The Novel Page 9

  The A.B.E. Airport was proof that sometimes government officials can do things right. Perched on a huge field capable of handling big jets, and convenient to the three Dutch cities, Allentown, Bethlehem and Easton, it linked the Dutch country with the rest of America and the world. On a Thursday in April, Emma and I waited there at eleven in the morning to greet the Japanese and Israeli tycoons who proposed making the film that I had always wanted to see done. Hex and my other novels had not excited me as potential motion pictures, but as I told Emma while we waited for the United Airlines jet to fly in: ‘Shunning has something important to say, and I’d like to see it said on the screen.’

  We had no trouble spotting our guests, for the two men with such different backgrounds looked almost like twins—short, a bit overweight, with a dark complexion, bouncy steps and heads that constantly twisted about in an effort to inspect everything, a longtime habit that had projected them into strange adventures, including the making of movies.

  After introducing my wife, I said, ‘We’re most happy to see you. We have arranged to drive directly to a rather nice inn at Dresden, where we invite you to lunch. They have a quiet room where we can talk later.’

  ‘Agreeable,’ the Israeli said, ‘but Mr. Saito and I came here to take you to lunch.’ Emma said: ‘Fine.’

  As our Buick eased onto the Interstate and headed southwest she gave them an introduction to our area: ‘This is the Grenzler my husband writes about. Our farm, in the family for centuries, is just to the south, but we’re heading for the beautiful little town of Dresden, the capital of Grenzler, you might say. It’s an old Dutch village, with streets laid out in a grid like Philadelphia’s, but with several beautiful avenues winding in and out. In the center we have what we call Der Platz, a village square, and lining it to the north a splendid old inn with the crazy name the Dresden China. You’ll understand when we get there.’

  She explained there were two ways to enter Dresden from the Interstate: an imposing one with ramps leading right into town and a modest one along Rhenish Road that provided glimpses of the beautiful countryside. Our visitors, opting for the latter, had a chance to see the lovely rolling fields to the north and the spires of Dresden, but what pleased them most was the winding avenue in town that led them to Der Platz with its monument to the town’s Civil War veterans. It was in the grandiose style of the mid-nineteenth century, with four soldiers guarding the compass points.

  ‘And this is the Dresden China,’ Emma said as we drew up before the elegant white inn that occupied one entire side of Der Platz.

  The dining room, where lunch waited, was a charming space, decorated in a pastel blue against white walls and ecru curtains, but its main feature was a row of glass cases along two sides of the room, each filled with Meissen figurines, a few originals from the great period of the 1700s, most of them the cheaper but still beautiful reproductions from the late 1800s. The display was so attractive that Mr. Saito, a connoisseur of Japanese ceramics, walked immediately to the nearest case, studied the figurines for some minutes and then called for his Israeli partner to join him.

  Mr. Saito told him: ‘Look here! This illustrates exactly what we don’t want to do,’ and after the Israeli had inspected the chinaware, the two men joined us at the table. No sooner were they seated than Mr. Saito said: ‘Providential! That case illustrates everything we want to avoid,’ and he pointed to a shelf containing seven rather garish china figurines representing a German artist’s conception of a scene at the French court at Versailles: noblewomen making believe they were shepherdesses, but gross in form and heavy in coloring.

  ‘I do not like German ceramics,’ Mr. Saito said. ‘For me delicate Oriental ware, especially the austere celadon of Korea. The same our film. I want it to be not heavy German but delicate, gentle, like a celadon bowl.’

  Such talk bewildered me, but Emma used it as an excuse to pay the Japanese a compliment: ‘You speak beautiful English, Mr. Saito,’ and he explained: ‘When my company goes international, the directors import an Oxford professor teaches me English. Fourteen hours all day; nothing but English. That way I learn.’ He smiled: ‘But the Oxford man tell me: “Keep it simple,” so I use all verbs in present.’

  Before either of us could comment, the Israeli broke in: ‘Me too. Only Hebrew till seventeen. Then I have to learn English, bellboy at the King David in Jerusalem.’

