and the corundum mine owner, was held by a wealthy newspaper magnate, who had risen from humble beginnings—owning only the five newspapers he’d inherited from his father—to control a printing empire of more than two dozen publications. Shadburn, with a certain pride, noted that Auraria’s Miner’s Record and Spy in the West was not a part of that empire.

  Holtzclaw had changed from his potato-smeared suit and tie into evening clothes—tails and white gloves. All the men were attired similarly, even Shadburn. A tailor and advisor had spent all afternoon with him, selecting everything from shoe polish to hair cream to cufflinks. The outfit nearly fit him when they all had sat down, but now, not ten minutes into the meal, Holtzclaw could see that the cuffs were fraying, and one button had come loose. Shadburn had been rubbing his wrists together in a habit of discomfort.

  A waiter brought a magnum bottle of claret to Shadburn’s side. He presented the label to Shadburn, who barely looked at it before nodding his assent. This was only meaningless ritual to him. The bottle was uncorked and a small portion poured for Shadburn, per ritual.

  “Very good,” said Shadburn. “An excellent year.”

  The employee poured the bottle around the table—a glass each for the railroad baroness, the actual baroness, the corundum miner, the ovine man, Shad
burn, Holtzclaw, and the newspaper magnate.

  Holtzclaw knew the claret was corked before it touched his lips. The odor was unmistakable. But the baronesses had already downed several mouthfuls; Shadburn was halfway through his glass; the ovine man gargled his beverage between his mutton chops. Holtzclaw set his glass down.

  “Is something the matter, Mr. Holtzclaw?” asked the actual baroness.

  “Not at all, Your Ladyship. Simply no taste for it this evening, I’m afraid.”

  “No taste for it?” said Shadburn, grinning too widely. “I didn’t think it was possible. Drink up! It’s excellent for the constitution, just as good as the mineral waters, if consumed in proper proportions. Isn’t that right, Holtzclaw?”

  Holtzclaw choked through a sip, which was enough to satisfy the curiosity of the table.

  The many-armed epergne, holding an assortment of olives, morsels of celery, an India relish, and burgherkins, was cleared away. In its place was laid a plate containing a filet of baked red snapper au gratin. Shadburn ate with unusual restraint, taking only as much as the baronesses. Holtzclaw left half his portion. The fish tasted too much like the miles it had traveled.

  Next was presented a roasted lamb and mint sauce, accompanied by boiled potatoes and creamed okra. The creamed okra was a noxious slime, despite Abigail’s best efforts. Holtzclaw could not bring himself to eat the boiled potatoes; he saw faces in them. He turned the plate so that the line of lamb bones would serve as a defensive palisade should the potatoes decide to rise up again. Shadburn and the baronesses and the ovine man ate with gusto, but the corundum miner picked at her food. She too had turned her potatoes away.

  Next came the lobster. It could not provide enough flesh for all the hungry diners, so Abigail had stretched it into a consommé. Holtzclaw avoided the broth and nibbled instead on pieces of mountain trout that were served on a tray of smoked seafood.

  A platter of cold meats passed from hand to hand—veal, beef, bologna, duck, and something pickled that had lost all taste but brine. This was followed by a chicken salad. The greens were still cold from their voyage in a refrigerated car.

  Dessert arrived. Gooseberry pie, compote of pineapple, preserved ginger, and steamed plum pudding with a hard sauce. Holtzclaw had hoped for peaches, but evidently, they had all gone into the homebrew.

  When all had been cleared away, the party received coffee and tea cakes. The square confections, no bigger than a thumbnail, were covered in white icing and topped with a blueberry.

  “It was a splendid meal, Mr. Shadburn,” said the actual baroness, lifting her glass and voice, “and in fine company. We have commemorated the Day of the Fallen Star in high fashion and with food as elegant as you would see at Saratoga.” A general sound of approval circled the table. “I must say, sir, that given your upbringing, I supposed that you would be a rather rustic figure.”

  “What Her Ladyship means is, we had heard you were rich,” said the railroad baroness, “but you didn’t seem rich.”

