Nineteen
Scootie woke with curiosity burning through his head. He
flashed through a shower and a couple of Pop-Tarts before heading out the door
and on to Fetzle. He charged into the library and found a couple of promising
histories, one by a former director, one by a Santa Cruz columnist. The latter
was hopelessly lightweight, ignoring troublesome matters like Harlan’s lifetime
bachelorhood, his feud with John Muir over logging practices, and the stifling
of his political ambitions by the anti-German sentiments of World War One.
Neither volume mentioned a person named Barran or a place
called Villa Califa. The most he could find was a photo of a dark, extremely
short man, about 50 years, seated on a mule. Harlan rode next to him on a
large, muscular-looking horse. Something about their looks of grim pride told
Scootie that they regarded each other as equals. The caption described the
short man as “an unidentified worker, possibly Fetzle’s caretaker.” He made a
copy of the photo, and was about to sit at the piano for a brief exploration
when he heard music from the courtyard. He peered out the window to find a
wedding, a father and daughter making their way down the aisle as a soprano
stood before a string quartet, singing “O mio babbino caro.”
Nice touch, he thought. He left for the front door, Puccini
in his ears, a picture of a Mexican dwarf in his pocket.
He sat in the Cafe Bolero, studying a double latte, stripes
of espresso the color of sand under a snow-drift foam. Outside, it was hotter
than usual, a real clam-bake, and he was glad to be inside under the ceiling
fans.
The caffeine and cool air was doing nothing for his mystery
cabin, and he knew his best source was closed off to him. He was amazed enough
that Aggie had kept mum about the ticket giveaways, and he wasn’t about to
gamble gamble on two miracles in a row.
“Ooh, someone’s wearin’ a two-ton thinkin’ cap.” Rip
Scalding appeared over Scootie’s table, wearing a blinding white seersucker
jacket with apple-cider stripes. He sat down and leaned on his cane, an elegant
length of ash with a duck’s head carved into the cap.
“Hi, Rip. How are you?”
“I’m old, but you prob’ly already knew that. You, however,
look downright troubled.”
“Easy to spot, huh?”
“Visible as a receding hairline.”
Scootie checked his recently installed caution meter and
decided Rip could be trusted.
“I’m doing some research on Fetzle history. The name
‘Barran’ keeps popping up, but I can’t find it in the history books.”
“Short fella, this Barran?”
“Well, yes,” said Scootie, surprised. He took the photocopy
from his pocket and pushed it across the table. “I thought this might have
something to do with it.”
Rip held it at arm’s length and peered over his spectacles.
“Sure. I know him. I was in the local ‘Hysterical Society’ for a while.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Got tired of the politics, though. Some o’ those
women act like they’re the Vatican cardinals pickin’ a new pope.”
Scootie laughed. “I know the type, brother.”
“I bet you do. Any case, I maintained my interest in certain
Fetzle legends, and Barran’s got one of the more fascinatin’. Lotta conjecture,
mind you, but it all seems to add up.”
“So,” said Scootie. “Tell, tell.”
Rip set his spectacles back on his nose, planning out his
presentation. From his dead-wife stories, Scootie knew that Rip was serious
about his storytelling.
“In the mid-1870s, when Harlan Fetzle met him, Miguel
Antonio de Barran had worked his way from an impoverished childhood in
Michoacan to become the leading woodcarver of Mexico City. His renown seemed to
derive from his small stature – about three feet high – and the sublime
qualities of his work. By his late twenties, he was in high demand from the
landed gentry, for whom a Barran staircase or dining table carried sure proof
of place and prestige.
“Harlan came to town at twelve years old, on a business trip
with his father, Harlan, Sr. They stayed with a banker, Fernando Enriquez, who
had commissioned Barran to craft the entranceway for his new mansion. Barran
specialized in symbols of Aztec mythology, and was just beginning work on the
central figure, a twenty-foot rendering of Quetzlcoatl, the plumed serpent. The
final piece included scales of gold form-fitted to slots around the serpent’s
head.