  The determination of these men to learn a new language in order to excel in their new profession encouraged me to think they might be capable of creating a work of beauty, so I told them: ‘We’re eager to provide you with every assistance.’ When Emma asked: ‘Do you intend to keep my husband’s two major characters?’ we received an introduction to the shorthand used in Hollywood, for the Israeli, the practical member of the pair, said: ‘Indeed we do. We think the older brother like Rod Steiger, same appearance, same villain look, whether he wants it to show or not. Smirky, too. Now the younger brother, we see him as Maximilian Schell, more frail but man of tremendous character, like in Lillian Hellman film. Did you happen to catch him, the one in which Jason Robards plays her lover, the writer guy?’

  For the rest of the discussion it was Steiger and Schell conducting their feud in Lancaster County in the 1890s, but the conversation was interrupted by the bellboy, who informed the Israeli: ‘We got one and it’s set up in Room 217 ready to go.’

  Mr. Saito said: ‘We bring two films we want you see. They show better than words what we after,’ and they called the bellboy to lead us to the room where a rented VCR was already hooked to the television with the shades drawn.

  The Israeli said: ‘These films, great simplicity, much beauty. First is Barry Lyndon, made in 1975 after a Thackeray novel.’ Lowering his voice he said: ‘Anyone could make Vanity Fair. Simple characters. But look what Stanley Kubrick does, very subtle.’

  Mr. Saito added: ‘We do not show whole two hours, but this worth seeing,’ and within minutes of starting the VCR we were transported to an English countryside peopled with believable characters caught in slowly developing situations that charmed but did not exhaust, as the typical costume dramas did with their violent swordplay. Emma and I had heard of neither the novel nor the movie, but we were soon captivated by its mesmerizing loveliness, and when, after forty minutes, Mr. Saito cut it off, I said: ‘I can imagine my story done that way,’ and the visitors said they had hoped for such a reaction.

  ‘Next one,’ Saito said, ‘proves it can also be done without no costumes,’ and into the VCR he placed A Room with a View, made in 1985 by the adventurous Merchant-Ivory company. Based on a novel by E. M. Forster, it was entirely different from the first, with no special emphasis on landscaping or costuming. The routine views of Florence and the English countryside were utilized in such a way as to underline and strengthen the story line, which involved ordinary people caught up in ordinary matters. It was such a sensitive film that we almost protested when it was halted midway.

  ‘We do at least as well,’ Mr. Saito said as his partner raised the shades, but Emma wanted to know: ‘Did either film make money?’ and the visitors said almost together: ‘Lyndon flopped,’ but then the Israeli said: ‘We shall see that ours does not.’

  Looking at his watch, Mr. Saito asked: ‘Is it possible you drive us to the Amish area, right now, so we see it with you?’ I said: ‘Yes, but we have to move. This time of year light fades quickly.’ Emma herded us downstairs and out to our old Buick, but we were held up by Mr. Saito, who ran back to the inn: ‘I got to have my cameras.’

  Properly adorned with two Nikons, he grinned apologetically: ‘If we make film, take pictures of scene for writers.’ He then asked Emma: ‘Would you mind, Mrs. Yoder, ride in back? I must see landscape,’ and she said brightly: ‘That’s no problem, because I’m driving. We’re heading into my country and here’s a map for you to follow,’ and she whisked us southwest along the Interstate through Berks County’s rolling hills. As she drove she told Mr. Saito: ‘The two brothers in Shunning were my a
ncestors.’ When he turned to stare at her she said: ‘Well, my family way back. The younger one was my grandfather.’

  Before the visitors could respond to that amazing revelation, Mr. Saito cried: ‘Stop!’ and we were faced by a typical American sign: YOU ARE ENTERING LANCASTER COUNTY. RICHEST FARMLAND IN AMERICA. Whipping into position his camera containing color film, he said as he left the car: ‘All Japanese carry cameras. This Japanese carries his for most important purpose.’

  Since his Nikons had battery-driven motors that advanced the film at amazing speed, he was able to shoot almost as rapidly as he could swing the camera to catch the various aspects of the landscape, and since it also used an oversize cartridge providing not thirty-six shots but seventy-two, he was not afraid of running out of film. But as soon as he was satisfied with his color shots, he switched easily to his black-and-white and continued blazing away at the county in which his company would be doing much work in 1991 or ’92.

