“Is there a bellboy?”
“You look strong enough to carry your own bag.” He pointed beyond Dasein. “Room's up them stairs, second floor.”
Dasein turned. There was an open area behind the stagecoach. Scattered through it were leather chairs, high wings and heavy arms, a few occupied by elderly men sitting, reading. Light came from heavy brass floor lamps with fringed shades. A carpeted stairway led upward beyond the chairs.
It was a scene Dasein was to think of many times later as his first clue to the real nature of Santaroga. The effect was that of holding time securely in a bygone age.
Vaguely troubled, Dasein said: “I'll check my room later. May I leave my bag here while I eat?”
“Leave it on the counter. No one'll bother it.”
Dasein put the case on the counter, caught the clerk studying him with a fixed stare.
“Something wrong?” Dasein asked.
“Nope.”
The clerk reached for the briefcase under Dasein's arm, but
Dasein stepped back, removed it from the questing fingers, met an angry stare.
“Hmmmph!” the clerk snorted. There was no mistaking his frustration. He'd wanted a look inside the briefcase.
Inanely, Dasein said: “I ⦠uh, want to look over some papers while I'm eating.” And he thought:
Why do I need to explain?
Feeling angry with himself, he turned, strode through the passage into the dining room. He found himself in a large square room, a single massive chandelier in the center, brass carriage lamps spaced around walls of dark wood paneling. The chairs at the round tables were heavy with substantial arms. A long teak bar stretched along the wall at his left, a wood-framed mirror behind it. Light glittered hypnotically from the central chandelier and glasses stacked beneath the mirror.
The room swallowed sounds. Dasein felt he had walked into a sudden hush with people turning to look at him. Actually, his entrance went almost unnoticed.
A white-coated bartender on duty for a scattering of customers at the bar glanced at him, went back to talking to a swarthy man hunched over a mug of beer.
Family groups occupied about a dozen of the tables. There was a card game at a table near the bar. Two tables held lone women busy with their forks.
There was a division of people in this room, Dasein felt. It was a matter of nervous tension contrasted with a calmness as substantial as the room itself. He decided he could pick out the transientsâthey appeared tired, more rumpled; their children were closer to rebellion.
As he moved farther into the room, Dasein glimpsed himself in the bar mirrorâfatigue lines on his slender face, the curly black hair mussed by the wind, brown eyes glazed with attention, still driving the car. A smudge of road dirt drew a dark line beside the cleft in his chin. Dasein rubbed at the smudge, thought:
Here's another transient.
“You wish a table, sir?”
A Negro waiter had appeared at his elbowâwhite jacket, hawk nose, sharp Moorish features, a touch of gray at the temples. There was a look of command about him all out of
agreement with the menial costume. Dasein thought immediately of Othello. The eyes were brown and wise.
“Yes, please: for one,” Dasein said.
“This way, sir.”
Dasein was guided to a table against the near wall. One of the carriage lamps bathed it in a warm yellow glow. As the heavy chair enveloped him, Dasein's attention went to the table near the barâthe card game ⦠four men. He recognized one of the men from a picture Jenny had carried: Piaget, the doctor uncle, author of the medical journal article on allergens. Piaget was a large, gray-haired man, bland round face, a curious suggestion of the Oriental about him that was heightened by the fan of cards held close to his chest.
“You wish a menu, sir?”
“Yes. Just a moment ⦠the men playing cards with Dr. Piaget over there.”
“Sir?”
“Who are they?”
“You know Dr. Larry, sir?”
“I know his niece, Jenny Sorge. She carried a photo of Dr. Piaget.”
The waiter glanced at the briefcase Dasein had placed in the center of the table. “Dasein,” he said. A wide smile put a flash of white in the dark face. “You're Jenny's friend from the school.”
The waiter's words carried so many implications that Dasein found himself staring, open-mouthed.
“Jenny's spoken of you, sir,” the waiter said.
“Oh.”
“The men playing cards with Dr. Larryâyou want to know who they are.” He turned toward the players. “Well, sir, that's Captain Al Marden of the Highway Patrol across from Dr. Larry. On the right there, that's George Nis. He manages the Jaspers Cheese Co-op. The fellow on the left is Mr. Sam Scheler. Mr. Sam runs our independent service station. I'll get you that menu, sir.”
The waiter headed toward the bar.
Dasein's attention remained on the card players, wondering why they held his interest so firmly. Marden, sitting with his back partly turned toward Dasein, was in mufti, a dark blue
suit. His hair was a startling mop of red. He turned his head to the right and Dasein glimpsed a narrow face, tight-lipped mouth with a cynical downtwist.
Scheler of the independent service station (Dasein wondered about this designation suddenly) was dark skinned, an angular Indian face with flat nose, heavy lips. Nis, across from him, was balding, sandy-haired, blue eyes with heavy lids, a wide mouth and deeply cleft chin.
“Your menu, sir.”
The waiter placed a large red-covered folder in front of Dasein.
“Dr. Piaget and his friends appear to be enjoying their game,” Dasein said.
“That game's an institution, sir. Every week about this hour, regular as sunsetâdinner here and that game.”
“What do they play?”
“It varies, sir. Sometimes it's bridge, sometimes pinochle. They play whist on occasion and even poker.”
“What did you meanâ
independent
service station?” Dasein asked. He looked up at the dark Moorish face.
“Well, sir, we here in the valley don't mess around with those companies fixin' their prices. Mr. Sam, he buys from whoever gives him the best offer. We pay about four cents less a gallon here.”
