by Howard Fast
“Do you? And who might that be?”
“My father.”
“Oh? Really?”
“Yes, indeed. In San Francisco, when we lived there, he had a notable reputation as both a scholar and a translator.” She did not mention that the reputation was limited to his family.
“And what is his occupation now, if I may ask?”
“He’s retired,” May Ling said, smiling. “He studies, writes. I think he’s into Chinese culinary things right now. You know, there is no Chinese cookbook.”
“Ah, well, I’m afraid cookbooks are a bit out of our field. However, this notion of yours fascinates me. What would it cost?”
“The problem is to persuade my father to put everything else aside.”
“Could you?”
“I think so. The cost is inconsequential. I think that if you were to give him an honorarium of fifty dollars a month, it would be ample.”
“For how long?”
“Probably a year.”
“That’s certainly modest enough,” Mr. Vance agreed. “Six hundred dollars, and perhaps fifty dollars more for the mimeographing, since we do it ourselves. Our purchase fund could certainly afford it. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mrs. Lavette. I’ll telephone the University Press at Berkeley, and if they’re interested, they’ll put up the money as an advance against royalties. That might not give your father any more income, but he might be pleased to see his name on a book.”
“I couldn’t ask any more,” May Ling agreed.
A week later, Mr. Vance announced triumphantly that not only would Berkeley be delighted to publish the book under the imprint of the University of California, but they were willing to pay an advance of five hundred dollars against royalties. “A true feather in our cap,” Mr. Vance chortled. “And we get a credit logo. Time we had a press of our own, but I suppose that will have to wait for the new campus. Now when can I meet your father?”
“Tomorrow,” May Ling promised.
Yet May Ling still had some doubts, and she approached the subject warily at the dinner table that evening.
“I agree with you concerning the dignity of labor,” she said to her father. He ate slowly and silently, his weariness apparent, his hands swollen and raw.
“I don’t care to discuss it,” Feng Wo said.
“No, I suppose not.”
“Obviously, you want to say something. Say it.”
“My boss at the library, Mr. Michael Vance, would like to see you tomorrow. I made a date for you to have lunch with him.”
“You did what?”
May Ling smiled sweetly. “Please do not be angry with me, honorable father. I made a date for you to have lunch with him.”
“Stop using Hollywood Chinese. Lunch is when people eat, and when people eat, dishes must be washed. You know that. I also wear work pants and a work shirt.”
May Ling sighed. “I’ll tell you the entire story, and perhaps you’ll be very angry at what I did. But please hear all of it.”
“Go ahead,” Feng Wo said.
The whole family listened with rapt attention. When May Ling had finished her narration of how she had plotted and won, Feng Wo said coldly, “And is it true that there is no Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu in the English language? Or did you lie about that?”
“I did not lie!” May Ling said hotly. “As far as I know, it’s true. Certainly if Berkeley will publish the book, they did their own research.”
Feng Wo nodded his apology, and explained to Joseph, “Lao Tzu means ‘the old philosopher,’ or perhaps ‘the old man of wisdom,’ depending on how you translate it. We must spend more time on the language. We are not ignorant people in our family. But at the same time,” he said, turning to May Ling, “we are not scholars. How could you dare to presume that anyone like myself could translate Lao Tzu or Chuang Tzu?”
“Because you can.”
“How do you know?”
“Because all my life I have known you.”
“Well, it’s impossible, unthinkable, and you will tell that to your Mr. Vance.”
So-Toy had been listening intently, following the English with great attention. Now she broke the long silence that followed Feng Wo’s declaration, speaking angrily in Shanghainese, “I am only a woman, and as a woman I have been silent about things that do not ask for silence. Too long. I have watched this idiocy of my husband washing dishes in a worthless restaurant, and I have said nothing. It would appear that the only wisdom in this family has been granted to the women. Your daughter did a wonderful thing, and she will not go back to Mr. Vance and tell him you refuse. You will not refuse. You will write this book, and you will stop being pigheaded and stupid.” Then, realizing what she had said, she turned pale and cast her eyes down at her clasped hands.
