by Jack Vance
For a time all went well. I turned out scripts, and our only difficulty was that our telephone connection to New York was terrible. Olga Druce’s voice sounded like a little squeak, so when I wanted to talk to her I had to go into town.
A reporter from the Santa Rosa Press Democrat interviewed me, and the story, when it appeared in the paper, carried the following headline: SCIENCE FICTION WRITER IS FLYING SAUCER EXPERT! This of course was ridiculous, since we had not discussed flying saucers at all. The reporter’s name was Frank Herbert.
The summer passed. We had many visitors: my mother, my brother and my five nephews, along with some musicians—Dick Oxtot, Bob Mielke, Ellis Horne, and also Tom Hand, Earl Sears and Red Sears. It was often party-time at the old farmhouse. I bought a Rolleicord camera and took some beautiful pictures. I also became fascinated with the lore of kites and their construction. One of these was a kite about six or seven feet across and shaped like a child’s paper airplane. When it was finished I took it out into the field and arranged to fly it. It flew beautifully, went straight up in the air, way up high in the sky, then, like the dart it was, turned and darted toward the ground and killed itself.
Meanwhile I was having ever more trouble with Olga Druce because of our inadequate telephone service. Finally she ordered me to come to New York, which I did. There she gave me a special commission: Richardson, the astronomer, had submitted a script which she found unsuitable. There is a natural phenomenon known as the zodiacal light, which is a hazy blot of luminosity appearing in the western sky shortly after sunset. In Richardson’s script, the zodiacal light had suddenly attracted attention and was terrifying everyone, and Captain Video and the Rangers had been called upon to rectify the situation. Olga now commissioned me to visit Richardson in southern California and work over this script with him so that it became acceptable to use on television. I returned to Kenwood, then Norma and I drove south to Pacific Palisades, where Richardson had a beautiful house overlooking the ocean.
Richardson and I got along well together. He was about fifty years old, tall, spare, obviously intelligent, certainly no extrovert; in fact, he usually seemed detached and even rather moody. His wife Ursula was in complete contrast: she was considerably younger than he, blonde, carefully graceful, very elegant. Her brother was a notable Hollywood artist and something of the arty avant-garde mystique seemed part of Ursula’s background. The topic of European travel came up; Ursula mentioned the Dolomites, Lake Como, the Riviera, all with wistful enthusiasm along with a rather reproachful glance toward Richardson, who had taken no great part in the conversation. When Ursula learned that Norma and I had just come back from a long stay in Europe, she became even more animated and turned Richardson a look of what almost seemed vindication. She said, “You see? This is how it can be done—these people know how to live!”
I explained our methods of travel, how Norma and I had come upon Stonehenge riding bicycles, and how we usually spent the night in bed-and-breakfast establishments. Ursula gave her head a jerk of disapproval and turned away; this was not the sort of travel she had in mind. She preferred the concepts of first-class and deluxe, and gay soirées into the small hours, Claridge’s in London, the Ritz in Paris, and perhaps even a visit to Marienbad.
While we were living in Kenwood we made frequent expeditions to picturesque restaurants of the region. One such locale was Occidental, an old logging town, now deserted except for three magnificent restaurants: the Occidental, Fiore’s, and the Union Hotel. Occidental was visited by folk from all over the bay area, and as far as I know, these three restaurants are still in business. Another of our favorite restaurants was located in a ghost town on the Sacramento River beside Walnut Grove. It consisted of dilapidated old structures originally had been inhabited by gangs of Chinese laborers. Now there was nothing left except an antique shop and a restaurant known as Al the Wop’s.
Upon entering Al the Wop’s you found yourself in what was almost a caricature of the old-fashioned western saloon. The ceiling was covered with dollar bills, and it seemed that the patrons were encouraged to put thumbtacks through the dollar bills and fling them up at the ceiling. If the dollar bill stuck the patron received a free drink. The restaurant was at the back. The patron entered, seated himself, and a waitress came out and said, “Well done or rare?” The patron indicated his preference and the waitress went away. Presently the steak appeared, which of course was very good indeed.
