"Fun, wasn't it? Well, taking Darling's money can be fun for us too."
She made a kissing noise.
"That, Geoffrey, is a big sweet kiss. And please give a hug to Frank for me, even though I haven't met him yet."
After we hung up, I sat behind Frank's desk. Talking to her made me feel good. She was so vibrant, alive, and she was right about letting the danger excite me. All I had to do, I found, was just to think about it in a certain way.
When Frank came out of the darkroom he showed me the latest work of Leo DeSalle and Nelly Steele. He did all their black-and-white printing.
Several times he paused to explain the pains he'd taken to achieve a particularly sensitive effect.
The two famous photographers made good strong pictures. DeSalle was the old master, working in the grandview landscape tradition, while Steele, his young lover and prot6g6e, made perfect tender little still-lifes.
"Leo doesn't bother with the darkroom anymore. He's done it all, and he'll keep doing it till he dies-climbing around the rocks like an old mule, setting up, then burying his head under the focusing cloth. But Nelly cares about everything, every tone, every nuance. Which is why, in time, she'll surpass him. And if she's smart, she'll leave him for someone else."
There was something poignant in Frank's observation that dovetailed with the comments he'd made on the site of "Moonrise, Hernandez." He was a master printer and a master analyst-he had the ability to see straight to the core of a situation. Looking again at his own work, I wondered why he tried to obfuscate what he saw. There a density in his pictures that blocked access to their g. He showed the viewer something new, but he beckon him past the surface of the paper with his passion. 4'Can't imagine trying to bring this off without you, Frank," I said.
"But still I'd like to know why you want in on such a dirty deal." He searched my eyes.
"Money. "Come on! It can't just be that."
"Why not?" He looked almost angry.
"Hey! Don't make me feel bad I asked a question,"
"Sorry," he said. And then: "Your question cuts pretty close. "
"I understand. Look-maybe ou don't see it, but in a way you really do have it all. Great family. Great wife. You live in one of the most desirable places in the country. You and Mai are artists, you make your own hours. Maybe you're not as rich as DeSalle, but how many artists are?"
"Sure," he said, "I know all that. But it's not enough anymore. I'm forty-four, I'm tired of struggling. I'm sick of worrying-can I afford to have the car fixed? pay the grocery bill? send Ali to college? I'm sick of printing DeSalle's pictures, then reading articles about the superb prints of Leo DeSalle. I want to be a full-time photographer, take my shot, see how far I can go. And I want the same for Mai because I think her besi-work's still ahead. That's what it's all about, Geof@coring the money to buy the time to pursue our own work for a couple years."
But after midnight, as we drove back to Galisteo, the scent of pifion trees heavy in the night air, he told me something else: "What I was saying up at Hernandez sometimes I wonder whether I'll ever be ready the way you were." ':Ready for what?" , to take the great picture when it comes."
"Come on, Frank!". His self-pity bothered me.
'!'in a highly competent "No, Geof-I mean it. I know photographer. But maybe I'm better at something else?"
He went quiet after that, but a few minutes later, when he spoke again, his voice was different.
"Maybe this thing you've brought me, this blackmail thing-maybe this'll be my 'Moonrise,' " he said.
Again in the morning the fiery sun stoked up the cold dry fields. Mai drove the girls to the bus, while Frank and I sat outside working up a plan.
We plotted out the next steps: Kim's and my trip to New York, what each of us would do, who'd say what to whom, demonstrations we could make of our seriousness of purpose. I phoned Kim in Key West twice that morning, and both times I put Frank on to speak with her. He asked her questions about Mrs. Z. Listening in to his side of the conversations, I could tell they were getting along.."I think this partnership just may work out," Frank said after he spoke with her the second time.
"She's a real live wire, this girl of yours."
"You told me, 'Don't let her go,' " I reminded him.
By noon we were excited; we felt we had a viable plan. We'd war-gamed the thing every which way, and though there were several points of danger, we couldn't find any major flaws.
Mai called us to lunch. The three of us ate at a picnic table in the back garden. Then Frank offered me his second car, a beat-up Volvo, to use while he went up to Santa Fe to tend his gallery. He gave me a map, marked some places he thought I might find interesting. When I was in the driver's seat ready to leave, he propped his arms against the door, leaned forward and spoke.
"You know you're going to have to pack iron."
I shook my head.
"You have to, Geof."
"I didn't carry a gun in 'Nam. I'm not starting now."
"Yeah, right-you only carry a camera. Well, we'll have to think about that," he said.
I drove to Lami, checked out the railroad station, then followed the Pecos River into the Sangre de Cristo range. There was a Benedictine monastery up there. I looked at it. But when I came to a settlement called El Macho, I did a U-turn and drove back to Galisteo.
I found Mai in her studio, an open-walled building set behind the house.
She was wearing a welder's mask, cutting steel with an oxyacetylene blowpipe. She had an old stereo going full blast back there, Maria Callas as Norma, barely audible above the roar of her torch.
When she saw me she signaled me to stand back. For a while I watched her work. It was a strange scene, Callas singing her heart out while that lean little Vietnamese woman in the huge mask created showers of sparks.
Finally she turned off the torch and raised her visor.
"Want to talk, Geof-Frey?"
I nodded. She pulled off her asbestos gloves, tossed them onto her worktable. Then she led me around the side of the house.
We walked out into the front field, where her sculptures were set amid the weeds. Again I saw, in the strong abstract forms, images of skeletons.
"Oh, yes, Geof-Frey," she said, "they are the icons of this country. New Mexico is crucifixes and bleached old skulls. Crosses, swastikas and bones."
She led me to her largest piece, took my hand, pressed it to the metal.
"Caress, Geof-Frey. Feel the texture. The sun and the rain, how they mark the steel. Old wood, iron…. they change here. Age. Adapt. In time they become…. part of the land." I looked at her. She had aged in the years since I had met her, but there was still something youthful in her face, her eyes. There was a moment there when I felt a surge of love for her, as intense as the love I'd felt so long ago in Saigon.
"Mai.
She brought her finger to her lips.
"Don't say it, Geof-Frey. "
"You know wat I'm going to say.
"What you're doing here. I don't want to know. Frank doesn't tell me.
Better you don't tell me. Best keep it secret. Okay?"
"Okay," I said.
"Frank has changed. Do you see it?"
I nodded.
"He's more bitter now. Kids don't see it yet. He's so kind with them.
But I worry. One day they will see. He needs luck, Geof-Frey. Before too long. Life is good here. I am happy. But Frank not happy. He wants more. We have everything. But for Frank She shook her head.
"Not enough."
"He's an American, Mai. You know us, we're never content.
She smiled. We walked farther into the field. Some of her sculptures had rust on them, an effect, she told me, that she liked.
"You're sorry I came, aren't you?" I asked her.
"Always love to see you, Geof-Frey,"
"You think I'm bringing trouble here. Trouble for Frank.