A long silence followed, and Joseph, who had not understood a word of what she said, looked from face to face in astonishment. This had never happened before. There had never been an argument in the family before this.
Finally, Feng Wo said, “They will want a preface to the book. I am not distinguished enough to comment on Lao Tzu.”
“Nothing was said of a preface. The contract with the University Press is only for the translation.”
Then, almost humbly, Feng Wo said to his daughter, “Will you help me?”
“If I can. My Mandarin is not terribly good.”
Again there was silence, and then Feng Wo said, “I shall have to go to the restaurant in the morning and tell them I am leaving. Then I will come and have lunch with Mr. Vance.”
Jake and Clair had done everything humanly possible, and, by working fourteen and fifteen hours a day, much that was inhumanly possible. They had scrubbed and cleaned and painted the old stone winery until it shone. They had exhausted their small bank account in the purchase of grapes and bonded brandy. They had cleaned the barrels and the tubs and scraped the rust off the old presses. Rabbi Blum risked another trip from San Francisco and put his seal of approval on all that had taken place. Bernie Cohen, deciding that some day he might be making wine in Palestine, volunteered his services for a week and proved invaluable in the heavy labor of moving and cleaning the casks. Professor Masseo came twice, the first time when they were ready to crush the grapes and the second time when the must was maturing to a point where brandy would be added.
After the first crushing, the winery filled with the good, sweet smell of the new vintage, Jake and Clair hovered over the tubs like mother hens, still unable to believe that out of this straightforward process, Rabbi Blum’s sweet sacramental wine would emerge. Day after day, they watched the life in the liquid heave and gurgle; and then Professor Masseo came to tell them precisely when to halt the fermentation.
Word had gotten around the valley that the Levys were making wine, and one day two cars came screaming up the dirt road to the winery, jolting and lurching, and out of the cars poured eight G-men with drawn guns. Jake and Clair heard the yelling from inside the winery, and they ran outside to find their three children standing curiously between the small army of government agents and Bernie Cohen, who, with more courage than brains, faced them with an ancient, rusty, unusable double-barreled shotgun which he had found in the barn–the G-men roaring, “Put down that gun! This is a raid!” And Bernie screaming back, “Get off this property before I blow your heads off.”
Clair ran to rescue her children, and Jake pleaded the legality of his operation, getting out his permits and government license. The G-men departed reluctantly, and later Professor Masseo supervised the pouring of the brandy. Bernie Cohen drove back to San Francisco, to return the following day with Rabbi Blum for the final test. Professor Masseo seized the opportunity to stay overnight and bask in Clair’s grateful smiles, and all evening Jake and Clair sat and listened to the professor’s instruction on the lore of the wine. They learned that the stem of a cluster of grapes was called the rachis, the individual stem the pedicel, the point where the stem entered the umbilicus. They learned about the complexity of the tanni
ns, the virtue of diglucoside pigments in the skin, the variables of fortification. And by now they had both read enough to join in a technical discussion.
“Some day,” the professor said, as he left for his bedroom, “the Higate label will be known throughout America–perhaps the world. And when that time comes”–he smiled at Clair–“you will allow me to fulfill an old ambition.”
“And that is, professor?”
“To supervise your tasting room when the buyers come.”
But that day was still in the future. The next morning, Rabbi Blum arrived and was seated ceremoniously in the kitchen and given a glass of the new wine.
He tasted it thoughtfully, stroked his beard, and decided, “Not sweet enough.”
The professor stared at him in amazement. “I beg to differ.”
“Are you a rabbi?” Blum asked mildly.
“No.”
“Are you Jewish?”
“No.”
“Then how can you differ?”
“Because I am a professor of viticulture and a connoisseur of wine.”
