Call me Friday. If I can get away, I’ll go to Bakersfield with you.”
If the choice of Bureau chief rested between her and Doctor Berkeley, she decided, she certainly merited the job over Berkeley. She had seen the writing on the wall, and the writing said Berkeley had an Oedipus fixation on all girls under sixteen and that he collected pornographic Rorschach inkblots.
Chapter Four
Because first blooms were budding on her seedlings Saturday, Freda hated to leave for the bonsai exhibition in Bakersfield; even so, her outing would have been delightful if Hal had stayed sober.
The dwarfed plants were exhibited in a Japanese pavilion retained from some past World’s Fair, and she was enthralled by a model railroad that ran among forests of live oaks, past corn and wheat fields, and whose trains pulled up at stations landscaped with live roses—all grown to HO scale. Looking down on the exhibit, arranged against a backdrop of painted scenery, she felt so much like some god of the twentieth century that she forgave such discrepancies as the Santa Fe Chief thundering past Fujiyama.
Afterward they took tea beneath wisteria in a garden overlooking a bamboo-framed lagoon arched by a stone bridge. A Japanese girl in kimono and obi clattered up on wooden clogs, bowed, and introduced herself as Haki. Haki announced, in the fluting intonations of Japan-learned English, that she was ready to pour ceremonial tea. Freda felt herself so much a part of Japan that she could virtually hear temple bells, until Hal ordered, “Pour the lady tea, Haki-san, but fix me a double martini.”
“But, Hal,” Freda protested, “this is the Orient.”
“I hold no brief against the Orient, but I’m loyal to Martini, the greatest Italian since Marconi.”
“Very well, but give me your negative report on Flora while you can still talk. Doctor Berkeley hinted that there might be side effects from a voyage to Flora, mental allergies, nostalgia, even earth-alienation.”
“That headshrinker wouldn’t have the faintest idea what’s bothering me.”
“Hal, at times you irritate me. You’ll denigrate a whole field of study with one sweep.”
“There is no field of plant psychiatry, and, I tell you, the plants of Flora are sane to a degree that makes them dangerous to beings on our level of sanity, as they are dangerous to each other.”
“Doctor Hector,” she reminded him, “said the plant life of Flora was noncompetitive.”
“Superficially only. Soil conditions, drainage, prevalence of moisture, give a slight advantage to certain plants, but to seize on that advantage, they have to fight. There’s not an inch of Flora not fought over. The soil is drenched with the sap of slaughtered flowers. As a druid priest, I tell you, the spirit of those plants, including my tree, is not benign.”
“Are you telling me you’ve reevaluated your impression of a tree any jaybird would trust?”
“Yes,” he said seriously. “I’m convinced the tree intended to kill me.” His flat voice, sounding deep in his throat, alarmed her. Paranoia, she thought.
Haki clip-clopped to their table for the ceremonial tea-pouring, and Freda was grateful for the interruption as she watched the girl’s movements, fluttering with a ceremonial charm which interpreted the briskness of tea. And Haki was versatile. She poured Hal’s martini with motions that captured the sparkle of gin.
“What does Paul think of this?” Freda asked.
“Paul never commits himself,” Hal said, sipping his drink, “but he’s not fooled by appearances. You’re proof of that.”
Over her delicately poised teacup Freda asked, “Are you saying he doesn’t find me attractive?”
“I’d be a maple-loving Florian to imply that!” He was beginning to gesticulate. “But a man doesn’t marry a woman for the shape of her earlobes. Beauty vanishes, passion flees, and ardor can die within an hour. Give me fifteen minutes with Mona Lisa and she would be out the door, smile and
If the choice of Bureau chief rested between her and Doctor Berkeley, she decided, she certainly merited the job over Berkeley. She had seen the writing on the wall, and the writing said Berkeley had an Oedipus fixation on all girls under sixteen and that he collected pornographic Rorschach inkblots.
Chapter Four
Because first blooms were budding on her seedlings Saturday, Freda hated to leave for the bonsai exhibition in Bakersfield; even so, her outing would have been delightful if Hal had stayed sober.
The dwarfed plants were exhibited in a Japanese pavilion retained from some past World’s Fair, and she was enthralled by a model railroad that ran among forests of live oaks, past corn and wheat fields, and whose trains pulled up at stations landscaped with live roses—all grown to HO scale. Looking down on the exhibit, arranged against a backdrop of painted scenery, she felt so much like some god of the twentieth century that she forgave such discrepancies as the Santa Fe Chief thundering past Fujiyama.
Afterward they took tea beneath wisteria in a garden overlooking a bamboo-framed lagoon arched by a stone bridge. A Japanese girl in kimono and obi clattered up on wooden clogs, bowed, and introduced herself as Haki. Haki announced, in the fluting intonations of Japan-learned English, that she was ready to pour ceremonial tea. Freda felt herself so much a part of Japan that she could virtually hear temple bells, until Hal ordered, “Pour the lady tea, Haki-san, but fix me a double martini.”
“But, Hal,” Freda protested, “this is the Orient.”
“I hold no brief against the Orient, but I’m loyal to Martini, the greatest Italian since Marconi.”
“Very well, but give me your negative report on Flora while you can still talk. Doctor Berkeley hinted that there might be side effects from a voyage to Flora, mental allergies, nostalgia, even earth-alienation.”
“That headshrinker wouldn’t have the faintest idea what’s bothering me.”
“Hal, at times you irritate me. You’ll denigrate a whole field of study with one sweep.”
“There is no field of plant psychiatry, and, I tell you, the plants of Flora are sane to a degree that makes them dangerous to beings on our level of sanity, as they are dangerous to each other.”
“Doctor Hector,” she reminded him, “said the plant life of Flora was noncompetitive.”
“Superficially only. Soil conditions, drainage, prevalence of moisture, give a slight advantage to certain plants, but to seize on that advantage, they have to fight. There’s not an inch of Flora not fought over. The soil is drenched with the sap of slaughtered flowers. As a druid priest, I tell you, the spirit of those plants, including my tree, is not benign.”
“Are you telling me you’ve reevaluated your impression of a tree any jaybird would trust?”
“Yes,” he said seriously. “I’m convinced the tree intended to kill me.” His flat voice, sounding deep in his throat, alarmed her. Paranoia, she thought.
Haki clip-clopped to their table for the ceremonial tea-pouring, and Freda was grateful for the interruption as she watched the girl’s movements, fluttering with a ceremonial charm which interpreted the briskness of tea. And Haki was versatile. She poured Hal’s martini with motions that captured the sparkle of gin.
“What does Paul think of this?” Freda asked.
“Paul never commits himself,” Hal said, sipping his drink, “but he’s not fooled by appearances. You’re proof of that.”
Over her delicately poised teacup Freda asked, “Are you saying he doesn’t find me attractive?”
“I’d be a maple-loving Florian to imply that!” He was beginning to gesticulate. “But a man doesn’t marry a woman for the shape of her earlobes. Beauty vanishes, passion flees, and ardor can die within an hour. Give me fifteen minutes with Mona Lisa and she would be out the door, smile and
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