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+{"text":"\n\n# A  \nBAKER'S  \nYEAR\n\n# Twelve Months of Baking and Living the Simple Life at the Smoke Signals Bakery\n\n## TARA JENSEN\n\nBegin Reading\n\nTable of Contents\n\nAbout the Author\n\nCopyright Page\n\n**Thank you for buying this**\n\n**St. Martin's Griffin ebook.**\n\nTo receive special offers, bonus content,\n\nand info on new releases and other great reads,\n\nsign up for our newsletters.\n\nOr visit us online at\n\nus.macmillan.com\/newslettersignup\n\nFor email updates on the author, click here.\nThe author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. **Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:<http:\/\/us.macmillanusa.com\/piracy>**.\n**_To my mom and dad, who taught me to be kind and work hard in equal measures, and to my brothers, who were always lighting things on fire_**\n\n**DEAR FRIEND,**\n\n**Baking is a technique by which heat is gradually transferred from the surface to the center, changing a raw foodstuff into something edible. This process straddles the line between science and superstition. Choices we make concerning a bread or cake have as much to do with chemical reactions or with how we woke up. Starting from scratch, one must understand and abide by the specifics. Once the basics are mastered, it becomes clear there are NO RULES.**\n\n**The draw of a wood fired oven is in the quality of heat. It immediately affects anything in its presence. Penetrating to the core in a short period of time evokes an internal lightness and an outer ruggedness. This mountain bakery, Smoke Signals, is an oven in its own right. Here, pressure and circumstance have cooked me from the inside out.**\n\n**I arrived at this humble homestead many times. Initially, I came as a seeker : searching for a baker and his bread. Now, years later, in a series of twists, I am responsible for upholding the cycles of flour, culture, and fire.**\n\n**The greatest lesson I have learned is the value of commitment. While parts of my life imploded, lighting a fire gave me something to wake up to. I have heard it said you don't marry the perfect person; you marry the person you're with when you're ready. I found myself here, desiring a union, so I wed an old oven.**\n\n**This choice has left me outside of a culture of immediate gratification. It takes several days to bring the bread and oven together in harmony.**\n\n**Yet I am not immune to the pervasive effects. We have lost the ability to communicate face-to-face, preferring instead the company of a touch screen. We fall in love with impressions. Most bread today is exactly that : an impressions. Filler, not food, has become the normal.**\n\n**I beg you to build a circle of wonder around your baking and protect it. It is a small act that contains the greatest effort : to remain awake, to remain adaptable, and to remain in love. Don't toss it aside. Don't trade it in. Stay and practice. Your Kitchen is a laboratory of the sacred order. Time and temperature will find you in the correct place.**\n\n**As we make bread, we make ourselves.**\n\n**Warmly,**\n\ntara\n\nThe bakery wakes in spring, peaks in summer, winds down in fall, and sleeps in winter. The deepest part of the coldest month is suited for reflection. A time when the experiments of last year are evaluated, celebrated, and laid to rest. The silence draws out a nostalgia. I have come to this place several times, as many iterations of myself. Personalities layered like a stack cake. Although I traveled the country baking professionally through my twenties, baking has evolved into my own personal practice. The rituals and rhythms of flour, water, and fire allow me to process a changing world. This little strip of land has watched me become a woman.\n\nWhat I refer to as the bakery is two buildings, one my home, and the other, a one-room kitchen with an outdoor Alan Scott oven and tiny upstairs apartment. The space was transformed by Jen Lapidus into a bakery in the late nineties under the name Natural Bridge; my role here is to steward a timeless mission once printed on Jen's bread bags: TRUTH, LOVE, AND GOOD BREAD. At some point it will be passed to the next wayward baker. I am but a housekeeper sandwiched between a historical reenactment and the future in which economic systems have collapsed and we are returned to our own two hands. I make the most of my time. And occasionally watch it slip through my fingers.\n\nWhen I first passed through the door, Jen was already absent. Dave Bauer, hailing from Wisconsin, had reclaimed the space under the name Farm & Sparrow and was making what was rumored to be the world's best bread; I sought him out. Borrowing a car, I drove the thirty minutes from Asheville to Madison County: the jewel of the Blue Ridge. I got lost, of course. Finding a row of men sitting in front of a bar that was also a general store that was also a tea shop, I inquired for directions. They called the bakery by various names\u2014it was indeed familiar. One had done the electrical. Another remembered building the oven. The most I gathered was _keep going._\n\nDrive through the junkyard past the rafting company. Take a left between the fire station and the hairdresser. At the end of the tobacco field, take a right. Go past the abandoned gas station. If you reach the river, you've gone too far. Watch out for the dogs that chase cars and the rooster in the road. Take a left at the teal mailbox.\n\nPeople weren't lying. The bread was good. Some of the best I'd ever tasted. Naturally leavened. Starters made with 100 percent whole-grain flour. Wet, loose dough. Hand shaped. Long fermentations. Blazing hot oven. It was my first glimpse of how breads and ovens evolved together: a whole working ecosystem of flavor. I left the next day to take a baking job on the West Coast, carrying a loaf of seeded bread onto the plane and consuming it feverishly.\n\nI came back. This time to work at Farm & Sparrow creating pastries and granola and bagging the holy grail of bread. I eventually followed Dave when he relocated, and the little one-room shop went dormant. In the passing of time, I struck out on my own, learning how to farm and selling bread and tarts at the local market, illegally baking out of a barn in an oven that stood on wobbly cinder blocks. By then Jen had started running her mill, Carolina Ground. When I met her there to pick up flour, she suggested I consider leasing the space, and we came out to the vacant bakery to discuss its future. It needed to be cleaned and resurrected, but it had potential. I scrubbed it on my hands and knees. Washing away my own traces.\n\nThe last time I arrived was an internal entrance in the spring of 2015. I was baking pies, and my longtime lover walked out. For good. I went to the door, opened it, straightened my apron, and busied myself with the painstakingly slow process of healing.\n\nThere is an undeniable magic here. It must pour from the watering can dangling amidst weathered branches. Or maybe it emanates from the fallen barn behind the roses. Dusty pieces of wands and toys lace the yard. When the cement floor around the oven was poured, Jen and her daughter pushed in tiny mirrors and gemstones. Visitors bend over to try to pick them up. This place is like that: a shiny penny in rough bramble, hard to extract.\n\nAbove the workspace, the guest rooms smell like summer camp. I go there in the cold to lie down and inhale. It calms me. I watch my breath curl in the frigid air. The smell is my friend. The way the light falls is my friend. The milk truck. The bags of grain. The rocking chair. The polyester quilt. The woodpile. The dying pond. The picnic tables. These are my companions.\n\nEveryone who has lived here left an imprint. Scratches on the door: tattoos of a dog asking to be let out. Lines on the wall: a child marking height. Stray piles of bricks: a mason taking lunch. Bleached-out floor: the shadow of where a mill once stood. My addition is a wooden triangle at the end of the drive, along with four deep grooves in the living room floor under my writer's chair.\n\nNothing has taught me how to bake more than simply living here. Positioned in the center of a swirling wheel, I mark my hours by chopping wood, feeding cultures, and making fires. Although I am alone here, I am not the only living thing. The starters bubble and gurgle with temperamental yeast, and the flames crack and boom against the fire brick. Each loaf pulled from the hearth is a record of sunlight, stone, and sentiment.\n\nWhen the temperatures drop, my main responsibility is to keep the pipes warm. The landscape here is jarring. Tight passages mean portions of the road never see the sun. I think twice about leaving. The pantry becomes important. Pickles. Coffee. Flour. Sugar. Nuts. Popcorn. Spices. Vinegars. Oils. A few bottles of wine. Bags of onions. A sack of garlic. A basket of squash. And, of course, jars of grain.\n\n**ABOUT GRAIN**\n\nWheat is no more wheat than an apple is an apple. Every variety has a particular texture, flavor, and aroma. Variations expand based on growing practices, milling styles, and preferences in preparation. Get to know the nuances of each variety. It will change everything about how you bake. Like making a friend, what was once ill-defined and unknown becomes unique and special.\n\nModern wheats fall into roughly three categories:\n\n**Hard or soft.**\n\nHard grains are higher in protein and suitable for bread making due to their ability to trap gas and hold it over a long period of time. Soft grains are lower in protein and best for pastry or dough where a weaker gluten structure allows gases to pass through. The bran of hard wheat is brittle, and when stone milled, cracks into the flour, making it difficult to remove entirely and creating a radiant golden-brown flower. The bran of soft wheat is tender, coming off in large swaths between the millstones. Larger portions of bran lead to easier extraction culminating in a light, creamy-toned flour.\n\n**Red or white.**\n\nRed wheats have a deep rosy hue and tannins in the bran building a robust, peppery, and occasionally bitter taste in whole wheat goods. White wheats have a fawn or straw-colored bran, achieving a sweeter, milder flavor even with 100 percent of the bran present. Red wheats are higher in protein\u2014perfect for naturally fermented, chewy, hearth breads\u2014while white wheats, lower in protein, shine in crispy crackers, toothy noodles, and lush pan loaves.\n\n**Winter or spring.**\n\nIn regions with mild winter temperatures, wheats are planted in the fall before Thanksgiving and harvested at the onset of summer. In bitterly cold climates, spring wheats are planted after the last frost and processed in the fall. In general, spring wheats have higher levels of protein and a more elastic quality.\n\nAs a basic grass, wheat is designed to nourish itself, protect itself, and reproduce. The germ, endosperm, and bran each play a role in this unfolding mission. In seed form, wheat has been a vital storage crop to many cultures, crossing oceans and continents in pockets and jars. However, once crushed into flour, it should be used as fresh as possible to honor the flavor and aroma.\n\nThe smallest portion of the berry, the germ, is packed with fats and fragrant oils. The embryonic heart, it is from here the taproot sprouts and growth begins. The endosperm makes up the majority of the overall berry, a starchy and protein heavy storehouse providing long-term nutrition as the grass grows. Residing in the endosperm are two important proteins: gliadin and glutenin. When hydrated, these proteins lock together in a web-like structure called _gluten._ Gliadin is responsible for the extensibility in a dough, while glutenin imparts elasticity. The bran, the visible outer coating of the berry, is a shield against the wilds.\n\n**TYPES OF GRAINS AND CEREAL CROPS**\n\n**Einkorn, emmer, and spelt.**\n\nThese wheats compose the trinity of grains that fall under the umbrella farro. Known to be aromatic and oily, as well as nutrient rich, these sister grains store amazing flavor, yet structurally the gluten is fragile and viscous.\n\nEinkorn is the oldest cultivated wheat and the parent to many varieties. Found in the tombs of ancient Egypt, einkorn is a taut, flat, fawn-colored grain. Milled, einkorn flour is incredibly creamy and supple. Fragrant and fluid, einkorn flour is sticky when hydrated and quick to ferment.\n\nEmmer is the second oldest cultivated wheat. A medium-size ruby-beige grain with flavors running from a vanilla bean sweetness to a mouthful of starchy potato. Although firm, it's tender enough to sink your tooth into. Milled, emmer flour is slightly coarse and smells pleasantly like a barn. Emmer is commonly used in pasta.\n\nSpelt is the largest of the farros. Chew it raw for a milky, honey taste. Whole-grain spelt doughs ferment well and have a taffy-like quality. Hildegard von Bingen, a twelfth-century German nun, claimed that eating whole spelt would not leave the body emotionally drained due to its intense nutritional qualities.\n\n**Kamut.**\n\nAlso known as _Khorasan_ wheat, kamut is large and golden, with a buttery bite. Milled, kamut has a gritty texture and looks like sunshine ground into a bowl. At once crispy and chewy, it is incredibly high in protein and works well in both pastry and bread, imparting a toasted corn sweetness.\n\n**Buckwheat.**\n\nThe seed of a tall, slender plant related to rhubarb and sorrel, buckwheat contains no gluten. High levels of starch and oil make an incredibly silky flour that can stand alone in pancakes and crepes. Intensely nutty, buckwheat often finds a good home in pastry.\n\n**Barley.**\n\nThis straw-colored, round berry has an earthy, mineral flavor. Eaten worldwide in soups, porridges, and teas, barley has a spongy texture and absorbs liquids well. Unlike other grains where the fiber is mostly present in the bran, the fiber in barley is pervasive through the entire grain. Roasted, it is extremely sweet.\n\n**Rye.**\n\nThis blue-green grain grows favorably in cool climates. Not technically a wheat, rye possesses a vegetable gum that mimics gluten and is responsible for the slick nature of unbaked rye bread. Dense rye breads can taste grassy and dank and have a cakelike crumb. Fluffy and almost purple, rye flour can be used in sweet and savory goods.\n\n**Corn.**\n\nWhile fresh corn is considered a vegetable, the dried seed is classified as a grain. Corn is high in vitamins, minerals, and fiber. Known for its intense color, the red, largekerneled Bloody Butcher is a bakery favorite, while standard popcorn is a staple in my kitchen cupboard.\n\n**PANTRY PORRIDGE**\n\nMakes a robust breakfast and lunch for one or a simple breakfast for two\n\nEach summer my father brings me blueberries from my great-aunt's farm in South Carolina. I freeze a gallon just for January. Begin the night before.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n1 cup frozen blueberries\n\n3 cups whole milk\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground ginger\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup whole barley\n\n\u00bd cup whole spelt\n\nSorghum syrup Bee pollen\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n9-by-10-inch sheet pan\n\nSmall mixing bowl Whisk\n\n4-quart cast-iron pot with a lid\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\n_The night before:_ preheat the oven to 200 degrees.\n\nSpread the blueberries on the sheet pan; set them in the refrigerator to thaw.\n\nIn the bowl, whisk together the milk, spices, and salt.\n\nPour the mixture into the pot.\n\nAdd the barley and spelt.\n\nCover.\n\nBake for 8 hours.\n\n_In the morning:_ fold in the blueberries with the wooden spoon.\n\nTop with sorghum syrup and bee pollen.\n\nEat warm.\n**FARINA**\n\nMakes a robust breakfast and lunch for one or a simple breakfast for two\n\nFarina is a comforting cereal on an icy morning. I make mine from the \"mids\" at Carolina Ground: a by-product of the milling process that is neither completely flour nor completely bran. It's as instant as it gets.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n1 cup farina or \"mids\"\n\n1 cup heavy cream\n\n2 cups water\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n1 teaspoon cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nMaple syrup\n\nExtra butter\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nWhisk\n\nSaucepan\n\nWhisk the farina, cream, water, butter, cinnamon, and salt together in the saucepan.\n\nBring the mixture to a boil.\n\nReduce the heat to low.\n\nStir constantly.\n\nCook for 6 to 8 minutes, or until the farina is smooth and creamy.\n\nTop it with maple syrup and a few pats of butter.\n\nEat hot.\n**POPCORN**\n\nMakes enough to fill a 5-quart bowl.\n\nI have a beloved pot dedicated just to popcorn. Leave out the turmeric for a classic version. Adjust the various seasonings to your preference.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n\u00bd cup vegetable oil\n\n1 cup popcorn\n\n4 tablespoons (\u00bd stick) butter\n\n1 tablespoon turmeric\n\n1 teaspoon sea salt\n\n1 teaspoon black pepper\n\nNutritional yeast to taste\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n4-quart pot with a lid\n\nSmall saucepan\n\nPotholders\n\nLarge bowl\n\nPour in the oil and drop three popcorn kernels into the bottom of the pot. Cover.\n\nSet the pot on a burner turned to high.\n\nListen for the kernels to pop.\n\nWhile waiting, melt the butter in a small saucepan.\n\nOnce all three kernels have popped, add the rest of the popcorn.\n\nCover tightly and shake.\n\nReturn the pot to the burner.\n\nKeep it on high heat till the rapid popping of the popcorn dies down.\n\nImmediately pour half the popcorn into the bowl.\n\nDust it with the spices and yeast and drizzle on the melted butter.\n\nPour in the remaining popcorn.\n\nToss together.\n\nEat right away by the handfuls.\n\nI drive through sheets of sleet in search of butter, noticing beat-up trucks parked in the mud next to greenhouses: the farmers are milling about. Inside the plastic and steel wombs, soil is mixed together, flats are filled, and cells are poked with callused fingers. In goes the barely visible black speck of an onion seed. Each tray is topped off with more soil, watered and set on a warming mat. Onions mature according to day length. Certain varieties take five months to bulb, requiring they be first on the list of spring seeding. Known for a pungent sweetness, alliums are traditionally rumored to stimulate desire. A quality sorely needed in February. Although the ground lies barren, there is a stirring underfoot. Marginally better weather means townsfolk start socializing again, gathering in the evenings next to a neighbor's roaring woodstove to discuss our plans for the year. It was on such a night I met Camille. I saw her from afar while piling comfort food onto my potluck plate. Her gray hair was twisted into an unruly bun accented by thick glasses, behind which two inquisitive blue eyes peered out. As I lowered myself into a chair next to her, she turned and smiled. Learning that I lived at \"Jen's place,\" she grabbed my biceps and in a thick French accent said, \"I like you. You must know how to work.\"\n\nWe spent the rest of the evening discussing the trials and humors of being a single woman in the country. Though separated by generations, our experiences weren't dissimilar. Using a husky, authoritative voice on the phone so the hardware store would take our questions seriously or getting irate when we'd hire a gentleman to work on the house or property and we'd have to justify our visions, providing reasons that would never have been questioned man-to-man. How many times did we have to explain that we understood what a load-bearing weight is! Camille had recently called a store for a roofing quote. They asked if she wanted a lifetime warranty: it was good for twenty years. \"How is that even possible?\" she asked me. We laughed at the insanity.\n\nCamille came to Madison County in 1972 with her husband, Dave. Dave's father had grown up here, moving to Detroit at the age of nineteen for a better life. He couldn't believe Camille and Dave wanted to return to what he remembered as a desolate region with nothing to offer. They were warned not to come, but their minds were set on it. Enraged by the Vietnam war, they wanted to be as self-sufficient as possible and learn directly from those who could still teach the way of the land. Less income meant minor tax payments, resulting in fewer dollars toward war machine. They took on cows, chickens, rabbits, sheep, and a garden. \"A farm is a big name for what we had,\" she says.\n\nWhat was big was their ambition. It had to be. It was up against a lot. War was a symptom of an entire broken social system fueled by overconsumption. Refusal of business as usual was crucial to Camille. \"I know we have to live,\" she pointed out, \"but we don't need to do it at this level\u2014we don't need to destroy.\"\n\nCamille had already experienced the horrors of war. In 1944, her childhood home in Normandy was bombed, and although everyone was safe, the devastation left only a corner of the original house. Her family first took refuge in a nearby graveyard, surviving only on milk. There her father decided they would take the two-day walk to his parents' farm, where he was certain food could be found. In the summer, they returned home to rebuild.\n\nNormal weekly rituals ensued, one of which was a trip into town for bread. One afternoon, her sister returned with more than a sack of loaves; she also bore toys she'd found scattered on the roadside. Thin metal rods, like long pens, with a coil wrapped around the middle. They played with them for days, knocking them on rocks like drumsticks. But they weren't toys. They were cast-aside detonators, and while her mother was busy with the wash, one exploded in Camille's hand, causing the loss of her right arm at the age of two.\n\nA decade into their life of resistance, Dave was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. The long list of daily chores became difficult to maneuver. The cow jumped the fence. The sheep ran away. The dog chased the chickens into the woods. They allowed their responsibilities to dwindle, eventually eating the cow. \"It was part of the economy,\" Camille explained, a firmness still in her tone. Despite changes in physical comfort and energy, they were as true to their original intentions as they possibly could be.\n\nAfter Dave passed, Camille carried on the design of their home and land, every nook and cranny meticulously thought out and crafted. Stairwells fashioned after the golden spiral, massive mosaic projects, wood scraps and windows everywhere: ideals for a gentle society radiate from the walls. \"I never had a course in building,\" she said, \"just an interest. I would look at an old building, I would see that it was still standing, and I would think, _That is good_.\" Although Dave is gone, his presence remains, amidst a host of new and radical projects.\n\nNever short on determination, Camille hired a carpenter to frame a door into a dirt wall so that she might dig herself a basement. Rigging up a bucket, a shovel, and a wheelbarrow, she chipped at the top of the wall, directing the dirt downward into the bucket. When the bucket was full, she'd take it to the wheelbarrow and empty it. When the wheelbarrow was full, she'd haul it outside and dump it in the gully. She kept at the work for days and months until rumors began to surface.\n\nHer apprentice who frequented the local bar came to report back on the widespread speculation about what exactly Camille was up to. \"You'll never believe what they're saying about you, Camille. They say you are digging out your basement single-handedly with a spoon!\"\n\nShe chuckled. \"Well then, let them think just that.\"\n\nI spoke with Camille recently. We wondered if it was even possible for future generations to go back to the land. There is increasingly less land to go back to, and the old-timers who knew the plants and the ballads are passing each year. Besides, living the rural life isn't for everyone. It seems that each spring a new crop of young homesteaders arrive bursting with ideas, and only some of them make it to the next year for one reason or another. Many leave when they have children, and divorce is common under the stress of poverty. I like living here because it is so unchanged, and yet sometimes I forget there is a world past the blown-out streetlight. This landscape is a jungle that does not bend to human will easily. Some like the challenge. Some don't.\n\nYet what we lack in finery we make up for in freedom. We have a choice. We can choose the detonator or the spoon. What will you leave behind? What will your legacy be? Free, gentle, and diverse is the culture I want for myself, my community, and my bread. Be an instrument for peace. Choose the spoon.\n\n**START A CULTURE**\n\nStarting a culture is simple. Maintaining it is the most difficult part. Once established and refreshed, a culture can live for a lifetime, maybe even several. If forgotten, it will not immediately perish or do you harm if ingested. The value of tending a culture lies in the care it needs to stay alive. While we strive to do our best, it should also be a process free of stress.\n\nStandard yeast has one goal: to produce lots of gas relatively fast. Leavening with only commercial yeast cuts out beneficial multiflora from the fermentation process. While a naturally leavened culture takes more time, it unlocks a world of taste, souring the flour and bringing the full flavor body forward.\n\nWhen water and flour combine, enzymatic activity breaks down starches into sugars. Yeasts metabolize the sugars, producing carbon dioxide and alcohol. This gas is the primary source of leavening in cultured goods. Bacteria, namely lactobacilli, create lactic and acetic acids and very little carbon dioxide or alcohol. A culture is simply the thick batter of flour and water that these yeasts and bacteria call home.\n\nStone-ground, sifted bread flour from a hard red winter wheat is appropriate to begin your starter with. If it's unavailable, blend whole-wheat flour and bread flour in equal portions. Cultures fed only with whole grain will ferment quickly and can become acidic. Cultures fed with only bread flour, while strong, will taste flat. In any case, remember that this culture is the cornerstone of your future bread. Be consistent in your care, and it will be predictable in its leavening.\n**(A) CULTURE (OF RESISTANCE)**\n\nMakes approximately 256 grams of active culture\n\nNutty, loose, and quick to ferment. Look for sweet and grassy flavors to develop over time.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n50\/50 whole wheat and bread\/flour blend\n\n57 grams whole wheat\n\n57 grams bread flour\n\n113 grams lukewarm water\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nDigital scale\n\n16-ounce Ball jar and lid\n\nSpoon\n\n_Day one._ Pick a time that will be easy for you to return to over the course of several days. Use the scale to weigh 114 grams of flour into the jar. Use the scale to weigh 114 grams of lukewarm water into the jar. Stir vigorously. Loosely cover with the lid. Let the mixture rest in a well-ventilated room between 70 and 75 degrees, out of direct sunlight. In general, the kitchen counter is a fine place to begin. Taste it. It will taste wheaty, paste-like, and even chalky at first.\n\n_Day two._ Check back at roughly the same time. Remove the lid and stir well. Taste. Are flavors developing? What does it look like? Smell like? Any signs of life? Replace the lid. Let rest.\n\n_Day three._ Repeat day two.\n\n_Day four._ Early signs of fermentation, such as bubbles and a slight acidic smell, will start to appear. Regardless of what you see, it is time to begin refreshment feedings. Trust that activity has been put into motion. Your role is to keep the movement going. Refreshing around the same time daily will train your culture to predictably ferment.\n\n_To refresh:_ Pour out all but 28 grams from the jar and feed it back 113 grams lukewarm water and 113 grams of the whole wheat and bread flour blend. Discarding a high level of culture maintains a low acidity, encouraging a stable environment for the bacteria. It also provides ample food for tired yeast. Several hours after refreshing, check for visible surface tension, a domed top, and dish-soap-size bubbles. In warm temperatures, a bubbly mass reaching the top of the jar will occur within 4 to 5 hours.\n\nAt the peak of activity, the culture will float. Test this by wetting your fingers and scooping some off the top and dropping it into a glass of water. Try not to degas the culture as you transfer it. If it sinks, repeat the test in thirty minutes. When it floats, it's ready to use.\n\nEventually a divot will form on the surface and the culture will begin to collapse in on itself, receding down the walls of the jar. The visible bubbles will turn tiny and frothy, and it will smell quite sour. As this happens, the yeast die off and acidic flavors take hold. The culture is now less active. If you miss the peak, simply refresh it again and let it sit until it passes the float test.\n\nWithin seven to ten days from the start date, and with at least three to four refreshments, you should have a bubbling culture that smells sweet and slightly tangy. There are no hard-and-fast rules for how long it will take your culture to come to life. Activity depends on the weather, your environment, what kind of flour you feed it, and how often you check it. I recommend keeping a journal near your culture so you can record when you fed it, what flour you fed it with, the room temp, the weather, and how long it took to pass the float test. This way you have lived experience against the suggestions laid out here.\n\nIf you bake infrequently, store the culture in refrigeration. When it has been left dormant this way for a while, allow for several days of refreshing before you plan on baking. I've left mine for up to two months in the back of the fridge at 40 degrees and had it return to life easily. A thin layer of alcohol will form on the top of the culture. This does not mean it has expired. Stir in the alcohol, or pour it off if you prefer, and begin refreshing.\n\nThe man who taught me the most about love was also the man who left me. We met selling bread and vegetables at the farmers' market. The market would hold theme days, and I noticed him on Wild West Wednesday. Usually in cutoffs and a dirt-smeared shirt, he stepped out in a crisp, blue button-down. He overheard I was having a bad day and strolled by with a bouquet from the stand he managed. It was common to trade between vendors, so I asked him if he wanted a croissant. \"No,\" he said, \"they're just for you.\" The sound of his voice was a hot knife through butter.\n\nIn the beginning of our courtship, I was living downtown, still working for Farm & Sparrow, and he was an hour away, tending crops on a small family farm. On nights when he'd stay over, we'd wake up before sunrise and make pancakes. In those sleepy hours, while the stars speckled the sky, a hot griddle was an intimate gesture. After the season came to an end, he found a cabin with workable land and his own spot in the market. I wanted to farm and test my commitment to baking, so I left my job and started Smoke Signals. We shacked up in the countryside, seeking our fortune.\n\nA parting gift from my baking comrades came in the shape of a beaten tote filled with fifty pounds of Turkey wheat. We spread it on an intensely sloped, freshly tilled field using an old broadcaster the day before Thanksgiving. We had read up on ancient rituals said to increase crop germination. The most common one involved a more figurate \"sowing of the seed.\" So we consummated the act behind the tractor, drunk on a bottle of mead. It sprouted tiny green hairs and then went dormant. We worried about it every day through the winter. It shot up in the spring as predicted, but so too did the weeds and the workload of running a farm and baking. It grew, but not like the amber waves of grain I had imagined. More like a patchy, pubescent beard. When it came time to harvest, we had nearly forgotten our once revelatory grass.\n\nOn July 3, with a dull scythe and my grandmother's sewing scissors, we harvested it, standing in the blaring heat, making ragged shocks, and cutting stray heads into pails. We'd let it go a month longer than desired, and I wasn't sure how viable or healthy the grain was. I left the meager yield in a cattle stall near the washstand and carried on.\n\nWeeks later, I returned and filled a pink pillowcase with the wheat heads, beating them with a rolling pin to separate the protective chaff from the berry. Using a ladder, a box fan, and a bucket, we winnowed the wheat. My farmer climbed to the top of the ladder and poured the threshed grain past the fan, the chaff blew in the wind away, and the berries clanked into the bucket below. Each sweet drop of seed against plastic sounded to me like voices in a church choir echoing off marble walls. And yet I looked down at a year of work. I looked up at him. Sweat pouring down our faces mixed with sunburn and dirt. I can still hear myself saying, _There's barely enough for pancakes_.\n\nWhat happened is more complicated than I am going to tell you here, but the script is classic. Like paint peeling off a barn, our relationship came undone in the years we spent farming. With little to no outside income, we supported ourselves from what we could grow, and the bread barely paid for itself. To say the financial situation was a strain on our intimacy would be an understatement. I baked very little, saving up for weeks on end to purchase a decent sack of flour. Moving frequently to escape demanding landlords or hikes in rent, we lacked stability, and our bond eroded while our hearts grew as callused as our hands. The food around us grew tall and beautiful while the very middle rotted.\n\nI heard rumors before I saw it with my own eyes. On a cool Sunday evening in the early spring, I walked into the local bar and found them sharing a basket of french fries. The way they leaned into each other made my stomach turn. I knew, from that exact second on, that he was going to leave. She was a longtime friend of mine, reeling from a breakup, so I invited her to supper at the house that evening. She declined. He said he had more work to do, so I shouldn't wait up. I ate dinner alone to the sound of a train in the distance. It went on like this. He'd swing by the bar where she worked at night, and I'd eat solo at a table set for two. Eventually I put myself to bed, waking to the sound of his tires on the gravel hours later. The glow of his headlights on the bedroom wall and the sound of the doorknob turning became the opening bars to every country song.\n\nIt was impossible for me to leave the house without hearing passing comments on their budding friendship. Getting stopped in the toilet paper aisle of the grocery store to reassure folks that everything was fine became normal. Finally, her boss pulled me aside while I was getting coffee and mentioned seeing them together at her house at a time she knew I wasn't aware of. I walked outside, called him, and told him it was over. We met on the front porch minutes later, and he asked how I was going to survive. I found something I never knew I had: a lucid calm stronger than steel. I turned to him with narrowed eye: \"I don't know,\" I said. \"But if I don't respect myself, I'm poor in a way no silver or gold can repair.\"\n\nThe day after he moved out, while I was at the one traffic light in town, they swaggered from the bar through the crosswalk in front of my car and piled into his truck. I pulled over three times on the five-minute drive home because my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't steer. I took the ring he had given me months earlier for our anniversary and threw it into the pond. Starting a small fire in the fire pit, I lay down in the moist earth, and it held me as I cried myself to sleep. My only wish was that I wouldn't have to wake up. Our farmland was miles away from the house, and I never set foot in the fields again.\n\nMy psychology was shattered. I'd lost my partner and my way of life. I wondered how cavernous the heart could be that you might lie down beside a person day after day and never know them. Never know how brutal they might turn, or what exactly they yearned for when their eyes shut. And I was embarrassed. In the same bar that we had walked into, arms full of bread and flowers, the languid eyes of our community had watched him fall in love with someone else. I couldn't make eye contact. My pride was the only thing I had, and now even that was threadbare.\n\nThe dynamics of a breakup in a small town are particular. With less than 850 people, it was unreasonable to expect that anyone would really chime in on the matter. After all, the majority of the community was older and had already gone through several waves of marriages, divorces, affairs, and other questionable arrangements. So I retreated. Like an elimination diet, I stripped my contact down to a handful of friends and family. I was looking through the eye of a needle, and to pass through, there were things I would have to leave behind. When people conjure a picture of a simple life, they often do not imagine that the primary thing you first must forgo is other people.