This is Me, Jack Vance

by Jack Vance

  I’ve heard it said that on the beaches of Samoa there are hundreds of derelict trimarans which people had sailed from all parts of the world and then abandoned, for one reason or another.

  I bought the plans for a 32’ Piver trimaran, and built a beautiful main hull before deciding that the vessel was too small for what I considered oceangoing needs. Piver himself had disappeared in a 25-footer. I found a buyer—none other than one of Piver’s own assistants—who agreed to pay $1,500 for my half-finished trimaran. He gave me a down-payment of $100 to haul the hull away and then, like Piver himself, vanished without a trace. I saw nothing more of him, or the balance.

  For many years the Vance family went boatless, until John’s sixteenth birthday when I presented him with a Venture 17’ sloop. This was a strong, sturdy, safe little craft which would never think of acting like my wretched boats of yore. John sailed her with enthusiasm back and forth around the bay.

  A year or so passed; then during a prosperous phase of our lives we turned the Venture in on a 10.7-meter Columbia sloop. The Columbia was a lovely boat, although John and I both felt that the rigging was rather slight, and we made plans to bolster it, although we never got around to this project. A year or two later, as I was looking through my yachting magazines, I chanced to come upon a design by Stan Huntingford of Vancouver, a 45’ ketch—strong, seaworthy and utterly beautiful. I fell in love. By coincidence I learned that an agency at the Alameda marina was selling this particular ketch and already had three in stock on the premises. The progression of events was inevitable. We christened the boat Hinano, after the beautiful flowering shrub, and the girl we had known on Tahiti—and the most popular Tahitian brand of beer, a great deal of which we had consumed.

  John and I worked on the Hinano, beefed her up, improved the rigging, and reinforced it wherever the need seemed to exist, until Hinano was a sturdy boat indeed, and we thought we could sail her to the south Pacific without trepidation. Of course Norma would not accompany John and me on this voyage, which we planned to undertake as soon as we had enough money to finance it.

  John got more use out of Hinano than I did, sailing it all over the bay and along the coast, up to Oregon and back down the coast. John learned celestial navigation; we bought what must have been a hundred charts. These charts are a joy to look at and ponder over, because each will show perhaps some little island, its lagoon and the paths into the lagoon, with all the depths, and if there’s a village on the island will indicate this—sheer romance!

  I wish I could say that our plans for Hinano had matured and that we had put off to sea, sailing out the Golden Gate and heading southwest, but the truth of the matter lies in that oft-quoted apothegm that a boat is defined as a hole in the ocean which you fill with money. What with payments on the boat, upkeep, mooring fees and other expenses, we found that we simply could not rake up enough money to take off and, with great reluctance, we sold Hinano.

  My brother David has five sons. The oldest is Stephen, then Dana, followed by Kevin, Dwight and Scott. Kevin is in the construction business; Dana is an electrical engineer and lives in Seattle; Dwight is a computer expert; Scott is an actor in Hollywood.

  I like all my nephews but I am closest to Steve. All Steve’s life we have shared a passion for sailboats. We never tire of talking about their design and construction. Steve has done far more boating than I have. He and his wife Marja sailed around the world in a 27’ sloop. They have been so many places that, arriving at any strange port, they are bound to run into acquaintances.

  Steve and Marja now work for a private yachtsman: Steve captains the 100’ boat and Marja is first mate and cook. They phone me regularly, always from a different part of the world. They are planning to retire soon, but will probably continue to sail in one fashion or another, perhaps touring Europe in a canal boat.

  A final word in regard to Hinano. She is still, so I hear, sailing up and down the estuary in Alameda. But I don’t think she makes it out to sea anymore.

  Chapter 12

  Oh some are fond of Spanish wine,

  And some are fond of French,

  And some’ll swallow tay and stuff

  Fit only for a wench;

  But I’m for right Jamaica

  Till I roll beneath the bench!

  (Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.)

