Landscape: Memory

by Matthew Stadler

  Breakfast was to be had at the Cliff House. We ascended into a thick fog coming out of the park and up the last steep climb to Sutro Heights and the overlook. Nothing could be seen of the famous Seal Rocks. Some assorted grotesque noises came bellowing out from the impenetrable mists. Awful, flatulent honks and long rasping barks, that and the wild splashing of the surf against Land's End, a short plunge down.

  I was a bit concerned about my appearance as we all climbed down out of the car and Mr. Taqdir handed the keys over to an attendant who motored away into the fog. But I watched Duncan who, as I'd hoped, had an easy solution, removing his cap and holding it in folded hands neatly below his belt. I did the same, no doubt impressing Mother with my politeness.

  Our table looked out into the dense fog. All manner of sea birds swooped close by, calling into the cold morning. Outside the mist was full with ocean brine and gray salty seaweed smell, roaring up with the winds, off the rocks where the waves came pounding in. But where we sat was warm and toasty. A simple little gas flame flickered in its glass chimney, screwed tight to the wall, looking vaguely nautical.

  The tables were set with white linen and heavy silver of many shapes and sizes, all fit for some mysterious use. The teacup I understood, and the sugar jar. I offered sugar all around, to be polite, before taking a lump of my own. I sat and sucked happily, careful not to slurp or let slip the dissolving cube out through my sticky lips. A sweet little drip dribbled out my mouth, but I caught it smartly on the cuff of my sleeve, wiping my chin clean on the follow-through.

  A lovely murmur of conversation rose from the busy room full of breakfasters. Our table said "Reserved" and that was nice. "Reserved." I imagined it preserved in formaldehyde, like the wrinkled black frogs dangling head down in Miss Gillian's many glass jars. "Preserved," the little cardboard sign would say, the horrible squat table, shriveled and limp, stinking of sharp vinegar, peeling chairs collapsing under us like squishy piles of frog flesh.

  "Your mother has many friends here," Mr. Taqdir informed me, speaking more to Mother than to me. "Reservations are given only for the very few."

  I looked quickly round the bright, noisy room, noting the smart clothes and patient service. One waiter had been standing set to scoot a chair a good half minute now, waiting with a grave smile for his ancient patron to lower herself carefully down to rest on the stuffed brocade seat. She was slow as an oak tree, but still he stood.

  "What's that?" Duncan asked, disgusted, as a plateful of pig's eyes floated past.

  "Pig's eyes," I said because it was true.

  "Maxwell," Mother sighed, "what sort of nonsense is this?" She drew back and stared at me. "Don't be disgusting."

  I didn't understand. Father told me all about pig's eyes. "You never had pig's eyes?" I asked, plainly curious.

  "Maxwell," she objected simply. "Enough."

  "I don't understand," Duncan put in. Mr. Taqdir was talking to our waiter.

  "Do we get whatever we want?" I asked Mother, eager to think of something more appetizing.

  "We've ordered ahead, pumpkin. Everything's taken care of today."

  "Do we get pig's eyes?" Duncan asked, thinking it was still funny. Mother covered her eyes and shook her head.

  "The Cliff House doesn't serve 'pig's eyes,' dearest. The Cliff House serves Brussels sprouts which Maxwell thinks it would be amusing to call 'pig's eyes.' "

  "I thought it was disgusting" I objected. "Father said those were pig's eyes." Another illusion had been swept aside. Really they didn't look at all like pig's eyes when you knew, but if you didn't there'd be nothing to give you a clue. It all seemed so plausible and horrifying, of course I'd believed him.

  "Oh, please," Duncan whimpered, begging Mother. "Please let's do have them. Sprouts are so very good for you." Mr. Taqdir caught this tail end of our little scene and tapped the waiter's sleeve to indicate yes, bring the sprouts for the young man.