“Harlan, Jr. was bored to tears by his father’s official
engagements, and spent most of his days watching the dwarf as he freed the
huge, wonderful snake from the mansion walls. Though limited by their different
languages, the woodcarver and the child began to make small conversation, even
to invent little jokes, from gestures and shared vocabulary.
“The third reason for Barran’s popularity was his tremendous
amiability. His size had always made him a target for ridicule, so he learned
to fend it off with a quick and gentle wit, always finding a way to let his
detractors in on the joke. He was also an accomplished guitarist and poet, and
spent many of his evenings in the cafes of the city, entertaining his fellow
citizens.
“It was into this world of laughter and artistry that young
Harlan was invited. You could even say it helped to form his life’s view.
Barran took him on a tour of the city’s statuary, explaining the subtleties of
their dimensions and angles, and brought him to the Temple of Quetzlcoatl at
Teotihuaca’n. He even taught him to play congas, so he could accompany him in
the cafes.
“At the end of two months, the Fetzles returned to
California, but Harlan and Miguel continued to correspond. Harlan learned to
write in Spanish, and compose Spanish poetry. For years, Harlan Senior invited
Barran to work on the family’s estate in San Francisco, but Miguel was much too
fond of his adopted city – and, rumor had it, the ladies there who, whether
from curiosity or simple affection, sought the little woodcarver’s romantic
attentions.”
“Romantic?” Scootie asked.
“All right, Mr. Cronkite. Sexual. The youth of today got no
respect for discretion. Any case, Miguel’s mind was changed 18 years later by a
violent turnover in the Mexican government. His clients were now the ones
trying to maintain the connection between their heads and necks, and he was
inextricably bound up with them. His many followers managed to smuggle him out
of the city, and the obvious refuge was California, where his young cohort was
now building a mansion of his own.”
“Wait a minute,” said Scootie. “You meant the entranceway at
Fetzle...?”
“That’s what I believe,” said Rip.
“I thought it was carved by Italians.”
“I’m guessing that was a cover story. Barran was wary of
revealing himself – even in California. Story was, the carving of the
entranceway was saved for the very last, once all the other workers were gone.
Harlan denied access even to his closest friends, claiming he wanted to save
this final touch for the grand opening.
“Ten years later, once things in Mexico began to settle
down, Barran began to make appearances at the mansion, but still his identity
was kept rather unclear. He tended to simply go by ‘Miguel,’ and he had a lot
of fun denigrating the ‘shoddy workmanship’ of the entrance. Highly apocryphal
story, but fun, nonetheless.”
Rip took a pause to sip from a glass of water, giving
Scootie a chance to phrase his next question. He decided to toss out an
erroneous assumption and let Rip correct him.
“So I assume Barran lived somewhere in the mansion?”
“Another gray area. Legend has it that Barran had a secret
home in the woods behind the mansion, that he designed the place on dimensions
more fitting to his own size – and, further, that the only member of the race
of giants allowed to set foot in the place was Harlan Fetzle. They say he named
the place ‘Villa Califa,’ another bit of humor. Califa was the Queen of the
Amazons, the creation of a Spanish novelist named Garcia Ordoñez de Montalvo,
and ruled over a paradisiacal island called California. The island’s treasures
were guarded over by griffins.”
Scootie worked hard to suppress the firecrackers going off
in his head. Without even trying, he had hit the Mother Lode. “So that’s where
the state got it’s name?”
Rip raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think I had to explain that
part.”
“Oh, well, yes.”
“By the way, Scootie. I should’ve mentioned this before, but
please don’t spread this stuff around too much.”
“The Hysterical Society?”
“Yeah. See, I’ve got my secret sources on this stuff, and
I’m kinda savin’ it for a book.”
“I won’t say a word,” said Scootie. “Do I get a wife story
today?”
Rip pulled out his pocket watch. “Tell you the truth, I’m a
little talked out. Plus, my ladyfriend is due for another visit.”
“Okay. Thanks again for the info.”
“Hey, I’ll tell stories anytime ya like. Just wind me up and
watch my lips flap.”
Rip gave him a salute and shuffled out the front door.
Scootie took out his notebook and began taking down the details for Juliana.
No comments:
Post a Comment