  John Masefield, Captain Stratton’s Fancy

  Over the years, our house on Valley View Road has seen a great deal of social activity. I remember at least one costume gala, and of course many dinner parties, a great deal of music—and even a chili cookoff, where all the guests brought their own versions of chili and entered them in a contest to determine which was the best. Samples were passed around, tasted and judged; some of these were fantastically strange. I will not name the perpetrators, although I will modestly report that my version of chili was acclaimed the best. It was made with cubes of beef chuck simmered in a red New Mexico chili sauce, hot as hell, and seasoned with garlic, cumin and oregano. I’m not sure if I included beans or not.

  Among our friends were Alidar “Ali” Szantho and his wife Lilly. They were Hungarian immigrants. Ali worked as an engineer, but his great passion was soccer; several times he tried to promote professional soccer leagues in the bay area and elsewhere, but these efforts came to nothing. He was of medium stature, verging on being portly, with black hair and eyes and a rather round face. He was charming and jolly, but clearly not a man with whom one would wish to trifle.

  One evening we invited the Szanthos over for a “Russian” dinner party. Before the meal, Norma and Lilly sipped Bloody Marys, while Ali and I took ourselves to the buffet where caviar, blini and vodka awaited us. We took our apéritifs Russian-style, in what I then believed to be the traditional manner. The procedure is simple enough: the participant takes up a blini loaded with caviar, ingests it, and follows it with a slug of ice-cold vodka—which, it is important to emphasize, he does not simply drink but throws to the back of his throat and puts down in a single gulp. He then reaches for another caviar-laden blini and continues the procedure. So Ali and I did on that evening.

  In due course Norma announced dinner. Ali and I eventually found our way to the dinner table, where Norma served a wonderfully hearty and acerbic borscht, followed by Chicken Kiev and an array of other delicacies. It was a splendid meal, enjoyed by all.

  Among our other friends were Manny and Bonnie Funk. Bonnie was a cute, inoffensive little creature; Manny was slender, almost gaunt, loose-limbed, with the gesticulations, expressions and mannerisms of a natural comedian. His full name was Manfred Horman Funk. The name Funk, so Manny explained, derived from Funk’s Grove in Illinois, from which, according to Manny, all the Funks in the United States originated, including the Funk of the Funk & Wagnalls publishing company. His first name resulted from his father’s admiration of Baron Manfred von Richthofen, the WW1 German aerial ace popularly known as “The Red Baron”. Horman was Manny’s mother’s maiden name.

  I first met Manny at the Larks Club, a lively night spot at the edge of west Oakland. Every Saturday night there was music provided by the Bearcats, a superb jazz band comprised of local musicians, with most of whom I was well acquainted. They included Bob Mielke, trombone; P. T. Stanton, cornet; Bill Erickson, piano; Dick Oxtot, banjo; Bill Napier, clarinet; Pete Allen, bass; Don Marchant, drums. Norma and I were always in attendance, as were Manny and Bonnie. On one occasion I took down my tape recorder and recorded the performance. As I play these tapes back, I think I can hear Manny yelling “Ey, ey, ey!” and “Go! Go!” although I can’t be sure. So I became acquainted with Manny; we had many jolly times thereafter.

  During these years, many happy jam sessions took place at our house. The participants were various and changed from time to time, but usually K. C. Pine, who worked for the university police department, played guitar; Eubert “Red” Honoré, from New Orleans, played string bass; Manny Funk played washboard; I played cornet. We usually had Bill Erickson on piano, Bob Mielke on tr
ombone, and others that happened to be available at the moment. I can’t tell you that I was ever a high-class cornet player, but I struggled through as best I could, and despite this there was nothing that provided me more joy and euphoria than playing in a jazz band.

  On one occasion, Manny Funk happened to drop into a joint in south Berkeley called the Industrial Café, and talked the proprietor into calling a band once or twice a week. I was included in this band, together with the others I have mentioned. We wanted to change the name of the place to the Sunset Café, after a famous spot in Chicago during the ‘20s, but the proprietor would not go for this. We played one weekend and drew a good crowd; everyone was happy, including the proprietor. The next weekend there weren’t quite as many people there, and on the third weekend the attendance was even rather scanty, and the proprietor canceled the engagement. So ended my professional career as a jazz musician, although I never received anything more than a free bottle of beer for my efforts.