\n\nI kept the jar of Turkey wheat on a bookshelf in the bakery. The grain was nearly five years old. I liked to check on it every now and then. Like a potion, swirls of perfume radiated from the berries. A cinnamon stick. A dash of pepper. Hay and sweat. Warm soil. It reminded me of what being innocent was like.\n\nA year after he left, I ordered myself a gift. It arrived on a warm afternoon, just before the bread dough was to be divided. Inside a heavy brown box resided a small, tabletop mill. I knew what had to be done. I grabbed the jar, turned the mill on, and let the turning stones transform my most sacred possession into dust. With a slight tilt, years were crushed. Crushed into a fragrant mess. Crushed into something more useful than regret. Turning off the mill, clutching my blue bowl of flour, I leaned into the door frame and wept. Closure is something you give to yourself.\n\n**PANCAKES**\n\nA note on freshly milled flour. Stone-ground flour is made by crushing grain between two stones. Milling slowly at cool temperatures ensures that all the original parts of the wheat berry, including the germ, are still present in the final flour. I call this intact, meaning that nothing is stripped away or added back during a later part of the process. Stone milling preserves the fats and aromas that tell our senses we are eating something good for both body and spirit.\n\nEven when sifted, stone-ground flour will have tiny flecks of bran and be coarser than roller-milled flour. The presence of bran and a larger overall surface area result in a flour that can be \"thirsty.\" While freshly milled flour may tolerate high hydrations, it's much easier to add water and adjust to the correct consistency rather than start too high, so that you have to recalculate an entire formula. Go slow, get into trouble slow: start with the appropriate amount of water and then add more as necessary.\n**SOURDOUGH PANCAKES**\n\nMakes about 8 pancakes\n\nThese pancakes are spongy in the center and crispy on the edges. Tangy and supple, they are a household standard at any hour. They call for a bit of sourdough starter. Be sure to bring the eggs and buttermilk to room temp prior to starting.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n1 cup freshly milled soft red wheat\n\n1 tablespoon unrefined sugar\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup active culture (here)\n\n1 cup buttermilk, room temperature\n\n3 tablespoons vegetable oil\n\n2 eggs, room temperature\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nSmall mill or access to freshly milled flour\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n2 medium-size bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nWhisk\n\n2 small bowls\n\nHand blender\n\nSpatula\n\nButter or bacon fat for the skillet\n\nSkillet\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Set it aside.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, pour in the active starter.\n\nAdd the buttermilk and whisk.\n\nAdd the vegetable oil, whisk again.\n\nSeparate the eggs into the small bowls.\n\nWhisk the yolks into the wet mix.\n\nWhip the egg whites into stiff peaks with the hand blender.\n\nPour half of the wet mix into the dry ingredients.\n\nFold together gently.\n\nPour the remaining wet mix into the dry and fold just till combined. Do not beat the mixture into a smooth batter; lumps are okay.\n\nFold the egg whites into the batter in thirds.\n\nGrease and heat a skillet over medium-high heat.\n\nPour \u2153 cup for each pancake onto the hot and ready greased skillet.\n\nFlip when bubbles rise and pop over half of the pancake, about 2 minutes.\n\nFinish cooking for another 2 minutes or until they are crispy on the edges and golden brown.\n\nRegrease the skillet as needed.\n\nServe hot.\n**BLOODY BUTCHER PANCAKES**\n\nMakes about 8 pancakes\n\nWith a blend of corn, rye, and buckwheat, these pancakes are crepe-like and hearty. The structure of the starter keeps them together, while the grains lend a nutty, sweet, and earthy flavor.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n\u2153 cup freshly milled, sifted Bloody Butcher cornmeal\n\n\u2153 cup freshly milled, sifted rye flour\n\n\u2153 cup freshly milled, sifted buckwheat flour\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup active culture (here)\n\n1 cup buttermilk, room temperature\n\n3 tablespoons vegetable oil\n\n2 eggs, room temperature\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nSmall mill or access to freshly milled flour\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n2 medium-size bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nWhisk\n\n2 small bowls\n\nHand blender\n\nSpatula\n\nButter or bacon fat for the skillet\n\nSkillet\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift the cornmeal, rye, and buckwheat flours with the sugar, baking powder, and salt. Set the bowl aside.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, pour in the active starter.\n\nAdd the buttermilk and whisk.\n\nAdd the vegetable oil, whisk again.\n\nSeparate the eggs into the small bowls.\n\nWhisk the yolks into the wet mix.\n\nWhip the egg whites into stiff peaks with the hand blender.\n\nPour half of the wet mix into the dry ingredients.\n\nFold together gently.\n\nPour the remaining wet mix into the dry and fold just till combined. Do not beat the mixture into a smooth batter; lumps are okay.\n\nFold the egg whites into the batter in thirds.\n\nGrease and heat a skillet over medium-high heat.\n\nPour \u2153 cup for each pancake onto the hot and ready greased skillet.\n\nFlip when bubbles rise and pop over half of the pancake, about 2 minutes.\n\nFinish cooking for another 2 minutes or until the pancakes are crispy on the edges and golden brown.\n\nRegrease the skillet as needed.\n\nServe hot.\n**BUCKWHEAT PANCAKES**\n\nMakes about 8 pancakes\n\nThe silky quality of buckwheat stands up against the acidity in the sourdough starter, making a firm and versatile pancake.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n1 cup freshly milled buckwheat flour\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup active culture (here)\n\n1 cup buttermilk, room temperature\n\n3 tablespoons vegetable oil\n\n2 eggs, room temperature\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nSmall mill or access to freshly milled flour\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n2 medium-size bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nWhisk\n\n2 small bowls\n\nHand blender\n\nSpatula\n\nButter or bacon fat for the skillet\n\nSkillet\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Set the bowl aside.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, pour in the active starter.\n\nAdd the buttermilk and whisk.\n\nAdd the vegetable oil, whisk again.\n\nSeparate the eggs into the small bowls.\n\nWhisk the yolks into the wet mix.\n\nWhip the egg whites into stiff peaks with the blender or whisk.\n\nPour half of the wet mix into the dry ingredients.\n\nFold together gently.\n\nPour the remaining wet mix into the dry and fold just till combined. Do not beat the mixture into a smooth batter; lumps are okay.\n\nFold the egg whites into the batter in thirds.\n\nGrease and heat a skillet over medium-high heat.\n\nPour \u2153 cup for each pancake onto the hot and ready greased skillet.\n\nFlip when bubbles rise and pop over half of the pancake, about 2 minutes.\n\nFinish cooking for another 2 minutes or until the pancakes are crispy on the edges and golden brown in the center.\n\nRegrease the skillet as needed.\n\nServe hot.\n**LEMON POPPY SEED PANCAKES**\n\nMakes about 8 pancakes\n\nNo starter required in these bright almond-flavored treats: they make the cake in pancake obvious. Serve with citrus jams, powdered sugar, and\/or whipped cream.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n\u00bd cup freshly milled semolina flour\n\n\u00bd cup freshly milled pastry flour (low protein)\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n1 tablespoon poppy seeds\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup buttermilk, room temperature\n\n3 tablespoons vegetable oil\n\n\u00bc teaspoon almond extract\n\nZest of 1 lemon\n\n2 eggs, room temperature\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nSmall mill or access to freshly milled flour\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n2 medium-size bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nWhisk\n\n2 small bowls\n\nHand blender\n\nSpatula\n\nButter or bacon fat for the skillet\n\nSkillet\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flours, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Stir in the poppy seeds. Set the bowl aside.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, vegetable oil, almond extract, and lemon zest.\n\nSeparate the eggs into the small bowls.\n\nWhip the whites into stiff peaks with a hand blender.\n\nWhisk the yolks into the wet mix.\n\nPour half of the wet mix into the dry ingredients.\n\nFold together gently.\n\nPour the remaining wet mix into the dry and fold just till combined. Do not beat the mixture into a smooth batter; lumps are okay.\n\nFold the egg whites into the batter in thirds.\n\nGrease and heat the skillet over medium-high heat.\n\nPour \u2153 cup for each pancake onto the hot and ready greased skillet.\n\nWait to flip till bubbles rise and pop over half of the pancake, about 2 minutes.\n\nFinish cooking for another 2 minutes or until the pancakes are crispy on the edges and golden brown in the center.\n\nRegrease the skillet as needed.\n\nServe hot.\n**SAVORY PANCAKES**\n\nMakes about 8 pancakes\n\nA dose of spices makes these a worthy candidate for dinner. As they come off the skillet, brush with honey and balsamic vinegar. Dust with salt and pepper. Serve with pickled onions, capers, and cheese. Pile the filling in the middle of the pancake, fold, and eat.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n1 cup freshly milled pastry flour (low protein)\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder \u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc teaspoon coriander\n\n2 tablespoons fresh sage, chopped\n\n\u00bc teaspoon black pepper\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup buttermilk, room temperature\n\n2 tablespoons vegetable oil\n\n2 eggs, room temperature\n\nhoney\n\nbalsamic vinegar\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nSmall mill or access to freshly milled flour\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n2 medium-size bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nWhisk\n\n2 small bowls\n\nSpatula\n\nHand blender\n\nButter or bacon fat for the skillet\n\nSkillet\n\nPastry brush\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, salt, and coriander. Whisk in the sage and black pepper.\n\nAdd the buttermilk and whisk.\n\nAdd the vegetable oil; whisk again.\n\nSeparate the eggs into the small bowls.\n\nWhip the whites into stiff peaks with the blender or whisk.\n\nWhisk the yolks into the wet mix.\n\nPour half of the wet mix into the dry ingredients.\n\nFold together gently.\n\nPour the remaining wet mix into the dry and fold just till combined. Do not beat the mixture into a smooth batter; lumps are okay.\n\nFold the egg whites into the batter in thirds.\n\nGrease and heat the skillet over medium-high heat.\n\nPour \u2153 cup for each pancake onto the hot and ready skillet.\n\nWait to flip till bubbles rise and pop over half of the pancake, about 2 minutes.\n\nFinish cooking for another 2 minutes or until the pancakes are crispy on the edges and golden brown in the center.\n\nRegrease the skillet as needed.\n\nServe hot.\n**SAUT\u00c9ED APPLE TOPPING**\n\nMakes about 2 cups\n\nI like buckwheat pancakes topped with the first flush of peppery fall apples, but storage apples are also a real gift through the winter and spring. Goldrushes are my favorite, but Granny Smiths will work just fine. Although this treat goes well on buckwheat pancakes, it's a great addition to any of the pancakes in this chapter.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n2 Goldrush or Granny Smith apples\n\n2 tablespoons bourbon\n\n\u2153 cup honey\n\nSalt and black pepper to taste\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nSkillet\n\nKnife\n\nCutting board\n\nWooden spoon\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nMelt the butter in the skillet while thinly slicing the apples.\n\nToss the slices into the hot skillet.\n\nCook till they are tender and lightly charred.\n\nStir frequently with the wooden spoon.\n\nPour in the bourbon and honey.\n\nLet simmer.\n\nTurn off the heat.\n\nDust with salt and pepper.\n\nServe piled atop pancakes.\n\nThe belt on the old washer choked out comical groans, filling the house with something other than my sobs. When my grandmother passed away, my grandfather told me he would clap his hands just to hear a sound. I now knew what he meant. I was living in the loudest silence. I began building fires in the oven, even when I wasn't preparing it for baking. It was my way of sending out signals to whatever angels and ancestors might be watching. One morning I glanced up, peering through the multiple windows in the house and through the bakery to look directly into the oven chamber, catching the distant glow of a flame. I knew I had to bake my way out.\n\nI clung to routine as I elevated my bread making from a side gig to my primary source of income. On a stretch of butcher block paper, I wrote the days of the week, and underneath each day I listed the theme and specific duties. Monday: office work. Tuesday: bread mix and oven firing. Wednesday: baking and delivery. Thursday: yard chores and chopping wood. Friday: set up for workshops. Weekend: teaching. Wake up at 5 A.M. Respond to e-mails. No work past 6 P.M. Drink water. Take walks. I taped the sheet to a barren living room wall\u2014it fluttered and echoed in the empty house.\n\nSpring arrived, violent after the starkness of winter. Watercress, dandelions, and chickweed popped up along the creek. Daffodils sprouted and bobbed their yellow heads under the poplar trees. Violets covered the lawn in a tie dye of purple and white. I planted a modest garden mostly of herbs, with the addition of kale, collards, and chard. Snow melted and turned into puddles. Puddles grew tadpoles. The patch of nettles stood tall and foreboding, and rushes of heat in the afternoon warned of summer. Inside the house, there was still a fire at night to take off the chill. The apple trees budded; their vibrant pink blossoms teeming with bees were almost obscene. Everywhere, the crust of winter was splitting open.\n\nOn a scarred round of oak, surrounded by sawdust, the start of an 800-degree fire begins. The chopping block is a liminal zone, both a state of mind and an actual place, without which entire rhythms here would cease. Splitting wood, you're neither here nor there. The focus it demands is simultaneously relaxed and poised. You step up to it. You step into it. A basic level of respect must exist between the axe, you, and the wood.\n\nFind a chopping block suitable to your height. Position a log on the block. Step back and look at where you want the blade to land. Lift the axe in both hands, one near the head, the other toward the end of the handle. Hoist over your shoulder so the blade is facing out and the handle is in the air parallel to your ear. The hand near the blade guides the axe. The hand at the bottom is a hinge point. Lower your center of gravity and push off into the swing, pulling the tail of the handle toward your waist and driving the blade into the point you are focused on, allowing your guiding hand to slide down the length of the handle as you swing. To properly split a log, you must look through it.\n\nGathered from several sources, the wood for the oven isn't split, just the kindling. First, there are Mike and Ruth Anne, who run a nearby sawmill. They deliver pine and poplar skins by the dump-truck load. Mike worked in a bakery as a kid filling cream horns. He always asks if I make them. \"No,\" I always reply. \"Good,\" he huffs. He hated that job. Then there are scraps of hardwood from a furniture shop in Athens, Georgia. Tom delivers it in the back of his white truck when he comes to Asheville. We have tea and catch up on life. The wood is kiln dried and light as a feather, splintering if you look at it hard enough. Last, Toby, who lives down the way, brings a mix of seasoned cordwood. I reserve a portion for feeding the oven in the middle of the night. His off-kilter sense of humor is legendary. One day, while tossing logs from his pickup, I told him I had a rash on my arm that made me nervous. He said I might be dying. I thought I was.\n\nI load crosshatched slabs of sawmill wood into a warm oven after a bake cycle is through. A log cabin arrangement of hardwood kindling is constructed two feet into the chamber, touching the drying slabs. Filled with crumpled newspaper, the lay fire is lit, catching the wood immediately behind it. This point of contact is critical. In time the fire spreads, creating a wall of flame. If the chamber is left open, it takes six hours for the fire to burn from the front to the back. Over time, blue flames replace the bright yellow ones and the gases in the air ignite and slither like red northern lights. The fire is conversational. Hissing, popping, bursting. And then quiet, almost ghostly, nothing more than crispy, metallic tings.\n\nAlong with the kind of wood used, the rate of oxygen delivered to the fire determines burn time, temperature, and heat quality. On each side of the oven mouth rest four fire bricks left over from the building of the hearth. Fire bricks are porous, expanding and contracting in fluctuating temperatures without cracking. Once the initial fire has been set and is steadily roaring, the bricks are placed in the doorway, leaving a space in the middle like a gap tooth. Slowing the fire down in the evening leaves a good chance for sleep, although I'm always half awake on bake nights.\n\nTo the left of the oven is a covered wood bay. The driest wood lives here and is accessible from the side and the back. In front of the wood bay, attached to weathered posts and beams, is a scrap of plywood that makes up a prep table. Above the oven lives a sheet pan lined with rags I use for steaming while baking bread. A chimney sweep. A long metal rake. A peel and a mop make up the rest of the tools scattered around. Overseeing the makeshift bread chapel is a porcelain Dutch girl, a bundle of lavender covered in soot, and a rusty horseshoe hopefully pointed in the direction that brings good luck.\n\nOn the posts framing the oven various trinkets hang. Cast-iron pans. Pruners. A mobile with only two bells in the shape of a crescent moon. A metal spoon so covered in mold it blends in with the smoke-blackened wood. Horsehair brushes with singed bristles for sweeping away debris. A pot where a salty, stiff pair of gardening gloves rests. And the waffle irons. Because I wasn't going to eat pancakes anymore.\n\n**TO START THE FIRE**\n\nCampfire waffle irons work best on a thriving coal base. Prepare the waffle batter while the fire gets going. Heat the iron on a portion of hot coals. Open the skillet and drop in a pat of butter. If it sizzles and bubbles, you're in the right temperature zone. Make sure the area you are building your fire in is free of flammables and a safe distance from any structures. Use a shovel to even out the ground.\n\nGather tinder, kindling, and fuel. Tinder: pencil-sized sticks. Kindling: branches as thick as the thumb. Fuel: wood the circumference of your wrist. A few handfuls of tinder, an armload of kindling, and a knee-high stack of fuel will provide enough wood for a nice long morning or evening of waffle making. Although once the fire is established, it can burn wet wood, the tinder, and kindling you start out with must be completely dry.\n\nLay two pieces of kindling parallel to each other. Place five to six sheets of loosely crumpled newspaper between them. On top of this base, stack ample tinder and a few pieces of kindling in a Lincoln Logs structure. Ignite the newspaper. Once the wood has caught, replenish with kindling as needed. Load on fuel when it's active and burning well.\n\nWhen done with the fire, use the shovel to break apart any burning bits and coals. Spread out the ashes, pat them down, and pour a pail of water over the pit.\n**KAMUT WAFFLES**\n\nMakes about 8 waffles\n\nThe natural sweetness of kamut sings in waffles. The coarseness of the flour makes a cornmeal-like crispy edge with a butter-flavored center.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n\u00bc cup pastry flour (low protein)\n\n\u00be cup kamut flour\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n3 tablespoons vegetable oil\n\n2 eggs, room temperature\n\nButter\n\nMaple syrup\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n2 medium-size bowls\n\nWhisk\n\n2 small bowls\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nButter or grease for the waffle iron\n\nCampfire waffle iron\n\nReady the coals (here).\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flours, sugar, and salt. Set the bowl aside.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, whisk together the milk and vegetable oil.\n\nSeparate the eggs into the small bowls.\n\nAdd the yolks to the wet mix and whisk together.\n\nWhip the whites into soft peaks with the whisk.\n\nPour the wet mix into the dry mix.\n\nGently combine.\n\nFold the egg whites into the batter in thirds.\n\nGrease and heat the waffle iron.\n\nPour 1 cup of batter onto the hot and ready iron.\n\nCook for 3 minutes on each side or until the waffle is golden brown and lightly charred.\n\nRegrease the iron as needed.\n\nEat hot, covered in butter and maple syrup.\n**EINKORN WAFFLES**\n\nMakes about 8 waffles\n\nWaves of cinnamon, sugary sweetness, and a light vanilla flavor make this waffle a favorite.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n\u00bc cup pastry flour (low protein)\n\n\u00be cup einkorn flour\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n3 tablespoons vegetable oil\n\n2 eggs, room temperature\n\nButter\n\nCinnamon sugar (2 tablespoons each fine sugar and cinnamon, combined)\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n2 medium-size bowls\n\nWhisk\n\n2 small bowls\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nButter or grease for the waffle iron\n\nCampfire waffle iron\n\nReady the coals (here).\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flours, sugar, and salt. Set the bowl aside.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, whisk together the milk and the vegetable oil.\n\nSeparate the eggs into the small bowls.\n\nAdd the yolks to the wet mix and whisk together.\n\nWhip the whites into soft peaks with the whisk.\n\nPour the wet mix into the dry mix.\n\nGently combine.\n\nFold the egg whites into the batter in thirds.\n\nGrease and heat the waffle iron.\n\nPour 1 cup of batter onto the hot and ready iron.\n\nCook for 3 minutes on each side or until the waffle is golden brown and lightly charred.\n\nRemove the waffle from the iron; immediately brush it with butter and dust it with the cinnamon sugar mix.\n\nEat hot.\n**SPELT WAFFLES**\n\nMakes about 8 waffles\n\nAromatic and toothy like a bouquet of honey and flowers. Warming, fattening, and strengthening, a good start to the day. Dust with bee pollen.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n\u00bc cup pastry flour (low protein)\n\n\u00be cup spelt flour\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n3 tablespoons vegetable oil\n\n2 eggs, room temperature\n\nButter\n\nMaple syrup\n\nBee pollen\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n2 medium-size bowls\n\nWhisk\n\n2 small bowls\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nButter or grease for the waffle iron\n\nCampfire waffle iron\n\nReady the coals (here).\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flours, sugar, and salt. Set the bowl aside.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, whisk together the milk and vegetable oil. Separate the eggs into the small bowls.\n\nAdd the yolks to the wet mix and whisk together.\n\nWhip the whites into soft peaks with the whisk.\n\nPour the wet mix into the dry mix.\n\nGently combine.\n\nFold the egg whites into the batter in thirds.\n\nGrease and heat the waffle iron.\n\nPour 1 cup of batter onto the hot and ready iron.\n\nCook for 3 minutes on each side or until the waffle is golden brown and lightly charred.\n\nRegrease the skillet as needed.\n\nEat hot, covered in butter and maple syrup, and dusted with bee pollen.\n**LUMBERJACK DELIGHT**\n\nMakes about 8 waffles\n\nGritty and sturdy, these waffles will get you through a few hours at the chopping block. Dust with bee pollen.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n\u2153 cup white wheat flour\n\n\u2153 cup rye flour\n\n\u00bc cup buckwheat flour\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n3 tablespoons vegetable oil\n\n2 eggs, room temperature\n\nButter\n\nMaple syrup\n\nBee pollen\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n2 medium-size bowls\n\nWhisk\n\n2 small bowls\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nButter or grease for the waffle iron\n\nCampfire waffle iron\n\nReady the coals (here).\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flours, sugar, and salt. Set aside.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, whisk together the milk and vegetable oil.\n\nSeparate the eggs into the small bowls.\n\nAdd the yolks to the wet mix and whisk together.\n\nWhip the whites into soft peaks with the whisk.\n\nPour the wet mix into the dry mix.\n\nGently combine.\n\nFold the egg whites into the batter in thirds.\n\nGrease and heat the waffle iron.\n\nPour 1 cup of batter onto the hot and ready iron.\n\nCook for 3 minutes on each side or until the waffle is golden brown and lightly charred.\n\nRegrease the skillet as needed.\n\nEat hot, covered in butter and maple syrup.\n\nPulled from the ether, the bakery lay kicking and screaming at my feet. Self-indulgent days of pity were numbered. Cultures fermenting. Wood stacked. Oven hot. Fresh rhythms of life established themselves along with weeds in the garden. The smell of bread was resurrected over the hillside to the sound of cattle giving birth. The early dawn hours found me sloshing in buckets of bread. Elbow deep in dough, I surrendered. The only machine in the bakery was an old food processor for pulsing herbs. Lining up giant tubs, I mixed by hand down the bench one dough at a time, reciting an ancient language. We know how to make bread deep in our being. That is why it calls to us. The labor is the labor of coming home. The fragrance of flour passing between two stones and the suppleness of bubbling dough wake us to intuitive knowledge. It is important to relax the classifying mind while baking. Engage with the dough in front of you, not the idea of it. Work with a loving attitude. To love in baking is to remain present. Herein lies the health benefit: the practice of caring. The quality of care you can extend to the bread is related to the quality of care you provide yourself.\n\n**HOW TO MAKE BREAD**\n\nBread is a mix of flour and water, activated with leaven and controlled by salt, fermented and baked in a hot environment. Not much more than four ingredients are necessary to create a pleasing loaf. I mix one base dough, the Ploughman, adding in black pepper, herbs, olive oil, and seeds for variation when the salt is incorporated. Learning one simple dough well and practicing it repeatedly will lead to swift progress.\n\nIf you are new to bread, you will need to follow a time line until you develop your intuition. Once you grasp the overall process, it becomes apparent that at any juncture you could choose from several courses of action. As you gain experience, muscle memory will develop, and your senses will guide you. What this tells us is that bread making is flexible, not rigid. Bakers strive for correct textures, smells, and tastes regardless of what the formula says. Let's talk about the basics first, and then we'll explore the recipe itself....\n\n**Culture.**\n\nWhat I refer to as the culture is the base mixture of flour, water, wild yeast, and bacteria that is maintained and refreshed.\n\n**Leaven.**\n\nLeaven is a separate and\/or larger mix of culture, flour, and water that goes directly into the bread. Creating a leaven allows for experimentation in flour types, hydration levels, and fermentation times without endangering the root mixture of yeast and bacteria.\n\nA liquid leaven is equal parts flour and water. It ferments quickly, is comfortable to mix by hand, and dissolves easily in water. Liquid leavens encourage bacterial growth, imparting a milky, floral quality that balances the acidity that develops in long, overnight fermentations. When started with a healthy culture, a liquid leaven may be usable in as little as two hours. Lengthening the fermentation pulls out a pungent flavor. I use mine at the eight-hour mark. The leaven is ready when it has a bubbly surface and has doubled in volume. It should smell yogurt-like and fresh. Drop a thumbnail piece into water: if it floats, you're good to go.\n\n**The flour, the water, and salt.**\n\nThe Ploughman is made here at the bakery using type 75 bread flour from Carolina Ground. The \"75\" refers to the sifted nature of the flour\u201425 percent of the overall bran was removed in the bolter. This flour is generally milled from a hard red winter wheat and I often blend it 50\/50 with flour made from a soft red winter wheat, honoring the kind of grain the South is known for. The blending of the fours makes the bread structurally sound while lending a creamy texture to the crumb. You may order both flours online from www.carolinaground.com or use any reputable bread flour from your region.\n\nWater that you would drink is fine for our purposes here, although steer away from chlorinated water. The amount of water, or hydration, in this recipe is 75 percent. The resulting dough will be wet enough to have a pleasing, custard-like crumb, but stiff enough that shaping isn't a nightmare for the beginner. As your comfort level improves, increase the hydration for a looser dough and more open crumb. I use pink sea salt in the bakery, but most salt will do. If the only salt accessible is large, coarse crystal, dissolve it in a little warm water first.\n\n**Hand mixing.**\n\nThis bread is intended to be mixed by hand. The goal is to bring together a dough with as little work as possible, meaning that each pinch, stroke, fold, or squeeze must be done with confidence and intentionality. Use firm, whole body motions. Your arms are your tools. The way you hold your body while making bread has very direct results in the overall volume, shape, and interior structure.\n\nKeep a sense of mindfulness about yourself. Are your feet rooted on the floor? Are you breathing? Commit to the motion and follow through. Hesitating while handling dough causes inefficiencies; doubt sets in, and your hands linger, fusing to the bread. The difficulty of mixing or shaping, once flustered, only increases. Anticipate each step, and when you begin, sink into your body and let it do the work. The cleanliness of your hands is a representation of the focused nature of your mind and the relaxed quality of your body.\n\n**Temperature.**\n\nOur goal is a dough with final temperature between 75 and 77 degrees Fahrenheit. This climate promotes the growth of strength and flavor in tandem. Too warm, and the bacterial benefits are hindered; too cold, and the yeast struggles to gain momentum. Imagine the bread as your body. What kind of bath would you like to get into? If it's cool, add warm water. If it's hot out, add cool water. Lukewarm water is suitable in most situations.\n\n**A word about baskets.**\n\nThe forms and materials you use to proof your bread with can have noticeable effects on the final crumb and volume. I prefer using simple wicker baskets that can be purchased cheaply from restaurant supply companies. They typically come in sets of twelve and referred to as bread baskets, often used for rolls and butter in a table setting. I use cut-up flour sack towels to drape inside the baskets. You may use a variety of materials to line the baskets as long as they don't have an excess of lint. Over time, a crust will build up on the cloths. I prefer this, it's like seasoning on a cast-iron skillet. I only launder them once a year. Use your bench knife to scrape cloths clean after each use.\n\n**When to start.**\n\nThink backward from when you want your bread to be baked. Let's assume a bake on Saturday night (if you bake your loaves as soon as they're proofed) or Sunday morning (if you refrigerate them overnight before baking): remove your culture from refrigeration and refresh it on Friday morning and Friday afternoon (Remember: if it has been in the fridge for weeks, it might need more refreshments). Friday night, before bed, mix the leaven as described in the following section, then refresh the leftover culture and return it to the fridge after a few hours. (Details on how to refresh your culture are here.)\n**THE PLOUGHMAN**\n\nMakes 4 loaves of bread\n\nI've been making this bread weekly for five years using various flours and adjusting the leaven and hydration to my mood and the weather. A country sour with a medium crumb and thick crust, it's perfect to take into the field for lunch or toast for breakfast in a frying pan with butter. Creating more than one loaf at a time is the best way to learn; share and stock up the freezer.\n\nBakers think of each ingredient in relation to the weight of the flour in a formula. Flour is always at 100 percent. So, for example, the flour in this formula is 1684 grams and the water is 1263 grams, so the water is said to be 75 percent of the weight of the flour. This makes bread formulas easy to adjust and scale with some simple math and a little practice.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**FOR THE LEAVEN**\n\n100% bread flour 187g\n\n100% water 187g\n\n25% culture 47g\n\n_Total weight: 421g_\n\n**FOR THE DOUGH**\n\n100% bread flour 1684g\n\n75% water 1263g\n\n25% leaven 421g\n\n2% salt 34g\n\n_Total weight: 3402g_\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nDigital scale\n\nMedium-size mixing bowl\n\n2 large mixing bowls\n\nWooden spoon\n\nBench knife\n\nDusting flour\n\n4 hand towels\n\nWell-oiled 9-inch loaf pan\n\n3 flour-dusted, cloth-lined baskets\n\n**FOLDS WITH AN ACTIVE DOUGH DESIRED TO SHAPE IN 4 HOURS:**\n\n\u2022 Dough mixed at 9 A.M.\n\n\u2022 30-minute autolyse\n\n\u2022 Salt added at 9:30 A.M.\n\n\u2022 First fold at 10 A.M.\n\n\u2022 Second fold at 11 A.M.\n\n\u2022 Third fold at noon\n\n\u2022 Divide and preshape at 1 P.M.\n\n\u2022 10- to 30-minute bench rest\n\n\u2022 Final shape at 1:30 P.M.\n\n_About 24 to 36 hours before baking (depending on whether you plan to rest the proofed loaves overnight),_ make the leaven. Pour 47 grams of your active culture into a medium bowl along with 187 grams bread flour and 187 grams water. Cover. Let ferment overnight.\n\n_The next day,_ choose a place to mix where you can lean over your workspace with ease. Using a digital scale, weigh the flour into a large bowl with deep sides. Aerate it with your fingers by tossing it together for a moment. Set aside. Weigh the water into a separate large bowl. Add the leaven to the water and stir to combine. The leaven will first float on the surface, become stringy as you stir, and eventually fully dissolve. Pour the slurry into the flour. Keep your fingers together in a curved paddle shape and fold the dough over itself by working your hand directly under the dough, lifting and stretching it up, and then quickly turning your wrist to bring the elongated swath of dough over itself and connected to the opposite side. It's a swoop underneath, a quick pull up, and an ambitious flip of the wrist. Repeat this motion, rotating the bowl, until the dough has fully pulled away from the sides and formed into a loose ball. Use a bench knife to scrape down the sides of the bowl and underneath the dough. The dough will be shaggy and tacky at first, but with a short rest and the addition of salt, it will become smooth and malleable. Toss the salt evenly across the surface of the bread. Cover.\n\nAllow the dough to rest for 30 minutes without working in the salt. Salt has a tightening effect on the gluten and also inhibits fermentation. During this grace time, known as an autolyse, the dough fully hydrates and the gluten gathers strength while enzymatic activity comes alive.\n\nAfter the autolyse begin to pinch in the salt. Hold your hands like crab claws. Starting closest to your body, gather the dough between your \"pinchers\" and work away from you to the opposite side of the bowl, firmly squeezing and releasing the dough like a rope between your hands. The salt will dissolve, and you will immediately feel the bread take on a sense of tension. Once there is no trace of salt, cover and let it rest for another 30 minutes.\n\nThe bread is now entering bulk fermentation. This can last 4 to 5 hours, in which time the dough is given a series of folds. During bulk fermentation, the dough will rise in volume and begin to feel lofty, exhibiting bubbles here and there on the surface and loosening in structure.