Stealing Fire

by Win Blevins

  “Darling,” she said, “will you excuse me for a moment? I have a few more things to attend to.” My guess was she had to run their whole show, which would be chaos without her.

  “Hurry back, my love, I’ll miss you.”

  Off she paraded.

  “Mr. Wright,” I said, “let me tell you something about myself. Navajo people introduce themselves by telling each other their mother’s clan and their father’s clan. This lets us know if we are related and gives us an idea of the values and past of the other person.”

  “I like that. You go first.”

  “I am Yazzie Goldman, born to Bitter Water clan and born for Jew.”

  “And I am Frank Lloyd Wright, born to Wales and born for Wisconsin.”

  “Wales-Wisconsin?”

  “My parents were Welsh and immigrated to Wisconsin. I am part of both countries. I feel Welsh, deeply, in my blood.”

  Except when he’d asked me not to let his wife know about his financial pickle, it was the first time I’d heard him be truly sincere. He wasn’t dancing around his heritage—he knew it. He cared about it. Other than that, with his drama, and purple cape, and his lavish spending, troubles, and fibs, he was every bit the Trickster. The Coyote. I needed to remember that Coyote could be good to human beings, but was also a nuisance.

  “Do you want,” I said, “to hear a Navajo story about yourself?”

  “About me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Storytelling and music,” he said. “Celts, we love them both. Go on!”

  I was going to tread soft here. I didn’t want the edge of his temper flaying me. I also wanted him to know I had a pretty good idea about who he was before I decided to take him on after we got off the train.

  “When the First People came to this world,” I said, “the weather was the same all year around. Pleasant. Then Sun started wearing a headdress, a gift from Eagle, with the feathers pointing out. It got cold, too cold sometimes, especially for Coyote. Other animals had figured out how to make their homes warm when it got cold, but not Coyote. He was too busy hatching a plan.

  “Coyote talked to First Woman about this. She thought heat would be a good thing for everyone. She gave him a torch, sent him to Fire Mountain, and told him to sneak up on Fire Man. If Coyote got caught trying to steal his fire, Fire Man would shoot flaming arrows at him. He had to be careful, but that was not in his nature.

  “Coyote strutted about, wearing his nice fur, and he said, ‘I am the mischievous Coyote. I am restless. I look around and see what I need. I am the curious Coyote.’ Hosteen Flicker, the essence of the fire, shook his head, thinking Coyote was a goner before he’d even started out.

  “Coyote met Fire Man, who liked him at first, but then got tired of Coyote’s antics. To make him leave, he shot flaming arrows at him. Coyote ran, jumped over the large campfire, lit his torch midair, and zipped back to our world with the torch of fire. He’d singed his fur when he jumped, which is why Coyote has black marks on his coat.

  “It is always like this. In the end, Coyote does good for man, but it’s by accident. The aftereffect of his curiosity and satisfying his own needs.”

  “And you see me as Coyote?” Wright said.

  “Yes. Brave and creative. Good happens because of you, almost by accident. But you, and often someone else, has to pay for your actions.”

  He turned it around in his mind, polishing it, maybe thinking how he could use this ancient story or whether to forget all about it.

  “Does it fit?” I said.

  He leaned forward toward me, and put his hand on mine. “It does.”

  Mr. Wright looked pleased with himself. For good or no, only Coyote would look so pleased after hearing that story about himself.

  “Yazzie? I must hear more of your stories sometime. That was wonderful.”

  “The lesson is serious. I don’t want to end up being the person,” I said to him, “who pays for what you get yourself into.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Five

  I walked Mr. Wright to his compartment and asked him to stay put. No getting off and on at the train stops, just the celebrity appearance and his friendly wave, with me escorting him to the vestibule, standing beside him. The Wrights knew my cabin number. I asked the porter to take good care of them. I spoke to the engineer. I went to my own room.

  Iris was sitting up, wide awake. She’d ordered in a pot of coffee.

  “Well?” she said.

  I told her the details.

  “You’re taking the job, right?”

  “Watching after him after we get off?”

  “Yes.”

  “He thinks it’s a done deal. I’m not sure.”

  “You can probably make good money,” she said. “The man must be loaded.”

  “Some money isn’t worth it. And who knows whether he’ll pay?”

  She understood.

  For Iris, there was no amount of money that would make her paint something she didn’t love. For me, there was no amount of money that would take me far from my family for too long. I’d tried it before. It was exciting, but feeling like a man without roots wasn’t for me. Certainly no amount of money could, ever, tie me to a desk.

  They say the armed forces are good for teaching young men structure. That may be true for white men. But for Navajos? Our lives are already structured by the seasons, our relations, and our beliefs. We don’t need any more boxes.

  Code talkers were just starting to make headlines right then. It was hard for many people to believe that Indians participated in the war to such an extent that they saved thousands of lives. I was proud of my people, but it was kind of insulting for everyone to make such a big deal about it. We grew up learning to work together. I know it seems strange to lots of folks—and that includes me—but Navajos are very patriotic. I hear that’s true of many Indian people. I only know about my own people firsthand, so that’s all I can speak for.