  Manny and I had one falling-out, deriving from Manny’s attempt to play the tenor saxophone and his conviction that he had succeeded in doing so. Sad to say, his best efforts yielded only halting discords which bore only the most casual relationship to the tune being played. This is a situation which, among musicians, always generates exasperation and hurt feelings.

  That occasion was informal and almost impromptu. Present were only myself, Manny, Red Honoré and K. C. Pine. We started to play a tune, probably “Minnie the Mermaid”, one of our favorites. Manny, instead of playing washboard—at which he was adept—began to blow into his tenor saxophone, creating what the Germans would call a Katzenjammer. After a painful moment or two, I halted proceedings and suggested that the music would sound better if Manny would play his washboard instead. Manny became sullen, and after a tune or two went home early.

  I saw little of Manfred Horman Funk after that, which distressed me because we had had a lot of fun together. I suppose it was my fault and I should have held my tongue. A few years later I learned that he had died, possibly due to an excessive use of deleterious substances.

  Another old friend, one of the few still extant, is Andrei Simić, a professor of anthropology at USC. Andrei is tall, dark, overflowing with vitality, with the merest hint of some exotic strain in his lineage. He carries himself with a jaunty swagger, and ladies turn to watch him as he saunters past. (Or at least they used to—having been blind for the last couple of decades, I can no longer attest to this firsthand.)

  Andrei’s father was a general in the Serbian army, and Andrei was brought up in a semi-Serbian household, which probably accounts for his area of professional expertise, which is Serbia and its culture, and that of southeastern Europe in general. He also plays Serbian gypsy music on his guitar.

  Andrei and I have enjoyed many social occasions of many sorts. I recall a party at Andrei’s house to which he had invited a large number of his Serbian friends, so many that the living room was crowded elbow-to-elbow. There was a small orchestra on hand playing appropriate music, to which everyone was dancing some sort of Serbian quickstep. At the center of the room was Andrei himself, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a red bandana around his head, dancing like a dervish.

  By the mid-1980s the house was finished. I wrote at the usual rate; then something of the old fascination for ceramics came over me.

  John and I bought a steel shed, erected it; John welded a frame of angle-iron, which I lined with insulated fire-brick, and we attached a lid which was raised and lowered by means of a winch. We fired the thing with gas blowers and, all in all, I must say that the whole arrangement was nothing short of ingenious. The finished kiln could easily fire porcelain, although we never fired it that high; usually we just fired stoneware, to what is known in potters’ parlance as “Cone 5”, about 2,300° Fahrenheit.

  We worked in white clay, red clay and black clay. As for glazes, I set out to produce them myself. In the old days the formulation of glazes was a terrible, tedious effort requiring hours of mathematical computation in order to get the balance between the constituents correct. The glaze is made up essentially of feldspar, kaolin and quartz, along with coloring oxides. I had laid in every coloring oxide available—cobalt, copper, iron, titanium, chromium*. Luckily, some genius in Canada had produced a computer program called Insight, which took all the hassle out of formulating glazes. It was such a pleasure to use this program that I could sit before my computer monitor and watch it function for hours on end, with total fascination.

  But tragedy struck. I went to have my eyes examined and was diagnosed with glaucoma. A doctor hit me with some lasers, but instead of curing the disease, scabs formed over my optic nerves and my vision quickly deteriorated. John and I sold the gear and chemicals, and nothing much of the pottery studio remains around here except an old wheel and a few plates we had made. Such was my career as a ceramicist—not very much, really, except a lot of fun.

  After my eyes went, my life became much simplified. Our travels became a thing of the past, apart from the occasional junket to a convention. I continued to write, although since longhand was obviously no longer possible, I learned to use a word processor. John modified computers with special keyboards I could feel my way around, and with what little eyesight I had left I could make out words on the monitor if they were big enough—enlarged to about ten words per screen! Eventually, however, I became totally blind and had to rely on the computer’s voice synthesizer to read back what I had written. I wrote most of Lyonesse this way, and everything after that—Cadwal, Night Lamp, Ports of Call and Lurulu. I have no way of knowing for certain, but I may well be the only writer who bypassed the typewriter completely, going straight from longhand to computer! Still, the computer was never a perfect solution for me and writing became an increasingly laborious process as the last ray of my eyesight went glimmering. I never considered dictating my novels to tape, although this is the method I have used for this book and it has proven surprisingly adequate.