Perhaps I should also mention Nepenthe, a beautiful restaurant in beautiful surroundings, situated on a bluff overlooking the ocean a few miles south of Big Sur. Our last visit was in the company of Ralph Vicinanza, my agent and good friend.
Volcano is a hamlet in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains, and is not much except a few cottages and gas stations besides a local landmark known as Daffodil Hill. There is no volcano anywhere near, and in fact I have no idea how the place got its name. There is, however, an elegant resort hotel. On one occasion we organized a group of a dozen or so of our friends and set off on a junket to the Volcano hotel, where we would dine, spend the night, breakfast and return home. Present, as I recall, were Norma and myself, Poul Anderson and his wife Karen, Oscar Anderson, an electrical engineer and his wife Jedde, my nephew Stephen and his wife, Al Hall the guitar player, Bret Runkle, also an engineer, and Bret’s wife Barbara, a beautiful blonde of Swedish extraction. After checking in we assembled in the bar. The sun was now definitely over the yard-arm, and drinks began to flow in all directions, presaging a merry evening. Al Hall and another guitar player played some beautiful duets by Brazilian and Spanish composers. Elsewhere there was much laughing and joking and the exchanging of anecdotes.
After a while at the bar we moved into the dining room, where we dined on roast beef and coq au vin, drank wine, and congratulated ourselves upon our wisdom for being alive. Dessert was ice cream with coffee, then we rose from the table and circulated here and there. So far, the junket was proving a great success.
Poul and I found comfortable seats in the library, where we sat and thought serious thoughts, and theorized concerning the structure of the cosmos.
Now, at this time, I must draw a curtain of discretion over the subsequent events of the evening, which were rather tragic and destroyed a number of lives and affected many others, and I must be careful whose names I mention, since conceivably certain of these persons are still alive.
As Poul and I were sitting in the library, somebody I shall call Mr. X came up behind me and asked if he could use my car. Without thinking, I assented and handed him the key. He took it and went off, and I thought no more about it. An hour or so later, a great scandal hit the fan. It developed that Mr. X had induced another man’s wife to drive off with him in my car and had not returned; in fact they did not return at all during the night, so that the next day Norma and I were forced to ride back to Oakland with Poul Anderson. Ultimately, I received my car back, but there were no apologies, merely a kind of bland fatalism. The event at Volcano had caused a great deal of damage which I will not trouble to particularize. I only bring it up here because it was a sad event which I often think about.
Richardson and I finally cobbled together a script which we thought might satisfy Olga Druce, who had changed the menace of the zodiacal light to the threat of an asteroid poised to strike earth. Later, Richardson took Norma and me up to the observatory, where we were privileged to look through the telescope. Then Norma and I returned north to Kenwood and resumed life as it had been before the Richardson collaboration.
Guests came and went, including the Hands, the Searses, Dick Oxtot and his first wife Joanne. We also saw a good deal of Frank Herbert and his wife Beverly, with whom we began formulating plans. Ultimately we decided upon a joint venture. We would set off to Mexico and set up a writers’ household, and write Captain Video scripts and whatever else came to mind. To this end I traded in our Jeep for a Volkswagen station wagon, and the Herberts began selling off their possessions.
However, about thi
s time, the Captain Video prospects went glimmering. On my last script or two, I had been letting my imagination range too far, injecting humor into the scripts and putting the characters into amusing predicaments. I got a call from Olga Druce complaining that I was turning Captain Video into a farce, and that my scripts would get her fired. Instead, she fired me.
Yet the Vances and the Herberts were not deterred from the Mexican project. We modified the VW station wagon to carry as much luggage as possible, but we were still faced with an impossibility. The luggage which Frank deemed indispensable was enough to load down a large truck—especially his stock of first-aid and medical equipment. Frank had allowed for every known disease and disability, from leprosy to six broken arms at once, for which contingency he had provided six slings. Beverly finally interceded and Frank’s first-aid equipment was reduced to that which we could load aboard the VW.