Dasein made a mental note to investigate this aspect of the Santaroga Barrier. It was in character, not buying from the big companies, but where did they get their oil products?
“The roast beef is very good, sir,” the waiter said, pointing to the menu.
“You recommend it, eh?”
“I do that, sir. Grain fattened right here in the valley. We have fresh corn on the cob, potatoes Jaspersâthat's with cheese sauce, very good, and we have hot-house strawberries for dessert.”
“Salad?” Dasein asked.
“Our salad greens aren't very good this week, sir. I'll bring you the soup. It's borscht with sour cream. And you'd like beer with that. I'll see if I can't get you some of our local product.”
“With you around I don't need a menu,” Dasein said. He
returned the red-covered folder. “Bring it on before I start eating the tablecloth.”
“Yes, sir!”
Dasein watched the retreating blackâwhite coated, wide, confident. Othello, indeed.
The waiter returned presently with a steaming bowl of soup, a white island of sour cream floating in it, and a darkly amber mug of beer.
“I note you're the only Negro waiter here,” Dasein said. “Isn't that kind of type casting?”
“You asking if I'm their
show
Negro, sir?” The waiter's voice was suddenly wary.
“I was wondering if Santaroga had any integration problems.”
“Must be thirty, forty colored families in the valley, sir. We don't rightly emphasize the distinction of skin color here.” The voice was hard, curt.
“I didn't mean to offend you,” Dasein said.
“You didn't offend me.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth, was gone. “I must admit a Negro waiter is a kind of institutional accent. Place like this ⦔ He glanced around the solid, paneled room. “ ⦠must've had plenty of Negro waiters here in its day. Kind of like local color having me on the job.” Again, that flashing smile. “It's a good job, and my kids are doing even better. Two of 'em work in the Co-op; other's going to be a lawyer.”
“You have three children?”
“Two boys and a girl. If you'll excuse me, sir; I have other tables.”
“Yes, of course.”
Dasein lifted the mug of beer as the waiter left.
He held the beer a moment beneath his nose. There was a tangy odor about it with a suggestion of cellars and mushrooms. Dasein remembered suddenly that Jenny had praised the local Santaroga beer. He sipped itâsoft on the tongue, smooth, clean aftertaste of malt. It was everything Jenny had said.
Jenny,
he thought.
Jenny ⦠Jenny
â¦
Why had she never invited him to Santaroga on her regular weekend trips home? She'd never missed a weekend, he
recalled. Their dates had always been in mid-week. He remembered what she'd told him about herself: orphaned, raised by the uncle, Piaget, and a maiden aunt ⦠Sarah.
Dasein took another drink of the beer, sampled the soup. They did go well together. The sour cream had a flavor reminiscent of the beer, a strange new tang.
There'd never been any mistaking Jenny's affection for him, Dasein thought. They'd had a
thing
, chemical, exciting. But no direct invitation to meet her family, see the valley. A hesitant probing, yesâwhat would he think of setting up practice in Santaroga? Sometime, he must talk to Uncle Larry about some interesting cases.
What cases?
Dasein wondered, remembering. The Santaroga information folders Dr. Selador had supplied were definite: “No reported cases of mental illness.”
Jenny ⦠Jenny â¦
Dasein's mind went back to the night he'd proposed. No hesitant probing on Jenny's part thenâCould he live in Santaroga?
He could remember his own incredulous demand: “Why do we have to live in Santaroga?”
“Because I can't live anywhere else.” That was what she'd said. “Because I can't live anywhere else.”
Love me, love my valley.
No amount of pleading could wring an explanation from her. She'd made that plain. In the end, he'd reacted with anger boiling out of injured manhood. Did she think he couldn't support her any place but in Santaroga?
“Come and see Santaroga,” she'd begged.
“Not unless you'll consider living outside.”
Impasse.
Remembering the fight, Dasein felt his cheeks go warm. It'd been finals week. She'd refused to answer his telephone calls for two days ⦠and he'd refused to call after that. He'd retreated into a hurt shell.
And Jenny had gone back to her precious valley. When he'd written, swallowed his pride, offered to come and see herâno answer. Her valley had swallowed her.
This valley.
Dasein sighed, looked around the dining room, remembering
Jenny's intensity when she spoke about Santaroga. This paneled dining room, the Santarogans he could see, didn't fit the picture in his mind.
Why didn't she answer my letters?
he asked himself.
Most likely she's married. That must be it.
Dasein saw his waiter come around the end of the bar with a tray. The bartender signaled, called: “Win.” The waiter stopped, rested the tray on the bar. Their heads moved close together beside the tray. Dasein received the impression they were arguing. Presently, the waiter said something with a chopping motion of the head, grabbed up the tray, brought it to Dasein's table.
“Doggone busybody,” he said as he put the tray down across from Dasein, began distributing the dishes from it. “Try to tell me I can't give you Jaspers! Good friend of Jenny's and I can't give him Jaspers.”
The waiter's anger cooled; he shook his head, smiled, put a plate mounded with food before Dasein.
“Too doggone many busybodies in this world, y' ask me.”
“The bartender,” Dasein said. “I heard him call you âWin.'”
“Winston Burdeaux, sir, at your service.” He moved around the table closer to Dasein. “Wouldn't give me any Jaspers beer for you this time, sir.” He took a frosted bottle from the tray, put it near the mug of beer he'd served earlier. “This isn't as good as what I brought before. The food's real Jaspers, though. Doggone busybody couldn't stop me from doing that.”