  Back in the car he became more selective, and he had a sagacious eye for scenes he might want to recommend to whomever the company chose to do the film. Peremptorily he would cry: ‘Stop here! Landscape speaks!’ And out he would jump, clicking like mad. In the course of an hour, as light began to fade, he changed rolls four times in his color camera, three times in his black-and-white, giving him well over six hundred shots. When he was finished with the Amish country he was going to have a full record of what it looked like in April.

  Emma and I were struck by the extreme courtesy Mr. Saito showed, and the Israeli too, to any Amish he encountered. Never did he photograph them without permission. However, he did place himself inconspicuously behind a tree to take shots of the black horse-drawn buggies as they filed along the country road, snapping furiously but in a way that would not embarrass the bearded, black-frocked travelers.

  Emma developed such a high regard for our gentlemanly visitors that she was inspired to say: ‘You know, the farm where the brothers lived, the old Stoltzfus place, still exists. Would you like to see how the land sits? The buildings have been modified, of course, but it’s still there.’

  Mr. Saito almost jumped out of the Buick, thinking the farm was at hand, but she restrained him, and by dodging down back roads she brought us to the farm where the old struggle over moral principles had been fought, and Mr. Saito said as they remained in the car to survey the scene: ‘Not suspenders drive them apart. Entire scale of values men believe in.’ Leaning back in his seat to study the setting, he said quietly: ‘I see things in pictures. The idea of this area captures me. But never, never do I visualize it so perfect … low hills … a stream … the barns. Come, we catch it all while still light.’

  The two men leaped out of the car and began clicking their cameras in all directions, striving to catch the exact look of the old Stoltzfus farm, where the socioreligious tragedy had occurred, but at one point, when Mr. Saito was standing near me, he stopped shooting, studied the wonderful fields that constituted the farm and said aloud: ‘So much empty land, so few people,’ and I could guess at what must have been going through his mind, coming as he did from a tiny overpopulated country.

  Then, to my surprise, he took the Israeli by the arm and they walked boldly to the farmhouse, spoke briefly with the owners and were apparently told: ‘No, you cannot photograph here.’ Without argument they nodded to the Amish family and withdrew, but as soon as they rejoined us the Israeli asked Emma to stepout, and with his white handkerchief and Mr. Saito’s he deftly fashioned what from a distance looked very much like the white bonnet worn by Dutch women. Placing this on Emma’s head and adjusting it skillfully, he made her resemble one of her female ancestors, and as she moved here and there in front of the barns and buildings the two men snapped her, and at certain moments when she moved in an unexpected way and at such a distance, I saw her as living and moving in the days of the feud.

  We drove back to the Dresden China in darkness, had an early supper and went upstairs to Room 217, where we spent two hours viewing the last halves of Lyndon and Room. Viewed so soon after having seen the real landscape of Shunning, the films reminded us of what might be accomplished with the Amish story, for as Mr. Saito said: ‘I am awed by beauty of your land. Drama of the brothers, I understand that when I read book in Japan. But I do not realize they battle for land of such magnificence.’ I had to break in: ‘I wrote the story, and it wasn’t land they were struggling over, it was religion,’ but Mr. Saito replied: ‘You think it is religion. It is really recovery of his land that make Amos willing to crawl back and beg forgiveness.’ Turning to his partner, he said solemnly: ‘We shoot it as an epic of the land, because the land we see today has epic quality.’

  As they walked Emma and me back to our car, Mr. Saito said: ‘Not bother with us in morning. We hire car from the inn and scoot over to airport.’ Kissing Emma’s hand, he concluded: ‘You are not ashamed when you see our film,’ and we drove home willing to accept that prediction, for we knew we had been in the presence of two sensible and sensitive men.

  * * *

  In subsequent weeks the A.B.E. Airport saw various groups of strangers fly in, rent cars, and set off to look for Rhenish Road and the Yoders. Why were they bothering to interview me when the received wisdom was that my novel was a flop? Because both Ms. Marmelle and Miss Crane, determined to protect their own interests as well as mine, were building every backfire they could, calling upon old friends for help, sending out letters saying how exciting my novel was, and using every other imaginative ploy to nullify the big adverse blows.