\n\nA fold consists of lifting and stretching the dough up and across itself to the opposite side of the container, in a series for four turns, making a ball of dough in the middle of the vessel. Folding regulates temperature and builds strength. Use your whole hand, not just your fingertips, to lift, stretch, and flip the dough. This builds elasticity, providing volume in the final loaf. Fold 30 minutes after incorporating the salt and then every hour on the hour. You may divide your dough within 45 minutes of the final fold if it is relaxed enough. Test the strength of your dough by pulling a little away with the tip of your finger. Does it make a bubblegum-like window or shred apart? If the dough isn't coming together and remains loose, increase the number of folds. It is possible to fold the dough without building strength: this happens from a weak and unsure touch. Be forceful, deliberate, and use some elbow grease!\n\nWhen it's time to divide the dough, turn it out onto a clean surface dusted lightly with flour. Using both hands, gently lift and stretch the right edge of the dough to the middle. Gently lift and stretch the left side toward the middle. Repeat the same motions from the top edge down toward the center and from the bottom edge up toward the center. The dough will go from a wiggly mass to a taut rectangle with a \"skin\" now stretched on the surface. Lightly dust with flour.\n\nEyeball the rectangle into four equal-sized portions. At this point, imagine the bench knife is fused into your dominant hand. Use the bench knife to cut, lift, and place your dough where it needs to be, keeping your free hand away as much as possible. Overhandling at this stage can degas the delicate dough. If your hands get stuck in the bread, stop. Wash them. Scrape and clean up your work area. Start again. Divide with a swift cutting and separating rather than a sawing motion. Use the scale to check each loaf at 30 ounces.\n\nThe goal of a preshape is to set up the dough structurally for its final form. Through a series of stretches, tucks, and rolls, the inside of the bread is defined under a gluten cloak. The dough should be able to move freely on the table. Take care to use the least amount of flour in your work area to achieve this. Gently pat a piece of dough into a rectangle. Lift the bottom edge up and press it into the loaf two-thirds of the way up. You will now be looking at a bulge of dough with a lip at the top. Take the sides, stretch them gently and bring them to cross over the center of the dough. The dough will now look like an open envelope. With gusto, take the bottom edge and flip it up to meet the top lip, sealing the dough into a cylinder. Repeat with the other three loaves. Let them rest, covered with cloth, for 10 to 30 minutes.\n\nUsing a bench knife, flip over a preform and gently pat it into a rectangle. Again take the bottom edge and fold it two-thirds of the way up the loaf. Gently stretch the sides and bring them to cross over the center of the dough. More overlap here will provide a nice core of tension so the bread maintains its shape during the final proof. Flip the bottom edge up to meet the top lip and tuck the dough into itself, beginning with a fair amount of tension and easing up as you finish. This last step is a micro movement with your wrists. Use caution and work quickly, never tearing the dough and keeping your fingers on the outside of the loaf.\n\nYou will now have a taut cylinder with a long seam running underneath and a smooth top. Pinch the ends. Lift the loaf with your bench knife and place it seam-side down into an oiled pan. Repeat the same shaping for the remaining three loaves, but transfer them seam-side up into flour dusted, cloth-lined baskets.\n\nProofing is the final stage of fermentation. The dough will rise and relax from the tension introduced while shaping. Initial proofing can last anywhere from 2 to 4 hours, depending on how fast the dough was moving in bulk fermentation and the ambient temperatures of the room. To test if the bread is fully proofed, poke the center of the loaf. If it springs back immediately, give it more time. If it holds the imprint of your finger with just a little spring, it's ready. Once proofed, you may either place your loaves, covered, in the fridge overnight or prepare your oven for baking (see Baking Loaves from a Basket, here, or Stenciled Loaves in a Pan, here).\n\nRetarding your bread in refrigeration will slow down fermentation, adding complexity to the flavor profile. I do not go past 19 hours in cold storage, with room-temperature proofing between 1 and 3 hours. Even if you do not plan on retarding overnight, at least 20 minutes in refrigeration encourages the loaf to contract, making handling and scoring easier.\n\n**BAKING LOAVES FROM A BASKET**\n\nLet go of appearances. Be concerned with more than just looks to achieve a bread that doesn't leave the heart bitter and the stomach empty. A respectable loaf of bread is not necessarily visually perfect. Bread should look, first and foremost, like it came from somewhere. The grain from a particular farm, the water from a certain well. Be proud of your work and understand that bread is as much a practice as it is a noun.\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\n5-quart Dutch oven\n\nDouble-sided razor and a wooden coffee stirer\n\nParchment (not waxed)\n\nPotholders\n\nTimer\n\nWire rack\n\nRemove the racks in your oven so that you have a single rack in the middle. On this rack place your covered Dutch oven. Turn the oven on to 500 degrees. Preheating the Dutch oven mimics the hot masonry found in a wood-fired oven, ensuring a nice oven spring.\n\nWhen the oven has fully heated, remove one of the loaves from refrigeration to bake. The others can remain chilled until it's their turn. Next you will turn out the loaves and score, or slash, them using a tool called a lame (pronounced LAHM)\u2014French for \"blade\"\u2014which is a long stick that holds a sharp razor. Make your own by sliding the double-sided razor onto the end of the coffee stirrer.\n\nBefore you proceed, consider the angle, depth, and pattern of your score. This will influence the final appearance and taste of your bread. As the flap of dough created by your slash pulls back and away from the bread in the heat of the oven, it begins to bake prior to the rest of the loaf. This creates a range of color, which translates to a range of flavor. The direction of your score will have an effect on how it opens. One long slash down the middle encourages the loaf to spread, while several short cuts will help maintain the original form.\n\nYou may wish to adjust the depth of your score based on the proofing. If underproofed, score heavy. If overproofed, score lightly. On a perfectly proofed loaf of bread, the score should stay within the \"skin\" of the loaf, going less than \u00bd inch into the body of the bread. Imagine a center line running down the middle of the loaf. Orient all slashes toward this line, going for long sweeping strokes with even depth. Hold your blade at a 45-degree angle, never straight up and down.\n\nFlip the bread out onto a piece of parchment paper, aiming for the middle. Quickly pull away the cloth and basket, and set them aside. Score the loaf.\n\nCarefully remove the Dutch oven. It will be heavy and hot, so use caution. Remove the lid.\n\nPick up the parchment holding the bread and lower it into the waiting pot. Push the parchment away from the loaf, toward the walls of the pot. Place the lid securely back on and return the pot to the oven for 20 minutes. Leaving the lid on for the first 20 minutes of baking traps the moisture released from the bread against itself, promoting a graceful unfolding of scores.\n\nTwenty minutes into baking, reduce the oven temperature to 450 degrees and remove the lid from the Dutch oven. Hot steam will pour out, so exercise caution. Finish baking for another 15 to 20 minutes.\n\nWhen done, your loaf will have a glossy, mahogany hue and, if tapped on the bottom, will sound hollow. Rest it on a wire rack, allowing air to circulate around the entire crust. Cool it for 2 to 3 hours before slicing if you wish to taste the true flavor. Listen for the sounds of cracking: the cooling interior pulls against the crust, making hairline fractures into a chorus.\n\nTo properly store a loaf, place the cut side down on your cutting board or keep it wrapped in a cloth like linen or heavy canvas inside a paper bag. Your bread will keep 4 to 5 days. To freeze it, slice the entire loaf once it's cool, seal it inside a gallon freezer bag, and take it out one slice at a time, toasting to refresh.\n**STENCILED LOAVES IN A PAN**\n\nIn a time when individual homes lacked kitchens, bread was baked in communal ovens. It was necessary then to have a stencil or signature to your bread to distinguish whose was whose when loaves were pulled from the hearth. Nature, family crests, personal hobbies, and moon cycles are just a few places to draw inspiration from when creating your own stencil. I like to take a walk by the river before I start.\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nFirm piece of paper such as a file folder or Bristol board\n\nPen or pencil\n\nX-Acto knife with a fresh blade\n\nSelf-healing cutting mat Flour sifter\n\n1 cup flour\n\nKitchen towel\n\nSheet pan with raised sides\n\nPreheat the oven to 475 degrees and arrange the racks so that one is in the center of the oven and another is just below it.\n\nCut a rectangle of firm paper to match the surface area of the 9-inch loaf pan. Using a pen or pencil, mark a \u00bd-inch border around the outside of the paper. Draw your chosen design, focusing on the center strip of the stencil. Once the loaf has risen, your design will be more detailed in the center and diffuse on the outer edges, so keep this in mind. Using the X-Acto knife and self-healing mat, cut the design out.\n\nPlace the stencil on top of the loaf. Fill the sifter with flour and evenly sift back and forth over the paper. You only need a light dusting to make your image appear. Too much flour will burn and create a dry mouthful. Set aside the sifter and remove the stencil, lifting directly up so as to not spill the flour.\n\nWhen baking with a Dutch oven, the moisture released from the bread is held close to the skin, providing ample steam, yet here you must provide the steam separately. Steam softens the skin of the bread and reduces tears and blowouts. To steam: soak the kitchen towel in water, place it in the sheet pan, and position it on the bottom rack underneath the bread when you put the loaf in to bake. Remove the pan with the towel 15 minutes into the bake. Bake for a total of 25 to 30 minutes, or until it is ruby red and done. Remove the bread from the pan as soon as it comes out of the oven, and cool it on a wire rack for between 1 and 2 hours to taste the full flavor.\n\nWe often don't ask for help until our hands are tied behind our back. If making bread is a solitary, mindful self-expression, then pizza is a noisy journey into community and the mess of human relationships. Pizza nights at the bakery started innocently enough. And they began like this: Light fire at 6:00 A.M. Mix dough. Prep vegetables. Fold dough. Make Yard Sauce. Shape dough. Let rest. Do dishes. Slice cheese. Dough goes to the cooler. Feed oven wood. Bring out folding table and tablecloths. String bungee cords. Dot with clothespins. Chalkboard. Chalk. Write. Cut pie boxes for tickets. Get pens. Get cash box. Find spare change. Throw quilts around the yard. Set up campfire. Put out trash cans and recycling. Fold 60 pizza boxes. Stamp each box. Cutting boards and pizza cutter in place. Light candles. Toppings and dough into place. Cue music. Pour stiff drink. Drink. Take picture. Post to Instagram. Light campfire. 6:00 P.M. Wait.\n\nThe time between posting an image of the raging fire to the all-seeing, all-knowing Internet and the arrival of the first actual person was torture. I went through every phase of second-guessing. Staring at the homespun ticket line littered with clothespins, I calmed myself by repeating: \"I'm just playing.\" I hadn't felt like this since I was twelve, on my bike, pedaling far from home.\n\nA core group of friends arose to help when pizza night got too big for my own two hands. I found a deep joy in sharing my rituals. What had saved me was the idea that I could do anything alone. What was going to propel life into something meaningful was sharing the burden. Taking orders, making change, and working the oven were delegated according to comfort levels and expertise. My task was to top the pizzas and pass them off into the flames.\n\nThe magic of pizza is watching it cook right in front of you. A 715-degree fire animates the chamber while the pizza bakes two feet in front of the fire, jerking and heaving like it's rising from the dead. The dough bubbles, turning into a ruby crust with tiny blisters, a little charred. The cheese perfectly melts and browns. Seared toppings. Hot. Crispy. Chewy. Salty. Nutty. Sour. Tossed onto a wooden cutting board. Eaten within minutes.\n\nThe power of staying with something is the potential of recognition. The bakery received press that exposed us to the eye of those whose job it was to regulate and oversee matters of culinary safety. The mailman flagged me down on a hot afternoon with a green envelope in his hand. He looked at me and apologized. I looked down at an official letter from the health department stating that my business was in danger. I called the number, and a kind woman told me I should stick with my apple pies. Campfires, knives, and illegal drinking rubbed them the wrong way. Now you can carry on pizza night. Make the dough. Prep the toppings. Heat the oven. Call your friends. Pour a drink. Take a moment to wait. And then, of course, turn up the music and boogie.\n\n**SUNDAY-NIGHT PIZZA PARTY**\n\nMakes 4 10-inch pizzas\n\nThis process assumes a Sunday night gathering\u2014simply adjust as needed for any other day. Remove your culture from refrigeration. Refresh on Friday morning and Friday afternoon. Mix the active culture into the leaven prior to turning in. Cover and let ferment. I use a 50\/50 blend of Carolina Ground type 75 bread and pastry flour to create an all-purpose flour. Tender, extensible, and chewy are the qualities I go for in a crust. If you're feeling adventuresome, fresh spelt flour makes an incredible crust!\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**FOR THE LEAVEN**\n\n100% bread flour 65g\n\n100% water65g\n\n25% starter 16g\n\n_Total weight: 147g_\n\n**FOR THE DOUGH**\n\n100% bread flour 595g\n\n65% water 383g\n\n25% leaven 147g\n\n2% salt 12g\n\nA few glugs of olive oil\n\n_Total weight: 1137g_\n\n**FOR THE PIZZA**\n\nYard Sauce (recipe here)\n\n8 ounces mozzarella (227 grams)\n\nToppings of your choice (see here for some of my favorite combinations)\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nDigital scale\n\nMedium-size mixing bowl\n\n2 large mixing bowls\n\nDusting flour for shaping\n\nBench knife\n\nLarge airtight container\n\nPizza stone\n\n50\/50 blend of cornmeal and all-purpose flour (\u00bd cup each)\n\nPeel or parchment paper\n\nLarge spoon\n\nWire rack\n\nPizza cutter\n\nGood pizza dough can be made with good bread dough. Follow the process for bread making here, all the way through dividing, with one variation: add the glugs of olive oil when you add the slurry of water and leaven.\n\n_The day before baking._ Scale the dough into four portions around 255 grams each on a lightly floured surface. To make a round, cup your hand in a \"C\" shape and roll the dough against the table in a clockwise motion, allowing a little of the dough to stick to the table while the rest tightens. When done, the skin of the dough should be continuous and taut, with the body of the dough slightly lifted away from the table. Dust the bottom of an airtight container (large enough for your rounds) with a little flour. Stagger doughs an inch apart. They will relax over time, spreading somewhat. Cover. Let the dough rise at room temp for 1 hour. (Longer in cool weather, shorter in warm weather.) Transfer it to refrigeration. Flavor will develop substantially in refrigeration, yet at some point the dough will break down structurally. This happens at around 72 hours, depending on the storage temperature. I hold my dough at 48 degrees for 24 hours.\n\n_One hour prior to baking._ Remove the dough from the refrigerator and let it warm to room temperature.\n\n_To bake the pizzas._ Remove extra oven racks, positioning just one in the middle of the oven chamber. Set in the baking stone. Preheat to 500 degrees, or as hot as your oven will go. Allow the stone to thoroughly heat; this will give your pizza a nice lift. To test the temperature, toss a pinch of the cornmeal\/flour blend onto the surface. If the stone is ready, it should brown within 15 seconds.\n\nDust the peel with the blend of cornmeal and flour. Wooden peels stay cooler longer and are great for preparing pizzas during a party, yet the thin edge on metal peels makes removal from the oven a breeze. I use whatever is on hand. Parchment paper is suitable for this activity. It is more about understanding the dynamics and the desired effect than it is about having the nicest tools.\n\nScoop the dough up with the bench knife. Flip it onto the floured peel so that the top is now the bottom. Gently indent a ring \u00bc inch from the edge. Making two fists, go under the dough so it's now resting on top of your knuckles. Use the backs of your hands to stretch the dough in opposite directions, working toward the rim. Now work the outer edges, letting the dough hang while you roll it over the backs of your hands. Gravity will do much of the work.\n\nReturn the dough round to the peel. If you have any small holes, pinch them together and carry on. Work quickly and with a delicate touch.\n\nDrizzle a large spoonful of Yard Sauce over the doughy circle. Smear it toward the edges with the backside of the spoon. Top with 2 ounces (57g) fresh mozzarella. Add the toppings of your choice.\n\nGive the peel a shimmy shake to make sure the pizza can slide off. If it's stuck, lift it with the bench knife and toss more cornmeal\/flour underneath. Open the oven and slide the pizza onto the stone.\n\nBake the pizza for 10 to 12 minutes, depending on how strong the heat in your oven is. Broil for the last minute to get a blistery, caramelized crust. Use the peel to transfer the pizza from the oven to a wire rack. Let it cool for few minutes before moving it to a cutting board. Slice and share.\n\n**YARD SAUCE**\n\nYard Sauce is what I affectionately named the only dressing I use on pizza. I make it from olive oil, herbs, and wild edibles found around the bakery\u2014rosemary, parsley, nettles, thyme, sage, oregano, lemon balm, dill, chickweed, cilantro, and wild onions have all made cameos. Tailor it to your taste. Plant an herb garden just for it!\n\nYou'll need a food processor for this recipe. Make it the day of the party.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n2 large handfuls fresh herbs\n\n1 head of garlic\n\nAbout 3 cups olive oil\n\nJuice and zest of 1 lemon\n\n1 teaspoon salt\n\n1 teaspoon black pepper\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nSmall sieve or lemon juicer\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nChopping knife\n\nCutting board\n\nFood processor\n\n16-ounce glass jar\n\nPick\/gather the herbs.\n\nRemove any stems or debris.\n\nRinse and let dry.\n\nPeel the entire head of garlic and roughly chop it.\n\nIn the food processor, blend the olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, lemon zest, salt, and pepper.\n\nAdd the herbs.\n\nPulse for 2 to 3 minutes.\n\nAdd more oil to thin, if necessary. (It should be spreadable with a spoon.)\n\nPour the sauce into the waiting jar and cover.\n\nIt will naturally separate. Shake it with the lid on to reincorporate.\n\nDress the pizza by the spoonful.\n\n**FLOWERS**\n\nI learned to appreciate edible flowers through Evan Chender, the Culinary Gardener. Once a chef himself, Evan tends an eight-thousand-square-foot intensively grown garden that is nothing short of paradise. He is also gracious, taking orders and requests well after preferred harvesting deadlines. His offerings are unique: leaves and roots and shoots not typically grown on larger farms. I'd pop a succulent, jewel-toned leaf no bigger than my thumb into my mouth and taste cucumber, lime, and pepper. A cascade through the nose first, over the tongue, and then in the chest. Scatter flowers and delicate greens on a pizza after baking.\n\n**TOPPINGS**\n\nThink outside the box when it comes to choosing toppings. When pizza night began, we used whatever damaged or misshapen vegetables came out of the field. Now I go the farmers' market and fill up my grocery sack with whatever is new. Working with something like a potato or turnips, toss them in a few tablespoons of the Yard Sauce, and roast them on a sheet pan prior to using. Light and fresh greens are always added post-bake.\n\n\u2022 Spinach, roasted turnips, and garlic scapes\n\n\u2022 Roasted radishes, fresh herbs, and pea shoots\n\n\u2022 Split romaine, anchovies, and lemon zest\n\n\u2022 Tomatoes, basil, and sweet corn\n\n\u2022 Roasted okra, Jimmy Nardello peppers, and prosciutto\n\n\u2022 Peaches, red onion, capers, and chili flakes\n\n\u2022 Figs, shallots, and Gruy\u00e8re\n\n\u2022 Thinly sliced roasted potatoes and saut\u00e9ed fennel\n\n\u2022 Cauliflower, leeks, and roasted garlic\n\n\u2022 Thinly sliced roasted sweet potato and caramelized onions\n\n**TIPS**\n\n\u2022 Identify the flower.\n\n\u2022 Make sure it's not poisonous.\n\n\u2022 Do not consume flowers that have been sprayed by pesticides.\n\n\u2022 Avoid roadside flowers and flowers from a commercial florist, garden, or nursery.\n\n\u2022 Harvest and use flowers at peak bloom.\n\n\u2022 Eat in moderation.\n\n\u2022 Make your own floral confetti out of some of these blossoms: dandelion, fennel, dill, elderberry, honeysuckle, nasturtium, purslane, red clover, pansy, violet, geranium, snapdragon, and marigold.\n\n_Friday, July 1, 4 A.M. Bake pies for Laura and Jason's wedding. Load oven with wood and kindling. Light. Measure dry ingredients. Cube cold butter. Hand mix pie dough. Cover and chill. Chop peaches. Toss blueberries. Zest twenty lemons. Whisk heavy cream and egg yolks. Bring out dough. Roll. Cut. Transfer into tins. Press and trim. Fill. Top. Brush with egg wash. Roll out scrap dough. Design and score shapes. Embellish pies. Egg wash again. Dust with coarse sugar. Vent. Chill. Rake coals from oven chamber. Mop out oven. Close oven door. Do dishes. Clean sinks. Dust. Sweep. Mop. Line sheet pans with parchment. Open oven. Transfer pies to sheet pans. Carry outside. Load. Close. Fold boxes. Stamp. Line with parchment. Take out pies. Cool. Box. Close. Tie with string._\n\nI was alone through every season by the time Jason and Laura's wedding rolled around, and I noticed how particular I was becoming. My whole world arranged in just the right order. Never a stray water glass. Never a shoe out of line. Never a hair on the sink. Never a shirt on the floor. Everything was immaculate. Everything was frozen. I had control of my life, but I was also suffocating it. So when I saw his shoes tossed by the woodstove and his beer sweating water on the windowsill I got nervous.\n\nWe'd met the month before, when his truck broke down in my driveway. A stray member of Jason's bachelor party, he was trying to leave the neighborhood after a weekend on the river. Seems fate had other plans. Standing in the house, I saw him milling around the mailbox, and I stepped out on the porch to see what the issue was. He was silhouetted in the afternoon sun; I sized him up according to the outline of his body.\n\nIt would take a week to repair the engine, so Laura and Jason temporarily got a roommate, and I was ousted from my formal role as a third wheel. I immediately assessed that we were from different worlds, that I didn't enjoy his taste in music\u2014and when he said he didn't like cake, any possible interest I had evaporated like water on hot pavement. Until the last night of his detour. We had a popcorn-and-movie night at my house, and I picked out my favorite film concerning witches, prideful conceit, and exile. Jason and Laura trailed off, but the film held his interest, and when he opened his mouth and started talking about the symbolism of the chalice and the goat, my neck broke turning to look at him. He was bathed in a flickering blue glow and I thought, _I've been waiting my whole life to talk to this man._ And then, as the credits rolled, I kicked him out and locked the door.\n\nTwo weeks later, I told Laura he could stay at my house during the wedding, and at 1 A.M. on the first of July, he let himself in and disappeared, along with his dog, into the guest room. Lunch came and went, and I still had twelve chess pies left to bake. The wood-fired oven would have scorched them, so I cranked on the kitchen stove. I showered. Slipped on my favorite dress. Laced up an apron. Put on Billie Holiday and set to work. Melted the butter. Let it cool. Measured the flour, sugar, and cornmeal. Whisked the buttermilk, eggs, and vanilla. Folded the wet into the dry in three parts. Got out the beans. Cut parchment circles. Blind-baked the bottom shells and lined them with fresh fruit.\n\nI didn't notice him at first, leaning in the doorway. Without his shirt on. I hadn't had a feeling from the waist down in years, and I couldn't tell if I was experiencing attraction or food poisoning. I had wanted to be a nun ever since I was girl, and my current celibate streak was a source of pride. I thought, _This is temptation. Resist._ What would help? A rule. A rule would help. Raising a dripping whisk, I announced that visitors were required to wear shirts at all times. He didn't budge. Instead he suggested that he was actually going to take off all his clothes and get in the shower. Pouring the custard into the pie shells, my hands were shaking. _We have other rules here, too_ , I said, _like you can't watch me do this_.\n\nThe pies found their way into the oven, and he managed to locate the shower. I went outside to fumble under the potting table for a pack of cigarettes I kept for emergencies. Pacing back and forth, I had one. And then another. He emerged fresh onto the patio with a furrowed brow. It appeared he didn't have a date to the rehearsal dinner. My phone rang. Laura said there was a cancelation and suddenly extra room at the table. I told her I'd just put her very important pies in the oven. _Just get here when you can,_ she said, and hung up. _Looks like you need a ride to dinner and I need a date_ , he said. I looked up to meet his gaze: _How do you feel about being late?_\n\nWe sat in front of the oven watching the pies bake and played twenty-one questions. It was the longest hour of my life. The timer popped, and I scrambled to my feet, opening the oven door. A wave of warm milk and raspberry flooded the kitchen. We boxed jiggly pies, not waiting for them to cool, and ran out the door. Pulling bobby pins out of my hair, I tossed my apron on the woodpile and climbed into his truck. We rolled down the windows and turned up the Beach Boys. Speeding toward the lights of town, my arm out the window, a trail of dust clouding the taillights: for once, I'd left the kitchen without sweeping.\n\n**HOW TO MAKE A PIE THE BEST WAY**\n\nEveryone wants to know how to make the flakiest pie crust, but the reality is that there are many different ways a light dough can be achieved and experienced. The texture of pie dough can range from mealy to flaky. Mealy dough has a lower percentage of liquid, holding up well against filling with substantial juices or eggs. Flaky dough puffs considerably and shatters when bitten. In the middle is a sandy-textured, crumbly crust. Each kind of dough has its place depending on the filling and amount of detail you wish to impart in any design work. Firm doughs support decorative aspects, holding shapes and clean lines. Flaky doughs make excellent free-form galettes and open-faced tarts. Regardless, when baked, a good crust should be golden, shiny, and deeply browned.\n\n**Flour.**\n\nSource flour with a protein content of 10 percent or lower. I choose the Carolina Ground type 75 pastry flour for a provincial taste or the Crema pastry flour, also from Carolina Ground, for a crisp texture. Both are made from a soft, red winter wheat. Start with cold flour. I store mine in the freezer.\n\n**Fat.**\n\nEvery fat has a different melting point. Shortening is a favorite amongst pie bakers because it has a very high melting point. However, shortening and\/or lard can leave off-putting flavors for sweet pies and a filmy feel in the mouth. Butter has a lower melting point, yet a pleasant, milky, grassy character. I use an all-butter recipe that has an 82 percent butterfat content. I like to order in bulk from the local co-op. If you feel adventurous, try 80 percent butter to 20 percent lard.\n\nEuropean-style butters have a higher percentage of butterfat and are considered cultured butters, which means that the cream is somewhat fermented. This imparts a distinctly \"buttery\" taste. In today's butter, bacteria (Lactococcus and Leuconostoc) are introduced after the pasteurization process. The water in butter is released as steam while baking, giving pie dough a lift similar to puff pastry. Whatever butter you choose, be sure to keep it cold throughout the process so the water doesn't leach out. I cube my butter beforehand and freeze it, starting the process with frozen butter. Since salt is added in with the dry ingredients, be sure to use unsalted butter in your crust. Salted butter can be overpowering in a dough, but if it's all you have, go forward and simply omit the salt in the dry mix.\n\n**Water.**\n\nWater is both inside the butter and poured directly into the dough. If the butter is worked into the dry ingredients too much, water will separate out, soaking the flour, and a dough will form without the required amount of liquid. This results in a brittle dough due to lack of gluten development. If the butter is barely worked in when water is added, the dough will form too much gluten, making a tough and elastic crust that will shrink and snap. In general, use as little water as possible to bring the dough into a workable consistency. Always use ice-cold water and make adjustments a tablespoon at a time. Any water that you would drink is fine to make a pie crust with, although stay clear of chlorinated water, if possible.\n\n**Sugar.**\n\nA few tablespoons of unrefined sugar in the crust tenderizes the dough and promotes browning.\n\n**Salt.**\n\nSalt preserves the crust and enhances flavors. I use sea salt from the co-op.\n\n**SMOKE SIGNALS CRUSTS**\n\nI use various sifted, low-protein pastry flour from Carolina Ground for a light, crispy, and slightly sweet crust. All-purpose flour is fine to use as well. Omit the sugar for a basic and versatile tart dough good for savory affairs.\n\nI fresh mill Bloody Butcher corn for my cornmeal crust. Try different colors and flavors of corn for a colorfully freckled crust. The cornmeal crust has a sturdy and sandy flake, perfect for chess pies.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DOUBLE-CRUST PIE**\n\n2\u00bd cups pastry flour (low protein)\n\n2 tablespoons unrefined sugar\n\n1 teaspoon salt\n\n1 cup (2 sticks) cold unsalted butter\n\n\u00bd cup ice-cold water + more if needed\n\n**SINGLE-CRUST PIE**\n\n1\u00bd cups pastry flour (low protein)\n\n1 tablespoon unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup (1 stick) cold unsalted butter\n\n\u00bc cup ice-cold water + more, if needed\n\n**CORNMEAL CRUST PIE**\n\n1\u00bc cups pastry flour (low protein)\n\n\u00bc cup cornmeal\n\n1 tablespoon unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup (1 stick) cold unsalted butter\n\n\u00bc cup ice-cold water, plus more if needed\n\n**FOR THE FINISH**\n\n1 egg yolk\n\n1 tablespoon heavy cream\n\nCoarse sugar for dusting\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\n2 medium-size airtight containers\n\nSmall water pitcher\n\nMedium-size mixing bowl with deep sides\n\nBench knife\n\nFlour for dusting\n\nFrench rolling pin\n\n9-inch pie tin\n\nPastry wheel\n\nFork\n\nSmall bowl\n\nWhisk\n\nPastry brush\n\nKnife\n\nSheet pan\n\nParchment paper\n\nPlastic wrap\n\n_Day before:_ Blend the flour (and cornmeal, if using), sugar, and salt by hand in an airtight container and freeze. Cube the butter into lima-bean-sized pieces and freeze, also in an airtight container.\n\n_Morning of:_ Fill a pitcher with water and ice. When hydrating the dough, use water from this pitcher.\n\n_To begin:_ Bring out all the ingredients. Measure the butter into the flour mixture in a medium bowl. Toss, coating the butter in flour. Pinch half of the butter cubes between your thumb and index finger, flattening them out, leaving the rest as is. Your goal is to streak portions of butter through the dough so you will still need some untouched, large bits for this rough lamination. Toss the butter repeatedly in the flour while working. It will be difficult at first, but soon the frozen butter will turn into a waxy, pliable substance. This is the perfect state of butter for a pie crust. Make sure the butter stays in this zone and does not turn greasy or wet. Do not overwork the butter. If it warms up at any point chill the dough till the butter is firm once again. This process should only take about five minutes.\n\nMake a well in the middle of the flour and butter. Pour in the water. Toss the mix from the sides over the water and start to knead it together. Although an overworked pie dough may cause a tough texture, this is not likely to happen working by hand. In fact, the opposite is often true. Put some elbow grease into it. If you feel that your crust needs more water, add only 1 tablespoon at a time. Dip your fingers in the water to smooth out dry or cracked spots. When it's done, there will be no dry flour and the dough should still have visible large chunks of butter.\n\nIf you're making a single flaky pastry or cornmeal crust, press the dough into a disk. If you're making a double crust, divide and press it into two evenly portioned disks. Refrigerate the dough in plastic wrap for at least 30 minutes.\n\nLightly dust your work surface with flour. Remove one disk of dough from refrigeration and let it warm for a moment. Unlike other pie-crust directions, we are not concerned with rolling out a circle of dough. Gently use your hands to form the disk into a bit of a rectangle rather than a circle and imagine a line running horizontally through the center. Roll the dough outward from this equator in both directions: away from your body toward the top of your work surface and from the middle toward yourself. Be sure to roll all the way off the edge. Roll the dough as long as you can, then fold it in half and in half again. Rotate 90 degrees. Now roll on the diagonal, down the center and along the edges, to create a sheet of dough. Frequently use the pie tin to check your measurement. You need the sheet of dough to be just large enough to trace the pie tin on. Roll to a thickness of \u215b inch.\n\nLay the pie tin down on the sheet of dough. Using the edge as a guide, trim the dough with a pastry wheel \u00bd inch around. Set aside the scrap dough. Make sure the circle is free from the table by gently scraping underneath it with a bench knife. Place your forearm down the center. Fold one side over your arm. Lift. Catch the hanging dough in your free hand. Lift the dough with your arm and center it over the pie tin. Lay it down. Press it into the bottom and sides of the tin, eliminating any air.\n\n_For a single-crust pie,_ tuck any excess dough under itself so it's flush with the rim and flute or fork to decorate. Using the tines of a fork, poke the bottom five or six times. Whisk the egg yolk and heavy cream, then brush the rim with egg wash and dust with coarse sugar. Freeze for 10 minutes. Proceed to blind-baking (detailed here).\n\n_For a double-crust pie,_ trim the excess around the rim. Ball the scraps together with the previous leftover dough. Set it aside. If the kitchen is warm, refrigerate the extra dough.\n\nIf making a double crust pie, remove the second disk from refrigeration. Let it warm for a moment. Roll it out, repeating all the steps you used for the first round. Once you've got your filling in the bottom pie shell, lay the top crust squarely over the center. Going around the outside edge, tuck the crust underneath itself, flush with edge of the tin. Flute it with your fingers or crimp with a fork.\n\nIn a small bowl, whisk together the egg yolk and cream. Brush the mixture over the pie. Roll out any scraps and cut shapes like leaves or feathers using a pastry wheel. Position them on the crust. Brush them with the egg wash. Vent the pie with a knife or fork a few times. Dust it with coarse sugar. Freeze it for 20 minutes. Proceed to double-crust baking (see here), or bake as recipe directs.