Kevin sat at the back and watched her work. Despite her ease and laughter there was something objective, even formal in her manner. The kids were relaxed but respectful around her, and if they horsed around excessively a laser glance from her dark eyes would be enough to put them back to the task. Remembering their own days in high school—in the very same room—Kevin had to laugh: she had been a hell-raiser then. Maybe that was an advantage, now that it was her job to keep control. Station to station, running each student through the work, making sure they understood, moving on with instructions for further experiments onscreen…. It was clear she was a good teacher, and that was a pleasure to see. It was important for a teacher to have a certain distance, she should be liked and admired but also at a distance, a strong personality presenting a strong and coherent portrait of the world. This is the way the world is! the strong teacher says in every phrase and glance; not to downplay the complexity of the world, but to present a clear and distinct single view of it, which students could then work against in building their own views. It wasn’t so important that the teacher present all sides of a case, or pretend to neutrality in controversial issues. Over the years the multiplicity of teachers that every student got would take care of that. What was more important was that a teacher advocate a vivid, powerful set of ideas, to be a force, to make an impact. Population biology was still a seething mass of theoretical controversy, for instance, but Ramona argued the case for her beliefs as firmly as if speaking to a dissertation committee judging her—outlining other opinions, but then countering them with the ones she believed in. And the students listened. Kevin too.
Then class was done, and they were out in the late afternoon’s honey light. The color of high school swim team workouts. “Come on, we just have enough time to tour El Toro before dinner. I’ve got to make the meal tonight, you can help.”
“Sure.” They were going to have to gain altitude fast to catch up to Kevin.
Dear Claire:
I am here.
I arrived three weeks ago, and was offered my choice of housing: I could lease a small empty tract house, or I could take up residence in a large communal home which had some empty rooms. I went to visit the communal home, and found it occupied by a number of extraordinarily friendly, healthy, energetic and beautiful people. Naturally I chose the small empty tract house. Note address below.
The town is indeed as arcadian as I thought when visiting for the interviews—idyllic or bucolic, depending on mood. Part of it lies just under foothills; then these same foothills form the middle of the town, geographically, though they are sparsely populated; and behind the foothills there is a section of high canyon within the town limits. Most of the town seems to consist of gardens, truck farms, nurseries—in any case, land in cultivation—except for that given over to bike paths, swimming pools or sport fields. Orchards are popular. Although we are in Orange County, the trees seem mostly to be lemon, avocado, olive—I promise at first opportunity I will open the tree guide you gave me, and figure out which. I know you will want to know.
There is just as much sun as legends say, perhaps more. Three weeks of it and I feel a bit stunned. Imagine the effect of lifetimes of it, and you will more fully understand the local culture.
They bike to excess. In fact there is no public transport except for car rentals on the freeways, which are expensive. Motorbikes are even more expensive. Obviously the feeling is that your own legs should move you. People here have strong legs.
On the other hand they don’t know who Groucho Marx is. And as far as I can determine, not only is there no live theater in El Modena—the whole county is bare of it! Yes, I’m in the Gobi. I’m in Nova Zemlya. I’m in—yes—I’m in Orange County. I’m in the land where culture consists of a vigorous swim workout, followed by a discussion of the usefulness of hand paddles.
I witnessed this very discussion the other day, when my new friend Kevin urged me to come by the pool. I dropped by and saw about thirty people, swimming back and forth. Back and forth, and back and forth. And so on. Very, very energetically. The exercise certainly creates some beautiful bodies—something I’d rather watch than have, as you know.
At one point Kevin leaped out salmonlike and invited me to join them. I explained that an allergy, alas, prevented me from doing so.
Oh too bad, he said. Allergic to chlorine?
To exertion.
Oh, wow—what a shame!
I suggested to him that they were wasting a fine energy source. Look, I said, if you were only to tie lines to your ankles, and have the lines wound on spools that offered a little resistance, then it might be possible to store some small fraction of the calories used to swim across the pool. One or more solar panels could be retired from service, the constellations made less cluttered. Kevin nodded thoughtfully. Good idea! he said. But he bogged down in design difficulties, and promised he would get back to me.
Kevin, by the way, is the builder I’ve hired to renovate my new domicile; he’s a bioarchitect. Yes, the latest thing, it’s my style now. In fact I saw several examples of Kevin’s work before hiring him, and he is very good—a sort of poet of homes, with a talent for spacious, sculpted interior space. My hopes are high.
Having seen his work, it was at first disconcerting to meet Kevin himself, because in person he strikes one as a very ordinary carpenter: tall, lanky, loose in a way that makes you immediately confident that he can field grounders with the best of them. He grins a lot. In fact he wandered through my whole house grinning, on his first visit; but with a squint that could have indicated Deep Thought. I hope so. In any case, a new friend. He laughs at my extravagances, I at his, and in our mutual amazement we are both well entertained.
And actually Kevin is the emperor of intellect, compared to his partner Hank. Hank is short and balding, with forearms as thick as his neck. He’s in his mid-forties, though he looks older than that. Apparently he was once a student in the seminary of that Native American church down in New Mexico, and it shows. He is prone to sudden spells of gaping. He’ll be working at a maniac’s pace (the only one he has) when bang he’ll stop whatever he is doing and stare open-mouthed at it, entranced. Say he is sawing a two-by-four when he’s transfixed, perhaps by a knot in the wood. Seconds pass; a minute or two may pass. Then: We are whorls of pattern, he’ll say in an awed tone, tossed out by the surging universe.
What’s the matter, Hank? Gabriela will call from across the house. Find a bug?
Once when they were talking I heard him say, Hard to believe they’ve broken up, I remember when those two was so close they would’ve held water.
Another time he was describing a fight Kevin and the town’s mayor had on the softball diamond (a famous fight, this; these people gossip so much they make Chicago seem like a city of mutes—you won’t believe that, but it’s true), and he said, Alfredo was so worked up it’s lucky he has two nostrils.
People are always dropping by to talk to him, I’m not sure why. As far as I can tell they seem in want of advice, although about what I couldn’t guess. Hank is always happy to see them, and they chat as he works, or go out and sit in the driveway, sometimes for a good part of the day. Between that and the gaping I would say he is not the driving element in the team.