  The sprouts arrived along with the rest of it, sweaty pink rounds of ham and a white china platter shingled neatly with broiled turkey breast, sliced paper thin and piping hot. There were light brown crumble biscuits shaped like dung which mother called scones. That and many jams and jellies, red jam and purple jam and even some green jelly which turned out to be mint. Duncan was busy carving and arranging, crowding over his plate like a blind seamstress. Mother poured the pitcher of pulpy orange juice, filling my glass to the tip-top.

  "The yellow jelly is lemon curd," Mother said brightly. "It's British. You're to have it with your scone," and she showed us how, slicing neatly across the flat of the scone and splitting it open so it looked like one of Father's rocks, but fresh and steaming. And she lathered its face with gobs of yellow curd. I followed her lead, but found my scone was filled with horrible black bugs, steaming black fly flesh speckling its lovely white freshness. I flipped my little muffin closed before anyone could see, not wanting to raise a fuss.

  "Soon," Mr. Taqdir announced, raising his juice glass up, "you will be going on to other things." Mother patted my shoulder and smiled. I thought he meant breakfast was ending.

  "Where are we going next?" I asked, scoffing my ham as quick as I could before we rushed away.

  "Exactly, Max," Mr. Taqdir nodded, bobbing his glass up and down in time with his chin, "exactly. Where will we be going next? I hope you'll both be thinking of this." Duncan remained transfixed by his food, pushing it about his plate and tilting his head this way and that to get a better view.

  "I thought everything was planned out," I objected, turning to Mother, who had assured me that indeed it was. A dirty sea gull flew in through a window some wag had opened, scattering a few feathers in panic and skittering in under a table somewhere behind me.

  "Whatever do you mean, pumpkin?" Mother seemed puzzled, as though suffering from amnesia or purposefully trying to make me crazy.

  A big fat man bursting the buttons of his vest stood and stomped madly about the floor in the vicinity of the gull, yelling out orders to the poor bird. It ducked in under a chair and took flight out the other side of his table. A waiter followed after it holding a tray in one hand and a round glass top in the other.

  Duncan looked up smiling, unaware, I believe, of the bird. He carefully pushed his plate to me with his elbow, sneaking it over, unobserved by our distracted companions. Two slimy green sprouts sat on either side of a little round ham of pig's nose, set amidst a carefully rendered lemon pig's face. The ugly leering animal had a big broad potato grin and two little toast ears. A furious beating of wings rushed up from behind and the panicked sea gull sailed across the tabletop to perch safely on a wall sconce.

  "Please pay it no attention," an older woman called out in a loud but calming voice. I turned to look and saw she was standing on her chair, her arms up like a conductor's.

  "It is a bird," she assured us. "Allow it time and it shall leave of its own accord." Everyone in the room listened in silence. "Thank you," she concluded and stepped down. The waiters continued on their mission despite her wise words. I popped a pig's eye off Duncan's plate and into my mouth, pushing the other into his.

  "We were speaking of your graduation, dearies," Mother began again, though I could recall no such conversation. She ruffled her bustle and settled back into her seat. "Your father," and she nodded smartly at Mr. Taqdir, "has asked after your plans. What do you intend for next year?"

  Duncan looked at me, chewing on the tough little sprout.

  "I intend," he began, musing. "I intend, good things. Good fun, lots of adventure. That sort of thing."

  "Let's go to college," I suggested. "We'll be college boys."

  "Let's be soldiers," Duncan said. "We can live in a tent and go on marches and maneuvers."

  "Let's not be soldiers," I answered.

  "Of course you're going to college," Mother put in. "There's no question, pumpkin. You mustn't waste your intelligence on anything else. Soldiering, business, any of that." I looked at Duncan. He'd slid the little pig nose onto his stuck-out tongue.
It lay there like the blessed wafer, him flopping his tongue about as though to flip it like a pancake.

  "Wonderful," I put in. "We're off to college then. Will we need gowns and flat hats, or letter sweaters?" Things still seemed a bit unresolved. "I'll sharpen the pencils," I offered brightly. Duncan washed his pig nose down with a gulp of juice, and wiped his mouth clean on his sleeve.

  "Don't we have to apply?" he asked. "What if they don't want us?"

  Mother started in but I cut her short.