\n\n**TIPS**\n\nThere should be only enough flour in the work area so that the crust can glide. Keep your dough moving on the table constantly, flipping it to work one side after you've rolled for a minute on the other. Make sure the dough doesn't fuse with the work surface, causing the butter to tear through the rough layers you're creating. Apply even pressure with your rolling pin, going over the dough firmly, but gently. Rather than driving with huge force and plowing it into the table, roll over the crust with long, sweeping strokes, extending all the way from your hips. Roll from up your legs, through the shoulders and arms, and out the tips of your fingers.\n\nIf the dough is not lengthening, the butter has broken through underneath and it is stuck to the table. Gently pick it up, scrape the work surface clean, lightly dust it with flour, and flip the dough over. If the dough warms up at any point, refrigerate it on a parchment-lined sheet pan until it chills.\n**BLIND BAKING**\n\nAny pie involving a custard, a particularly juicy fruit, or an unbaked filling will require a par-baked, or blind-baked crust.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\nSingle pastry or cornmeal pie crust, prepared as described here.\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nParchment paper\n\n3 cups dried beans\n\nHeat-safe container\n\nPreheat the oven to 375 degrees.\n\nRemove the crust from the freezer and line it with parchment paper. (I cut my parchment paper into rounds and keep a stack in the pantry.) Fill it with the dried beans, pushing the beans up the sides and leaving the center shallow.\n\nBake the crust for 15 minutes. Remove it from the oven. Carefully lift out the parchment and beans. Pour the beans into the heat-safe container to cool. Toss or keep the parchment for future use.\n\nReturn the crust to the oven. Bake it 10 minutes longer if you need a lighter crust that will require further baking once the filling is added. Bake it for another 25 minutes (or till it's golden brown) for a completely baked shell. If you have issues with your crust shrinking while blind baking, be sure to let the dough rest prior to cutting it, and take care to use a pastry flour: even all-purpose flours can have too much elasticity.\n**DOUBLE-CRUST BAKING**\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\nDouble-crust pie, filled as desired, covered with the top crust, finished, and chilled as described here.\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nSheet tray with rimmed sides\n\nParchment paper\n\nTinfoil\n\nPosition a rack in the center of the oven and preheat it to 425 degrees.\n\nLine the sheet tray with parchment and position the pie on it. Transfer it to the hot oven, placing it on the center rack, in the middle. Bake it for 15 minutes. Reduce the heat to 375 degrees and continue baking for 30 to 40 minutes. If the crust begins to darken too much, cover it with tinfoil, but do remember that color equals flavor and let that baby brown! When baking in a regular home oven, I use the broiler on high for the final 3 minutes to give a slight char that is such a signature of the wood-fired look and taste. Monitor your oven and adjust baking times according to hot spots.\n\nCool the pie at room temperature for at least 2 hours. Follow specific serving instructions. I find pie tastes best the second day!\n\n**BROKEN-DOWN BERRY PIE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch pie\n\nThey say you've got to break down before you break through, and sometimes the worst situations turn out to be the best. Bold, blue, and jammy, with a bite of tart apple. Serve chilled.\n\nYou will need: 1 single 9-inch pie crust, blind-baked (here).\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**FILLING**\n\n8 ounces fresh blackberries\n\n8 ounces fresh raspberries\n\n8 ounces fresh blueberries\n\n1 Granny Smith apple\n\n1 cup unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bc cup cornstarch\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n\u00bc teaspoon nutmeg\n\n\u00be teaspoon salt\n\nJuice of 1 lemon\n\nZest of 1 lemon\n\n5 tablespoons water + more to adjust\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nDigital scale\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nColander\n\nPeeler\n\nCutting board\n\nKnife\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nSaucepan\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nPreheat the oven to 425 degrees.\n\nRinse and dry the fresh berries.\n\nPeel and chop the apple in small chunks.\n\nCombine all the filling ingredients in the saucepan.\n\nBring the mixture to a light boil.\n\nIf the filling is burning and searing, add slightly more water.\n\nTurn down the heat and simmer, stirring frequently, until the filling is thick.\n\nLet it cool.\n\nTransfer the filling into the prepared pie shell.\n\nBake for 35 minutes.\n\nLet the pie cool for 2 hours.\n\nRefrigerate.\n**CRUMBLE TOP**\n\nMakes enough to top one 9-inch pie\n\nA classic choice if you're forgoing a top crust.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n\u00bd cup (1 stick) butter\n\n1\u00bd cups pastry flour (low protein)\n\n\u00bc cup unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bc cup brown sugar\n\n\u00bc cup rolled oats\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nCutting board\n\nKnife\n\nMedium-size bowl\n\nFork or pastry blender\n\nAirtight storage container\n\nCube the butter into lima bean-size chunks.\n\nMix the dry ingredients together in the medium-size bowl.\n\nCut in the butter with a fork or pastry blender till it comes together and crumbles.\n\nChill the mixture for at least 20 minutes in an airtight storage container prior to using.\n**PEACHES AND RHUBARB PIE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch pie\n\nSweet and tangy and a little out of the box. Just like my new crush.\n\nYou will need: 1 single 9-inch pie crust, blind-baked (here), and Crumble Top (here).\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**FILLING**\n\n7 to 8 medium fresh peaches\n\n4 to 5 stalks fresh rhubarb\n\n1 cup unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bc cup cornstarch\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cloves\n\n\u00be teaspoon sea salt\n\nJuice and zest of 1 lemon\n\n5 tablespoons water + more to adjust\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nCutting board\n\nKnife\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nSaucepan\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nPreheat the oven to 425 degrees.\n\nRinse the peaches and rhubarb.\n\nPit and slice the peaches, leaving the skins on.\n\nCut the ends off the rhubarb and chop the stalks into thick slices.\n\nCombine all the filling ingredients in the saucepan.\n\nBring the mixture to a boil, stirring frequently with the wooden spoon.\n\nIf the filling is burning and searing, add slightly more water.\n\nTurn down the heat to low.\n\nKeep cooking and stirring until the mixture is thick.\n\nLet it cool.\n\nTransfer the filling into the prepared pie shell.\n\nTop it with crumble.\n\nBake the pie for 15 minutes, then reduce the heat to 375 degrees and finish baking for another 20 to 25 minutes or until the filling is bubbling and the crumble is golden brown.\n\nLet the pie cool for 2 hours.\n\nServe room temperature.\n**LAURA'S BLUEBERRY PIE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch pie\n\nHer favorite pie for a special day. My father handpicked the blueberries and drove them to us. We passed the time picking out stems and rinsing them as the heat set in. It was worth it.\n\nYou will need: 1 double 9-inch pie crust, prepared as described here.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**FILLING**\n\n7 cups fresh blueberries\n\n\u00bd cup unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bc cup brown sugar\n\n\u00bc cup cornstarch\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n\u00bc teaspoon nutmeg\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ginger\n\n\u00be teaspoon salt\n\nJuice and zest of 1 lemon\n\n5 tablespoons water + more to adjust\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nColander\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nSaucepan\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nPreheat the oven to 425 degrees.\n\nRinse the berries.\n\nLet them dry.\n\nHold back one cup of fresh berries, combine all other filling ingredients in the saucepan.\n\nBring the mixture to a boil, stirring frequently with the wooden spoon.\n\nIf the filling is searing, add slightly more water.\n\nTurn down the heat and continue cooking and stirring until the mixture is thick.\n\nLet cool.\n\nFold in the remaining cup of berries.\n\nPour the cooled filling into the prepared bottom crust.\n\nTop the pie, fluting or forking the edges, decorating with rolled-out scraps as desired, and applying egg wash and coarse sugar as described here.\n\nBake the pie as described in Double-Crust Baking (here).\n\nLet it cool for 2 hours.\n\nServe room temperature or chilled.\n**JASON'S CORNMEAL CHESS**\n\nMakes one 9-inch pie\n\nSouthern, traditional, and dependable, just like the newly wedded Jason. You want this pie in your repertoire. A friendly note: overbaking will crack the surface of the pie. The filling may jiggle when you take it out of the oven, but it will continue to bake as it sits.\n\nYou will need: 1 single 9-inch cornmeal pie crust, blind-baked (here).\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**FILLING**\n\n3 tablespoons cornmeal\n\n1 tablespoon pastry flour (low protein)\n\n4 large eggs, room temperature\n\n1 cup buttermilk, room temperature\n\n\u00bc cup sour cream, room temperature\n\n\u00bd cup unrefined sugar\n\n6 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\nZest of 1 lemon\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nMicroplane grater\n\n2 medium-size mixing bowls with deep sides\n\nWhisk\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nPreheat the oven to 375 degrees.\n\nCombine the cornmeal and flour in a medium bowl with deep sides. Set it aside.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, whisk together the wet ingredients.\n\nFold the wet mix into the dry in thirds, using a large wooden spoon.\n\nPour the filling into the prepared pie shell.\n\nBake for 35 to 40 minutes.\n\nThe pie is finished when the middle is golden brown, but still jiggly.\n\nAllow it to cool for 2 hours.\n\nServe room temp or chilled.\n\nUsually it's hot and humid in August, but this year turned particularly dry. The garden withered and wilted. I kept the herbs alive with morning and evening pails of water, performing elaborate rain dances nightly to an old weather radio. The rains, when they happened, came in sideways. Downpours that washed away all the topsoil and flooded the creek. Slouching on the front porch with my shoes off, I ate ice cream out of the carton to a purple sky shredding open.\n\nTo get anything done, I rose before the sun and slept off the early afternoon, returning to work in the evening. There's no sense in caring about how you look or what you smell like in August\u2014you're constantly dirty. Clothes stick to your sweaty body no matter what. The poison ivy, which is everywhere around the bakery, turns vicious. After an afternoon of gathering sticks and twigs for oven kindling, my entire arm was covered in boils and blisters. Five long days of torturous itching landed me at the doctor's for a shot of steroids to reduce the rash. Lips sunburned, hair knotted, I lay on the cool, plastic seat in the air-conditioned office, haggard. August is the height of the Ferris wheel. The ride pauses for one brief look around. Is it what you imagined?\n\nThe bakery handles the heat about as well as I do. The whole place groans. The doorways and windows swell and stick. The walk-in cooler constantly needs to be defrosted. The walls must be routinely scrubbed to discourage mold. The ants show up, then the spiders. The carpenter bees arrive, drilling holes in the wooden beams alongside the oven, and the woodpeckers descend, tunneling into the beams and leaving shredded wood everywhere. More than once, a bird flies into the front window, smashing the glass. And then, lastly, the flies start hatching.\n\nMaking a decent pie crust anytime after lunch is impossible. Even if all the ingredients are frozen to start with, the pie dough will fuse to the table within minutes of rolling. Working with a sense of urgency is crucial. Too hot for anything heavy, I eat lunch by the oven under the shade. A few wooden boards piled high with toasted bread, cheese, sardines, olives, boiled eggs, grapes, pickles, jams, chickpea spread, nuts, mustard, and salt and pepper. Washing it down with chilled white wine. These moments almost make up for the humidity.\n\nFinding a collection of old Bundt pans at a yard sale, I became obsessed with making cakes. In August, the groomsman passed through town again. This time I wasn't folding custard into pie shells; I was sifting flours and greasing old pans with lard. One night we took a drive on the back roads, eventually stopping at the grocery store for a bag of sugar and a jug of milk. Pulling into the driveway, I cut the engine off, and we sat in the dark for several minutes listening to Bruce Springsteen. The air was low and gauzy. The sky a vat of indigo. One by one, the stars punched holes in density.\n\nA bead of sweat ran between my dress and my back. I started yammering under the blanket of warm air and the lubrication of gin: _It's just that I've given up on finding love. And I know that sounds sad, but it's not. I'm free from all the waiting and wanting and hoping._ He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, the cherry lighting up his face. _So what do you hope for?_ he asked. I pressed my face into the steering wheel and looked at him sideways: _I just want to make a good cake._\n**CAKE FLOUR**\n\nMakes 3\u00bd cups cake flour\n\nCake flour is low enough in protein that it will quickly hydrate into a batter without much mixing, but also strong enough that it will lift properly to ensure even baking and a moist, light interior. All-purpose flour (a 50\/50 blend of pastry and bread flour) typically has a protein content between 10 and 11 percent. Cake flour, in contrast, has a lower protein content\u2014between 8 and 9 percent. Make your own cake flour! The results are feathery light, highly moist, and very tender. I use a blend of Carolina Ground type 75 pastry flour and type 75 bread flour with Bob's Red Mill cornstarch. The cornstarch lowers the overall protein and inhibits gluten development.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n1\u00bd cups bread flour\n\n1\u00bd cups pastry flour (low protein)\n\n\u00bd cup cornstarch\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups\n\nMedium-size mixing bowl\n\nFlour sifter\n\nAirtight storage container\n\nToss together the flours and cornstarch in the medium bowl.\n\nSift the mixture twice, or until it is thoroughly combined.\n\nTransfer the cake flour into an airtight storage container.\n\nKeep it in a cool and dry place.\n\nUse as needed.\n\n**EVERYDAY CAKES**\n\nAs you get familiar with these recipes, you'll notice that there is one basic set of dry ingredients and a set of wet ingredients\u2014it's the little variations that make the cake unique (I've indicated these with + signs). Don't hesitate to make your own changes to the basic recipe to create your own cakes. Read all the recipes thoroughly before beginning.\n\n**GROOMSMAN CAKE**\n\nMakes 1 Bundt cake\n\nHe left a bottle of bourbon on the mantel. I poured it into a cake batter, baked it, and sent it to him in the mail. I don't mind being forward the old-fashioned way.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n3 cups cake flour (here)\n\n4\u00bd teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon salt\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bd cup brown sugar\n\n\u2154 cup (1\u00bd sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature\n\n3 eggs, room temperature\n\n1 cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n3 tablespoons bourbon\n\nConfectioners' sugar for dusting\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nStandard Bundt pan\n\n(12 cups \/ 10 by 3\u00bd inches)\n\nRoom-temperature butter and flour for the pan\n\n2 medium-size mixing bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nHand blender\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nKnife\n\nWire rack\n\nGrease the Bundt pan with butter. Dust it with flour and shake out any loose flour left. Set it aside.\n\nCenter a rack in the oven and preheat it to 350 degrees.\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the cake flour, baking powder, and salt.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, sift together the sugars.\n\nAdd the butter to the sugar.\n\nCream together with a hand blender till light and fluffy.\n\nScrape down the sides of the bowl.\n\nAdd the eggs to the creamed mix one at a time, fully blending after each addition.\n\nScrape down the sides of the bowl.\n\nTo the creamed mixture add the milk, vanilla, and bourbon. Beat well.\n\nPour the wet mix into the dry mix in thirds.\n\nFold gently until there is no visible flour and no lumps remain in the batter.\n\nPour the batter into the waiting Bundt pan.\n\nBake in the center of the oven for 35 to 40 minutes or until a knife comes out clean.\n\nLet the cake cool for 10 minutes.\n\nRun a thin knife between the cake and the pan.\n\nFlip it over onto a wire rack and cool completely.\n\nServe dusted with confectioners' sugar.\n**SHOOTING STAR CAKE**\n\nMakes 1 Bundt cake\n\nHerbaceous and sweet, this Bundt calls for thyme and fresh berries.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n\u2153 cups cake flour (here)\n\n4\u00bd teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon salt\n\nZest of 1 lemon\n\n1 tablespoon freshly chopped thyme\n\n**WET**\n\n1 cup sugar\n\n\u00bd cup brown sugar\n\n\u2154 cup unsalted butter, room temperature\n\n3 eggs, room temperature\n\n1 cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n1 cup rinsed, fresh blueberries\n\n1 cup rinsed, fresh blackberries\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nColander\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nStandard Bundt pan\n\n(12 cups \/ 10 by 3\u00bd inches)\n\nRoom-temperature butter and flour, for the pan\n\n2 medium-size mixing bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nHand blender\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nKnife\n\nWire rack\n\nGrease the Bundt pan with butter. Dust it with flour and shake out any loose flour left. Set it aside.\n\nCenter a rack in the oven and preheat it to 350 degrees.\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, salt; toss in the lemon zest and thyme; mix well.\n\nIn a separate medium bowl, sift together the sugars.\n\nAdd the butter to the sugar.\n\nCream together with a hand blender till light and fluffy.\n\nScrape down the sides of the bowl.\n\nAdd the eggs to the creamed mix one at a time, fully blending after each addition.\n\nScrape down the sides of the bowl.\n\nTo the creamed mixture add the milk and vanilla. Beat well.\n\nPour the wet mix into the dry mix in thirds.\n\nFold gently until there is no visible flour and no lumps in the batter.\n\nFold in the berries.\n\nPour the batter into the waiting Bundt pan.\n\nBake the cake in the center of the oven for 35 to 40 minutes or until a knife comes out clean.\n\nLet it cool for 10 minutes.\n\nRun a thin knife between the cake and the pan.\n\nFlip it over onto a wire rack and cool completely.\n**COALFIELD CAKE**\n\nMakes 1 Bundt cake\n\nI asked him to point to his town on a map. I looked at the snaking highway through the mountains. _Where is that?_ I asked. _Deep in a coalfield,_ he said.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n\u2153 cups cake flour (here)\n\n4\u00bd teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup unsweetened cocoa powder\n\n2 tablespoons chopped sage\n\nZest of 1 orange\n\n**WET**\n\n5 ounces 60% cacao baking chocolate\n\n1 cup unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bd cup brown sugar\n\n\u2154 cup unsalted butter, room temperature\n\n3 eggs, room temperature\n\n1 cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n\u00bd cup sour cream\n\nGanache glaze (recipe here)\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nStandard Bundt pan\n\n(12 cups \/ 10 by 3\u00bd inches)\n\nRoom-temperature butter and flour, for the pan\n\n2 medium-size mixing bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nChopping knife\n\nCutting board\n\nDigital scale\n\nSaucepan\n\nMedium-size stainless-steel bowl\n\nWhisk\n\nHand blender\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nThin-blade knife\n\nWire rack\n\nGrease the Bundt pan with butter. Dust it with flour and shake out any loose flour left. Set it aside.\n\nCenter a rack in the oven and preheat it to 350 degrees.\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, salt, and cocoa powder; stir in the sage and orange zest. Set the bowl aside.\n\nRoughly chop the chocolate.\n\nFill the bottom of the saucepan with water. Set it atop the cooking range.\n\nPlace the stainless-steel bowl on the saucepan.\n\nBring the water in the pan to a rolling boil, heating the bowl.\n\nToss the chocolate into the hot bowl, reduce the heat, and whisk evenly until the chocolate melts.\n\nCarefully remove the bowl from the saucepan and let the chocolate cool. In another medium bowl, sift together the sugars.\n\nAdd the butter to the sugar.\n\nCream together with a hand blender till the mixture is light and fluffy.\n\nScrape down the sides of the bowl.\n\nAdd the eggs to the creamed mix one at a time, fully blending after each addition.\n\nScrape down the sides of the bowl.\n\nTo the creamed mixture add the milk, vanilla, and sour cream.\n\nBeat well.\n\nAdd the cooled, melted chocolate.\n\nBeat well.\n\nPour the wet mix into the dry mix in thirds.\n\nFold gently until there is no visible flour and no lumps in the batter.\n\nPour the batter into the waiting pan.\n\nBake the cake in the center of the oven for 35 to 40 minutes or until a thin knife comes out clean.\n\nLet it cool for 10 minutes.\n\nRun a thin knife between the cake and the pan.\n\nFlip it over onto a wire rack.\n\nCool completely.\n\nPour the ganache glaze over the cooled cake.\n**GRATEFUL GANACHE GLAZE**\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n8 ounces bittersweet baking chocolate, at least 60% cacao\n\n1 cup heavy cream\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nDigital scale\n\nChopping knife\n\nCutting board\n\nSaucepan\n\nMedium, deep, stainless-steel bowl\n\nWhisk\n\nPotholders\n\nMeasuring cup\n\nRoughly chop the chocolate.\n\nFill the bottom of the saucepan with water. Set it atop the cooking range.\n\nPlace the stainless-steel bowl on top of the saucepan.\n\nBring the water in the pan to a rolling boil, heating the bowl.\n\nToss the chocolate into the hot bowl, reduce the heat, and whisk evenly until the chocolate melts.\n\nCarefully remove the bowl from the saucepan.\n\nWhile whisking, drizzle in a third of the heavy cream.\n\nWhisk till combined.\n\nDrizzle in another third.\n\nWhisk to combine.\n\nDrizzle in the remaining heavy cream and whisk thoroughly.\n\nPour the ganache over a cooled cake.\n\n**TIPS**\n\nSetting the cake on a wire rack in a sheet tray makes for easy cleanup. Since this glaze is only two ingredients, don't skimp on the quality. If you want a thinner ganache, drizzle in more heavy cream. If you want a thicker, more frosting-like ganache, reduce the heavy cream. Ganache works best when applied over a chilled cake\u2014if the surface is still hot, it will slide right off.\n\n**JOSEPHINE'S WHIPPED CREAM**\n\nMakes enough to cover a pie or a few dollops per slice of cake.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n1 cup heavy cream, chilled\n\n2 tablespoons confectioners' sugar\n\n2 tablespoons maple syrup\n\nZest of 1 orange\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cup and spoons\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nFlour sifter\n\nDeep metal bowl\n\nHand blender\n\nWhisk\n\nPlace the bowl and all whisks in the freezer for 10 minutes.\n\nPour the cold heavy cream into the chilled bowl.\n\nBeat with the hand blender till soft peaks form. Sift in the confectioners' sugar and drizzle in the maple syrup.\n\nAdd the orange zest.\n\nBeat with the hand blender for about 5 more seconds.\n\nSet the hand blender aside and finish whipping with a hand whisk.\n\nI went to town to buy a good axe, a wheel of cheese, and a bushel of apples. The market stalls told a tale of summer kissing fall. Tomatoes, peppers, peaches, grapes, winter squash, kale, and the first flush of apples. The heat faded, coming to call only in the afternoon, and the light took on a sideways slant.\n\nEvery year my Northern blood curses summer in the South, and every fall there is no other place I'd rather be. Yellows and reds wave from the tree branches. Goldenrod and aster sing from the pastures. I see a leaf fall: my heart gets caught in my throat. How many times have we wished someone would leave, only to miss them as soon as the door closes?\n\nPreparations for winter ensued. On a breezy, blue afternoon, I harvested the winter squash that managed to survive the drought and whatever apples I could get from the tree next to the pond. Loads of slab wood for the bakery and cordwood for the house arrived. I spent the following days splitting and stacking with friends. Cordwood that wouldn't fit in the woodshed was piled on the porch. In the morning, with hot coffee in hand, I stepped out like the captain of a ship to meet a bank of fog. My spirit came back after being expelled through heat and exhaustion. I could feel my skin again, no longer an oil slick of soot and sweat. I welcomed the brush of wool and silk.\n\nThe farmer who raises cattle in the neighborhood also keeps a field of tobacco down the road. When the first flowers appear on the plants, they \"sucker\" them, cutting off the blossoms to direct energy toward the leaves. The tobacco plant in maturity is a beautiful sight. Five feet tall, give or take, with broad leaves radiating from a single stalk. When the time is right, somewhere in the first week or two of the month, the plants get slashed and staked to dry before being piled in baskets and taken away in truck beds. In the summer, Laura and I sneak out into the field to be dwarfed by the plants. In September, we sneak out to see the leaves spread like dancers' skirts, turning yellow.\n\nThe practice of baking now begs for a little more embellishment. Bread doughs behave in temperatures they adore. Pie crust doesn't threaten to bake just resting on the workbench. I slow down and turn to the fine details. In a time when a bag of chips can be labeled \"artisanal,\" I find it essential to give some integrity back to the word. Artisans are meant to transform themselves through their work. You cannot look like an artisan. You cannot even be an artisan. The artisanal path is an invisible process deep inside the wild darkness of your chest. The journey is never done and yet is always attempted. Growth and change are inevitable.\n\nSeptember 21: the last day of summer. Over a few beers on the porch, Laura, Jason, and I decided to get on the river in search of pawpaws. We'd found them a month ago. The water was high then, right after a downpour. Maneuvering our canoes through a tricky side passage to the left of an island with no name, we had to lie down in the boat to pass under fallen tree trunks. Looking up at a matrix of branches, I saw them: huge clusters of neon green pawpaws simultaneously in plain sight and completely hidden.\n\nOne last rumble. One last truck careening down a dirt road. One last shot at playing hooky. Driving the road next to the river, trying to jog our memories, we took an educated guess and parked in a turnoff, dragging the canoe through the trees down to the water. The three of us ferried across in the wide red canoe. Shored the boat, bushwhacked across the island, and surprisingly, arrived at the exact same spot we had been a month ago. There was nothing. The pawpaw trees were beautiful. And completely barren. In it for the adventure and impressed enough with our navigational skills, we weren't entirely downtrodden. But then something else kicked in. A disbelief. A rejection of the obvious. We split apart to see if we could find some evidence. A rotten pawpaw was better than none at all.\n\nSandals crunching on dried leaves. Unidentifiable shrubs and branches up my skirt. Bugs in my ear. I felt childish. A signature of adulthood is accepting disappointment gracefully, but all I wanted to do was pout. Next time we could get our hands on them was a year away, and who knew if we'd ever get back to this spot? Just one more step. Just one more look. Just a few more minutes. And then, when I spotted a fallen one nestled in a pile of leaves, I felt childish in another way: unbridled, selfish, and saturated with enthusiasm. I screamed. And then Jason screamed. We hit a hot spot, shaking the trees and raking the ground. I frantically gathered handfuls in my skirt, jumping up and down. The whole world was raining tiny green treasures.\n\nThe pawpaw, a huge berry, is the largest edible fruit native to North America. Preferring semishade and thicket, pawpaws are often choked out of well-established forests. They do well along rivers and bottomland, ranging from the Gulf Coast up to the Great Lakes. Forming in clusters of two to five fruits, pawpaws on the same tree can ripen at different times, so if you find a patch, it's worthwhile to visit several times. They bruise easily, the major reason they've been left behind in the gross industrialization of agriculture. Once removed from their environment, they need to be eaten within two to three days. Looking down at the one in my hand, I could almost watch it turn from green to brown.\n\nA bitter taste and a pear-like consistency at first\u2014the skin was thin, scraping it away with my teeth revealed a banana-like, custardy interior studded with several large black seeds. I bit again, this time taking in a mouthful and eating it like a watermelon, spitting the seeds aside. Good art makes you uncomfortable. The flavor of the pawpaw is like that, a wave of tropical delights: pineapple, mango, banana, and then a musky flavor that leaves a question mark on your tongue. Hard to tell what I was tasting. I bit again and again, till it was gone. Juice dripped down my chin, my humanity restored.\n**AWE PAWPAW PIE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch pie\n\nJust like we stripped away the germ from the wheat, we've stripped away the wild element of life and, while stabilizing it, left it with little flavor. Go out and hunt for your pie. It will taste better. Enjoy this pie the same day it's baked for best results. Remove the \"meat\" from the pawpaw by peeling away the skin (fingers work fine) and scraping the interior away from the seeds.\n\nYou will need: 1 single 9-inch pie crust, blind-baked (here) whipped cream for serving (here)\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**FILLING**\n\n1\u00bc cups pawpaw fruit\n\n4 eggs\n\n1 cup unrefined sugar\n\n1 cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n4 tablespoons (\u00bd stick) melted and cooled butter\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n\u00bc teaspoon nutmeg\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nSmall saucepan\n\nBlender\n\nPreheat the oven to 375 degrees.\n\nCombine all the filling ingredients in a blender and puree.\n\nPour the filling into the prepared pie shell.\n\nBake for 35 minutes or until golden brown on the edges and slightly jiggly in the center.\n\nLet the pie cool for 2 hours.\n\nRefrigerate.\n\nServe chilled with whipped cream.\n\nI woke up twisted in a tsunami of anger. Soaked sheets. Blinds askew. The living room light still on. Peeling back bedding and kicking pillows to the floor, I coasted past my shoes, grabbing a knife and several squash, and made a barefoot beeline for the picnic tables. Animosity must be expelled from the body in a constructive form. Piercing the flesh, driving the knife deep into cavity of a giant blue hubbard, I heard a tearing pop. Prying the shell open, boring my fingers into the stringy hollows, gouging out the seeds like the eyes of my enemy. Hacking, chopping, and exhausted. My insides on the out. Sometimes the hurt comes from nowhere.\n\nThere are as many different flavors of loneliness as there are varieties of winter squash. On a rainy day in October, I feel as if I've tasted them all. Loneliness is a multidimensional experience: striking my chest in the thick of a crowd or lying in the fading grass alone. It is my biggest teacher and my lifelong friend. It is not the job of love to cure loneliness. Learn how to be lonely. I believe it is our hope for the future. The more we can be at rest with ourselves, the less harm we do grasping for distraction.\n\nSo please, put down your phone. Our wholeness, our tenderness, the subtle marks of time, cannot be mitigated by screens, algorithms, and notifications. Having a wealth of information about someone is not the same as knowing them. Knowing someone is knowing the story they will tell at every party. Knowing someone is being able to pick out their laughter from the next room. Knowing someone is knowing at what point in the movie they fall asleep. While around us is a whirlwind of numbers and codes, between us is a calm current. We are living in unprecedented times. We are unprecedented lovers.\n\nThe onslaught of technologies that claim to make us visible has turned us into apparitions wandering long corridors between the courtship rituals of the past and futuristic dial-up dates. In a new land with no rules, I find myself turning toward tradition for comfort. While the ability and means to express ourselves has proliferated, we lack the skills to decipher the flood of signals we receive. What are you telling me? What am I to do? The phone crackles and breaks. I see you saw my message and never responded. I see a green blinking light. I know you're out there.\n\nOur inability to sit with discomfort has damaged our sense of empathy. In the end, what hurt so much about losing my farmer was not that the love withered or even that he loved another, but that he couldn't say it to my face. But we don't get answers. And it's better not to just make them up. We must go on. Bereft in the wreckage, I saw that before we left each other: I left myself. I left when I put the responsibility for my happiness in someoneelse's hands. I left when I was uncomfortable, but never spoke up because I was afraid to be alone. I left when I turned the rage inward, hurting no one but myself. By the time he started packing his bags, I was already a ghost wandering the halls.\n\nReturn to the mixing bowl. The pie tin. The rolling pin. Sit with yourself. It will all come up. Let it. In the heart of life lives a profound tenderness. A longing that penetrates every pore of our material body. You cannot fill it with another person or food. It is designed to be eternally open. It is our path back to the source. Learn how to struggle against the need to constantly be doing, to be seen, to be plugged in. Remain in the present moment. Love is a force of nature. We have as much control over it as we do the tide of the ocean. The best chance we have in absorbing its awesome power is to stay open. Love is trying to find a way into the world: be a conduit.\n\nWhat I have left now to love of you is your memory, and it pours from the stinking, split-open squash. I turn my face to a wavy recollection. I hold out my hand. Slanted beams of sunlight filter through wavering branches. Light ripples. Look, here, into my eyes. I want to see you. Let me see how time has graced a wrinkle next to your eye or one right by your lip where you smile so much. Let me see the dirt under your nails and how long your hair has grown. And now go and let me be in peace.\n\n**HOW TO TAKE A DEEP BREATH**\n\nOur breath is a self-healing mechanism. Find a comfortable place to relax for a few minutes. Stand with your hands hanging by your sides, your feet firmly planted on the ground, and your chin slightly tilted upward. Breathe normally for several breaths. Begin to notice the breath moving through your body. Remember that the breath floods the back of the body, not just the chest and stomach. Take a breath deep in through your nose to your belly to the count of four, pause, exhale from the belly out through the nose to the count of four. As you breathe in, hold this in your mind: _I am breathing in calm and peace_. As you breathe out, focus on the opposite: _I am breathing out tension and anxiety_. Repeat as needed _._\n\n**GHOST PIE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch pie\n\nHonor the dead by living.\n\nYou'll need: 1 single 9-inch pie crust, blind-baked (here), coarse sugar for dusting, whipped cream for serving (here)\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n2 large butternut squashes (or about 2 to 2\u00bd pounds other winter squash such as pumpkin, blue hubbard, or Cinderella)\n\n4 tablespoons (\u00bd stick) unsalted butter, room temperature\n\n\u2153 cup unrefined sugar\n\n\u2153 cup brown sugar\n\n3 eggs, room temperature\n\n\u00bc cup coconut cream, room temperature\n\n1 tablespoon sorghum syrup\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ginger\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cloves\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nSheet pan\n\nFork\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nMedium-size mixing bowl\n\nFood processor\n\nPreheat the oven to 400 degrees.