Leaving Kenwood we drove south through California, across the border, down the west coast of Mexico, turned eastward to Guadalajara, then thirty miles further to Lake Chapala, which at that time had lost most of its water and was mainly mud flats. Here in Chapala we rented a very pleasant house a block or two from the main beer garden, which was always a source of amusement and entertainment, because musicians rolled through the place every night.
We set up our writers’ workshop. We had an arrangement that when we hoisted a white flag, silence must descend upon the house, and nothing must occur that might disturb the writers, a system which worked out fairly well.
Life proceeded productively for a month or two. I don’t know what Frank was writing; I wrote some short stories and started work on a novel which I called Clarges but which was ultimately published under the name To Live Forever, a title I detest. However, our income was less than our output, and in fact was nonexistent. Finally we were forced to terminate the writers’ workshop and return to the States. Norma and I set off in our VW, but the Herberts relocated to San Miguel de Allende, where they remained for several more months.
Returning to the bay area, Norma and I began looking around for a place to settle. Eventually we came upon a spot in the Oakland hills, consisting of three lots and an old shack which we could rent with an option to buy. Since the price was right, we decided to buy and took steps to do so. At once we began rebuilding and expanding the shack, which entailed a great deal of digging out the hillside to give us a larger back yard. Over the years I must have moved a thousand wheelbarrows of dirt, maybe more.
The Herberts, coming back from Mexico, stopped by for a time, then continued north to Seattle. Frank said that they were planning to return to Mexico in due course, and in due course they did. On their way down from Seattle they stopped by to see us again, this time driving a hearse so loaded down with luggage that the fenders were scraping along the ground. Frank said that he planned to take the hearse down to San Miguel de Allende and have it converted into a station wagon. We did not hear from them for a while, but I don’t think the conversion of the hearse to a station wagon was ever realized.
Somewhere about this time, wanderlust hit Norma and me again, and we embarked on another voyage. This time for a fact it was a voyage, aboard the Stromboli, a Liberty ship which, conceivably, I might have had some hand in building myself. We went aboard in Oakland and sailed south, stopping briefly in San Salvador. In order to go ashore, it was necessary to ride a flat-bottomed scow about twenty feet long, which upon reaching a dock was lifted out of the water by a crane and deposited on the dock. During our visit to San Salvador we had only enough time to visit the market and a few shops before returning to the Stromboli by means of the scow, which the crane politely dropped into the water. We passed through the Panama Canal, and eventually disembarked in Barcelona.
My mother, who had been traveling for some time, was now residing in the Oceano Hotel in Barcelona. We met her there, remained in Barcelona a few days, and the three of us took a ferry to Ibiza, where we rented a house. We chose Ibiza instead of Mallorca because our friends Gordon, Gwen and Tony were already established there. About a month later Gwen and Tony moved to the nearby island Formentera, where they built a house. I never saw it, and I can’t imagine Tony building a house, but apparently he did. Gordon remained on Ibiza, where he met his girlfriend Vicki, whose home was in Madrid.
Every day I dived in the bay and collected stones. I put these in a sack and shipped them home, and ultimately they became paving for our front yard.
Our days in Ibiza passed pleasantly, although they encompassed very little social activity. Norma and my mother played bridge with another old couple while I spent most of my time writing or swimming down on the beach. A house nearby was inhabited by an Australian painter and his wife, whom I got to know to some extent. He was tall, gaunt, rather odd-looking, with a habit of speaking with his eyes focused on the horizon.
Five years later or so, in Australia, I thought I would look him up. I did, and discovered that he was a famous artist in his own country. I went to visit him at his house, rang the door. He opened the door, looked at me with a look of mild inquiry—but evidently no recognition—on his face.
“I’m Jack,” I said awkwardly. “We were neighbors on Ibiza.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “That was a long time ago. Well, it was nice to have seen you again. Goodbye.”
And that was that.