  "We'll go to Berkeley. Anyone from Lowell can go to Berkeley." I didn't want to have this conversation. "We'll plan it all out on Sunday. Don't you think?" I looked around, fishing for agreement. "I'll make calls. We'll explore options."

  Everyone kept quiet, pushing at their various foods. "Well, then," I concluded. "It's settled."

  I grew distracted by a mix of inexplicable melancholy and nervous wondering. All the things I thought to say became unreasonably complicated in my head and I gave in to sitting silently near Duncan, who was dozing, and just looking out over the open ocean, just looking across the bright rippling water to its edge and feeling how big it is.

  I felt a mood coming on. Not a bad mood really. A quiet, deep-thinking sort of mood. Each and every separate thing was coming to seem so simple and perfect, as though the entirety was shifting into its proper place and order. The curve of Duncan's neck, for instance, where he'd curled his sleepy head into his hands, started a feeling in my heart and stomach that was as intensely joyful as it was sad. And it wasn't just that I wanted to touch him. I got the same heady feeling from the shape and weight of the pewter sugar bowl. It was so simple and sturdy and it held sugar. The windows framed the perfect sky, each degree of gray suffusing into the next with a kind of grace that I could feel but not describe. The breaking waves marked the rhythm and I was content to remain silent and breathing.

  That river came to mind, the one I'd thought must have gone wrong somewhere and entered into me so that I was its mouth. I felt now as if I'd finally accommodated it, as if the barriers that made for its violence, the bits and pieces in me that had resisted the flow, were now washed away, eroded by the flood, and I was an empty vessel, a surrounding through which the river flowed freely. It felt like that, like I'd given up completely.

  Mother, I'm sure, could have explained it all away and I'm happy she didn't get the chance. I had a simple smile for her anytime she turned her attentions my way. That and the satisfied calm that seemed to emanate from my very bones were enough to assure her my relative silence was not a sign of distress. She was, truth be told, so enthralled by her own brilliant plans that she noticed little else. Her perky narrative filled all the empty silences, glossing the day's events with historical information and provocative anecdotes: the train south along the Ocean Shore Pleasure Route; lunch and a swim at Half Moon Bay; a visit to the artichoke fields; Nob Hill; drinks at sunset on the terrace; a long stroll through the Latin Quarter.

  By ten our feet were tired from the evening's stroll and my belly was beginning to grumble again. I had no doubts whatsoever that Mother had some miracle preplanned to deliver us into bliss at the close of the day. Indeed, she'd managed somehow to have a table saved at Sanguinetti's, which beyond being simply miraculous required both tact and guile.

  We were squished up into a corner near the banjo player, all crowded around a table the size of my lap. Mr. Taqdir filled wineglasses all the way around.

  The room was wild with laughter and the occasional chorus rang out to help the music along. "Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight" brought the house down, Mr. Taqdir singing, I'm certain, "Hog Time," rather than the conventional line. Mother had ordered ahead, all her favorite foods. Our table was filled with big bowls of pasta, hot garlic butter bread and a stewed veal shank that was collapsing off its bone under the juicy weight of its sheer deliciousness. It sat drenched in garlic-soaked juices, simmering in amongst onions and thin juliennes of zucchini, and more garlic, whole cloves roasted. There was salad and more wine. Already that delicious red warmth was running a soft, yawning tickle up the nape of my neck and helping me to lean lovingly into Mother or Duncan without remorse or ill will or second thoughts of any kind.

  * * *

  We walked back to the auto, over the hill, bundling along through the cold night air. My goodwill felt boundless. I thought it must be Duncan and how giddy and unknown it all made me feel, or it was the wine, running through my blood all warm and sloppy, washing at the backs of my eyes so I felt like weeping. Or it was how incredibly wide and cold the night sky was above us, stretching out to eternity, blowing a bracing breeze down around us from the chilly black nothing, the ice-cold stars twinkling there, right where they'd always been.