  “We thought you were only a codfish aristocrat,” said the actual baroness.

  “Then you put out a banquet such as this,” continued the railroad baroness, “and your cufflinks are splendid, and one cannot doubt that you are a gentleman.”

  Through an evident force of will, Shadburn bowed his head and smiled. “I have a very comfortable living, and I am pleased to share that comfort with you, my guests, and with the town where I was raised.” A longer exposure to high society would have taught Shadburn to tuck his emotions behind his cummerbund, but Shadburn was only recently respectable. Under the circumstances, Holtzclaw thought he did well enough. The pained expression on Shadburn’s face was twisted just enough that one could take it for indigestion.

  “I suppose it would be easy enough to be rich here,” said the corundum miner. “There were gold mines, weren’t there?”

  The baronesses lifted their eyes in wonder at the very word: gold. Even the ovine man was stirred to an emotional reaction—he put down his tea cake in mid-bite.

  “It was, in fact, very difficult to be rich,” said Shadburn. “The story of gold here is complicated, and that is why we are trying to expunge that reputation. We don’t put it on our advertisements.”

  “Why ever not?” said the actual baroness. “You see how a man’s eyes glitter at the very mention.”

  “It’s an era of the valley’s history that has passed,” said Shadburn. “But you must consider this money talk impolite. Not respectable.”

  “On the contrary,” said the railroad baroness. “I find it the most pleasing and fascinating of subjects.

  “Were there any big strikes?” said the actual baroness. “Great fortunes? Did some peasant find a nugget the size of a potato and buy an estate? Did a stranger leave a heap of gold dust to repay some kindness? Oh! Was anyone murdered?”

  “What a question, Your Ladyship!” said the railroad baroness. “Of course people were murdered. Where there is gold, blood runs through the streets like rainwater! You should have asked how many people were murdered and which murders are still talked about in the saloons.”

  The actual baroness continued. “I heard that in the California rush, a man blew up his own brother with black powder as he slept, for fear that he would divulge the secret of a mine they’d found together. Did any of that happen here?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Shadburn.

  “Pity,” said the actual baroness. She poured cream and sugar into her coffee until it looked like dirty snow. She quaffed it in gulps, leaving a line of cream on her upper lip.

  “How about double-dealings?” said the railroad baroness. “Shady sales? A man who tunneled under his neighbor’s claim and mined away all the good minerals, undetected? Bawdy houses? Rough saloons? Gunslingers and their women? Betrayals? Explosions?”

  “There’s little to tell,” said Shadburn. “There is only disappointment, jealousy, and waste.”

  The actual baroness crossed her arms. “Were you cheated out of a land claim, Mr. Shadburn? Tricked into buying a salted mine? How did the gold business disappoint you?”

  “I have made my money in land development,” said Shadburn. Holtzclaw thought that, if gold and money were two separate things, then this statement was not a lie. “I have always been in land development, which is an enterprise that rewards hard work, determination, pluck, and talent.”

  “No, it’s sitting on land and hoping the railroad comes through,” said the corundum miner.

  “You are describing land speculation, ma’am. Land development is a systematic process, a science, the goal of which is to call a higher and better use from the earth. Take, for example, this hotel. Would you credit, ladies and gentlemen, that this dining hall sits on land that was once a farmer’s field? What did Moss grow here, Holtzclaw?”

  “Ice,” said Holtzclaw, thinking of the cold winds blowing from the neglected springhouse door. “Under the ice, sweet potatoes, I think.”

  “See?” said Shadburn. “A pasture of frozen sweet potatoes has become a formal dining room.”

  “To what end, Mr. Shadburn?” said the corundum miner.

  “Why, to so many ends that I could not list them all! For the edification and uplift of the people of the valley—to show them with money what money can bring. To give them a better employment than to scratch in the dirt for some shiny metal that they may never find.”

  “Now we have wandered away from money into less interesting topics,” said the railroad baroness. “Altruism—what’s more tiresome than harping on all the good you’ve done? Let’s talk of something else. What is next for the Queen of the Mountains?”