  As for protecting Mr. Wright? If he was a national treasure, I could talk myself into thinking of protecting him as a patriotic act. I’d have to really push myself on that, but I could do it.

  “Yazzie, Mr. Wright is like Grandpa,” Iris said. “He has lived long enough to be proud of himself and his accomplishments. Taking care of him would be an honor.”

  “And lots of times old people get turned invisible. I don’t like that.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Iris, let’s talk turkey here. Nothing is worth putting you in danger.”

  “Of course not. What has that got to do with anything?”

  “The man who created a scene at the train station in Chicago is one of the bad guys out there.”

  “How bad?”

  “A very bad guy. His boss is worse.”

  “What does he want with Frank Lloyd Wright?”

  “Money.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Mr. Wright owes him money, pure and simple.”

  “Maybe his wife or one of his apprentices borrowed it in his name. One of his grown children. Who knows?”

  “Doesn’t matter. The screws are being applied to Mr. Wright, no one else, and it’s not going to stop until the debt is paid. That’s the reality.”

  “Yazzie, I don’t understand any of this. None of it fits with the man in Time magazine.”

  “Hitler wasn’t a great choice for Time’s Man of the Year for 1938, either.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying magazines don’t get all their facts straight, and they don’t have crystal balls, either. Events happen long after a story comes out.”

  “Well, Wright’s certainly not dangerous.”

  “Not intentionally,” I said. “But something bad is going to happen to him unless that debt is paid, and fast.”

  “You’re going to watch out for him, then? He’s a sheep among wolves.”

  “I have to be certain that you believe he’s worth protecting. I have a plan, but it may put you in a bum pos
ition.”

  Iris put her face very close to mine. Her eyes held mine. No words passed between us. “Yazzie, no one is going to take care of me the way you will.”

  I sat back. “That’s beside the point. Iris, do you want me to follow this national treasure around the Southwest or find someone else? We’re not thinking about the money I’d earn from this job.”

  “What does your heart say?”

  It was a good question. I had been bouncing Wright’s ball over the net that’s my brain instead of my gut. “My heart,” I said, “says this man is old, that he is strong, and that he has gotten himself, through his own carelessness, into a fix.”

  “And?”

  “If he were my grandfather I would hope someone would take care of him.”

  “So we’re going to do it?”

  I was afraid of this. “You are going to stay safe at home in Santa Fe.”

  The tone of my voice grated on me. I sounded like Iris’s boss, not her partner. She wouldn’t like that. I didn’t like that.

  “Yazzie, I can help.”

  “We’ll see how this plays out.”

  “And he’ll pay you well. We want our own house someday, so money is not completely irrelevant.”

  “The man spends money like water. If he was careful, he wouldn’t have to borrow money from loan sharks.”

  “You heard how much work he has lined up. We’ll ask for a good fee.”

  “Iris, when I’m done, you decide how much money he owes us.”

  We slept like spoons in a drawer, but after three hours I crept out of bed with the dawn. I sat at the dining car and wrote out a few ideas. Then I knocked on Mr. Wright’s compartment door.

  Six

  The tabletop in the lounge was walnut, and it glowed in the new light. Every grain, every line, was a story that the tree had hidden inside the folds of time. Secrets. Betrayals. Love. Murder. Trees are quiet beings, but they know the history of man better than we do. Our time here is so thin. I ran my fingers along the grains. They were well matched. I had a cup of tea. Mr. Wright sat across from me, wearing his cream suit and the cape with purple lining. He was wide awake. We didn’t say a word, but our silence was comfortable.

  “I’ll take care of you,” I said, “and make sure you get to your home outside of Phoenix. That’s where you said Taliesin West is, right?”

  “Yazzie. Thank you. Gratitude is not one of my strong suits, but I am very relieved.”

  “About my fee…”

  “I trust you. When your work is finished, you’ll hand me a bill, and I’ll pay it.”

  I pretty much thought that the trust, considering the circumstances of his problem, should have been more about me trusting him.

  “All right,” I said. “And I’ll trust you to pay me.”

  He was taken aback, but was wise enough to keep it to himself.

  “Before I work for you,” I said, “I have to talk with you in a way that will make me uncomfortable. It will probably make you very uncomfortable.”

  “Begin.”

  Iris told me she had read Wright was independent, a superb artist, went his own way, and thought he was better than most people who did the same thing he did. Those things were okay. I’ve met a lot of artists at the trading post. Each one thinks their basketry, weaving, or you-name-it is better than their neighbor’s. I also have a mother-in-law who plays the viola. She believes she is the best in the Southwest. She might be right. My grandfather thinks he is the strongest man in the world. He was, and then a stroke knocked him down. But he climbed back up, worked hard, and is 100 percent. He has the strongest spirit possible, and he knows it. My mother, she is the best negotiator with people, white or red, movie star or Navajo neighbor. (I’m not so sure she’d admit all that.)

  Me, I don’t have any special skills. I am best at taking care of my family. When I have a client, private or for the railroad, I think of them as part of my circle, part of my family. Because, inside my circle, that is the place I am smart. The place I am fierce if I have to be. I wasn’t sure I could place Mr. Wright there, and I wasn’t sure if he’d let me. Everyone from the railroad boss to my wife thought it was worthwhile to do, so I had agreed. But there were certain things we had to set straight before I could tackle this job and do it right.