  We motored west, clattering across the uncrowded city. Duncan and I bounced in the backseat, our caps pulled down tight on our heads, us bundled up in the blanket and taking the brisk night air cool across our flushed faces. I loved the way our lantern light dented the night, rushing along the open boulevards before us, barely staying ahead of our roaring engine, swinging wildly right, then left, sweeping across phantom shapes, making shadows of people and trees. We rattled over the high hills, past Lone Mountain, then along the low, curving paths of the park, under the windmills and down onto the Great Highway.

  Mr. Taqdir turned off the lanterns and engine and we rolled quietly toward the dark edge of the highway.

  Far off in the blackness I saw the ghostly white glow of the surf running a long line out across the sand. With the engine off you could hear it too, the roar and rolling of the waves coming in again and again. We sat quiet and exhausted, damp from the wet air rolling in off the sea, all salt and seaweed smell. It settled like dew over everything.

  "I want to walk," I said, wanting to get closer to the water. Mother and Mr. Taqdir nodded their blessings but did nothing to get up and out.

  "We'll stay, pumpkin," Mother explained. "Be careful of the water."

  "I'll go," Duncan put in, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. "I'll drag him out when he drowns," and we climbed out over the back with a jump off the sideboard and onto the beach. I fell over and lay happily in the sand, a few feet from the car. Looking out under its carriage I could see the sea, oddly disconnected from the black sky above. Duncan stood me up and wrapped the blanket around us both. He rested his chin on my shoulder and we stood for a bit.

  "Let's go down the beach," I whispered into his warm ear. And we did, the blanket wrapped around our shoulders, bumped up close and getting silly.

  I tried listening for the separate waves, trying to discern their beginnings and ends, but it was all so unclear, each wave rolling into the next. I steered us east with a push, getting us back onto a soft dune, back over a small rise and into a hollow.

  Then Duncan stuck his hand down my pants, which is something we still hadn't done. It really was too much for me and I got all wild up my back and we fell over, pressed up close as we could there in the sand, his hand working around in my pants and me kissing him all over his face, hoping where we were was as dark as it seemed. I could hardly think to see, and just kissed and kissed. My tongue was all over his salty sweet skin wherever I could reach, and I tore his shirt buttons open to kiss down there. He'd pulled the snaps of my pants open at the top and tugged my boxers down so I poked out and up against him, rubbing all hard and furious onto his pants and up on his belly. Then he put his warm hand on me there and just held me soft and strong in his hand. We stopped flexing around all frenzied like we'd been and he just held me like I said, and pushed me soft into the blanket with his other hand warm against my chest. I lay there on my back, my shirt torn open down the front, feeling my body bare in the salty air and his spit all over me, me hard and warm in his hand. I kept thinking his name over and over like a sound in my mind, just like hypnosis or breathing. He undid the belt of his pants and pulled them down so I saw him, his I'm not sure what word to use, but it was so beautiful and warm and alive, pushing out from his waistba
nd, over his soft black hair and curving up against his belly. He lay down on top of me, reaching his arms up across my sides and in behind my neck, our whole fronts bare and warm, all muscular and flexing against each other so slow and lovely. I tried breathing the whole of everything in through my mouth and throat, the air and the stars and all of him and the night, breathing it down into me as deep as deep could be, but there was always more, the cold empty air stretching out and away forever, and Duncan.

  Bolinas

  _______________________________________________

  20 JUNE 1915

  Today we packed our satchels and put the house in order, as we'd promised Mother we'd do. School is out, at last at last, and we are graduated. Flora and Duncan and I and Alphonse too. Father came and sat with Mother and Mr. Taqdir, the three quite chummy and chatting all through. I don't understand sometimes. We flung our caps and went for lunch (not Alphonse) at Coppa's.

  Today we go to Bolinas, all three of us. I made Father agree over lunch that Duncan and I would be welcome and then he asked if Flora would come, them hitting it off so well as they do, and I hadn't thought to ask, which was rude, but imagined it would be wonderful and she surprised the adults by saying yes right on the spot and doing it. So we're off to Bolinas by stage. Father says Flora's motorcar would be unwelcome.