  “You should have a gala,” said the railroad baroness. “That is the pinnacle of the social calendar.”

  “Oh, a gala!” said the actual baroness. “That would be so grand. A party like this is the perfect practice exercise, but you are capable of much more. Have an orchestra; let us dance the figures. Set it for the end of the season. I have the perfect dress for it
.”

  “I will summon my circles,” said the railroad baroness. “They will all come, if I can promise a great enough spectacle. There are parties every day, you see, but galas promise more wonder.”

  “What do you think, Holtzclaw?” said Shadburn. “Could we arrange such an event, if our baronesses request it? What could stop us?”

  The tablecloth billowed at the far end of a table. Holtzclaw startled, but it was only the passing breeze of a debutante, made by the sweep of her spangled gown and the vacuum of her male companions standing for her.

  “Nothing, Shadburn,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

  •

  It was not long before Holtzclaw’s meager meal at the banquet had worn away, and his stomach grumbled. He left his tabulations, put on his shoes, and descended from his room to the kitchen. Before he reached it, he saw that the lights in the New Rock Falls were still aglow.

  Shadburn sat at a table, bent over a heap of food. Mr. Bad Thing plinked out a popular melody from one of the follies.

  “Ms. Thompson saved a plate for me,” said Shadburn.

  “Does she have any more?”

  “There’s more here than I can finish, Holtzclaw. Find yourself a fork.”

  Holtzclaw retrieved one and checked under the counter for claret. There was a bottle of a serviceable maker and year. Shadburn shook his head, declining a glass. Holtzclaw took a pull from the neck of the bottle.

  “Ramps and eggs and bacon,” he said, tucking in to Shadburn’s plate. “You didn’t ask Abigail for hash browns with wild mushrooms?”

  “I didn’t want to be a bother, Holtzclaw. The ramps were already prepared. They are quite good, aren’t they? We should have them at this gala.”

  “I think they might be too pungent for our rarefied clientele.”

  “They eat cheeses that would stir the dead.”

  “Yes, but they have a tradition of eating such foods, and for them, ramps would be a novelty.”

  “Hmm,” mused Shadburn.

  “Perhaps we could start with having more sweet potatoes in the grand dining room. They are far more filling than the usual fare.”

  “And then Mr. Bad Thing could play the piano for them? How would that be seen in the upper circles of society?”

  “They’d think it a wonder, I believe.”

  “They’d want to know how many people he murdered. How many gold mines he robbed.”

  Holtzclaw and Shadburn found themselves both angling their forks for the same butter-plumped mushroom. With tiny motions, they simultaneously conceded it to the other. Finally Holtzclaw stabbed the mushroom and ate it.

  “You cut a fairly convincing character this evening,” said Holtzclaw, “with your cufflinks and your air of charity and wealth. With more practice, you will be impeccable.”

  “It’s a strain, Holtzclaw. Not what I had expected. It isn’t the sort of work that agrees with me, nor the sort of food.” Holtzclaw saw the weariness in Shadburn’s posture. His shoulders slumped over his hash browns. His awkward frame, too tall for the furniture, was not at ease. Shadburn was uncomfortable even in his own creation.

  “Do you think you can last through a gala then?” said Holtzclaw. “There are other options for attracting attention, getting tourists. We could style the Queen of the Mountains as the premier place to find a suitable spouse, for yourself or for your undesirable children. There are lonely hearts, even among the rich. Or we could open a gold mine. Not a real one; as you’ve said, that’s impossible. We could bury some flakes, here and there, and little nuggets too, and the tourists might think it a lark.”

  Shadburn put down his fork. He had lost his appetite. “I think, of those options, a gala sounds best. A grand one, a spectacular one. It is what those baronesses want; it’s their will that should guide us, since they are our guests. And it would seem the easiest for us to realize. It would take only money.”

  Holtzclaw brought out a pen and paper. “Who should be the entertainment?”

  Shadburn held up a hand. “Tomorrow, Holtzclaw. For now, let this codfish aristocrat eat in peace.”