\n\nQuarter the squashes. Lay them pulp side down on a sheet pan, pierce them with a fork, and bake for 1 hour or until tender.\n\nLet them cool.\n\nScoop the squash into the medium bowl.\n\nMash and measure out 2 cups (saving any extra for another use).\n\nIn a food processor, combine the softened butter and sugars.\n\nCream.\n\nWith the food processor running, add the eggs, one at a time.\n\nNow, add in the coconut cream, sorghum syrup, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and salt.\n\nLast, add the mashed squash and blend until fully incorporated.\n\nPour the filling into the prepared pie shell.\n\nDust with coarse sugar.\n\nBake for 30 to 35 minutes or until the top is golden brown and the center is a little jiggly.\n\nLet the pie cool for 2 hours.\n\nServe room temp or chilled with whipped cream.\n**LONELY BIRD PIE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch pie\n\nLonely is a state of mind. Prepare the blind-baked crust and egg wash while the sweet potatoes are roasting.\n\nYou will need: 1 single 9-inch cornmeal pie crust, blind-baked (here), Coarse sugar for dusting\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n4 to 5 medium-size sweet potatoes\n\n4 tablespoons (\u00bd stick) unsalted butter, softened\n\n\u2153 cup unrefined sugar\n\n\u2153 cup coconut milk\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n3 eggs, room temperature\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon nutmeg\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nFork\n\nSheet pan\n\nParchment paper\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nFood processor\n\nPreheat the oven to 400 degrees.\n\nPoke the sweet potatoes several times with the tines of a fork.\n\nBake them for 1 hour on a parchment-lined sheet pan.\n\nWhen they are tender if pressed with a fork, remove them from the oven.\n\nLet cool; keep the oven at 400 degrees.\n\nPeel and mash the sweet potatoes.\n\nMeasure out 3 cups of the mashed sweet potatoes, saving the rest for a snack.\n\nIn a food processor, combine the butter and sugar, and blend till smooth.\n\nWith the food processor on, add the eggs, one at a time.\n\nTo this, add the sweet potato mash, coconut milk, and vanilla.\n\nAdd the cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt.\n\nBlend till the filling is creamy and smooth.\n\nPour it into the prepared pie crust.\n\nDust with coarse sugar.\n\nBake for 30 to 35 minutes at 400 degrees or until the filling is set with a slight jiggle to the center.\n\nLet the pie cool for 2 hours.\n\nServe room temperature or chilled.\n\nIt seemed that attending weddings would be our way of bonding, the groomsman and me. We met under falling leaves at Hungry Mother State Park in Virginia to watch Matt and Sarah tie the knot. Separated by state borders, bakery work, and grad school, these adventurous weekends together pumped fresh air into our lungs, rekindling an undeniable attraction. I was on the verge of letting my hands off the handlebars, but unlike falling in love in my twenties, I now wanted to know the important details first, preferring not to wake up in three years and find out he was never looking for anything long-term and hated eggs sunny side up. I once told a friend that I had only three questions I wanted to ask a man. Now was my chance to walk the talk.\n\nCaravanning up the mountains the day before with Laura and Jason, we staked our claim, scavenged for firewood, cracked open a few beers, and dusted off the picnic tables. I made a bed fit for a shepherd in the back of my car out of a ragtag assortment of pillows, blankets, and sleeping bags. Well past dark, his face emerged from behind a cloud of campfire smoke covered in a woolly beard and a beaming smile. Damn those twinkling eyes.\n\nThe first question seemed casual enough, given our circumstances. As we rinsed our toothbrushes under a water spigot, I asked him if he believed in marriage. \"Yeah,\" he said, \"I do.\" He was known for his penchant toward revolutionary politics; his friends had warned me that if I was looking for something traditional, I should run the other way.\n\nI reeled back and spit out a stream of foamy mint-flavored toothpaste. I was shocked by his confidence and even further surprised by how important this question was to me.\n\nI realized that although I had hoped to marry almost every single person I'd dated, in all my years I'd never actually asked anyone their feelings point-blank, preferring to play it cool. The whistle on the kettle blew. One down, two to go.\n\nArranged in a park shelter covered in pine needles and held up by lumbering beams, attendees brought homemade pies to compete in a friendly yet ruthless contest. Perfectly placed tablecloths, Ball jars, slips of paper, pens, and handwritten signs marked the categories on the various tables. Laura and I registered our pies, and I left mine in the apple section, moving on to examine the awards, which included a blender from the seventies and a mobile made from whisks.\n\nI had made a completely burned deep-dish apple pie to enter into the fruit category. Baked in a 9-inch springform pan, it was heavy on the crust, with enough filling for two pies. I broiled the pie while packing my bags and, of course, blackened the entire top. I've got a thing for the ugly duckling, so I tucked it in a basket covered in a linen shroud, hoping that by the time we got to the party, it would have molted into a swan. Snatching it from the passenger seat where it survived the trip, I noticed that it left a deep, dark, circular stain of melted butter: a memory of the weekend already fused into fabric.\n\n_The rules:_ To vote for a pie in category, you must taste all the pies listed in that category. You may vote in as many categories as you like, one vote per category. Lobbying is encouraged. You may make up a new category\u2014perhaps one that applies only to your pie?\n\nNothing about it was fair. Everything about it was fun. After a merry-go-ground of sweet pies, savory pies, pudding pies, chocolate pies, fruit pies, tomato pies, and slab pies, the winners were announced. The groomsman leaned in: _I have to tell you something you're not going to like,_ he said. I cocked my eyebrow: _Oh, really?_\n\n_Yeah,_ he said, _I voted against you in one category: the prettiest pie._ The corner of my mouth twitched down. _Which one did you prefer?_ He looked me square in the eye: _I liked the one with hearts all over it._\n\nThe campground bordered a lake and provided boat rentals, so we headed down to the water to work off our gluttony. Prepared only for mischief, we cobbled together the fee, stripped down to our underwear, and hopped on a metallic blue paddleboat, with his dog riding on top of life jackets wedged between us. Pedaling far from shore and down past the beaches and water slides, we jumped off and swam, watching each other's faces underwater in slow motion. Fallen trees on the edge cast bony shadows. Wrapped up in a beach towel, raking my fingertips through tangled hair, I asked him if he wanted to have children. _Yes,_ he said, _definitely._ Just then, we felt the bump of a yellow canoe: it was Laura and Jason. Time to get our fancy clothes on.\n\nZipping zippers, buckling belts, and lacing knots in the back of our cars and tents. Using rearview mirrors and the surface of the tin coffeepot, we checked our teeth and applied powder and gloss. We cleaned up as best we could, stopping here and there for a swig of bourbon. We had all packed dark green and blue clothes, and he needed to differentiate somehow. Ripping apart the collar of an old red shirt, he tucked it in his vest and offered me a strand to wear as a bracelet. I did so proudly.\n\nThe ceremony was brief and beautiful. The flower girl, rather than tossing the flowers evenly, grabbed them by the fistful and placed them in clumps along the path. I understood. When something is so beautiful and good, you want to take it by the handful. A ritual filled with pledges, rings, and prayers under a fall arbor. I could tell, on some level, we wondered if we'd ever be standing together in the same way.\n\nAvoiding the dinner line, we ran off to the island that was visible from the lodge. It was homecoming, and the place was flooded with teenagers and their families taking pictures. We looked like a bunch of hippies cutting through a drag ball. And we kind of were. I made sure to tell each girl we passed how pretty she looked. They were like deer in headlights\u2014you could almost smell an anxious, hormonal perfume in the twilight breeze. I was equally terrified and thrilled for them. Crossing the boardwalk to the island, he took my hand, leading me down a soft path till we came to an amphitheater with long plank benches, lights, and a little stage. Sitting on the edge of the platform, in the last glimpse of sunlight, I asked him if he believed in God. He responded in a low, steady voice that made my whole body flush. \"You?\" he asked. A tear welled up in the corner of my eye. I opened my mouth. A twig cracked in the distance, and a jumble of shouting partygoers erupted into the scene. Our friends called to us from across the water to come eat.\n\nThe first ring of dancers poured cornmeal on the concrete floor and scuffled it in while they promenaded and swung their neighbors. I had never, in my life, danced with a partner. I liked to do my own thing and move around wherever I wanted. That was, perhaps, my whole way of living at this point. He had never done it either, but before we had fallen asleep the night before, we'd promised to give it a try. Getting into a square, we waved to the band, shot the owl, bowed to our partners, ripped the snark, wove the basket, and squared the set. We messed up, tried again, and laughed with our heads back to a room of stomping feet, kicked-up skirts, and clapping hands. Slowing it down for a two-step, we fused together and bumped our way around in an awkward circle, getting it right for a while and then losing it. I pressed my lips to his ear: _It works best when we're not thinking about it._\n\nThe next day, Laura, Jason, the groomsman, and I broke off to camp in the coalfields. Rising up on a high pass, I saw a strip mine for the first time. It hit my chest like a ton of bricks. A giant swath of mountainside torn away to get at bands of coal streaked through the bedrock like frosting in a layer cake. Peeling out into an overlook, we spilled out of our cars to behold the stunning and dismantled landscape. My eyes refocused and adjusted continually, straining to comprehend what unfurled before us. It was like the first time I saw a clear-cut. No words and a million questions simultaneously swamped my mind. A steady drone of machinery in the background sang a chilling lullaby. We stood sobered. Across the highway hid a washed-out dirt road that led to an old resort, now used as an event space. Retreating into the thicket, we sought refuge.\n\nWe set camp in a sandpit under a sign hanging by one nail that read MARS ROCKS: CLIMB AT YOUR OWN RISK and pulled together a meal of beans and rice along with foraged mushrooms. Donning winter jackets and hats to guard against the settling frost, we traipsed around the hundred-acre property that included a graveyard for broken refrigerators, several haunted cabins, and a boathouse on a pond that desperately needed water. Climbing up to the flats, a stretch of land that housed a stage, a pavilion, and an assortment of Airstream trailers in different stages of decomposition, the view opened. We could make out the backbone of Appalachia, just barely visible under the toenail moon. With our breath full of whiskey, we wondered what would become of this place, how the economy was going to rejuvenate itself, and what kind of world we wanted for our hypothetical children.\n\nWarming by the late-night fire, polishing off leftover chunks of apple pie, the owls called. The starts shot back and forth in a game of cosmic pinball. Laura and Jason wandered off to bed, and we remained, wrapped in quilts full of sand. He reached out his hand to me, and high above equipment breaking open the heart of the world, above weedy strips of grass between the highway, above the throaty call of the last crickets, above rusted cars sinking into the torrid soil, above boarded-up storefronts, we practiced our two-step.\n\nQuick, quick, slow, slow. Quick, quick, slow, slow.\n\nDrunken feet scuffling the dirt into tiny clouds, counting and concentrating until we gave in and just held on to each other, swaying and teetering. We would dance on our own graves before we let the powers that be dance on us.\n\n**HOLD A PIE CONTEST**\n\nThese are the instructions from the wedding invitation. (Thanks, Matt and Sarah.) Make up your own!\n\n**RULES**\n\n\u2022 Bring a pie that you bake. Or just come and eat pie.\n\n\u2022 No canned pie filling. Canned pumpkin or fruit is okay, but if possible, use fresh fruit\/vegetables.\n\n\u2022 Write down your recipe and be prepared to jot down if it is gluten free, vegan, or other dietary restriction.\n\n\u2022 Safety issues: Since there are only three ovens and refrigerators at our disposal, please try not to bring pies that need to be warmed, frozen, or kept cold. Let me know if you need space in an oven or fridge if you go this route. Also, no uncooked eggs; bake the meringue.\n\n\u2022 Arrival: Please arrive on time! We have a very short window after the contest to get ready for the ceremony. Any delays will result in the wedding party not partaking in the awards.\n\n\u2022 Everyone's a judge, whether you bake a pie or come to eat. You can either pick one category to judge or judge all the categories, but in order to cast your vote, you must try all the pies in that category.\n\n\u2022 Choose a category to enter. Enter as many pies as you like. There will be a category for prettiest pie, so this category will be judged first.\n\n**TIME FRAME**\n\n11:30 A.M. Pie registration\n\n12:00 P.M. to 1:00 P.M. Judging begins (everyone's a judge)\n\n1:30 P.M. to 2:00 P.M. Prizes awarded\n\n**CATEGORIES**\n\nFruit\n\nNut\n\nCream (shell and filling baked separately, then combined\u2014e.g., lemon meringue, coconut cream, Key lime)\n\nCustard (filling cooked in the pie\u2014e.g., sweet potato, pumpkin, chess)\n\nChocolate\n\nHeirloom (old-fashioned pie from a family recipe)\n\nCobblers and Crisps\n\nGluten Free (can enter into other categories if desired)\n\nSavory Pies\n\nYouth (under 18)\n\nBeginner (first pie at any age)\n\nPielets (fried pies, mini tarts)\n\nEnglish Literature Pies (e.g., Edgar Allan Pie, Pies and Prejudice...)\n\nPrettiest Pie\n\nMost Creative Pie\n\nMost Creative Pie Name\n\nIt Was Pretty Before It Got Here\n\nTasted the Most Pies\n\nBest in Show (crust, looks, taste)\n\nPrizes: handmade books, handmade crafts, vintage kitchen gadgets, aprons, jams, cookbooks, and more\n\n**APPLE PIE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch pie\n\nWhen you choose the apples for this pie, blend sweet and tart apples, as well as a mix of firm and soft varieties. I prefer working with Golden Delicious, Goldrush, Honeycrisp, Mutsu, and Pink Lady. Check your farmers' market to find out what grows well in your area.\n\nYou will need: 1 double 9-inch pie crust, prepared as described here.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**FILLING**\n\n5 to 6 medium apples\n\n\u00bd cup unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bc cup brown sugar\n\n\u00bc cup cornstarch\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon nutmeg\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ginger\n\n\u00be teaspoon salt\n\nZest of 1 lemon\n\nJuice of \u00bd lemon\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nKnife\n\nCutting board\n\nLarge mixing bowl\n\nPreheat the oven to 425 degrees.\n\nPrepare the apples by coring and thinly slicing them, leaving the skins on.\n\nIn the large bowl, toss together the sliced apples, sugars, cornstarch, spices, and salt.\n\nAdd the lemon zest, lemon juice, and vanilla.\n\nToss again.\n\nFill the prepared bottom crust with the apple mixture, mounding it slightly higher in the center.\n\nCover the filling with the top crust, then crimp and finish as indicated here.\n\nBake the pie for 10 minutes, then reduce the heat to 375.\n\nContinue to bake for 35 to 40 minutes. When the pastry is golden brown, the filling boiling, and the fruit tender, the pie is done.\n\nCool for 2 hours.\n\nServe at room temperature or chilled.\n**DEEP-DISH APPLE PIE**\n\nMakes one deep 9-inch pie\n\nFor this pie, you'll use two recipes' worth of double-crust apple pie crust and double the usual amount of filling as well. Due to the volume of filling, the prepared apples must be cooked down ahead of time to bake evenly.\n\nYou will need: 2 double-crust doughs, prepared ahead of time. One entire double-crust dough will be the bottom, while the other will be the top and extra for decoration. Chill in the refrigerator till the apple filling has been cooked and cooled and the oven is at temperature.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**FILLING**\n\n10 to 11 medium and large apples, cored and thinly sliced\n\n1\u00bd cups unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bd cup brown sugar\n\n\u00bd cup cornstarch\n\n2 tablespoons vanilla\n\n\u00bd teaspoon cinnamon\n\n\u00bd teaspoon nutmeg\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ginger\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons salt\n\nZest of 2 lemons\n\nJuice of 1 lemon\n\n2 to 3 cups water\n\n2 egg yolks\n\n2 tablespoons heavy cream\n\nCoarse sugar for dusting\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nKnife\n\nCutting board\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nLarge pot\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\n9-inch springform pan\n\nParchment paper\n\nNonstick cooking spray\n\nRolling pin\n\n9-inch pie tin\n\nSmall bowl\n\nWhisk\n\nPastry brush\n\nSheet pan\n\nIn a large pot, combine all the filling ingredients and bring the mixture to a boil.\n\nTurn the heat down to low.\n\nCook, stirring with a large wooden spoon to keep the apples from burning on the bottom.\n\nWhen the filling is bubbling thick and the apples are tender to the tines of a fork, it's done.\n\nCool the filling to room temp, stirring occasionally.\n\nPreheat the oven to 415 degrees.\n\nLine the bottom of the springform pan with parchment.\n\nSpray the sides evenly with a nonstick spray.\n\nBring out one portion of the resting pie dough.\n\nRoll into a large sheet.\n\nFold it over the rolling pin or your arm, lift, and set it into the springform pan.\n\nTuck it into the bottom of the pan and press it firmly against the sides.\n\nTrim the excess dough along the edge, leaving 1 inch all the way around.\n\nFill it with the cooled apple filling.\n\nRoll the second portion of pie dough into a large sheet.\n\nUse a 9-inch pie tin to trace a circle on the dough, leaving a \u00bd inch extra around the edge.\n\nCut.\n\nCover the pie with the crust.\n\nFold the lip of the bottom crust over the top crust and pinch around the circumference.\n\nIn a small bowl, whisk together the egg yolk and cream. Brush this egg wash onto the pie.\n\nDust it with coarse sugar.\n\nPlace the pie on a sheet pan lined with parchment. Bake it for 90 minutes or until it is deeply browned, with the filling slightly overflowing and\/or bubbling.\n\nImmediately after removing the pie from the oven, run a sharp knife along the edge between the pan and the crust. Let it cool for 15 minutes. Pop open the ring and carefully remove it.\n\nContinue to cool the pie for 4 hours. Expect some settling as it cools. Just like a well-loved house or pair of shoes.\n**BEET PAINT**\n\nAdding color, shapes, and textures is a good way to enhance the winning qualities of a pie. Inspired by the weavers and printmakers around me, I look to barn quilts, classic knit patterns, and ancient symbols for inspiration. Art reflects the world it lives in. Look around your world and translate what you see to your design.\n\nA paint made from beets may be used on the crust on any pie you choose to make, whether brushed freehand onto individual pieces of dough or washed over a stencil to leave an image when the stencil is removed. This mixture doesn't leave much in the way of flavor, but if applied right, it will impart a deep red or pink stain on the crust. It takes a few times to get the hang of it.\n\nYou will need: 1 double-crust pie, filled as desired, but not yet covered with the top crust\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n2 medium beets\n\n2 egg yolks\n\n2 tablespoons water\n\nCoarse sugar for dusting\n\nEgg wash (1 egg yolk mixed with 1 tablespoon heavy cream), if pastry cutouts are to be placed on the pie\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring spoons\n\nRoasting dish with lid\n\nKnife\n\nCutting board\n\nBlender\n\nAirtight storage container\n\nPastry brush\n\nStencil\n\nPreheat the oven to 400 degrees. Place the beets in the roasting dish, cover, and bake for 45 minutes or until the beets are tender to the touch of a fork. Let them cool.\n\nPeel away the skins and quarter the beets.\n\nPlace them in the blender with the eggs and water. Blend the mixture into a creamy paste. There should be no chunks of beet, and the paste should be smooth.\n\nStore the beet paint in an airtight container. Keep it refrigerated.\n\nCreate your pie, pausing after the top crust is cut but while it is still on the table. Paint your design on freehand or, if you're stenciling, place your stencil on the dough and brush the beet paint over it. One pass is enough. Brushing too many times will cause it to seep under the stencil, leaving blurred edges instead of clean lines. Read helpful tips on making a stencil here.\n\nLift the beet-painted top with one hand on the edge and the other supporting it underneath and center it on the pie. Fold the edges over and crimp or fork the rim. Poke it several times with the tines of a fork. Sprinkle it with dusting sugar.\n\nIf you want to attach other decorative pastry cutouts, brush their undersides with egg wash in order to secure them, but don't brush the whole top of the pie. _This method excludes egg wash over the whole top, resulting in a vivid image with a bit less gloss._\n\nBake the pie as directed in the recipe.\n\n**SHAPES**\n\nSave your scraps of pie dough and form them into a ball. Roll them out into an even \u215b-inch-thick sheet. Using a pastry wheel, cut free-form shapes from the dough. Dough can also be cut with scissors, an X-Acto knife, and cookie cutters. I began cutting shapes into dough after working in paper cuts for many years. Understanding that a cold, firm sheet of dough is akin to a large, thick piece of paper, I cut and arranged the dough in a collage. Your hand has a shape it wants to make. With enough practice, your own voice will emerge. Rolling balls of dough between your hands is very simple and pretty, too. If the balls are quite tall, flatten them a bit between your finger and thumb before decorating with them.\n\nA note: The taller the shapes rise above the crust, the quicker they will bake and color. Personally, I enjoy the charred look and taste of the taller shapes. Just as in bread, color equals flavor, and we look for the same trinity of deep brown, rusty red, and golden yellow in our crust. Having various heights of dough at different stages of caramelization enhances the overall flavor of your crust, making design not only heartwarming, but functional. Remember that when fusing shapes together or placing them on the top of your pie, there must be egg wash underneath to hold them fast.\n\n**TEXTURE**\n\nTo add texture to your pie dough, limit yourself to a few common tools. I prefer a fork. This works best with a chilled dough. Dip your fork in a bowl of flour and press it, evenly and firmly, a quarter of the way into the dough. You can crosshatch it like the top of a peanut butter cookie, meet the edges tip to tip at an angle to create a mountain-like shape, and use the tines and the end to poke free-form patterns. Find inspiration in needlepoint, cross-stitching, and weaving images. If you plan to texture the top of your pie, do so when the top crust is still lying flat on the table. Assemble the pie after you've pricked and pressed the top.\n\nIn December, the icicles melt by noon, but the chill stays in the air. I bring in the long limb of a cherry tree to adorn with lights, golden baubles, and paper angels. Candles are set in the windows, and I hang my patchwork-childhood stocking behind the stove. The garden is mulched over with newspaper and hay, the leaves are raked out of the gutters, and the whole place gets a final clean before the cold settles in. I start stockpiling onions, potatoes, and bags of coffee.\n\nWalking out to fire the oven in the evening, my breath makes cloudy sculptures in a misty fog. Breaking up the kindling and setting the lay fire, I lean against the brick and take a deep breath. Winter places a cold hand on my burning forehead: It's okay, child. It's time to rest.\n\nI wake at two A.M. to check the progress. It's a short walk to the oven from my bed, but it's still a walk. Gathering my nightgown above my knees, I stumble barefoot over the doorstep, outside past the cordwood across from the chopping block. Next to the log bench, I halt, rubbing my eyes, in front of the fire. The ground is cold and hard against my feet. Reading the flames, I make decisions about what kind of wood and how much to add. Turning away from the pulsing orange glow, I dip out to the stacks of poplar and oak. There, between parted clouds, I can see the moon. I make a wish, the same wish I've always made on every single birthday candle, dandelion, and four-leaf clover. Maybe this time it will come true? After hefting wood into the hungry chamber, I cross my arms tightly, walking back to bed as snow starts to fall.\n\n**LUNAR CYCLES**\n\nDuring a lunar month, the moon will pass through four stages: new, first quarter, full, and third quarter. A new moon occurs when the moon is between the Earth and the sun. The sun is shining light on the backside of the moon, so the surface facing the Earth remains dark. A first-quarter moon takes place between the new and full moon. Here, the moon is at a ninety-degree angle between the Earth and the sun and exactly half is lit up. A full moon arrives when the moon is again in alignment with the Earth and the Sun, but this time the sun is across from the moon. A third-quarter moon is between the full and new moon, when again, the moon finds itself at a ninety-degree angle to the Earth.\n\nWithin each of the transitional phases are terms we can use to help understand how much of the moon's surface is visible: crescent, gibbous, waxing, and waning. When the moon is less than 50 percent illuminated, it is referred to as a crescent moon. A moon is said to be gibbous when over 50 percent is illuminated. Waxing refers to the visible portion of the moon growing, while waning is when the moon's visible portion is shrinking.\n\nEach phase of the moon supports particular kinds of actions\u2014or inactions\u2014based on the swelling or decreasing of the light. The dark of a new moon is particularly good for setting intentions, while the light of a full moon brings culmination and revelation. The days after a full moon are perfect for releasing. Calming, cleansing, and accepting are welcome attitudes in preparation for a new cycle to begin.\n\n\u2022 New moon: the entire portion visible to Earth is covered in shadow\u2014set intentions.\n\n\u2022 Waxing crescent: the illuminated face is increasing, but less than half\u2014take actions.\n\n\u2022 Waxing gibbous: the illuminated face is increasing, and is now more than half\u2014check in.\n\n\u2022 Full moon: the entire portion visible to Earth is lit up\u2014you reap what you sow.\n\n\u2022 Waning gibbous: the illuminated face is decreasing, but still more than half\u2014pull back.\n\n\u2022 Waning crescent: the illuminated face is decreasing, and is now less than half\u2014evaluate.\n**SETTING A NEW MOON INTENTION**\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nPen\n\nPiece of paper\n\nCandle\n\nMatch\n\nPillow in a pillowcase\n\nTime\n\nOn the new moon, take space to reflect.\n\nWhat do you wish to bring into your life?\n\nMake a list of the top three goals you intend to focus your energy on over the next three weeks. Keep these goals within your personal realm of control and stay positive.\n\nLight the candle with the match and say your goals out loud, finishing with _I ask for guidance and support in my ambitions. May they be for the greatest good of all involved._\n\nBlow out the candle.\n\nFold up the paper and tuck it under your pillow for three days.\n\nOn the fourth night, burn it over the flame of the same candle you lit on the new moon.\n\n**MOON CAKES**\n\nThe first few times you make these cakes, use them as a practice in remaining present. Bake the full moon cake two to three times before moving on to the other cakes. You may forgo the timer and the notepad once you learn the rhythm, but perhaps you will enjoy it, bringing the ritual of goal setting and journal writing with you into your baking.\n\nThis is the practice I suggest:\n\nPull all ingredients ahead of time and group them together.\n\nPull any tools you'll need and set them in place.\n\nRead the whole recipe start to finish.\n\nMake the Full Moon Cake first, before any other.\n\nIncorporate all ingredients quickly and efficiently.\n\nWhile it's baking, sit next to your oven with a clock, a pen, and a notepad.\n\nDo not open the oven door for the first twenty minutes of baking.\n\nMake notes when the cake becomes golden brown and pulls away slightly from the edges, when the smells of the cake change, and to describe how it's baking in your pan.\n\nTake the time to do some deep breathing and reflect on your recent days.\n\nPoke the center of the cake with a knife. When it comes out clean, make a note of the time and pull the cake from the oven.\n**FULL MOON CAKE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch cake\n\nHe asked me what winter was like at the bakery.\n\n\"Well...\" I paused. \"I just run around starting fires.\"\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n2\u00bd cups cake flour (here)\n\n\u00bd cup unrefined sugar\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon sea salt\n\nZest of 1 lemon\n\n**WET**\n\n5 egg yolks, room temperature\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n\u00be cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n\u00bc cup olive oil\n\n**EGG WHITES**\n\n9 egg whites, room temperature\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nParchment paper\n\n9-inch springform pan\n\nRoom-temperature butter and flour for the pan\n\n2 medium-size mixing bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nSmall mixing bowl\n\nWhisk\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nHand blender\n\nNotepad\n\nPen\n\nThin-blade knife or cake tester\n\nVery sharp knife\n\nCake stand or serving board\n\nCenter a rack in the oven and preheat it to 325 degrees.\n\nCut a 9-inch circle of parchment to cover the bottom of the springform pan.\n\nGrease the pan with butter, dust it with flour, and inset the parchment. Set aside.\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.\n\nAdd the lemon zest and set the dry ingredients aside.\n\nCrack the eggs, putting 5 yolks in a small bowl and 9 egg whites in a separate, medium bowl.\n\nAdd the vanilla to the yolks and whisk.\n\nAdd the milk and whisk.\n\nAdd the oil and whisk.\n\nPour the yolk mixture into the dry ingredients and fold together till the batter is creamy, glossy, and fully combined. This will be six or seven folds with the wooden spoon, using a thoughtful and direct motion. Be sure to get the bottom and sides of the batter incorporated.\n\nBeat the egg whites on medium\/high speed with the hand blender until you see soft peaks form.\n\nStop.\n\nAdd the cream of tartar and resume beating till stiff peaks form.\n\nDo not overbeat; it will dry out the egg whites.\n\nFold the stiffened whites into the batter a third at a time. The mixture should be bubbly, shiny, and loose.\n\nPour the batter into the prepared pan and bake the cake on the middle rack of the oven.\n\nUse the notepad and pen and begin your practice of remaining present. Try writing about the first thing that comes to mind for 2 minutes without stopping.\n\nDo not open the oven door for the first 20 minutes of baking.\n\nThe total baking time for the cake will be between 45 and 50 minutes. When a knife or cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean, it's done.\n\nWithin 10 minutes of taking the cake out of the oven, run a very sharp knife between the edge of the cake and the pan.\n\nAllow the cake to cool in the pan for 1 hour or till it is cool to the touch.\n\nCarefully remove the adjustable body of the springform pan and turn the cake over onto a cake stand or serving board.\n\nPeel off the parchment.\n\nServe plain any time of day or top it with whipped cream or classic icing for an evening affair.\n**NEW MOON CAKE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch cake\n\nMy bedroom stays cold on long, dark nights. Nothing makes me peel off the quilts like eating chocolate cake for breakfast.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n2\u00bd cups cake flour (here)\n\n1\u00bd cups unrefined sugar\n\n\u00bc cup unsweetened cocoa powder\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon salt\n\n**WET**\n\n5 egg yolks, room temperature\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla\n\n\u00be cup brewed coffee, cooled\n\n\u00bc cup olive oil\n\n4 ounces 60% cacao baker's chocolate, melted and cooled (see here for technique)\n\n**EGG WHITES**\n\n9 egg whites, room temperature\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nParchment paper\n\n9-inch springform pan\n\nRoom-temperature butter and flour for the pan\n\n2 medium-size mixing bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nSmall mixing bowl\n\nWhisk\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nHand blender\n\nThin-blade knife or cake tester\n\nVery sharp knife\n\nCake stand or serving board\n\nCenter a rack in the oven and preheat it to 325 degrees.\n\nCut a 9-inch circle of parchment to cover the bottom of the springform pan.\n\nGrease the pan with butter, dust it with flour, and inset the parchment. Set it aside.\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the dry ingredients.\n\nCrack the eggs, putting 5 yolks in a small bowl and 9 egg whites in a seperate, medium bowl.\n\nAdd the vanilla to the yolks and whisk.\n\nAdd the coffee and whisk.\n\nAdd the oil and whisk.\n\nPour the yolk mixture into the dry ingredients and fold together. This will be six or seven folds with the wooden spoon using a thoughtful and direct motion. Be sure to get the bottom and sides of the batter incorporated.\n\nPour in the cooled chocolate.\n\nFold again till the batter is creamy, glossy, and fully combined.\n\nBeat the egg whites in a medium mixing bowl with the hand blender on medium\/high speed until you see soft peaks.\n\nStop.\n\nAdd the cream of tartar and resume beating till stiff peaks form.\n\nDo not overbeat; it will dry out the egg whites.\n\nFold the stiffened whites into the batter a third at a time. The mixture should be bubbly, shiny, and loose.\n\nPour the batter into the prepared pan and bake the cake in the center of the oven.\n\nDo not open the door for the first 20 minutes of baking.\n\nThe total baking time will be between 45 and 50 minutes. When a knife or cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean, it's done.\n\nWithin 10 minutes of taking the cake out of the oven, run a very sharp knife between the edge of the cake and the pan.\n\nAllow it to cool in the pan for 1 hour or till cool to the touch.\n\nCarefully remove the adjustable body of the springform pan and turn the cake over onto a cake stand or serving board.\n\nPeel off the parchment.\n\nServe plain any time of day or top it with the ganache recipe here.\n**WANING MOON CAKE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch cake\n\nAs the winter solstice approaches, I begin to understand worshiping the sun.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n2\u00bd cups cake flour (here)\n\n\u00bd cup unrefined sugar\n\n1 tablespoon turmeric\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon salt\n\nZest of 1 orange\n\n**WET**\n\n5 egg yolks, room temperature\n\n\u00be cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n\u00bc cup olive oil\n\n\u00bc cup honey\n\n**EGG WHITES**\n\n9 egg whites, room temperature\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nParchment paper\n\n9-inch springform pan\n\nRoom-temperature butter and flour for the pan\n\n2 medium-size mixing bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nSmall mixing bowl\n\nWhisk\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nHand blender\n\nThin-blade knife or cake tester\n\nVery sharp knife\n\nCake stand or serving board\n\nCenter a rack in the oven and preheat it to 325 degrees.\n\nCut a 9-inch circle of parchment to cover the bottom of the springform pan.\n\nGrease the pan with butter, dust it with flour, and insert the parchment. Set it aside.\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flour, sugar, turmeric, baking powder, and salt.\n\nAdd the orange zest and set the bowl aside.