“It’s still not sweet enough.”
“What do we do?” Clair asked woefully.
“All right. We will do an execrable and unforgivable thing. We will add sugar syrup,” announced Professor Masseo.
“God will forgive you,” Rabbi Blum said.
Jake shook his head. “We’re broke, professor. I’ve got three dollars–that’s all. You can’t sugar eight hundred gallons of wine for three dollars.”
“A small advance,” Blum said quickly. “Not a loan. An advance on delivery.”
He took out of his coat pocket an old-fashioned purse and counted thirty dollars in worn bills.
“Enough?”
“Unless you want candy,” the professor said.
Bernie Cohen was dispatched for the sugar; meanwhile Clair boiled a pint of syrup from the sugar she had in the house. The professor made the mixture, and the rabbi tasted the sugared wine.
“Ah.” He nodded.
“Sweet enough?”
“Children,” Rabbi Blum said, “you are now vintners.”
“Wine-makers, not vintners,” the professor said.
“Whatever. You can begin delivery as soon as the wine is ready. If there is more than eight hundred gallons, we will accept it–at seven dollars a gallon.”
And Clair cried out, “My God, Jake–we did it.”
Governor Alfred E. Smith telephoned from Albany, and the news of the call ran through the offices of Levy & Lavette. Polly Anderson abandoned decorum and burst into Mark’s office with the news. “Governor Smith from Albany. Person to person for Mr. Lavette. They’re talking now.”
“I’m not impressed,” Mark said. He was still smarting from the check he had written for Sunny Jim’s campaign fund.
On the telephone, Governor Smith was saying, “Danny boy-o, we’re at the starting gate, and we’re separating the boys from the men.”
Flattered, Dan asked, “How does it look for the nomination?”
“Just fine, Danny, just fine. No declaration of war yet, but we’re packing the war chest. I want to know that when I get to the station, I’ll have the stuff to buy the ticket.”
“I’m with you all the way, governor.”
“Damn right. They asked me, who’ve we got out there on the Coast? Danny Lavette, I told them, and he’s one of us. Can I count on you, Danny?”
“All the way to the White House.”
“No money yet, just pledges. But when they pass the plate, what can I find there?”
“Well–” He paused as Mark entered his office. “Suppose we say ten thousand to start the ball rolling.”
“You’re on the list, Danny. Will I see you in Houston?”
“If I can make it, governor.”
“You’ll get an engraved invitation.”
He put down the phone and looked at Mark. “That was–”
“Al Smith. And you just handed him ten thousand dollars.”
“Just a pledge, Mark.”
“Dan, what in hell has gotten into you? He’s playing you for a sucker. If by some miracle he gets the nomination, Al Smith’s got as much chance of being elected as I have. He’s a Catholic.”
“And it’s time we had a Catholic President.”
“Sure. It’s also time we had a Jewish President, but this is the USA and we’re not going to have either one. It’s money down the drain.”
“It’s only ten grand.”
“It’s only ten grand! God Almighty, Dan, can’t you see the spot we’re in? We’re running an operation worth twenty million dollars, and we have no cash. Do you know what our payroll is? Sure, the store is making money hand over fist, but it goes down the drain. The airline won’t show a profit for six months, and when a storm holds up one of the ships, we scrape the bottom of the barrel. Your friends in Hawaii scream bloody murder if we don’t show a profit out there, and meanwhile we’re fifteen million dollars in hock to Seldon.”
“Mark–take it easy. I like Al Smith. Do you know what it means to go to Washington and face that cold bastard Coolidge?”
“You are dreaming. Furthermore, you pledged ten grand that we don’t have.”
“Oh, Christ, Mark, we’ve got it. Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. For months now, you’ve been talking stock. All right. Tell Goldberg to go ahead and put us on the market. We’ll pick up that goddamn twelve million you keep talking about, and at least you’ll stop crying that we’re broke.”
“Danny, you mean that?”