In Ibiza we patronized two bars; one was “Dirty Juan” and the other was “Clean Juan”. Dirty Juan was the closest, and that was the one we used most often. Gordon related an incident that occurred one night when he and some of the other regulars decided to try some psychokinesis or table-raising, by laying hands flat on the table and making it move. Gordon swore to me, backwards and and forwards, his eyes bulging blue and earnest, that the table jerked, jumped and started up toward the ceiling.
One evening Gordon hosted a party which was attended by a dozen or so, maybe more, local people and tourists, most of whom I did not know. It was a jolly party; I had my cornet with me. There was also a guitar player on hand who knew the chords to some of the tunes which happened to be in my own repertoire, so we began playing together. We were doing pretty well, but after about five minutes a young fellow nearby said, “Let me play.” I told him no, but he insisted. “I want to play—let me play!” I said that I had not brought my cornet miles and miles across the ocean for him to play, I had brought it for me to play. At that he got rather hostile and picked a fistfight with me. Gordon interceded before any harm was done. I learned from this episode that a musical instrument would seem to be a dangerous thing to carry with you while you were traveling; there’s no telling where the thing may lead you.
Ibiza was and no doubt is a pleasant place, although I am sorry that we were never able to visit Mallorca, which is supposedly one of the most picturesque of all the Spanish islands. In due course we took our leave. We ferried to Barcelona, went by train to Andorra, and thence into France. We separated from my mother, who went off into Germany, while we proceeded to Geneva where Red Sears and his wife were in residence and studying child psychiatry under the famous Piaget.
Gordon, Gwen and Tony and I had arranged to meet in Morocco, so Norma and I set out to the south on a train, which took us through Spain to Gibraltar, where we ferried across to Tangiers. In Tangiers we had our first experience with the Moroccan souk, which is a warren of alleys and pathways and hundreds of little stalls where brasses, carvings, fabrics and much else were sold. The outlander entering the Souk needed a guide, otherwise he would become lost. This was the case with all the other souks we visited in Morocco.
From Tangiers we took a bus to Fez, where we met our friends. After a time Norma and I set off south to Marrakesh and established ourself in a French hotel. Marrakesh is famous for its Djemaa el Fna, the main square and marketplace of the city’s old quarter. Here locals and tourists may find fruits and vegetables, colorful clothing, trained monkeys, snake-charmers, storytellers, magicians, singers, dancers, peddlers of every sort—and of course all manner
of food, purveyed by cooks yammering from stalls crowded shoulder-to-shoulder. Norma and I spent an afternoon on a terrace, drinking beer and overlooking the Djemaa el Fna, marveling at what we saw.
Leaving Marrakesh, we took a bus to the east and up through the Atlas Mountains, to a town called Ksar es Souk*, where we spent the night. That evening we visited a bar, where a group of French legionnaires sat drinking beer inexplicably colored dark pink and green. Norma and I were puzzled but ultimately discovered that the soldiers had mixed their beer with liqueurs of various sorts to produce these unlikely colors.
The next day the bus dropped down the eastern slopes of the Atlas and took us into the Sahara to Erfoud, a little oasis town where the French National Railway had constructed a remarkable luxury hotel. We registered at this hotel and found ourselves to be the solitary guests.
Gordon, Gwen and Tony joined us at the hotel. We spent a rollicking evening and the next day explored the little village beside the oasis. After a day or two we returned to Marrakesh, and here we parted. Gordon, Gwen and Tony returned to Spain; Norma and I continued on to Casablanca, and south to Agadir, which I thought might communicate with the Canary Islands. This is a famous route, along which goats climb the argan trees to graze on the leaves.
At Agadir we found that there was no direct passage to the Canary Islands, so we spent the night in a hotel. On this evening occurred a strange event. Norma and I both ordered turkey for our supper. The waiter was a tall sardonic Frenchman. Norma received a generous plate of turkey with all the trimmings. I in turn received a plate upon which was nothing but a scrawny drumstick, hard as a rock and as inedible. I was outraged at this apparent insult, naturally, and tried to summon the waiter, but he only turned his back and walked away after sparing me a leer of contempt. I should have called for the manager, but we simply left.