  After Lurulu I retired from writing fiction. Finishing Lurulu—which I like to call my “swansong”—was like going through triage. Every now and then Jeremy, who keeps an eye on me during John’s absences, gives me a poke and says, “Come on, Vance, we know there’s one last Magnus Ridolph story under that tattered watchcap of yours,” or, “As long as you’re sitting there, you might as well plot your next mystery novel.” But no, humor aside—there are no more stories in me. Only this one that I am now toward the end of telling. For one thing, I lack the inclination. That guy who wrote all that junk for so many years—he seems like another person!

  I do, however, still read. The Library of Congress provides a wonderful service for the blind. They furnish a vast catalogue of books on long-playing tape and a reader on which to play them, all for free. Now that I have little to do, my existence would be a monotonous one indeed were it not for this service. Most of my waking hours are occupied listening to audiobooks. Nowadays I confine my reading mostly to murder mysteries, although occasionally to more serious works, such as anthropological treatises and histories of the ancient world. I subscribe to Scientific American, Discover, and Popular Science, all available in audio form, by which I try to keep more or less abreast of what is going on.

  Among mystery writers, I generally prefer the British to the American—and among those, I prefer the cozies to the hardboiled. My favorite living writer is M. C. Beaton, née Marion Chesney. I delight in her Hamish Macbeth stories; I also rather like her Agatha Raisin series, although it took me a while to warm up to the pugnacious Agatha with her “bearlike eyes” as so often described by Beaton.

  I read Ruth Rendell’s books if they concern Inspector Wexford; her other books, especially those written under the pseudonym Barbara Vine, are apt to be downers, and since they usually leave me in a terrible state of despondency, I avoid them. However, Rendell is without question a magnificent writer, and I admire her. The same goes for her contemporary, P. D. James.

  Since we’re on the subject of mystery no
vels, let it be known that I make no apologies for being a great admirer of Agatha Christie. It annoys me when people belittle her or take her for granted. I am also fond of Patricia Wentworth’s Miss Silver books.

  There are many others I could name—Patricia Moyes, Dorothy Sayers and Dorothy Simpson, Georgette Heyer—before the name-dropping grows tedious. However, I must mention three in particular, British authors, these pioneers of what is usually called “Gothic suspense” or “romantic suspense” fiction: M. M. Kaye, Mary Stewart, Victoria Holt. All three are excellent.

  It has not escaped me that all the above-named writers are women. Not for me to analyze why this should be the case, I simply observe the fact. Obversely, my favorite American mystery writers happen to be men, with a a couple of exceptions: Donna Leon, who writes about Commissario Guido Brunetti in Venice; and Deborah Crombie, whose books are set in the United Kingdom and seem quintessentially British although she is a native Texan. I think very highly of Lawrence Sanders—The Anderson Tapes is a great masterpiece—and his superb successor, Vincent Lardo, who has continued the McNally series as if Sanders were dictating to him from the grave. Bill Crider, who writes about Sheriff Dan Rhodes in Clearview, Texas, is a pleasure to read. I also include in my praise Erle Stanley Gardner, and the unfairly neglected A. B. Cunningham. Cunningham wrote in the 1940s about Sheriff Jess Roden, whose beat was the woods of rural Kentucky. And despite rumors to the contrary, I am not altogether indifferent to more recent authors. In this connection I must mention Jonathan Kellerman, whose writing I admire, and whose book The Butcher’s Theatre I recommend to everyone. Tony Hillerman appears in my reading stack from time to time; he instills the Four Corners area of the American Southwest with an atmosphere all his own, much the way Arthur Upfield conveys a feeling for the Australian Outback. I also like Philip R. Craig’s Martha’s Vineyard books, which are highly entertaining and excellently written.