“I told you O.K.”
“Thank God. Twelve million in cold cash–and do we need it.”
“And when Al Smith’s elected President, you’re going to kiss my ass on Market Street at high noon. Right?”
“Right,” Mark said, grinning.
Marty Spizer was one of a thousand things that happened when the silent films began to talk. It was discovered then in the New York City theater scene that there was an art that was only fitfully represented in Hollywood, the art of human speech. The rug was pulled out from under hundreds of silent-film actors who had lived by body movement and facial mugging, and there began a very considerable movement of theater people from the East to the West Coast. Properly speaking, Marty Spizer was a theater person only by proximity. In his thirty-three years, he had stage-managed two flops, scalped tickets, served as a leg man for a gossip columnist, done some publicity, and done the best he could whenever he was broke–which was not infrequently. In the course of all this, he had picked up sufficient scraps of knowledge and pieces of talk to feel that the new West Coast bonanza belonged at least in part to him. After two months in Hollywood without anything better than a small coaching job coming his way, he teamed up with another Manhattan expatriate, Timothy Kelly by name, rented an old dance studio on Vine Street, and opened the New York School of Acting. Spizer, dark, of middle size, and reasonably successful with a good many ladies, was glib and adroit and could chatter impressively about Stanislavsky and inner interpretations and deep-seated emotional responses; Kelly, small, skinny, a failed hoofer and vaudevillian, performed as the expert in mime and dance. They began their first semester with twenty-two students, one of whom was Martha Levy.
Marty Spizer was at the beginning of a career, functioning in a small jungle, feeling his way around, getting his footing, as he put it. He was shrewd, nasty, choking with an assortment of deep-rooted hostilities, and wary in this new environment of mesquite-covered hills and stucco-covered houses. The idea of the school was a stopgap, a stake, perhaps a point of penetration into a directing or producing job, and the twenty-two youngsters, who had homed into Hollywood from all over the country, were not difficult to impress. Spizer and Kelly put them through scenes from current Broadway plays, and Spizer played the role of director as he had watched it done in the East. Being somewhat sadistic in nature, he chose to imitate a famous theater director who operated with calculated viciousness. This director would single out one of the ac
tors and make him or her the butt of his anger and hostility, using the poor devil as a negative example. Whatever the results were in the original context, Spizer used the technique senselessly and because it suited his nature; and once the school began to function, he chose Martha Levy as the object of his hostility.
He did not know why he chose Martha Levy, nor did he ask himself why; he was simply not given to self-searching or introspection; possibly she reminded him of a girl he had lived with for a while who had finally turned on him and thrown him out of her house and her life. And while it might be said that Martha’s talents left much to be desired, that was also the case with four fifths of the enrolled members of the New York School of Acting.
Spizer was not an originator. His outbursts of critique and direction were couched in precisely the same words the New York director had used. He would lash out at Martha, “Donkey! Donkey–you, Levy, look at me!”
Martha would turn to him, hurt, terrified.
“Why do I call you a donkey? Why not a Shetland pony? Why not a gazelle?”
Martha speechless, embarrassed, trembling.
“Because a donkey brays. Brays. Voice is voice, not braying!”
Or he would shout, “Clowning! You’re not acting, toots. You are clowning!”
After two weeks of this, Martha was reduced to a point where she would approach each day with fear and finish each day at the point of tears. The persecution reduced her to a point where she fed it herself, unable to remember her lines, unable to do anything right. She would return to her apartment and weep, determined each day to get out of the school, to leave a place that had become a torture chamber–and then telling herself that she would not quit, not yet, that if this was the way to become an actress, she would endure it and see it through.
And then, after the first two weeks, Kelly said to Spizer, “Marty, maybe you’re leaning too hard on that Levy kid.”
“She stinks.”
“You got a hate on, buddy,” Kelly said. “Take another look. She’s not a bad-looking broad, and she’s loaded.”