  “You are an elder,” I said, “and I was raised right. Brought up to respect my elders.”

  “Excellent.”

  “If I take care of you, I’m going to be in the position of giving you orders. Of making demands on you. That doesn’t seem in tune with the ways things should be, but it’s necessary.”

  “I don’t like it, but I understand.”

  “You’ll have to trust that I have your safety in my mind.”

  “I can do that.”

  “If you lose your temper with me, even once, our relationship will be over.”

  “I see.”

  “You will respect me. Every person has his boundary and that is mine.”

  “Respect? Why didn’t the ‘red nigger’ remark make you hit the ceiling?”

  “It bothered me very much, but it’s not between you and me.”

  “You are a man worthy of respect,” he said, “and I will do my best to behave.”

  This didn’t seem like a man who knew, exactly, what right behavior was, but he said he would do his best. That’s the most anyone can do.

  “I’ll need to take you into my own world, even my home, temporarily, to be certain you’re safe. I demand respect for my family, also.”

  “Do you have this talk with every prospective client?”

  “Only the ones I think might be trouble.”

  He sat very still.

  “I can see why this talk made you uncomfortable,” he said.

  There went the job, but it’s better to get everything out in the open. I waited, studying the lines in his face. His hands were flat on the table. Then he put his head back and laughed.

  “Oh, you’re wonderful,” he said. “Everything is a straight line with you. Some people tiptoe around me. Clients despise me because they debase themselves in front of me—why would I respect that behavior?”

  I waited.

  “Mr. Goldman, I work best with curves, but I’ll do everything you need for us to work together.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I studied him out. “I think you’re going to like my grandfather.”

  What I really thought was that I couldn’t wait to see what happened when these two were put in a room together.

  Just then Olgivanna came running down the hall through the dining car. The porter had woken her up.

  “It’s a wire,” she said, “from Taliesin West.”

  “Good God, what could it be?”

  She handed her husband the yellow paper and he read the words. Still standing, she hovered over him. He reached up for his wife’s hand, and she put her arm around him, rocking him as if he were a child. There are no tears more difficult to see than those of an aging man. Tears of a mountain, that’s what we call them.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said.

  I picked up the telegram. There had been a fire at Taliesin West. A shed burned. Helen Fine’s wallet and identification were found in the ashes, and she was feared dead.

  “We all loved Helen,” Mrs. Wright said.

  “I cannot bear these deaths again,” said Wright.

  Tears of a mountain.

  * * *

  I’d changed my clothes and slipped into a seat two booths behind Wright, my back to him, homburg hat angled forward. Mrs. Wright wasn’t the only one who wanted to know what the old man and the tall man in the expensive suit were talking about, and she wasn’t here—still cleaning up, I guessed.

  There was something about that guy … I didn’t think I could pull the wool over his eyes. That would make my plans a lot more difficult for everyone.

  I listened. The tall man, from what I could make out, was Indian and Jewish—was that
one crazy combination! Anyway, he was running down a list of orders that sounded more firm, and harder for someone like Mr. Wright to follow, than the Ten Commandments. This relationship wouldn’t last long.

  I smiled, then tucked the smile away.

  Mrs. Wright burst through the dining car door and ran at top speed toward her husband. A siren sounded inside my head. She rarely collapsed, but she looked like she was on the brink.

  Then I heard the news. There had been a fire at Taliesin West. Helen Fine had burned to death.

  I had to squash a laugh. It had cost a fortune to set it up, I’d had to get into bed with Jake Fine’s guys to pull it off—BUT I HAD FOOLED THEM ALL.

  I had to get back to my room. My skin was prickling with laughter and success. I needed privacy. To celebrate.

  Seven

  There were two Taliesins. One, the original, was situated on Mr. Wright’s childhood property in Wisconsin. It was the true beginning and center of his work. Taliesin West, in Scottsdale, a small town on the north edge of Phoenix, was a warm retreat to work. He and his wife were done with Wisconsin winters.

  The wire from Taliesin West was sketchy on information. A fire in a shed filled with building materials. No hint of a cause, so not necessarily arson. Some materials like rags wet with shellac ignite spontaneously. If Taliesin was surrounded by greasewood or sage, one stray lightning strike—everything gone. Greasewood, even when it’s soaking wet, will go straight up in flames because of the oil on the bark and needles, and inside the limbs.

  It stank like the work of one of Fine’s goons in L.A. or Vegas. A burned building is a blow-to-the-gut threat. We can get to you.

  But would they be so careless as to kill Jake Fine’s daughter? Unlikely.

  And this had to do with more than money. If it was deliberate, it was too big a show for twenty grand. Those guys will spend that much on jewelry for a woman they barely know, but to kill someone and get the law on your ass?

  I spoke up. “Mr. Wright, Mrs. Wright, this fire probably isn’t an accident. They threatened you in the train station. Now they’re threatening you in your winter home. They’ve even killed one of your Fellows, by mistake or on purpose—we don’t know. You need protection, and it may be a bigger job than I can take on.”