“I guess that’s right,” said Samuel. “In my own way I tell jokes because people come all the way to my place to laugh. I try to be funny for them even when the sadness is on me.”
“But the Irish are said to be a happy people, full of jokes.”
“There’s your pidgin and your queue. They’re not. They’re a dark people with a gift for suffering way past their deserving. It’s said that without whisky to soak and soften the world, they’d kill themselves. But they tell jokes because it’s expected of them.”
Lee unwrapped a little bottle. “Would you like some of this? Chinese drink ng-ka-py.”
“What is it?”
“Chinee blandy. Stlong dlink—as a matter of fact it’s a brandy with a dosage of wormwood. Very powerful. It softens the world.”
Samuel sipped from the bottle. “Tastes a little like rotten apples,” he said.
“Yes, but nice rotten apples. Taste it back along your tongue toward the roots.”
Samuel took a big swallow and tilted his head back. “I see what you mean. That is good.”
“Here are some sandwiches, pickles, cheese, a can of buttermilk.”
“You do well.”
“Yes, I see to it.”
Samuel bit into a sandwich. “I was shuffling over half a hundred questions. What you said brings the brightest one up. You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. The only thing I do want to ask of you is not to talk this way when other people are listening. It would only confuse them and they wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
“I’ll try,” said Samuel. “If I slip, just remember that I’m a comical genius. It’s hard to split a man down the middle and always to reach for the same half.”
“I think I can guess what your next question is.”
“What?”
“Why am I content to be a servant?”
“How in the world did you know?”
“It seemed to follow.”
“Do you resent the question?”
“Not from you. There are no ugly questions except those clothed in condescension. I don’t know where being a servant came into disrepute. It is the refuge of a philosopher, the food of the lazy, and, properly carried out, it is a position of power, even of love. I can’t understand why more intelligent people don’t take it as a career—learn to do it well and reap its benefits. A good servant has absolute security, not because of his master’s kindness, but because of habit and indolence. It’s a hard thing for a man to change spices or lay out his own socks. He’ll keep a bad servant rather than change. But a good servant, and I am an excellent one, can completely control his master, tell him what to think, how to act, whom to marry, when to divorce, reduce him to terror as a discipline, or distribute happiness to him, and finally be mentioned in his will. If I had wished I could have robbed, stripped, and beaten anyone I’ve worked for and come away with thanks. Finally, in my circumstances I am unprotected. My master will defend me, protect me. You have to work and worry. I work less and worry less. And I am a good servant. A bad one does no work and does no worrying, and he still is fed, clothed, and protected. I don’t know any profession where the field is so cluttered with incompetents and where excellence is so rare.”
Samuel leaned toward him, listening intently.
Lee went on, “It’s going to be a relief after that to go back to pidgin.”
“It’s a very short distance to the Sanchez place. Why did we stop so near?” Samuel asked.
“Allee time talkee. Me Chinee number one boy. You leddy go now?”
“What? Oh, sure. But it must be a lonely life.”
“That’s the only fault with it,” said Lee. “I’ve been thinking of going to San Francisco and starting a little business.”
“Like a laundry? Or a grocery store?”
“No. Too many Chinese laundries and restaurants. I thought perhaps a bookstore. I’d like that, and the competition wouldn’t be too great. I probably won’t do it though. A servant loses his initiative.”
3
In the afternoon Samuel and Adam rode over the land. The wind came up as it did every afternoon, and the yellow dust ran into the sky.
“Oh, it’s a good piece,” Samuel cried. “It’s a rare piece of land.”
“Seems to me it’s blowing away bit by bit,” Adam observed.
“No, it’s just moving over a little. You lose some to the James ranch but you get some from the Southeys.”
“Well, I don’t like the wind. Makes me nervous.”
“Nobody likes wind for very long. It makes animals nervous and restless too. I don’t know whether you noticed, but a little farther up the valley they’re planting windbreaks of gum trees. Eucalyptus—comes from Australia. They say the gums grow ten feet a year. Why don’t you try a few rows and see what happens? In time they should back up the wind a little, and they make grand firewood.”
“Good idea,” Adam said. “What I really want is water. This wind would pump all the water I could find. I thought if I could bring in a few wells and irrigate, the topsoil wouldn’t blow away. I might try some beans.”
Samuel squinted into the wind. “I’ll try to get you water if you want,” he said. “And I’ve got a little pump I made that will bring it up fast. It’s my own invention. A windmill is a pretty costly thing. Maybe I could build them for you and save you some money.”
“That’s good,” said Adam. “I wouldn’t mind the wind if it worked for me. And if I could get water I might plant alfalfa.”
“It’s never brought much of a price.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that. Few weeks ago I took a drive up around Greenfield and Gonzales. Some Swiss have moved in there. They’ve got nice little dairy herds, and they get four crops of alfalfa a year.”
“I heard about them. They brought in Swiss cows.” Adam’s face was bright with plans. “That’s what I want to do. Sell butter and cheese and feed the milk to pigs.”
“You’re going to bring credit to the valley,” Samuels said. “You’re going to be a real joy to the future.”
“If I can get water.”
“I’ll get you water if there’s any to be got. I’ll find it. I brought my magic wand.” He patted a forked stick tied to his saddle.
Adam pointed to the left where a wide flat place was covered with a low growth of sagebrush. “Now then,” he said, “thirty-six acres and almost level as a floor. I put an auger down. Topsoil averages three and a half feet, sand on top and loam within plow reach. Think you could get water there?”