\n\nCrack the eggs, putting 5 yolks in a small bowl and 9 egg whites in a separate, medium bowl.\n\nAdd the milk and whisk.\n\nAdd the oil and whisk.\n\nAdd the honey and whisk.\n\nPour the yolk mixture into the dry ingredients and fold together till the batter is creamy, glossy, and fully combined. This will be six or seven folds with the wooden spoon using a thoughtful and direct motion.\n\nBe sure to get the bottom and sides of the batter incorporated.\n\nBeat the egg whites in a medium mixing bowl with the hand blender on medium\/high speed until you see soft peaks.\n\nStop.\n\nAdd the cream of tartar and resume beating till stiff peaks form.\n\nDo not overbeat; it will dry out the egg whites.\n\nFold the stiffened whites into the batter a third at a time. The mixture should be bubbly, shiny, and loose.\n\nPour the batter into the prepared pan and bake the cake in the center of the oven.\n\nDo not open the door for the first 20 minutes of baking.\n\nThe total baking time will be between 45 and 50 minutes. When a knife or cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean, it's done.\n\nWithin 10 minutes of taking the cake out of the oven, run a very sharp knife between the edge of the cake and the pan.\n\nAllow to cool in the pan for 1 hour or till cool it is to the touch.\n\nCarefully remove the adjustable body of the springform pan and turn the cake over onto a cake stand or serving board.\n\nPeel off the parchment.\n\nServe plain any time of day or top with whipped cream or classic icing for an evening affair.\n**WAXING MOON CAKE**\n\nMakes one 9-inch cake\n\nIn December, it seems like there is a fairy-tale mountain of wood to chop. This hearty cake keeps the axe swinging.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n**DRY**\n\n1 cup walnuts\n\n1 Granny Smith apple\n\n1 tablespoon ground ginger\n\n2 cups cake flour (see here)\n\n\u00bd cup rye flour\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon sea salt\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cloves\n\n\u00bc teaspoon nutmeg\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cinnamon\n\n1 cup golden raisins\n\nZest of 1 lemon\n\n**WET**\n\n5 egg yolks, room temperature\n\n\u00be cup whole milk, room temperature\n\n\u00bc cup olive oil\n\n\u00bc cup maple syrup\n\n**EGG WHITES**\n\n9 egg whites, room temperature\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMicroplane grater\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nParchment paper\n\n9-inch springform pan\n\nRoom-temperature butter and flour for the pan\n\nKnife\n\nCutting board\n\nSkillet\n\n3 small mixing bowls\n\n2 medium-size mixing bowls\n\nFlour sifter\n\nWhisk\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nHand blender\n\nThin-blade knife or cake tester\n\nVery sharp knife\n\nCake stand or serving board\n\nCenter a rack in the oven and preheat it to 325 degrees.\n\nCut a 9-inch circle of parchment to cover the bottom of the springform pan.\n\nGrease the pan with butter, dust it with flour, and insert the parchment. Set aside.\n\nChop and lightly toast the walnuts in a skillet. Set aside in a small bowl.\n\nCombine the apple and ginger in a small bowl. Set aside.\n\nIn a medium bowl, sift together the flours, baking powder, salt, cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon.\n\nCrack the eggs, putting 5 yolks in a small bowl and 9 egg whites in a separate, medium bowl.\n\nAdd the milk and whisk.\n\nAdd the oil and whisk.\n\nAdd the maple syrup and whisk.\n\nPour the yolk mixture into the dry ingredients and fold together till the batter is creamy, glossy, and fully combined. This will be six or seven folds with the wooden spoon using a thoughtful and direct motion. Be sure to get the bottom and sides of the batter incorporated.\n\nBeat the egg whites in a medium bowl with the hand blender on medium\/high speed until you see soft peaks.\n\nStop.\n\nAdd the cream of tartar and resume beating till stiff peaks form.\n\nDo not overbeat; it will dry out the egg whites.\n\nFold the stiffened whites into the batter a third at a time. The mixture should be bubbly, shiny, and loose.\n\nFold in the apples, ginger and walnuts.\n\nPour the batter into the prepared pan and bake the cake in the center of the oven.\n\nDo not open the door for the first 20 minutes of baking.\n\nThe total baking time will be between 45 and 50 minutes. When a knife or cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean, it's done.\n\nWithin 10 minutes of taking the cake out of the oven, run a very sharp knife between the edge of the cake and the pan.\n\nAllow the cake to cool in the pan for 1 hour or till it is cool to the touch.\n\nCarefully remove the adjustable body of the springform pan and turn the cake over onto a cake stand or serving board.\n\nPeel off the parchment.\n\nServe plain any time of day.\n**HUMBLE ICING**\n\nMakes enough to cover 1 single-layer 9-inch cake\n\nI enjoy covering these cakes in the whipped cream here; however, a fancy occasion requires a bit more style. The flavor of this simple icing is heavily dependent on its ingredients\u2014use a high-quality butter and the best confectioners' sugar you can obtain. Moon cakes are intended to be stout single-layer cakes. If you wish to cut through the center and make a layer cake, you'll need to double the icing recipe.\n\n**INGREDIENTS**\n\n1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened\n\n4 cups sifted confectioners' sugar\n\nAbout \u00bc cup heavy cream\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nPinch of salt\n\n**TOOLS YOU'LL NEED**\n\nMeasuring cups and spoons\n\nSifter\n\nLarge bowl\n\nHand blender\n\nLarge wooden spoon\n\nAirtight container\n\nOffset spatula or butter knife\n\nCake stand or wooden cutting board\n\n**A NOTE AND ADJUSTMENTS**\n\nTo make a chocolate frosting, add in 6 tablespoons dark cocoa powder. For a less sugary-sweet flavor, try adding almond or orange extract instead of vanilla. To make a more savory statement, add in a few tablespoons of fresh mint, thyme, or sage. Try frosting just the top, leaving the sides naked. Try using a stencil on top of a clean, white frosting, dusting with cinnamon to create a pattern. Or use a stencil and sprinkle confectioners' sugar on top of ganache.\n\nIn a large bowl, using a hand blender, cream together the butter and sugar.\n\nDrizzle the heavy cream in a tablespoon at a time, beating after each addition. You may not need all the cream\u2014stop adding it when the mixture reaches the texture you want.\n\nAdd the vanilla and salt; beat.\n\nStop creaming, set the hand blender aside, scrape down the sides of the bowl.\n\nResume creaming till all ingredients are fully incorporated and you have a silky icing with no lumps or dry spots.\n\nThe whole process, with the ingredients at the right temperature, should take 8 to 10 minutes.\n\nTo lighten the texture, drizzle in a little more heavy cream and quickly beat.\n\nYou can keep the icing refrigerated for up to 7 days in an airtight container.\n\nBring it to room temperature before using.\n\nApply a thin coat of icing to the entire cake using the offset spatula, starting by placing a dollop on the top, then smoothing it to the edge. Drag the icing from the top edge down over the sides of the cake. Hold the knife still and spin or turn the cake as you spread the frosting around the sides. This is called a crumb coat\u2014it traps stray bits of cake so they don't end up in the final layer. Freeze the cake for 20 minutes.\n\nApply the rest of the icing, again starting with a large dollop on the top, working toward the edges, and dragging the excess down and around the sides, but spreading a thicker layer. Embellish the cake with flowers and confectioners' sugar.\n**CAKE TIPS AND TROUBLESHOOTING**\n\nA fully baked cake should be relatively flat on top when done. If your cake is doming or falling in, consider a few things:\n\n**The flour.**\n\nYou may be using flour that is too high in protein. The web of gluten formed when high-protein flour and water are combined prevents the leavening gases from escaping. Flour with a lower protein content has a weaker gluten structure, allowing the gas to leave easily without tearing or causing swells. Be sure to use a cake flour, whether you make your own here or purchase it at the grocery.\n\n**The pan.**\n\nA pan that conducts heat unevenly will bake the sides faster than the middle, causing the cake to volcano in the center. Look for a sturdier pan that can hold the heat evenly.\n\n**The leavening.**\n\nMake sure your chemical leavening is up to date and\/or that your egg whites were whipped to stiff peaks perfectly.\n\n**The heat source.**\n\nA chiffon cake like this one is the blend of a batter-style and sponge-style cake: leavened by the air from the whipped egg whites alongside the chemical effects of baking powder. If you bake it at too high a heat, you'll have a compact cake with a thick crust and cracked top. If your oven is too cool, your cake is likely to fall and have a coarse, dry crumb.\n\nFor best results, go slow and low while baking. It's a low temp for a prolonged period of time that allows the color and flavors to properly marry. Make sure you are baking your cake on the center rack in the middle of the oven so heat can circulate evenly. We can all agree on some aspects that make a cake great. It should look like its intended shape with no mountain peaks or hidden holers. The crust should be entirely golden brown, thin, and a little crispy. The crumb of the cake should be incredibly moist, light, and uniform. With high-quality eggs, it should even taste a little \"eggy.\" When pressed upon gently, the cake should slowly spring back. To experience the full flavor of a cake, let it cool for at least three hours before tasting it.\n\n**SMOKE SIGNALS CORE VALUES**\n\nAre you breathing?\n\nThink of flour as fresh produce.\n\nLearn one recipe like the back of your hand.\n\nArt and science are meant to reinforce each other, not undermine each other. All binaries are false.\n\nKeep a journal and be observant.\n\nWork is the only truth. Learn to trust.\n\nEngage the intelligence of your body.\n\nValue the entire process, not just the final result. Strive, but take breaks.\n\nKeep a clear mind and a clean work space.\n\nLived experience informs technique.\n\nStrength through diversity, not monoculture; be a little wild.\n\nThe end is just the beginning.\n\n**INDEX**\n\nThe index that appeared in the print version of this title does not match the pages in your eBook. Please use the search function on your eReading device to search for terms of interest. For your reference, the terms that appear in the print index are listed below.\n\n**A**\n\napples\n\nApple Pie\n\nBroken Down Berry Pie\n\nDeep-Dish Apple Pie\n\nSaut\u00e9ed Apple Topping\n\nWaxing Moon Cake\n\nAwe PawPaw Pie\n\n**B**\n\nbacteria\n\nbarley\n\nPantry Porridge\n\nbaskets\n\nBaking Loaves from a Basket\n\nBeet Paint\n\nberries\n\nBroken Down Berry Pie\n\nLaura's Blueberry Pie\n\nPantry Porridge\n\nShooting Star Cake\n\nblackberries\n\nBroken Down Berry Pie\n\nShooting Star Cake\n\nBlind Baking\n\nBloody Butcher Pancakes\n\nblueberries\n\nBroken Down Berry Pie\n\nLaura's Blueberry Pie\n\nPantry Porridge\n\nShooting Star Cake\n\nbread\n\nBaking Loaves from a Basket\n\nhow to make\n\nPloughman\n\nStenciled Loaves in a Pan\n\nbreath, deep\n\nBroken Down Berry Pie\n\nbuckwheat\n\nBloody Butcher Pancakes\n\nBuckwheat Pancakes\n\nLumberjack Delight\n\nbutter\n\nbuttermilk\n\nBloody Butcher Pancakes\n\nBuckwheat Pancakes\n\nJason's Cornmeal Chess\n\nLemon Poppy Seed Pancakes\n\nSavory Pancakes\n\nSourdough Pancakes\n\n**C**\n\ncakes\n\nCake Flour\n\nCoalfield Cake\n\neveryday\n\nFull Moon Cake\n\nGrateful Ganache Glaze\n\nGroomsman Cake\n\nHumble Icing\n\nJosephine's Whipped Cream\n\nmoon\n\nNew Moon Cake\n\nShooting Star Cake\n\ntips and troubleshooting for\n\nWaning Moon Cake\n\nWaxing Moon Cake\n\ncereal\n\nFarina\n\nPantry Porridge\n\nChess, Jason's Cornmeal\n\nchocolate\n\nCoalfield Cake\n\nfrosting\n\nGrateful Ganache Glaze\n\nNew Moon Cake\n\ncloths\n\nCoalfield Cake\n\ncorn\n\nBloody Butcher Pancakes\n\nJason's Cornmeal Chess\n\nPopcorn\n\nSmoke Signals Crusts\n\ncream\n\nFarina\n\nGrateful Ganache Glaze\n\nJosephine's Whipped Cream\n\nCrumble Top\n\nculture\n\nmethod for\n\n**D**\n\nDeep-Dish Apple Pie\n\nDouble-Crust Baking\n\n**E**\n\neinkorn\n\nEinkorn Waffles\n\nemmer\n\n**F**\n\nFarina\n\nfat\n\nfermentation\n\nbulk\n\nproofing\n\ntemperature and\n\nfermented butters\n\nfire, starting\n\nfarro\n\nflour\n\nCake Flour\n\nfor cakes\n\nfor pies\n\nstone-ground\n\nflowers\n\nfrosting\n\nHumble Icing\n\nvariations\n\nFull Moon Cake\n\n**G**\n\nganache\n\nCoalfield Cake\n\nGrateful Ganache Glaze\n\ngarlic\n\npizza toppings\n\nYard Sauce\n\nGhost Pie\n\ngrain\n\nGrateful Ganache Glaze\n\nGroomsman Cake\n\n**H**\n\nhand mixing\n\nherbs\n\nHumble Icing\n\nSavory Pancakes\n\nShooting Star Cake\n\nYard Sauce\n\nHumble Icing\n\n**I**\n\nicing\n\nHumble Icing\n\nvariations\n\n**J**\n\nJason's Cornmeal Chess\n\nJosephine's Whipped Cream\n\n**K**\n\nkamut\n\nKamut Waffles,\n\n**L**\n\nlard\n\nLaura's Blueberry Pie\n\nleaven, in bread\n\nleavening agent, in cake\n\nlemon\n\nLaura's Blueberry Pie\n\nLemon Poppy Seed Pancakes\n\nPeaches and Rhubarb Pie\n\nLonely Bird Pie\n\nLumberjack Delight\n\n**M**\n\nmixing dough\n\nmoon cakes\n\nFull Moon Cake\n\nNew Moon Cake\n\nWaning Moon Cake\n\nWaxing Moon Cake\n\nmoon cycles\n\nSetting a New Moon Intention\n\n**N**\n\nNew Moon Cake\n\n**O**\n\noats, in Crumble Top\n\n**P**\n\nPaint, Beet\n\npan, for cakes\n\npancakes\n\nBloody Butcher Pancakes\n\nBuckwheat Pancakes\n\nLemon Poppy Seed Pancakes\n\nSaut\u00e9ed Apple Topping for\n\nSavory Pancakes\n\nSourdough Pancakes\n\nPantry Porridge\n\nPawPaw Pie, Awe\n\nPeaches and Rhubarb Pie\n\npies\n\nApple Pie\n\nAwe PawPaw Pie\n\nBeet Paint\n\nBlind Baking\n\nBroken Down Berry Pie\n\nCrumble Top\n\nDeep-Dish Apple Pie\n\nDouble-Crust Baking\n\ndough shapes and textures\n\nGhost Pie\n\nholding a pie contest\n\nhow to make\n\nJason's Cornmeal Chess\n\nJosephine's Whipped Cream\n\nLaura's Blueberry Pie\n\nLonely Bird Pie\n\nPeaches and Rhubarb Pie\n\npie crust tips\n\nSmoke Signals Crusts\n\npizza\n\nSunday-Night Pizza Party\n\ntoppings for\n\nYard Sauce\n\nPloughman\n\nPopcorn\n\nPoppy Seed Lemon Pancakes\n\nPorridge, Pantry\n\nproofing\n\n**R**\n\nraisins, in Waxing Moon Cake\n\nRhubarb and Peaches Pie\n\nrye\n\nBloody Butcher Pancakes\n\nLumberjack Delight\n\n**S**\n\nsage\n\nHumble Icing\n\nSavory Pancakes\n\nsalt\n\nSauce, Yard\n\nSaut\u00e9ed Apple Topping\n\nSavory Pancakes\n\nShooting Star Cake\n\nshortening\n\nSmoke Signals Crusts\n\nSourdough Pancakes\n\nspelt\n\nPantry Porridge\n\nSpelt Waffles\n\nsquash, in Ghost Pie\n\nStenciled Loaves in a Pan\n\nstone-ground flour\n\nsugar\n\nSunday-Night Pizza Party\n\nsweet potatoes\n\nLonely Bird Pie\n\npizza toppings\n\n**T**\n\ntemperature\n\nin baking cakes\n\nin making bread\n\nthyme\n\nHumble Icing\n\nShooting Star Cake\n\nTopping, Saut\u00e9ed Apple\n\ntowels\n\n**W**\n\nwaffles\n\nEinkorn Waffles\n\nKamut Waffles\n\nLumberjack Delight\n\nSpelt Waffles\n\nwalnuts, in Waxing Moon Cake\n\nWaning Moon Cake\n\nwater\n\nbread and\n\npie and\n\nWaxing Moon Cake\n\nwheat\n\nWhipped Cream, Josephine's\n\n**Y**\n\nYard Sauce\n\nyeast\n\ntemperature and\n\n# About the Author\n\nTARA JENSEN is an artist and baker living a solitary life at Smoke Signals, a wood fired bakery deep in the mountains of Western, North Carolina. Jensen baked her way through her twenties in professional settings around the country, keeping handwritten journals as she went. Baking has now become her personal practice, which she shares with students from around the world in workshops held at her home. When not teaching she spends her days chopping wood, mixing dough and studying the stars. You can sign up for author updates here.\n\n**Thank you for buying this**\n\n**St. Martin's Griffin ebook.**\n\nTo receive special offers, bonus content,\n\nand info on new releases and other great reads,\n\nsign up for our newsletters.\n\nOr visit us online at\n\nus.macmillan.com\/newslettersignup\n\nFor email updates on the author, click here.\n\n# **CONTENTS**\n\nTitle Page\n\nCopyright Notice\n\n_Dear Friend_\n\nJanuary\n\nAbout Grain\n\nPantry Porridge\n\nFarina\n\nPopcorn\n\nFebruary\n\n(A) Culture (of Resistance)\n\nMarch\n\nPancakes\n\nSourdough Pancakes\n\nBloody Butcher Pancakes\n\nBuckwheat Pancakes\n\nLemon Poppy Seed Pancakes\n\nSavory Pancakes\n\nSaut\u00e9ed Apple Topping\n\nApril\n\nKamut Waffles\n\nEinkorn Waffles\n\nSpelt Waffles\n\nLumberjack Delight\n\nMay\n\nHow to Make Bread\n\nThe Ploughman\n\nBaking Loaves from a Basket\n\nStenciled Loaves in a Pan\n\nJune\n\nSunday-Night Pizza Party\n\nYard Sauce\n\nJuly\n\nHow to Make Pie the Best Way\n\nSmoke Signals Crust\n\nBlind Baking\n\nDouble-Crust Baking\n\nBroken-Down Berry Pie\n\nCrumble Top\n\nPeaches and Rhubarb Pie\n\nLaura's Blueberry Pie\n\nJason's Cornmeal Chess\n\nAugust\n\nCake Flour\n\nEveryday Cakes\n\nGroomsman Cake\n\nShooting Star Cake\n\nCoalfield Cake\n\nGrateful Ganache Glaze\n\nJosephine's Whipped Cream\n\nSeptember\n\nAwe Pawpaw Pie\n\nOctober\n\nGhost Pie\n\nLonely Bird pie\n\nNovember\n\nHold a Pie Contest\n\nApple Pie\n\nDeep-Dish Apple Pie\n\nBeet Paint\n\nDecember\n\nLunar Cycles\n\nSetting a New Moon Intention\n\nMoon Cakes\n\nFull Moon Cake\n\nNew Moon Cake\n\nWaning Moon Cake\n\nWaxing Moon Cake\n\nHumble Icing\n\nCake Tips and Troubleshooting\n\nSmoke Signals Core Values\n\nIndex\n\nAbout the Author\n\nCopyright\nA BAKER'S YEAR. Text and illustrations copyright \u00a9 2018 by Tara Jensen. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.\n\nwww.stmartins.com\n\nDesigned by Steven Seighman\n\nPhotographs by Tara Jensen\n\nThe Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication\n\nData is available upon request.\n\neISBN 978-1-250-12739-6\n\nOur books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.\n\nFirst Edition: February 2018\n\n# Contents\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Title Page\n  3. Copyright Notice\n  4. Dedication\n  5. Dear Friend\n  6. January\n    1. About Grain\n    2. Pantry Porridge\n    3. Farina\n    4. Popcorn\n  7. February\n    1. (A) Culture (of Resistance)\n  8. March\n    1. Pancakes\n      1. Sourdough Pancakes\n      2. Bloody Butcher Pancakes\n      3. Buckwheat Pancakes\n      4. Lemon Poppy Seed Pancakes\n      5. Savory Pancakes\n    2. Sauteed Apple Topping\n  9. April\n    1. Kamut Waffles\n    2. Einkorn Waffles\n    3. Spelt Waffles\n    4. Lumberjack Delight\n  10. May\n    1. How to Make Bread\n    2. The Ploughman\n    3. Baking Loaves from a Basket\n    4. Stenciled Loaves in a Pan\n  11. June\n    1. Sunday-Night Pizza Party\n    2. Yard Sauce\n  12. July\n    1. How to Make Pie the Best Way\n    2. Smoke Signals Crust\n    3. Blind Baking\n    4. Double-Crust Baking\n    5. Broken-Down Berry Pie\n    6. Crumble Top\n    7. Peaches and Rhubarb Pie\n    8. Laura's Blueberry Pie\n    9. Jason's Cornmeal Chess\n  13. August\n    1. Cake Flour\n    2. Everyday Cakes\n    3. Groomsman Cake\n    4. Shooting Star Cake\n    5. Coalfield Cake\n    6. Grateful Ganache Glaze\n    7. Josephine's Whipped Cream\n  14. September\n    1. Awe Pawpaw Pie\n  15. October\n    1. Ghost Pie\n    2. Lonely Bird pie\n  16. November\n    1. Hold a Pie Contest\n    2. Apple Pie\n    3. Deep-Dish Apple Pie\n    4. Beet Paint\n  17. December\n    1. Lunar Cycles\n    2. Setting a New Moon Intention\n    3. Moon Cakes\n      1. Full Moon Cake\n      2. New Moon Cake\n      3. Waning Moon Cake\n      4. Waxing Moon Cake\n    4. Humble Icing\n  18. Cake Tips and Troubleshooting\n  19. Smoke Signals Core Values\n  20. Index\n  21. About the Author\n  22. Newsletter Sign-up\n  23. Contents\n  24. Copyright\n\n## Guide\n\n  1. Start Reading\n  2. Cover\n  3. Copyright\n  4. Table of Contents\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\nVertebrate Publishing, Sheffield  \nwww.v-publishing.co.uk\n\n**Shetland Mainland,** Cliffs at Fethaland\n\n# Contents\n\n  1. **Introduction** \n  2. **The Firth of Forth **\n  3. Overview map\n  4. Isle of May\n  5. Bass Rock\n  6. Craigleith\n  7. Fidra\n  8. Inchkeith\n  9. Inchcolm\n  10. Cramond Island\n  11. **The Firth of Clyde**\n  12. Overview map\n  13. Arran\n  14. Pladda\n  15. Holy Isle\n  16. Bute\n  17. Inchmarnock\n  18. Great Cumbrae\n  19. Little Cumbrae\n  20. Ailsa Craig\n  21. Davaar Island\n  22. Sanda\n  23. **Islay, Jura & Colonsay**\n  24. Overview map\n  25. Islay\n  26. Jura\n  27. Colonsay\n  28. Oronsay\n  29. Gigha\n  30. Cara\n  31. **The Firth of Lorn & Loch Linnhe** \n  32. Overview map\n  33. Seil\n  34. Easdale\n  35. Luing\n  36. Shuna\n  37. Lunga\n  38. Scarba\n  39. The Garvellachs\n  40. Kerrera\n  41. Lismore\n  42. Eriska\n  43. Island of Shuna\n  44. **The Isle of Mull Group**\n  45. Overview map\n  46. Mull\n  47. Iona\n  48. Erraid\n  49. Ulva\n  50. Gometra\n  51. Inch Kenneth\n  52. Little Colonsay\n  53. Staffa\n  54. Lunga and the Treshnish Islands\n  55. Eorsa\n  56. Carna and Oronsay\n  57. **Coll, Tiree & the Small Isles**\n  58. Overview map\n  59. Tiree\n  60. Coll\n  61. Eigg\n  62. Rum\n  63. Canna\n  64. Sanday\n  65. Muck\n  66. Eilean Shona\n  67. **Skye & the North-West**\n  68. Overview map part 1\n  69. Skye\n  70. Loch Bracadale Islands\n  71. Soay\n  72. Eilean Ban\n  73. Pabay\n  74. Scalpay\n  75. Raasay\n  76. Eilean Fladday\n  77. Rona\n  78. Isle of Ewe\n  79. Gruinard Island\n  80. Overview map part 2\n  81. Summer Isles\n  82. Isle Martin\n  83. Handa\n  84. Rabbit Islands and Eilean nan R\u00f2n\n  85. **The Outer Hebrides**\n  86. Overview map part 1\n  87. Lewis\n  88. Eilean Chaluim Cille\n  89. Great Bernera\n  90. Pabbay (Loch Roag)\n  91. Harris\n  92. Scalpay\n  93. Taransay\n  94. Overview map part 2\n  95. Scarp\n  96. Pabbay\n  97. Flannan Isles\n  98. St Kilda Archipelago\n  99. Rockall\n  100. North Rona\n  101. Sula Sgeir\n  102. Shiant Islands\n  103. Berneray\n  104. North Uist\n  105. Vallay (Bh\u00e0laigh)\n  106. Baleshare (Baile Sear)\n  107. Monach Isles\n  108. Grimsay\n  109. Ronay (R\u00f2naigh)\n  110. Benbecula (Beinn na Faoghla)\n  111. Flodaigh (Fladda)\n  112. South Uist\n  113. Eriskay\n  114. Barra\n  115. Vatersay\n  116. Fuday\n  117. Bishop's Isles (Barra)\n  118. **Orkney**\n  119. Overview map\n  120. Mainland\n  121. Brough of Birsay\n  122. Lamb Holm\n  123. Burray\n  124. Hunda\n  125. South Ronaldsay\n  126. Hoy\n  127. South Walls\n  128. Graemsay\n  129. Flotta\n  130. Rousay\n  131. Egilsay\n  132. Wyre\n  133. Westray\n  134. Papa Westray\n  135. Holm of Papa\n  136. Shapinsay\n  137. Eday\n  138. Stronsay\n  139. Papa Stronsay\n  140. Sanday\n  141. North Ronaldsay\n  142. Copinsay\n  143. Stroma\n  144. Swona\n  145. **Shetland**\n  146. Overview map\n  147. Mainland\n  148. Bressay\n  149. Noss\n  150. Mousa\n  151. Trondra\n  152. West Burra\n  153. East Burra\n  154. Papa Stour\n  155. Muckle Roe\n  156. Uyea\n  157. Yell\n  158. Unst\n  159. Fetlar\n  160. Whalsay\n  161. Out Skerries\n  162. Fair Isle\n  163. Foula\n  164. **The Islands: at a glance**\n\n**Isle of Rum,** seen from Eigg\n\n# Introduction\n\nThere's an indefinable magic about islands. Even otherwise ordinary places are transformed by a feeling of otherness when you have to cross the sea to reach them. Islands are places apart, away from the commonplace, places where we leave our normal lives behind. Just think of the words we commonly associate with them: island _escape_ , island _adventure_ , _treasure_ island, island _paradise_.\n\nAnd nowhere is this truer than with the islands of Scotland. They possess some of the finest mountain and maritime landscapes in Europe. The variety in such a compact area is immense, from the fertile fields of Orkney to the barren peatlands of Lewis, from the sandy beaches of Tiree to the Cuillin of Skye, the most alpine mountains in Britain. There are endless layers of human history to uncover too: the remarkably preserved Stone Age settlements of Skara Brae or Jarlshof, the long era of Norse rule, the richness of Gaelic culture, the human tragedy of the Clearances. Then there's the natural history: dolphins, whales, otters and some of the most spectacular seabird colonies to be found anywhere in the world.\n\nMany people start with a visit to one of the better-known islands \u2013 Skye, Arran, or perhaps Mull; all make for experiences to remember. Once you've been to one island, the mind begins to wonder what the neighbouring islands are like \u2013 and what about the ones beyond them? All are different. If you enjoy taking trips, exploring and discovering different islands for yourself \u2013 and who wouldn't? \u2013 then you're an island bagger.\n\nIsland bagging is as addictive as Munro bagging, but it's far less precisely defined. There is no official list of islands, nor are there any rules as to what it means to bag one \u2013 so where does this book fit in?\n\n#### What is an island?\n\nThe dictionary definition of an island is 'a piece of land surrounded by water'. That sounds very simple \u2013 too simple. What if it's surrounded by water only when the tide is out? What if there's a bridge? How large does it needed to be? Does a skerry or a sea stack count?\n\nIn his lavish book on Scotland's islands, beautifully illustrated with his own paintings, Hamish Haswell-Smith defines an island as:\n\na piece of land or group of pieces of land which is entirely surrounded by seawater at Lowest Astronomical Tide and to which there is no permanent means of dry access.\n\nHe then further restricts himself to islands of forty hectares of more. Hamish is a yachtsman, with a passion for exploration by sea, and his book is a classic guide for those with their own boat.\n\nMost of us, though, don't own a yacht \u2013 or even a sea kayak. We therefore focus on the islands to which it is possible to catch a ferry \u2013 or at least realistically book on to a boat trip \u2013 to make a visit. We still regard Skye and Seil as islands, despite their having bridges. We regard walking over the sands to visit a tidal island as being an unmissable adventure in itself. We're landlubbers by nature, but ones who feel the irresistible draw of the isles. We want to experience the islands in all the best ways we can.\n\nIf this sounds like you, then this is your book. Rather than restricting ourselves to strict definitions, we've focused on the ninety-nine islands that have regular trips or means of access for visitors, and have described our picks of the best ways to experience each of them. This book also features fifty-five other islands which have no regular transport but are still of significant size or interest.\n\n#### How do you 'bag' an island?\n\nEven if you are happy with whether something is an island, the question remains: what does it take to 'bag' it? Most people would say you have to at least visit it, but if you simply tag the island and leave, have you really experienced it? In 2007, Andy Strangeway announced he had 'bagged' all Scotland's islands by sleeping on them overnight.\n\nWhat makes each island special? There is no one answer, and so we reckon there is no one correct way to bag an island. You might just visit it or stay overnight; you could climb its highest hill or circumnavigate its coastline. You could uncover its history, sample the local island produce or take part in a community event. Which island experience you choose is entirely up to you.\n\n#### Practical matters\n\nEvery island we have included features a brief introduction, and information on how to access it if it can be done without your own boat. We then describe our choices of experiences to get the most from a visit to that island.\n\nNote that most of Scotland's islands are relatively remote and undeveloped places. There are few formal footpaths, and the walks described include only brief details \u2013 most cross rugged terrain, a long way from help. Only a few islands have mountain rescue teams. Always ensure you carry an Ordnance Survey map and a compass, and that the walk you are attempting is within your experience and abilities. If you are heading to a tidal island make sure you have studied the tide times and allow plenty of time to return safely. If you are unsure of what you are doing or where you are going, consider hiring a guide.\n\n**Colonsay,** Carnan Eoin\n\n**Mull,** white-tailed eagle\n\n**Mainland Shetland,** Up Helly Aa\n\n**Mainland Orkney,** Ring of Brodgar\n\nThe islands featured that do not have regular boat services are for information only; these may be accessible by your own boat or kayak but this is outside the scope of this book \u2013 the waters around Scotland's islands are amongst the most challenging in the world.\n\n#### A word of warning\n\nAfter climbing their first few Munros, many hillwalkers find Munro bagging addictive, even if they try to resist. As they advance it can become all-consuming, taking up all their free time and dominating their thoughts. But at least Munro bagging has an end point, when that final summit is reached.\n\nIsland bagging, on the other hand, may be more dangerous. You may get a passion for it. You might even visit and experience something on every single one of the main ninety-nine islands with ferries, bridges, tidal causeways and boats as featured in this book. You might get a kayak or charter a boat to visit the other islands listed. You may work your way through all the islands listed by Haswell-Smith, or other longer lists. But whatever you do, there will be always be more islands to visit, more skerries, islets, rocks and stacks to discover. You might eventually find yourself trying to land and climb one of St Kilda's towering sea stacks, or something even harder.\n\n**Arran,** Goatfell\n\n**Skye,** from the Raasay ferry terminal\n\n**Islay,** Carraig Fhada\n\nOnce you've started, there is no cure for Scottish island bagging. You have been warned.\n\n#### Bag your islands on Walkhighlands\n\nSign up as a registered user on Walkhighlands and log which islands you've visited. Head to _**www.walkhighlands.co.uk**_ to get started.\n\n#### Key\n\n  Activity\n\n  Beach\n\n  Food and drink\n\n  History and culture\n\n  Nature and natural features\n\n  Walk\nCompared to the archipelagos of the west and north, Scotland's east coast has remarkably few islands. What these isles lack in size, they make up for in variety and interest. Their strategic position scattered across the Firth that divides Edinburgh from Fife, busy with ships, has ensured a rich history, and several of the islands are covered with old military fortifications. Perhaps more surprising is that they also boast two of Scotland's most spectacular colonies of seabirds.\n\n# [THE  \nFIRTH OF  \nFORTH](9781912560318_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**Isle of May,** seabird cliffs\n\n**Cramond,** Causeway\n\n## Overview map\n\n**Isle of May,** fast RIB\n\n**Isle of May,** puffin with sand eels\n\n**Isle of May,** Low Light\n\n**Isle of May,** High Light\n\n## Isle of May\n\nSome eight kilometres off the coast of Fife, the Isle of May guards the outermost reaches of the Firth of Forth. This emerald-green gem, defended by impressive cliffs, has long exerted a powerful draw on visitors; it was an important centre for pilgrimage in the Middle Ages, while today it is a National Nature Reserve, renowned for both its seabirds and importance as a pupping ground for grey seals.\n\nThere are regular boat trips to the island from April to September each year: the 100-seater _May Princess_ and the twelve-seater fast RIB _Osprey_ both operate out of Anstruther in Fife and give two to three hours ashore, while there is also a fast boat which runs from the Scottish Seabird Centre at North Berwick, over twenty kilometres away in East Lothian. There's a visitor centre on the island which is open during the season, and this gives information and offers shelter and toilets, but there are no other facilities.\n\n#### Join the puffarazzi\n\nWhile the May is home to breeding guillemots, razorbills, shags, cormorants, eiders and terns, and is an important station for migrants, for most people, there's one particular bird species that they really come to see \u2013 puffins. These incomparably charming and comical birds begin gathering in the sea around the island in April, and gradually move ashore. Taking a break from lives otherwise spent entirely out at sea, up to 60,000 pairs of puffins come here to breed each year, laying their eggs in burrows at the top of the cliffs. In early summer the skies over the island are alive with puffins, while below visitors try to get that perfect photo of a bird carrying a beakful of sand eels back to its burrow. In mid-August the puffins return to the seas.\n\n#### See the high light \u2013 and the low light\n\nAfter landing on the island and being attacked by the aggressive terns, most visitors then go hunting for their perfect puffin photo. Once satisfied, it is well worth continuing to explore: a network of paths encircles the island and visitors are asked to keep to these routes; the walk along the cliff edges is very dramatic. The May was the site of Scotland's first permanently manned lighthouse, a coal-fired beacon built in 1635. It was operated privately until 1814 when the Northern Lighthouse Board commissioned Robert Stevenson to build the current High Light, an ornate tower that resembles a Gothic castle. In 1843 a second lighthouse, the Low Light, was built to provide (with its neighbour) a pair of lights to help align ships, but the building is now used for accommodation for the researchers and volunteers who monitor the island's bird and animal life.\n\n## Bass Rock\n\nThe great granite citadel of the Bass Rock is a familiar landmark off the East Lothian coast. Rising precipitously 120 metres from the sea, its bald dome is dusted white by guano and surrounded by thousands of circling birds, making it look like a maritime snow globe. The Bass was once a prison for Covenanters and Jacobites, but these days it's renowned for being the home of the world's largest colony of gannets, with an incredible 150,000 of these huge but graceful birds breeding on the rock from February to October. The lighthouse has been unmanned since it was automated in 1988.\n\n#### Gawp at gannets\n\nRegular boat trips run out to visit Bass Rock from the Scottish Seabird Centre in North Berwick, with a choice of cruising in a catamaran or a fast rigid inflatable. The trips pass around the Bass, getting as close to the rock as is safe, and provide an incredible spectacle \u2013 and smell! The combination of bird and rock has led to the Bass being dubbed one of the wonders of the wildlife world by Sir David Attenborough.\n\nGannets are Britain's largest seabird, with a 1.8-metre wing span and a striking streamlined shape that enables them to dive at almost 100 km\/h into the sea when fishing \u2013 looking like a harpoon fired from a gun. Every available spot on the island is occupied, and as well as diving for fish, the birds can be seen fighting, bill fencing, preening, carrying in weed, and \u2013 in July \u2013 feeding their fluffy chicks.\n\nIt's also possible to take a landing trip to the Bass, which usually gives around three hours ashore, although the seas can be rough and landings can never be guaranteed. These trips give a unique chance to get up close and intimate with the gannets, though there is the risk of being hit by their vomit!\n\n## Craigleith\n\nThis small island is just over a kilometre out from North Berwick's harbour. All eyes looking seaward from the town are drawn to the drama of the Bass Rock so that Craigleith, its nearer, less spectacular neighbour, is often forgotten and overlooked. For many years Craigleith was used as a rabbit warren \u2013 the animals were introduced to the island to act as a food source. More recently it was home to one of Scotland's largest puffin colonies, with 28,000 pairs nesting as recently as 1999. The population was decimated after an invasive plant, tree mallow, reached the island and choked their burrows. The mallow had spread from Fidra having been planted there by lighthouse keepers to use as loo roll.\n\nHundreds of volunteers from the Scottish Seabird Centre have since been helping to control the mallow, and the puffin numbers have started to recover. There are no landing trips but the regular boat trips out to the Bass Rock pass close to the shores of Craigleith, giving views of its puffins, eiders, guillemots, cormorants and shags.\n\n## Fidra\n\nLying 500 metres off the beaches at Yellowcraig is Fidra, which at ten hectares is larger than the Bass Rock or Craigleith, through it reaches only ten metres in height. Robert Louis Stevenson was a frequent visitor to Yellowcraig, and Fidra is said to have been the model for the map in _Treasure Island_. The island has a prominent lighthouse, built by Robert Louis' father Thomas and his cousin David A. Stevenson. There are also the remains of a twelfth-century chapel. Like Craigleith, Fidra's puffin population is recovering following the removal of tree mallow. The island is well seen from Yellowcraig but there are no regular boat trips.