  Most effective was goading media people to come to Dresden to see that I was still alive and in possession of whatever faculties I once had. Some had been dispatched by Ms. Marmelle, others by Miss Crane, but all made their final arrangements with Emma, who became almost hoarse giving instructions on how to exit the airport, catch the Interstate headed west, and watch for Rhenish Road and the sharp turn back east: ‘If you get lost, ask anyone. They’ll know our farm.’

  Two reporters from German television hired a three-man technical crew in New York and brought them down for what such groups always swore would take at most forty-five minutes: ‘Fifteen minutes’ setup, thirty minutes’ shooting and we’re gone.’ But when they saw our inviting living room and learned that I had an outside shop in which I painted, they spent two hours choosing camera angles and lighting them properly. Shooting and reshooting took another hour and a half; reverse shots of the same scene, focused not on me but on my questioner so that it would look like a dialogue, took more time, and my work was totally disrupted.

  Emma always protested in advance, groused when they rearranged her furniture, but finally served them drinks, and in the end almost made herself a member of their crew, asking about their families and looking approvingly at photographs of their children. When they asked, at five in the afternoon: ‘Would you accompany us to dinner?’ I wanted to say ‘No, thanks,’ but Emma was so eager to remain with them and hear their stories that I had to say, rather sourly I’m afraid: ‘The day’s gone. I guess we can spare the night, too,’ and in we went to the China, where the Germans found the dining room so colorful they took a whole new series of shots of me posed against the Meissen figurines.

  As we drove home I grumbled: ‘What a waste of time,’ but Emma reminded me: ‘We have a lot of readers in Germany. This is how we nurture them.’ Since we also had a lot of readers in Great Britain, the B.B.C. flew in a crew for a session much like the Germans’ and another workday was wasted, but the men were so delighted with Emma that again she urged me to accompany them to dinner at the China, where conversation about Diana, the Princess of Wales, and the new movie about Christine Keeler was lively. I supposed that such interviews might help in the foreign distribution of my books, but I wasn’t too sure; when the visitors returned home and wrote to thank us for our hospitality, I noticed they always referred to Emma, not me. Later a Japanese television crew wanted to come down, spurred no doubt by Mr. Saito, but Emma had to say ‘No,’ f
or she had her own plans and they could not be disrupted.

  Each spring the women who had been classmates at Bryn Mawr in years past held reunions on the college grounds, where they renewed old friendships, recalled good times, and, not incidentally, provided the fund-raising staff of the university with current addresses. For many years Emma had missed these annual meetings, at first because she had no money to spend on such frivolities and later because we were too busy concentrating on my career. In the early years she could imagine her former friends asking at the picnic: ‘Whatever happened to that curious Stoltzfus girl, Amish I think?’ and someone would say: ‘She’s teaching school in some small town.’ She could imagine their feeling smug, with husbands who were directors of great companies or heads of departments at major universities.

  This would be the forty-fifth anniversary of her graduation, the kind that alumnae like to return to, and early on she let it be known that not only would she be coming but her husband too would be trailing along. She did not rub it in; she did not phrase it ‘my famous husband,’ but that’s how she intended it to be read, and that’s how it was. She knew that her classmates would be hauling along scores of my books.

  Prior to the reunion she made a secret call to Miss Crane from a pay phone in Rostock: ‘This is Emma Yoder. As you know, Lukas asks me to take charge of his income—taxes and all. Am I right in assuming that we’ll be making a great deal of money this year?’

  ‘Not as much as planned but more than you’ll know what to do with.’

  ‘I’ll know what to do with it.’

  If we took the lovely winding back roads of the Dutch country, Bryn Mawr was a mere thirty miles south and slightly to the west of our farm, so we did not have to leave home till shortly after five on a Friday afternoon to arrive in time for the intimate dinner prior to the festivities, and it was with quiet satisfaction that Emma, the insignificant little teacher of English in the Souderton schools from 1946 to 1984, made her appearance with her husband in tow. Few of her former classmates remembered her, but some were familiar with the photographs that appeared on the backs of my books, and soon everyone knew that Emma Stoltzfus had arrived.