\n\n**Bass Rock,** gannets above the foghorn\n\nGannet\n\n**Bass Rock**\n\n**Fidra**\n\n## Inchkeith\n\nThe strategic location of Inchkeith where the Firth of Forth begins to narrow to the north of Edinburgh has ensured its rich history. In 1493 King James IV ordered a mute woman and two small children to be moved to the island in a bizarre deprivation experiment to see what language the children would grow up to speak. It was thought this might show the original language of God; unsurprisingly the children never spoke at all. Subsequently it was used as a quarantine for sufferers of syphilis ('grandgore') \u2013 a ship carrying the sufferers sailed from Leith; later it served as a refuge for those with the plague.\n\nInchkeith was first fortified during the sixteenth-century wars between Scotland and England; today it is littered with the extensive remains of batteries and guns from the two world wars. Troops remained here until 1957, and lighthouse keepers until 1986. The island is now abandoned. There are no regular boat trips, but charters can be arranged through Forth Sea Safaris at North Queensferry.\n\n**Inchcolm,** Abbey\n\n## Inchcolm\n\nThis green and relatively fertile island's name means the 'Isle of Columba', and the great saint was reputed to have visited in person in AD 567. Nonetheless, the island was home only to a solitary hermit in 1123 when King Alexander I sought shelter here and vowed to build a monastery as thanks for his safety. Following Alexander's death the next year, it fell to his brother David I to build the current abbey dedicated to Columba. It's a very popular but memorable place to visit, and two different boat companies operate regular cruises and landing trips from Hawes Pier in South Queensferry. The landing trips usually allow around ninety minutes or so on the island, though it may be possible to return on a later sailing. There is a charge to land on the island \u2013 check whether this is included in your boat trip ticket, and there's a small visitor centre (with toilets) just beyond the jetty. As the boat pulls in you may notice the tiny islet opposite is populated with a host of garden gnomes \u2013 and a sign declaring it to be 'Inch Gnome'; the gnomes are placed there by local boaters.\n\n#### Climb the abbey bell tower\n\nKnown as the 'Iona of the East', Inchcolm Abbey boasts the finest preserved group of monastic buildings standing in Scotland. With structures dating from the twelfth to fifteenth centuries, it is a great place to poke around and explore. The cloister is remarkably complete and atmospheric, there's a rare surviving medieval fresco, and a Viking hogback tomb (now in the visitor centre), but for most people the highlight is the climb up the tiny curving stone steps to reach the top of the bell tower \u2013 with grand aerial views over the whole complex.\n\n**Inchcolm,** 'Inch Gnome'\n\n**Inchcolm,** seagull on defences\n\n**Inchcolm,** from Abbey tower\n\n#### Stand guard over the Forth\n\nLike most of the islands in the Firth of Forth, Inchcolm is littered with defences from the two world wars. These were first manned in 1915, but reworked with much heavier armaments in 1916 and 1917, with prominent batteries and gun emplacements at both ends of the island; the island was then rearmed in 1939 and the abbey was used as a barracks for a time. The ruins at the eastern end are the most fascinating to explore \u2013 you can still pass through an access tunnel to reach parts of them, though take care as the site is decaying and overgrown in places. The views across the Firth to Inchkeith, Cramond, Edinburgh and Fife reveal what a key defensive location this was. The ruins at the western end are guarded by extremely aggressive gulls and access is restricted during part of the nesting season.\n\n## Cramond Island\n\nLinked to beautiful Cramond village and beaches by a tidal causeway, this is very much Edinburgh's island. The crossing is on a concrete causeway, but is only possible for up to two hours each side of low tide. The tide comes in very fast and many people have become stranded on the island, so make sure you pay close attention to the times which are posted on a sign near the start of the causeway. They are also available on the Queensferry lifeboat website. Do not attempt to cross anywhere but the causeway.\n\n#### Make the tidal crossing\n\nThe fact that the causeway is submerged most of the time makes a visit to Cramond feel like a real adventure. There's a steep flight of steps to descend before beginning the walk across, which is further than it looks, being well over a kilometre. The concrete pylons alongside the causeway were built to stop enemy boats during the Second World War, not submarines as often supposed, as the water isn't deep enough for the latter. From the far end of Cramond an anti-boat and submarine boom then extended on to reach the tiny islet of Inchmickery, then on to Inchcolm and finally to the Fife coast.\n\nOnce on the island a rough path heads up to the highest point, a superb viewpoint for the Forth, with the defences on neighbouring Inchmickery covering it so completely that it looks like a battleship. You can continue from here to pass the ruins of an old farm and the various old gun emplacements, but make sure you leave plenty of time to get back across the causeway before the rising tide.\n\n**Cramond Island,** defences\n\n**Inchmickery**\nThe halcyon days of the paddle steamers carrying thousands of workers from Glasgow 'down the watter' to holiday on these isles may be long gone, but Arran, Bute and Great Cumbrae remain popular destinations with folk from Scotland's biggest city and beyond. The largest island, Arran, boasts not just one of Scotland's most dramatic mountain ranges, but lowlands and rich history too, while Rothesay on Bute and Millport on Cumbrae retain the charm of seaside resorts from years gone by. Beyond these, there are real gems amongst the smaller isles of the Firth, from the cliffs and gannetries of Ailsa Craig to the remarkable cave painting on the tidal island of Davaar.\n\n# [THE  \nFIRTH OF  \nCLYDE](9781912560318_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**Bute,** West Island Way\n\n**Arran** coast path, near Hutton's Unconformity\n\n## Overview map\n\n## Arran\n\nOften described as Scotland in miniature, Arran offers a remarkable variety of activities and scenery in a relatively compact island package. From atmospheric prehistoric stone circles, to challenging mountain walks which rank amongst the most spectacular in the Scottish hills, all encircled by a fine coast of sandy beaches, caves and high cliffs. Not to mention the cultural sights, wildlife, whisky and quality local produce from this unique island that is home to around 4,000 people.\n\nArran is very accessible from Glasgow, making it a popular weekend destination year round. Caledonian MacBrayne (CalMac) vehicle ferries run from Ardrossan (with a train connection to Glasgow), taking around an hour to reach Brodick \u2013 it's best to book if you are taking your car. There is also a shorter ferry route from Claonaig (in Kintyre) to Lochranza which operates in the summer months, and a longer daily service from Tarbert to Lochranza in the winter. Arran has a great bus service which makes public transport a feasible option if you're prepared to do a bit of planning and be flexible. The main services and shops are in Brodick; there is a range of accommodation here and scattered across the island.\n\n#### Climb Goatfell\n\nThe highest mountain on Arran at 874 metres, Goatfell is also one of the easier peaks to climb amongst Arran's granite mountain ridges. The ascent can be rewarded with superb views all around, even reaching Ireland on the clearest of days. The most straightforward ascent is from near Brodick; the out-and-back route from there can be completed in a long half day if you are fit. If you want to really push it, the Goatfell Race takes place each year in May \u2013 the fastest runners complete the course in under an hour and a quarter! There are a number of other ways up, including ones taking in some of the other dramatic peaks seen from the summit, many of which require some scrambling. While you'd be lucky to spot any wild goats here (the Goat part of the name either comes from the Gaelic word _gaoth_ , meaning wind, or from the Norse word for goat, _geita_ ), keep an eye out for golden eagles and buzzards riding the thermals.\n\n#### Bike around the island\n\nThe full circumnavigation of the island on two wheels is a popular goal for cyclists. Most tackle this tough eighty-eight-kilometre road route clockwise to get the big hills out of the way early, and to take advantage of the downhill last few kilometres to freewheel back to the ferry. The fittest cyclists can complete the circuit in four hours, but with plenty of pretty villages and inviting refuelling spots along the way, many take a whole day \u2013 keep those legs moving to ensure you don't miss the last ferry. Bikes are carried free on CalMac ferries and there is also bike hire available in Brodick.\n\n#### Feel the ancient past at Machrie Moor\n\nA walk of a kilometre from a car park leads you into this intriguing prehistoric site. Six stone circles can be made out in total, including one with huge sandstone blocks up to five and a half metres high. Others are constructed from smaller granite rocks, and there are also remains of burial chambers, hut circles and ancient field systems to discover. It is thought that the site was used for ceremonial purposes 4,500 years ago, with the visible stone circles dating back to 2000 BC. As they stand in open moorland and require the short walk, you can often be alone amongst the stones, adding to the atmosphere.\n\n**Arran,** north ridge of Goatfell\n\nRed deer\n\n**Arran,** Machrie Moor\n\n**Arran,** cheese\n\n**Arran,** ferry and Goatfell\n\n**Arran,** King's Cave\n\n#### Walk the Arran coast\n\nFitting neatly into a week, the complete Arran Coastal Way is a long-distance walk around the island with a couple of optional inland excursions. Don't be fooled by the low level of this walk, there are some very rugged sections of coastline to negotiate \u2013 as well as the optional ascent of Goatfell. With careful planning the route can be completed using a mix of B&Bs, hotels and hostels, or from a central base using the bus service, as well as by backpacking and enjoying some stunning wild camping spots.\n\nIf you don't have time for the complete circuit, the most spectacular section of the Coastal Way can be walked as a fine day route. It clings to the coast between Sannox and Lochranza, passing the Cock of Arran, a giant boulder resembling a cockerel. _**www.walkhighlands.co.uk\/arran\/arran-coastal-way.shtml**_\n\n#### Hear the rut at Lochranza\n\nThe village of Lochranza on the north-west coast is home to a herd of red deer that seem immune to the disturbance of people, happily munching away or obligingly posing in front of the castle while their photos are taken. In fact, they can pose a hazard on the golf course, oblivious to shouts of 'fore'. They are not tame and should not be approached or fed; their wildness becomes more apparent during the autumnal rut when it can be enchanting or terrifying \u2013 perhaps both \u2013 to hear the stags roaring, depending on whether you are hearing this from the comfort of a B&B or cowering in a tent at Lochranza's campsite.\n\n#### Find Hutton's Unconformity\n\nThe geologist James Hutton came to Arran in 1787 and made a remarkable discovery. Near Newton Point on the coast between Sannox and Lochranza he found older rocks sitting on top of younger ones. This became known as Hutton's Unconformity; he went on to find other similar examples and began to develop his revolutionary thinking about the processes of geology. Newton Point is easily reached on foot by heading along the road on the east side of Loch Ranza and continuing on the path to the headland. Extend the walk into a five-kilometre circuit by following the coast to the cottage at Fairy Dell and returning on an inland path and track.\n\n#### Watch for a spider at King's Cave\n\nThe King's Cave is a dramatic sea cave \u2013 now above high tide level \u2013 on the west coast of the island. It was here that Robert the Bruce is said to have had his famed encounter with the spider following a series of defeats, and from it he gained his resolve to 'try, try again' \u2013 ultimately winning Scottish independence at the Battle of Bannockburn. Several other Scottish caves also claim to be the site of this legend, but the King's Cave is the finest of them. Enjoy the fine coastal setting on the approach, taking a torch to enable you to seek out the ancient carvings inside including ones of a cross, horse and deer. The four-and-a-half-kilometre circular route is best tackled from the Torr Righ Beag forestry car park north of Blackwaterfoot.\n\n#### Visit the Glenashdale Falls\n\nThis spectacular waterfall is one of Arran's showplaces and makes a fine highlight of a walk from Whiting Bay. The viewing platform near the top of the falls is the best place to admire the two graceful tiers of the cascade. Start from the parking area at the southern end of Whiting Bay and follow the signed path up through enchanting old woodland. The Giant's Graves (actually two chambered cairns) can be visited on the same route \u2013 to continue to them, keep climbing and turn left at a track, following this for another kilometre until a signed path off to the cairns and their stunning viewpoint; the path then returns to the village.\n\n#### See the seals at Kildonan\n\nWalk along the sandy shore at Kildonan at low tide and you're pretty much guaranteed to encounter some of Arran's large colony of common seals. Hauled out on the rocks, they often flip themselves into banana shapes with their head and tails aloft as if performing some core-strengthening exercise at the gym. Youngsters can be spotted from late summer onwards. Take great care not to cause a disturbance by getting too close. The rest of the shoreline here is a great place for rock-pooling and looking for otters.\n\n#### Visit Brodick Castle\n\nAn imposing Scots Baronial pile, Brodick Castle stands on the site of a much earlier fortress from the fifth century. The current elegant country house is today owned by the National Trust for Scotland and is said to be haunted by no less than three ghosts, including a grey lady who apparently perished in the castle's dungeon having been left to starve there as she was suffering from the plague. You can explore the surrounding country park and its trails for free \u2013 be sure to seek out the twelve-sided Bavarian summer house beautifully lined with pine cones.  \n_**www.nts.org.uk\/visit\/places\/brodick-castle-garden-country-park**_\n\n#### Pass the twelve apostles at Catacol\n\nWhen much of Arran was turned over to deer and became a sporting estate, a high number of local people were cleared from the interior of the island. This attractive row of houses at Catacol was built as part of an attempt to encourage the farmers to look to fishing for a new livelihood. Each top-floor window is a different shape, the idea being that a wife could summon her husband back from the sea by lighting a candle in the window of their own house. The reality is that most people who had been evicted from their original houses left the island, but this row of cottages remains as a memorial to a time of change.\n\n#### Taste a dram at Lochranza\n\nArran distillery opened in 1995, ending a dry period in whisky production for the island as the last legal distillery closed in 1837. The new distillery sits in Lochranza and is one of only a few independent distillers in Scotland. A range of tours is available, from a basic introduction to the art of distilling to tutored tastings with a stillman. There is also a cafe on site. For a total immersion you could do worse than spend a summer weekend at the annual Malt and Music festival which includes the chance to select the festival bottling for the following year.  \n_**www.arranwhisky.com**_\n\n**Arran,** Twelve Apostles\n\n**Arran,** Brodick Castle\n\n**Arran,** Glenashdale Falls\n\n**Arran,** Kildonan seals\n\n**Pladda,** from Arran, with distant Ailsa Craig\n\n**Holy Isle,** from Lamlash\n\n#### Sample Arran cheese and oatcakes\n\nHead to the Isle of Arran Cheese Shop near Brodick and nibble on tasty samples of the wax-wrapped flavoured cheddars. You can watch the cheese being made through a viewing window. Head to Blackwaterfoot to try award-winning cheeses from the Bellevue Creamery, including Arran Blue, Arran Camembert and an Arran Crowdie (a cream cheese often rolled in oats). Continue your cheese tour in the south of the island at Torrylinn Creamery where you can also watch the cheesemakers at work as well as sampling their wares including delicious ice cream. Of course no cheese would be complete in Scotland without an oatcake \u2013 head to Wooleys bakery in Brodick which has been producing its signature oatcakes since the mid-nineteenth century.\n\n#### Try the ArranMan Triathlon\n\nHeld in September when the sea may just have warmed up a tad, this fitness fest includes an open-water swim from Holy Isle to Lamlash and a half Ironman, as well as Olympic and sprint triathlon distances. An evening ceilidh brings events to a finish in the unlikely event you have any excess energy to use up.\n\n#### Arran's music festivals\n\nArran's long-running folk festival, held in June, has now been joined by a two-day festival which combines whisky and music and is held towards the end of the month at Lochranza distillery. Both feature a survivors' party on the Sunday after the main celebrations.\n\n## Pladda\n\nThis tiny, tear-shaped and low-lying island is less than a kilometre long. It boasts a lighthouse and was once home to the keepers and their families. Supplies would be ferried by boat four times a month with some visits timed so that the lighthouse keepers could attend church. In later years helicopters took over the supply role, and eventually the lighthouse was automated in 1990 and is now monitored remotely from Edinburgh. The island is uninhabited.\n\n## Holy Isle\n\nHoly Isle consists of a single dramatic hill falling steeply on all sides to the sea, situated in Lamlash Bay. The island is owned by the Kagyu Samye Ling Buddhist community which uses it for spiritual retreats.\n\nA ferry runs from April to October with other sailings on request; it's always best to check there will be space and that the ferry will be running before you plan to go. Day visitors to the island are usually met by a volunteer for a quick chat about the isle, the conservation projects and the community. Longer stays are possible as part of a Buddhist retreat or by working as a volunteer.  \n_**www.holyisle.org**_\n\n#### Climb to the top of Mullach M\u00f2r\n\nTake the short ferry ride from Lamlash and climb to the highest point on Holy Isle to experience a very different view of Arran. The fluttering Tibetan flags that greet visitors are a reminder that the island is run by a Buddhist community. The climb to the highest point is rough and steep but reasonably straightforward, following a path up through native woodland and on to open heather moorland before a final ridge and the true top at 314 metres. Keep an eye out for the Eriskay ponies, Saanen goats and Soay sheep who call the island home. You can complete a seven-kilometre circuit by descending to the Centre for World Peace and Health at the south end of the island and returning along the coast, discovering the brightly painted thangka artworks along the shore. Religious retreat and contemplation is nothing new here \u2013 St Molaise spent twenty years living as a hermit in a cave in the sixth century. Today a day visit more than satisfies most island baggers.\n\n## Bute\n\nThe Isle of Bute is undergoing something of a revival as visitors once again come to cherish the Victorian elegance of the main settlement Rothesay and the charming scenery of this green and fertile island. Long established as a day trip destination for Glasgow folk who packed steamers on the Clyde in the first half of the nineteenth century, and a holiday home favourite for rich industrialists who built fancy villas on the seafront, it retains an olde worlde charm, giving the illusion of remoteness while actually being within easy reach. With a population of just over 6,000 it manages to retain that friendly island feel.\n\nThe main ferry to Bute sails from Wemyss Bay and connects with the train from Glasgow. It takes thirty-five minutes and docks at Rothesay and runs about every hour. There is also a ferry from Colintraive on the Cowal peninsula that reaches the north end of the island at Rhubodach; this crossing takes only five minutes and also runs half-hourly. Both ferries carry vehicles and passengers.\n\n#### Spend a penny at the Victorian toilets\n\nSurely ranking amongst the most ornate of public toilets, these date from 1899 during Rothesay's heyday as a Victorian resort. Located just beyond the ferry pier, every inch is clad in tiles or mosaic to give an opulent first impression to visitors \u2013 male visitors, that is; Victorian women were not catered for and the adjoining modern ladies' toilets are quite a contrast. The attendant will usually let females have a peek in the mens' when they are empty. Needless to say, it costs more than a penny these days.\n\n#### Go Gothic at Mount Stuart\n\nPrepare for a sensory feast at this Gothic Revival extravaganza of a mansion built in the late 1870s. The house is the ancestral home of the Stuarts of Bute, scions of Robert the Bruce by virtue of being descended from the illegitimate son of King Robert II of Scotland. The current house replaces one which burnt down, and is an incredible feast of ornate carving, marble colonnades, a star-studded ceiling, a huge tapestry, and spires and turrets carved from red stone.\n\nIt's worth taking your time and seeking out the animals hiding amongst the carved foliage on the decorated wood panelling which adorns many of the rooms, or the doorknobs, all different and expertly crafted by hand. The house also incorporates the trappings of modernity and is said to have been the first house to have an indoor heated swimming pool (though the Romans may have something to say on this one) and the first Scottish home to boast electric lighting in addition to a lift and a telephone system. The extensive grounds are well worth exploring, with formal gardens giving way to landscaped parkland with a variety of walks.  \n_**www.mountstuart.com**_\n\n**Bute,** Mount Stuart interior\n\n**Bute,** Rothesay Victorian toilets\n\n**Bute,** Mount Stuart\n\n#### Hike the West Island Way\n\nYou've heard of its big brother, now escape the crowds and tackle this forty-five-kilometre long-distance walking route. It can be walked as an epic one-day challenge, or more leisurely two- or three-day options. The bus service allows you to stop and start at various points. Traditionally starting with a southern loop around Kilchattan Bay, it then crosses the centre of the island before looping again at the north end, taking in scenic coastline, fertile pastures and rugged moors.  \n_**www.walkhighlands.co.uk\/argyll\/west-island-way.shtml**_\n\n#### Wave at a boat from Canada Hill\n\nClimb to this viewpoint above Rothesay where families of emigrating Bute folk would gather to catch a final glimpse of the ships carrying their relatives away and on towards the New World. Many headed to Nova Scotia in Canada in the mid to late 1800s. Today there is a Rothesay in the Canadian province of New Brunswick and many Canadians can trace their heritage back to Bute. The walk from Rothesay takes in the thirteen mini-hairpins of Serpentine Hill which at an average ten per cent gradient is a challenge for cyclists, even boasting its own annual hill race, often completed in under two minutes. If on foot, there are steps alongside and the rest of the walk is much less strenuous, heading through farmland to reach the trig point and bench that marks the summit of Canada Hill.\n\n**Bute,** below Canada Hill\n\n#### See St Blane's Church\n\nThese extensive and atmospheric ruins are visited on the first circular stage of the West Island Way or by a short ramble from the road. Most of the remains that you can see date back to AD 1100, but the site was a very early Christian monastery established by St Catan back as far as AD 500. St Blane was his nephew and began his spiritual life here and at Kingarth. In addition to the church ruins, remnants of the community that once served the religious buildings also survive, including a well and the remains of a manse.\n\n#### Relax at Ettrick Bay\n\nA mile-long expanse of sand makes Ettrick Bay the most popular beach on Bute, but it never feels crowded. Grab an ice cream from the shoreside tearoom and ramble across the sands. In contrast to the peaceful scene today, the sands were used as one of a number of training grounds for the D-Day landings during the Second World War. For a wilder-feeling beach, head to Stravanan Bay in the south of the island. It lies on the West Island Way and it is possible to visit it as part of a circular walk from Kilchattan Bay, also visiting a prehistoric stone circle.\n\n#### Go to ButeFest\n\nHeld at the end of July and billed as 'more than just a music festival', ButeFest aims to bring music, art and cultural experiences to islanders and visitors alike. The family-friendly event takes place in the stunning scenery of Ettrick Bay, meaning anyone can slope off for a bit of sand and surf at any time.\n\n**Bute,** Rothesay from Serpentine en route to Canada Hill\n\n**Bute,** St Blane's Church\n\n**Bute,** Ettrick Bay\n\n## Inchmarnock\n\nLying just to the west of and easily visible from Bute, Inchmarnock has a long history of habitation. It was named for St Marnock who established a monastery on the island in the seventh century. An archaeological dig unearthed a number of incised slates which experts have concluded were used for learning to read and write, much as slates were still used in schools well into the twentieth century. The finds included the Hostage Stone, a medieval 'doodle' showing a prisoner, who may be a monk, being dragged towards a boat with another figure holding a church-shaped relic; it perhaps tells of a Viking raid and helps us to understand how such valuable objects came to be found in Norse graves far away. The stone is now held by the National Museum of Scotland. More recently during the nineteenth century Inchmarnock was used as a remote naughty step for misbehaving drunks from Bute who would be abandoned on the island until they had dried out. Now turned over to farming, the population was evacuated during the Second World War so that the island could be used for commando training, including for the D-Day landings on the Normandy beaches.\n\n## Great Cumbrae\n\nIt may not look like one, but the CalMac ferry which crosses from Largs to Cumbrae is in fact a time machine. In the short time it takes to cross the water, passengers are whisked back to a sleepier age. The grandeur of the coastal villas of Millport, the palms and swing boats that adorn the prom, and the small independent cafes and shops give a gentle nostalgic feel to this holiday island. Many visitors do come for more active pursuits, with an emphasis on water sports, the sheltered waters being perfect for kayaking, sailing and stand-up paddle boarding.\n\nThe ferry from Largs (with train connections to Glasgow) takes just eight and a half minutes to cross Largs Bay. A bus meets the ferry for the short ride to the main settlement of Millport or there is a pleasant cross-country walking route.\n\n#### Cycle around Cumbrae\n\nAt roughly four kilometres long by two kilometres wide, and boasting a tranquil, flattish coastal road, Cumbrae is the perfect island for a gentle bike ride. The sixteen-kilometre circuit is regularly tackled by families and there are places to stop for refreshments en route as well as coastal bays to spot birds and seals. Bike hire is available in Millport, including e-bikes, tag-alongs and even an eight-seater where everyone is facing inwards and seemingly pedalling towards each other \u2013 luckily the laid-back vibe of the island extends to local drivers who are used to slow or erratic cyclists.\n\n**Great Cumbrae,** Cathedral of the Isles\n\n**Great Cumbrae,** with Arran behind\n\n#### Discover Cumbrae's wedgie and wee cathedral\n\nCumbrae does quirky, boasting the world's narrowest house \u2013 find The Wedge squeezed in between a couple of shops on Millport's seafront. A mere 120 centimetres wide at the front, the property opens out towards the back but is still only 335 centimetres at its widest point. If you like things diminutive, the island also boasts Britain's smallest cathedral. Situated in a beautiful wooded glade, the Gothic-style Cathedral of the Isles can be reached by following Cow Lane at the rear of Millport.\n\n#### Power yourself to the island summit\n\nWhile it is possible to drive almost to the highest point on the island, the walk or bike up to the trig point at a mere 127 metres above sea level is easy enough and the reward of fabulous views in all directions is that much more satisfying. Topped by a red sandstone boulder known as the Glaid Stone and bearing the names of many previous visitors, there is also a trig point nearby. The handy viewpoint helps you identify landmarks on neighbouring Arran and the mainland.\n\n#### Enjoy an ice cream at the crocodile rock\n\nFor well over a century visiting children and those just young at heart have enjoyed climbing on the back of the crocodile which lounges on the west side of Millport's seafront. It is thought the rock was originally painted by local man Robert Brown in 1913 \u2013 possibly after he'd had a lunchtime pint or two. The rock itself is probably well over 4.5 million years old, but its crocodile grin, washed by the tide twice a day, makes it a firm favourite with visitors. Best enjoyed with an ice cream \u2013 check out the locally made ones from the Ritz Cafe or the Isle of Cumbrae Ice Cream shop.\n\n**Great Cumbrae,** crocodile rock\n\n**Little Cumbrae**\n\n**Great Cumbrae,** summit\n\n## Little Cumbrae\n\nKnown locally as Wee Cumbrae, this small rocky island lies less than a kilometre from its larger sibling and boasts a lighthouse, farm and palatial early twentieth-century mansion with gardens designed by Gertrude Jekyll. The island is privately owned and yoga retreats are run from the house. Little Cumbrae even has its own tiny island sibling \u2013 Castle Island, complete with impressive tower castle, is only accessible at low tide.\n\n**Ailsa Craig,** from Girvan\n\n## Ailsa Craig\n\nThe volcanic plug of Ailsa Craig rises dramatically from the sea some fourteen kilometres out from the Ayrshire coast. Its position halfway between Belfast and Glasgow has earned it the nickname 'Paddy's Milestone', and its domed summit is certainly an impressive viewpoint. Now a bird reserve, the island's smooth granite is the source of well over half the world's curling stones. There are many other signs of man here, from early habitation in the caves on the island, the remains of a sixteenth-century castle built to deter Spaniards from grabbing the strategic island, and more recently a lighthouse with four keepers' cottages which were occupied until the light was automated in 1990.\n\nDay passenger trips to Ailsa Craig run daily from Girvan in the summer months. Landing, and the amount of time you'll get on the island, is dependent on the sea conditions and tides. The trips are increasingly popular so it is advisable to book, bearing in mind that weather-prone cancellations are common.\n\n#### Climb the Craig\n\nThe very steep and strenuous climb to the summit is rewarded with breathtaking views and a head-spinning sensation of being in the air as it's impossible to see the coastline of Ailsa Craig from its currant-bun-like summit.\n\nReaching the top is a challenge which shouldn't be underestimated, and not all boat trips allow enough time to make the ascent. It's best to go early in the season before the bracken completely impedes the lower half of the route, although the swathes of bluebells can also be slippery underfoot. A path starts near a square bothy at the base of the cliffs and takes a diagonal line to reach a broad shelf and the ruins of the castle. From here the gradient steepens and only a trace of a path continues heading uphill, eventually petering out before the trig point marking the highest point is reached. On a clear day Ireland can clearly be seen as well as Arran, Kintyre and Ayrshire.\n\n#### Cruise around the Craig's backside\n\nThe impressive gannetries and other seabird colonies are mainly on the high cliffs on the far side of the Craig, and simply must be seen. A few puffins also now nest here following the eradication of rats in 1991. In decent weather most of the boat trips will take an exploratory detour on the return trip to view the cliffs and circumnavigate the island. The water is also the best place to view the massive foghorns, one in the south and one in the north of the island. Built in 1866 and initially powered by compressed air, they warned ships of the notorious shipwreck spot for a hundred years. From the boat you can also see the almost inaccessible Swine Cave, supposedly where original inhabitants of the Craig sheltered their pigs during bad weather; it is also said to have been used by smugglers.\n\n**Ailsa Craig,** summit\n\n**Ailsa Craig,** cruise around the cliffs\n\n## Davaar Island\n\nDavaar Island is linked by a natural tidal causeway to the Kintyre peninsula, near Campbeltown. Its strategic position led to a lighthouse being built (a Stevenson family effort of course) in 1854; a lookout building was added nearby to overlook the anti-submarine nets that protected Campbeltown during the Second World War. Walking to Davaar is an adventure in itself, as the shingle causeway known as An Doirlinn is only exposed for around three hours either side of low tide. Check tide times and aim to start your crossing just as the waters part to allow sufficient time to explore Davaar Island. Ensure you leave plenty of time for the return crossing and do not attempt to cross when the tide is coming in \u2013 the crossing is well over a kilometre long and there have been fatalities here.\n\n#### Pay your respects at the crucifixion cave\n\nOnce you have done your best King Canute impressions and walked across the spectacular causeway, keep to the right to head towards the high cliffs on the south side of the island. You'll pass a number of sea caves, some of which are worth a quick explore, but the one you're aiming for is special due to a painting discovered by fishermen in 1887 and thought at the time to be the work of God. In fact the large rendering of Jesus on the cross had been painted in secret by local school art teacher Archibald MacKinnon. The work has been repainted many times, the task usually being undertaken by the art teacher at Campbeltown school.\n\n## Sanda\n\nThis small island is well seen from Arran's southern coastline. It was home to a bird observatory, and was inhabited until very recently. The tall lighthouse which sits above two smaller towers and an arch resembles a ship when seen from the sea.\n\n**Davaar Island,** crucifixion cave\n\n**Ailsa Craig,** the castle\n\n**Davaar Island**\nThe southernmost of the Hebrides are islands of stark contrasts. The largest, Islay, is the closest of Scotland's isles to Ireland and, green and fertile, it is dubbed the 'Queen of the Hebrides'. Close neighbour Jura is as wild and rugged as anywhere in the Highlands, its interior a mix of moorland and gaunt, scree-clad peaks, with settlements clinging only to its eastern strip. The smaller Colonsay is more remote but is a complete delight, mixing idyllic beaches, a distinctive community and a landscape punctuated with miniature rocky peaks.\n\n# [ISLAY,  \nJURA &  \nCOLONSAY](9781912560318_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**Colonsay,** Traigh Ban\n\n**Jura,** Craighouse\n\n## Overview map\n\n## Islay\n\nYou can almost catch the smell of the angels' share on Islay's sea breezes. This island \u2013 even more than Speyside \u2013 is regarded as the spiritual home of Scotch whisky, and the names of its distilleries are famed worldwide for their rich, peaty malts. But there's much more to the island than the water of life. Islay is known as the 'Queen of the Hebrides' and is blessed with picturesque whitewashed villages, unique birdlife, fine sandy beaches and a rugged coastline worthy of exploration.\n\nIslay is well served by large CalMac vehicle ferries from Kennacraig on the Kintyre peninsula. These sail two or three times a day, landing at either the village of Port Ellen in the south (2 hours 10 mins), or tiny Port Askaig (2 hours 5 mins) overlooking Jura, and most have connecting bus links from Glasgow. In the summer there's also a weekly ferry from Oban, via Colonsay. Islay has an airport at Glenegedale, served by three daily flights from Glasgow in the summer and two in the winter, as well as a twice-a-week day return service from Oban and Colonsay.\n\nThe island has a wide range of accommodation, shops and places to eat, and all the main villages are linked by bus.\n\n#### Discover the water of life\n\nWith nine working distilleries, many in picturesque seaside locations, Islay is simply _the_ place to sample a dram. Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg distilleries on the south coast are the island's most famous and heavily peated. It's fascinating to see behind the scenes, inhale the heady brewery scent from the giant vats of bubbling wort and check out the vast quantities of whisky maturing for years in the bonded warehouses. It's also a great way to warm up on a dreich and rainy day. The distilleries offer standard tours and tastings of their main single malts, but also more specialist tours designed to appeal to the real connoisseur. These are often in intimate small groups with the opportunity to sample some of their rarer expressions. Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg can all be visited on foot or by bike on a dedicated six-kilometre path from Port Ellen, although it's best to book the actual tours in advance. Ardbeg \u2013 the last of the three \u2013 has a very fine cafe, and you can even return to Port Ellen by bus if you're feeling a little wobbly at the end of your adventures in malt.\n\n#### Get twitching\n\nIslay is a heaven for birdwatchers, renowned for the chance to see rare species like the chough and the corncrake, and for the many thousands of overwintering geese who migrate from the Arctic to munch on Islay's verdant grass. Head to the RSPB centre at Loch Gruinart to visit hides overlooking the loch and check the recent sightings \u2013 during the winter months a dawn or dusk visit can be spectacular as the geese arrive or depart to and from their favourite grazing spots. Spring brings masses of migrating birds including plenty of rare oddities blown off course and taking shelter on the island for a short while. The coastal cliffs support a wide variety of seabirds including nesting puffins on the Oa peninsula \u2013 also a good place to look out for golden eagles and hen harriers.\n\n#### Pay your respects to the Lords of the Isles\n\nIslay has an important place in the history of Scotland's islands, and there are a several sites in stunningly scenic locations which no visitor can afford to miss. First stop for history buffs should be Finlaggan, a few kilometres from Port Askaig. On an island on a loch here lived the Lords of the Isles who ruled a large kingdom across the west of Scotland from the thirteenth to the fifteenth centuries. Today you can walk across a boardwalk to visit the site and see the remains of a castle and chapel, together with some very fine carved sixteenth-century gravestones and numerous archaeological artefacts.\n\n**Islay,** Ardbeg distillery\n\n**Islay,** Soldier's Rock\n\n**Islay,** Portnahaven\n\n**Islay,** on Beinn Bheigier\n\n**Islay,** Machir Bay\n\n**Islay,** Kildalton Cross\n\n**Islay,** Bowmore round church\n\n**Islay,** American Monument\n\n#### Visit Bowmore's round church\n\nThis striking circular building dominates Bowmore from its position at the top of the Main Street. It was built in the 1760s, and its roof is supported by a massive central oak pillar and walls that are almost a metre thick.\n\n#### See Kildalton Cross\n\nThis ancient carved cross in the remote graveyard of Kildalton Church is regarded as the finest surviving example of early Celtic Christian carving. Dating from AD 800, it features the classic spiral and knot work around two roundels, Christ as a lion, the Virgin and Child, and scenes including Cain killing Abel, the sacrifice of Isaac, and David slaying a lion. There's another very fine cross at Kilchoman on the Rinns peninsula.\n\n#### Machir Bay and Kilchoman\n\nIslay has some superb beaches, including Laggan Bay which stretches for over seven kilometres along the east coast. The finest, however, is Machir Bay on the Rinns peninsula \u2013 a perfect expanse of golden sand backed by dunes and just a short walk from a car park. Before leaving, be sure to visit the nearby Kilchoman distillery. Opened in only 2005, this was the first new distillery on Islay for 124 years, but its traditional methods are a contrast to the mass production of its big-name rivals. It uses barley grown on its own farm, and is one of only six distilleries in Scotland to still carry out all its own traditional floor maltings. Non-whisky buffs will enjoy the cafe which serves the finest Victoria sponge cake you can imagine.\n\n#### Mull of Oa\n\nThe Oa peninsula is Islay at its most rugged, a wild moorland fringed with fine sea cliffs. Its final headland \u2013 the Mull of Oa \u2013 is the site of the dramatic American Monument, perched 130 metres above the waves. Towards the end of the First World War, a massive troop ship carrying over 2,000 US soldiers was torpedoed off the Oa. Although other boats in the convoy quickly began a rescue mission, many men drowned and in some cases lifeboats were dashed against the high cliffs. The stories of locals rescuing survivors and providing dignified burials for many of the lost are very poignant and can be explored at the fascinating Museum of Islay Life in Port Charlotte. The American Monument commemorates both this disaster and the shipwreck of the HMS _Otranto_ in 1918 with the loss of over 350 souls. There's a waymarked three-kilometre circular walk out to the Mull from the car park at the end of the road.\n\n#### Bag the Beinn\n\nAt 491 metres high, Beinn Bheigier doesn't rival the great Paps on neighbouring Jura, however as the highest point on Islay it does command fabulous views; the summit can usually be enjoyed in splendid solitude as the hike up involves tough, pathless terrain that deters many. The usual start point is the end of the road at Claggain Bay on the east coast. An often sodden path can be followed via Ardtalla to the empty cottage at Proaig, from where a stiff walk through deep heather leads up to the summit. If you fancy walking company, the island hosts an annual festival in April that usually takes in guided walks on Colonsay and Jura as well.\n\n#### F\u00e8is \u00ccle\n\nIslay's annual 'music and malt festival' is held at the end of May and combines a varied programme of tunes, songs, history, piping, Gaelic workshops, and just the occasional dram at special distillery open days, as well as friendly ceilidhs and food-themed events. For those seeking an even more laid-back vibe there's an annual jazz festival too \u2013 held in September, it's also sponsored by a whisky producer.  \n_**www.islayfestival.com**_\n\n#### Islay Book Festival\n\nHeld every September, the Islay Book Festival has a varied literary programme, often featuring books with a connection to the water of life, of course.  \n_**www.islaybookfestival.co.uk**_\n\n#### Beach rugby tournament\n\nEach June, over a thousand spectators watch thirty teams of both sexes battling it out on a pitch set up on Port Ellen's sandy seafront.\n\n#### Ride of the Falling Rain\n\nTaking place in August (which has surprisingly high rainfall figures) this very informal 162-kilometre cycle ride around the island stops midway at Ardbeg distillery and raises funds for World Bicycle Relief, which does what it says on the tin.\n\n## Jura\n\n' _Why does it take longer to get to Jura than it does to get to Peru?_ ', the labels on Jura's whisky bottles used to ask, answering, ' _it just does_ ' \u2013 giving something of a flavour of the character of this large and largely empty island. Separated by only a narrow sound from Islay, Jura contrasts starkly with its neighbour in the way only Hebridean islands can. The population of only around 200 is strung along the forty-odd kilometres of its eastern coastline, and is vastly outnumbered by the 6,000 red deer which keep the interior of the island a rugged, tree-free moorland.\n\n**Jura,** Beinn an Oir \u2013 highest of the Paps\n\n**Jura,** otter\n\nThe usual access to Jura is a short hop on the tiny car ferry that plies to and fro across the sound from Port Askaig on Islay \u2013 itself a couple of hours' ferry journey from Kennacraig on the Kintyre peninsula. The ferry lands at Feolin, at the southern end of Jura's road that links most of the eastern coast. During the summer months there is also a fast RIB that operates a passenger-only service from Tayvallich; this takes an hour and lands at Craighouse, Jura's main settlement. Here you'll find Jura's shop, cafe, hotel and distillery; there's also a bed and breakfast and a few holiday cottages.\n\n#### Climb the Paps\n\nJura is dominated by three great cones of quartzite scree that rise like pyramids from the moor \u2013 the awe-inspiring Paps. The lack of paths and extreme steepness and ruggedness make the round of all three Paps one of the most challenging of Scotland's classic big hillwalks. The highest, Beinn an Oir ('the golden mountain'), is actually the easiest to climb, and can be done on its own. Starting from the bridge over the Corran River, wet and indistinct paths lead over the bogs to eventually cross the outflow of Loch an t-Siob. The route to Beinn an Oir then passes the north side of the loch before climbing to the bealach (or pass) between Beinn an Oir and its neighbour, Beinn Shiantaidh. From here a rising terrace heads up across the eastern side of the mountain before a final walk over angular quartzite stones leads up to the summit \u2013 an incredible viewpoint. The easiest return is to retrace your steps.\n\nThe full round of the Paps is only for the toughest of hill gangrels; for this, the route is the same as for Beinn an Oir as far as the outflow of Loch an t-Siob, but from there head north to reach the south-east ridge of Beinn Shiantaidh \u2013 and then embark on a gruelling battle with loose shifting screes to the summit. The descent of the west ridge also requires care before the terrace described above is used for the ascent of Beinn an Oir. From there, the descent is down the south ridge \u2013 but this is complex terrain where scree and boulders require very careful route finding. The final pap \u2013 Beinn a' Chaolais \u2013 looks particularly intimidating, and is best ascended (and descended) by heading around to the foot of its east ridge, before more bog trotting leads down to Loch an t-Siob. Be sure to leave enough time for a well-deserved dram at the hotel.\n\n#### Experience the Jura Fell Race\n\nIf walking the Paps is too much, spare a thought for the fell runners who come to challenge themselves on the island's fearsome fell race. Held annually in late May, the race \u2013 a mad twenty-eight-kilometre tumble up and down the scree and heather clad slopes of not just the three main Paps, but four further summits \u2013 attracts entries from all over the globe. The winner arrives back at the hotel in Craighouse usually just over three hours after setting out \u2013 a quite incredible feat. Respect and bragging rights as well as an obligatory Isle of Jura whisky dram to all finishers, many of whom camp outside the hotel and make a long weekend out of the trip. If you want to compete you need to get in early; the race gains popularity every year with a ballot for successful entries taking place in January. Many fell runners come to Jura to test themselves against the Paps at other times of year.  \n_**www.jurafellrace.org.uk**_\n\n#### Ride the Corryvreckan whirlpool\n\nOff the remote north coast of Jura, in the Gulf of Corryvreckan, is the third largest whirlpool in the world. There are a number of boat operators who will take you on a thrilling ride to experience it up close. The best times are during high spring tides when the underwater pinnacles cause maximum obstruction to the rushing tidal water between Jura and Scarba, which once led the Royal Navy to declare the strait 'unnavigable'. The author George Orwell himself had a near miss in these waters and had to be rescued, along with his son, after their boat capsized and they were left clinging to a rock. The whirlpool can also look dramatic from the land at the right state of tide; it's a long day's walk along the rough track (no cars) from Ardlussa as far as Kinuachdrachd (look out for otters!) and then follow a final boggy moorland path above the coast to reach a viewpoint overlooking the narrows.\n\n#### Face Room 101 at Barnhill\n\nGeorge Orwell came to Jura in 1946 seeking isolation and fresh air following the death of his wife and a bout of pneumonia. He stayed with his son Richard and housekeeper at remote Barnhill in the north-east of the island on and off until 1949 and wrote his dystopian classic _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ there. Barnhill is now available to stay in as an off-grid self-catering holiday let. Walkers can peer down at it from the track from Ardlussa on their way to the Corryvreckan whirlpool.\n\n#### Sample a dram\n\nIf it honestly takes longer to get here than to Peru, then you really ought to sample a dram. The Jura distillery runs friendly tours and produces a special bottling for its Tastival whisky festival held here in June to coincide with F\u00e8is \u00ccle on Islay.  \n_**www.jurawhisky.com**_\n\nWhisky purists may want to visit the source of the water. The walk to Market Loch is a moderate uphill hike alongside a tumbling burn, ending at the tranquil waters of the small loch which is also a popular fishing spot.\n\n#### Laze on the sands at Corran\n\nThe beautiful strand of white sand and sheltered waters at Corran Sands makes this an ideal spot for a paddle on a warm day. Although it's by far the finest beach on Jura, the huge expanse of shell sand means it never feels busy. It was here that the islanders traditionally loaded their cattle on to boats to send them to market on the mainland. Many Diurachs left their island from this beach, bound for the New World during the years of famine and Clearances.\n\n#### Investigate the story of Maclean's Skull with a bothy trip\n\nJura's west coast is extremely wild and rugged, but has two open bothies where you can stay and which make a number of mini-adventures possible. The red tin roof of Glengarrisdale is a welcome sight after the arduous boggy walk across the north-west of the island, with only the faintest of paths. A night here could also involve an exploration of Maclean's Skull Cave, followed by a spot of spooky storytelling in front of the bothy fire. The bothy itself sits just below a rocky crag said to be the site of a castle of Clan Maclean. A clan chief was slain here in a battle against the rival Campbells of Craignish, and his skull sat under an overhang just beyond the bothy for several centuries until the 1970s when it vanished. You may feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise up after a few drams by the fireside. There is also another bothy at Cruib on Loch Tarbert.\n\n#### Jura Music Festival\n\nNow well into its twenties, Jura's annual traditional music festival is held every September and has a laid-back vibe. It usually features an energetic ceilidh where you can dance the night away with local Diurachs, a concert in the distillery cooperage and further marquee-based events; festival camping is on the grass in front of the island's hotel.  \n_**www.juramusicfestival.com**_\n\n**Jura,** Craighouse harbour\n\n**Jura,** Barnhill\n\n**Jura,** distillery\n\n**Jura,** Evans' Walk\n\n**Jura,** Glengarrisdale bothy\n\n**Jura,** Corran Sands\n\n#### Cross the island on foot\n\nJura is almost cut in half at its middle and here it is possible to walk from one coast to the other in a short, leisurely stroll. From the east coast at Tarbert Bay you can walk west along a track to a picturesque boathouse and a sea inlet on the island's east coast. Those looking to make a full day out of walking across the island can do so further south; Evans' Walk crosses the moors using a boggy and wild route, passing just north of Corra Bheinn to reach lonely Glenbatrick \u2013 a beautiful spot. Watch out for golden eagles on this route.\n\n## Colonsay\n\nColonsay is small enough to be explored by bike and on foot, yet large enough to keep you busy for at least a week \u2013 with spectacular beaches, rugged miniature hills and a vibrant community, it's a perfect microcosm of the best of the Hebrides.\n\nThe island is served by a CalMac vehicle ferry from Oban five times a week in the summer and four times in the winter; there's also a weekly ferry link to Port Askaig on Islay (enabling a day visit from its larger neighbour). The boats land at the tiny settlement of Scalasaig where there is a general store, cafe\/bakery, bookshop, craft shop, village hall and bed and breakfast accommodation. The island's only hotel is just up the road. A few kilometres over hilly ground (bringing a bike or hiring one is a good option for getting around) brings you to Colonsay House, which has a cafe and gardens open to the public \u2013 there is also a nearby bunkhouse. There are self-catering accommodation options scattered across the tiny island.\n\n#### Kiloran Bay and Traigh Ban\n\nKiloran Bay is a fabulous beach with custard-yellow sand and a reputation for waves, earning it the wild swimming title of the 'Colonsay washing machine'. Strong swimmers can test themselves in the bracing waters here. Others can walk along the track for five kilometres past Balnahard to reach the perfect white sands of Traigh Ban \u2013 this is usually more sheltered and provides secluded swimming and beachcombing.\n\n#### Complete the whale sculpture...\n\nJust west of Kiloran Bay lies a 160-metre-long whale \u2013 not a beached carcass, but a massive art installation constructed as an outline in local stones by Julian Meredith in 2002. Since then, locals and visitors have been invited to add a stone, and the giant creature's outline is gradually being filled in. It has recently been recognised as an official landscape feature by the Ordnance Survey.\n\n####... and see it at its best\n\nThe whale sculpture is hard to appreciate from ground level \u2013 the best way to see it is to climb to the top of nearby crag Carnan Eoin. Topped by an impressive cairn overlooking Kiloran Bay, this is the highest summit on the island and Colonsay's finest viewpoint.\n\n#### Bag the MacPhies\n\nIf just one hill isn't enough, Colonsay has its own 'mini Munros'. The MacPhies are twenty-two hills above 300 feet (ninety-one metres) that are dotted across the island. With much tough terrain, the challenge to complete them all in a day involves a gruelling thirty-two-kilometre hike. The record time to beat currently stands at just under four hours.\n\n#### Drink in Colonsay's finest\n\nColonsay claims to be the smallest island in the world with its own brewery, which opened well before the recent boom in craft ales. It produces three very quaffable brews as well as special occasion bottlings. The brewery has recently been joined by a small distillery, as Wild Thyme Spirits are now producing Colonsay gin, allegedly with the help of spirit helpers or 'brownies' who traditionally crop up in Celtic mythology, residing in people's houses and helping with the household chores.\n\n#### Bee happy\n\nColonsay is one of the last places in the country where the Scottish native black honey bee is thriving under the custodianship of legendary beekeeper and oyster farmer Andrew Abrahams. Colonsay's black bees are the only ones thought to be isolated enough to prevent interbreeding with imported bees. They are now specially protected in law \u2013 it is an offence to bring other honey bees to Colonsay and Oronsay. Their very special honey can be sampled at the shop and cafe.\n\n#### Ce\u00f2l Cholasa\n\nEvery September the village hall is buzzing with creative talent, both island-bred and from far afield, as Colonsay celebrates its music festival. Many people come year after year to enjoy and take part in the super-friendly folk-based concerts and ceilidhs, with further sessions in the hotel bar till the wee hours.  \n_**www.ceolcholasa.co.uk**_\n\n#### Book festival\n\nTaking place in April, this low-key literary event attracts top-name authors despite the remote location. Previous guests have included Alexander McCall Smith, A.L. Kennedy and Val McDermid.  \n_**www.colonsaybookfestival.org.uk**_\n\n**Colonsay,** Beinn nan Gudairean \u2013 a MacPhie\n\n**Colonsay,** whale\n\n**Colonsay,** Scalasaig\n\n**Colonsay,** Kiloran Bay\n\n**Oronsay,** beach\n\n**Oronsay,** post office van crossing the strand\n\n**Oronsay,** Priory cross\n\n**Gigha,** Creag Bhan\n\n## Oronsay\n\nThis small but fascinating island lies just off the southern shore of Colonsay. Crossing the tidal strip of exposed sand known as The Strand at low tide to visit Oronsay is a must. Check the tide times very carefully with locals as the crossing can be dangerous, and be sure to make the outward journey as early as possible during the falling tide. A bit of paddling will usually be required \u2013 and you may see the post office van splashing through the shallows to deliver to the island. Oronsay is home to eight people but there are no facilities for visitors.\n\n#### Oronsay Priory\n\nBe sure to visit the fourteenth-century ruined priory, complete with an ossuary where you'll see human skulls and bones. Outside stands a very fine carved Celtic cross. As long as you cross The Strand on a receding tide you should have time to walk to the priory, explore a little and visit one of the fine beaches and return to Colonsay before the tide cuts you off.\n\n#### Hear the rasp of the corncrake\n\nA relative of the moorhen, the corncrake was once widespread across Britain, but changes in farming practices saw its range shrink catastrophically until it remained on only a few Scottish islands \u2013 including here. Oronsay is farmed by the RSPB in a corncrake-friendly manner and you may well hear their unique rasping call on a visit in summer \u2013 they are notoriously difficult to see as they hide in the uncut grasses.\n\n## Gigha\n\nThis uncharacteristically fertile island lies four kilometres off the coast of the Kintyre peninsula, its green and verdant character lending it the nickname 'God's island'. Gigha had a succession of private owners before a buyout by the local community in 2002. The population has expanded since and although it hasn't all been plain sailing, new businesses have been developed and the future looks positive.\n\nA regular CalMac vehicle ferry links Gigha to Tayinloan on the Kintyre peninsula, operating seven days a week. The jetty is at Ardminish, the main cluster of houses on the east coast of the island; the island's hotel is here, together with the shop, post office and an art gallery. There is around eight kilometres of quiet road from one end of the island to the other, making cycling or walking the ideal means of transport for visitors.\n\n#### Climb Creag Bhan\n\nThough only 101 metres high, this is the island's highest hill, its name translating as the White Rock. It's easily climbed by turning off the road on to a signed track at Druimyeon More. Keep right at a fork in the track and then look for a signpost indicating the start of the path to the top. From here the whole of Gigha can be seen, as well as Kintyre, the islands of Jura, Islay, Mull on a clear day and even Northern Ireland if you are blessed with perfect conditions.\n\n#### See the gardens at Achamore House\n\nThese twenty-hectare gardens just a kilometre from the ferry jetty are run by the community. They contain a vast array of rhododendrons and azaleas collected by the former owner of the island \u2013 and inventor of the malted milk bedtime drink \u2013 James Horlick.\n\n#### The Twin Beaches\n\nIt's well worth walking or cycling to the less-populated northern end of the island, passing a fine standing stone along the way. Climb up to the North Cairn for stunning views towards the Paps of Jura, and then head for the narrow isthmus that links Eilean Garbh to the rest of the island, with beaches on either side. The southern beach of Bagh Rubha Ruaidh is pleasant enough, but the real gem is north-facing Bagh na Doirlinne across the narrow dune-like spit; the fine sand here makes for a truly stunning spot.\n\n#### Gigha music festival\n\nThis tiny, friendly traditional music festival attracts some fantastic bands and many of the best of Scotland's young musicians to Gigha towards the end of June. The 150-capacity village hall is usually crammed to bursting. Other events include a Piper's Picnic, a big ceilidh (the festival claims the record for the longest continuous Strip the Willow \u2013 sixty-five minutes), late-night sessions in the island's hotel, a barbecue and a last night survivors' concert. _**www.gighamf.org.uk**_\n\n#### Raft race\n\nUsually held towards the end of July, this fun event is organised by the island's restaurant and sees teams racing an array of home-made rafts across the bay.\n\n## Cara\n\nThis small, uninhabited island is a kilometre south of Gigha, which would be the best place to try to find a boatman if you want to make a visit. It is said to be the only Scottish island still owned by a descendant of the Lords of the Isles (originally based on Islay), but the only inhabitants today are a herd of feral goats.\n\n**Gigha,** view to Paps of Jura\n\n**Gigha,** Twin Beaches\nThis chain of smaller isles stretches all along the Firth of Lorn into the outer reaches of Loch Linnhe. For hundreds of years the Slate Islands were the scene of heavy toil as their quarries were worked to produce over eight million slates a year, roofing much of Scotland. Today all is changed, the quarries long closed, the landscape quiet and peaceful, with many of the former workers' cottages serving as picturesque holiday homes. Further north, Kerrera provides an easily reached taste of alternative tourism for visitors to Oban, while Lismore is an unspoilt idyll which well deserves its Gaelic name, meaning 'the Big Garden'.\n\n# [THE FIRTH OF  \nLORN  \n& LOCH  \nLINNHE](9781912560318_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**Lismore,** Castle Coeffin\n\n**Seil,** coast near Ellenabeich, looking to Mull\n\n## Overview map\n\n## Seil\n\nSet in the Firth of Lorn, Seil is the most northerly, populous and accessible of the Slate Islands, being linked to the mainland by a fine stone bridge since the late eighteenth century. Known as the 'islands that roofed the world', the economy of the group was dominated by slate production, though despite a quarry at Balvicar briefly reopening in the 1950s and 1960s the economy is now largely dependent on tourism. Seil has a choice of bed and breakfasts as well as self-catering accommodation, an inn and a couple of bars\/restaurants; the main grocery shop is at Balvicar.\n\n#### Cross the 'Bridge over the Atlantic'\n\nWhile it could never live up to its grand nickname, the bridge more properly known as Clachan Bridge is certainly a magnificent structure. It dates back to 1792\/3; originally intended by designer John Stevenson to have two arches, the plans were amended by Robert Mylne to include the single graceful arch that carries traffic over to Seil to this day. Next to it is an old inn, the Tigh an Truish (or House of Trousers). When kilts were outlawed in the aftermath of Culloden, Seil's residents would leave their kilts here before crossing to the mainland.\n\n#### Discover Ellenabeich\n\nAcross the far side of the island is its picturesque capital of whitewashed former slate workers' cottages. The village was named after the island of Eilean-a-beithich which was just offshore, but was quarried away until nothing remained. Today Ellenabeich is a visitors' delight, but the livelihoods of villagers ended abruptly in 1881 when the sea broke into the main quarry pit \u2013 which had been worked to well below sea level \u2013 ending the industry here. The Scottish Islands Heritage Trust displays tell the sad story. If you're feeling energetic, the village is a great place to start a walk \u2013 either up grassy tracks to the north to visit the west coastal cliffs and their stunning views to Mull, or south-east along the coastline to the Luing ferry at Cuan.\n\n#### See the stained glass at Kilbrandon Church\n\nJust over a kilometre along the road from the Cuan ferry pier is this isolated church, its plain exterior dating back to 1866 when it replaced an earlier church in Cuan itself. It's well worth visiting for its striking stained-glass windows made by Douglas Strachan in 1937. The church can be included in a circular walk from Ellenabeich, following the coast to Cuan, along to the kirk and then back to the village over the moors; the route is mostly unmarked.\n\n## Easdale\n\nTiny Easdale is the smallest permanently inhabited island in the Inner Hebrides, and it must rank amongst the Scottish islands most comprehensively altered by man. The whole land area was heavily worked for slate, and away from the cottages its surface is completely pock-marked with old flooded pits and spoil. Now quiet, most visitors find it to be a slice of heaven. To reach it, a tiny but regular passenger ferry operates from Ellenabeich on Seil \u2013 carrying just ten people at a time. Easdale has a bar that doubles as a restaurant and tea room, and a bed and breakfast as well as several self-catering cottages.\n\n**Seil,** 'Bridge over the Atlantic'\n\n**Seil,** Kilbrandon Church\n\n**Easdale,** wheelbarrows\n\n**Luing,** quarries\n\n**Easdale,** summit\n\n**Seil,** Ellenabeich\n\n**Luing,** ferry\n\n**Easdale,** stone skimming\n\n#### Explore the village\n\nWhile some of its picturesque cottages are inevitably holiday homes, Easdale's village is today home to around sixty people, having almost become completely deserted a few decades ago. The fact that there are no cars helps give it a truly special atmosphere, and the first thing you'll notice when embarking from the ferry is the multicoloured fleet of wheelbarrows that the locals use to transport goods and belongings to and from the boat. There's the 'Puffer bar' \u2013 which also serves as restaurant and tea room \u2013 and a tiny museum amidst the rows of whitewashed cottages, arranged around a central green and several old flooded quarry pits, all with great sea views. The beautifully modernised community hall is a great concert venue and has hosted some of Scotland's finest folk musicians.\n\n#### Climb the wee summit\n\nYou might think that an island of less than ten hectares wouldn't have a walk worth the name, but you'd be wrong. Don't miss the chance to take a walk on old slate paths and across the great heaps of spoil over towards the western side of the island. A path climbs up to the highest point, and although just thirty-eight metres above the sea the outlook from the view indicator \u2013 both over Easdale and across the sea to the surrounding islands \u2013 is sensational on a fine day.\n\n#### Take part in the World Stone-Skimming Championships\n\nMore than 300 people from around the world flock to Easdale each September to take part in this truly unique sporting event. Taking advantage of one of the old flooded quarries which makes for a perfect arena, and the plentiful flat, thin slate fragments, the world championships have been held here every year since 1997. Anyone can enter, and each contestant is allowed three skims. Throws are judged on distance, not the number of bounces, but to be a valid skim, the stone must bounce at least twice. With barbecue, craft stalls and a live music bash the preceding night, this is truly one of the quintessential Scottish island experiences.  \n_**www.stoneskimming.com**_\n\n## Luing\n\nViewed on a map, Luing is almost a twin to Seil, being a similar size and with the same history of slate quarrying. However, the lack of a bridge means it is much less visited than its better-known neighbour, and the population has declined to a couple of hundred. It takes just five minutes for the CalMac ferry to carry cars and passengers across the Cuan Sound between the two islands, and once over there's a store and post office on the road into Cullipool, a cafe at the Atlantic Islands Centre, a bed and breakfast and some self-catering cottages.\n\n#### Walk the quarry coast\n\nThis rugged hike begins from the ferry pier, initially following a grassy track to Cuan Point. It then heads along the west coast all the way to Cullipool, passing through the main old slate quarrying areas. Some parts are boggy, and at one point the slate route has fallen into the sea, now requiring a detour down and across awkward boulders, submerged at highest tide and overshadowed by cliffs. The largest quarries are reached just short of Cullipool, where 150 workers would produce 700,000 slates a year; quarrying here continued until the 1960s. After exploring the village you can return the same way or continue round the quiet roads for the return to the ferry.\n\n#### Catch a Cullipool sunset\n\nLike Ellenabeich and Easdale, Cullipool is a beautiful cluster of old whitewashed stone slate workers' cottages, but it receives far fewer visitors. It's a sleepy place, little changed in decades, but recently the Atlantic Islands Centre has brought a new lease of life, with a cafe and exhibitions. If you can, it's worth staying in Cullipool to witness one of its memorable sunsets, sinking into the Firth of Lorn behind the Garvellachs and Mull.\n\n## Shuna\n\nLying in a sheltered position to the east of Luing, Shuna is green and richly wooded, with a single farm and a permanent population of just two people, though there are plenty of deer, seals and otters. The impressive ruined castle here was built in just 1911 as a private home, but it fell into ruin in the 1980s as it was too expensive to maintain. There is no regular ferry or boat trips to Shuna, but it is possible to hire one of several cottages for a week-long stay; the owners collect guests from nearby Arduaine on the mainland.\n\n## Lunga\n\nOn the opposite side of Luing is Lunga and its several smaller neighbours \u2013 Rubha Fiola (which is tidal), Eilean Dubh Mor and Eilean Dubh Beag, and Belnahua. Lunga was for many years used as an outdoor pursuits base but is now uninhabited; there is no regular boat service but it may be possible to visit the island by charter from Cullipool. The most northerly of the group, tiny Belnahua, was once a larger island, but it was slowly eaten away as it was quarried by its inhabitants, who once numbered almost 200; today it is deserted.\n\n## Scarba\n\nThe southernmost of the Slate Islands, Scarba is separated from Jura by the Gulf of Corryvreckan, famed for its great whirlpool, while another fearsome tidal race \u2013 the Grey Dogs \u2013 runs through the northern straits to Lunga. The island is wild and rugged, akin to Jura in character, rising like a squat pyramid to its highest point, Cruach Scarba, at 449 metres. There's some woodland on its eastern shores around Kilmory Lodge, but much of the interior is barren. Despite extending to over 1,400 hectares, Scarba has not been permanently inhabited since the 1960s, and is today used for grazing animals and occasional deer stalking. There is no regular boat access, but it may be possible to secure a charter at Craobh Haven, Crinan or Cullipool. The ascent to the Cruach is extremely tough going but the reward is with an unforgettable view.\n\n## The Garvellachs\n\nThis chain of small islands lies out to the west of the Slate Islands, the name Garvellachs coming from the Gaelic _An Garbh Eileaicha_ \u2013 'the Rough Islands'. While the largest is Garbh Eileach itself, the more southerly Eileach an Naoimh is the best known; it was the site of an early monastery founded by St Brendan of Clontarf in AD 542. Though abandoned by the ninth century, it became a centre of pilgrimage in the Middle Ages and its isolation has helped its preservation. The island is also renowned for its beehive-shaped double cell, which stands to a height of three metres. The ferry from Oban to Colonsay passes close to the islands, but there is no regular boat access. Landing trips can be arranged through Seafari on Easdale.\n\n## Kerrera\n\nExtending for around seven kilometres in length, Kerrera is separated from mainland Argyll by its namesake Sound, providing the shelter that has made Oban into one of the most important ports in the West Highlands. There is a choice of ways to reach Kerrera, with the main regular passenger ferry making the short crossing from Gallanach, while a second ferry (booking required) runs from Oban itself to the marina at the north end of the island. Kerrera's tea garden also operates as a bunkhouse, while at the north end of the island a bar\/restaurant serves the marina.\n\n**Scarba and the Garvellachs** from Luing\n\n**Kerrera,** Gylen Castle\n\n**Kerrera,** Hutcheson Monument\n\n**Kerrera,** Gylen Castle\n\n#### Complete the classic circuit with castle and cake\n\nAn eleven-kilometre loop around the southern half of Kerrera is possible from the Gallanach ferry pier, making for one of the classic walks of the southern Hebrides. A short detour from the track leads to the dramatic ruin of Gylen Castle on the southern coastline, which has been partially restored to allow you to climb to the top of the keep. The other unmissable feature of the circuit comes soon after, with a visit to the tea garden for hearty soup, home-made bread and delicious cake. It should be enough to power you through the boggy sections on the return leg of the walk.\n\n#### Uncover CalMac's roots at the Hutcheson monument\n\nThis imposing obelisk can be reached by a five-kilometre (each way) walk from the Gallanach ferry, or much more quickly by using the marina ferry from Oban itself. The monument was built in 1883 to commemorate David Hutcheson, who set up the Burns shipping company that ran the first steamers on Scotland's west coast. His brother-in-law David MacBrayne extended the services, and although the days of the steamers are long gone, the company heritage continues into today's Caledonian MacBrayne (CalMac). Fittingly, the monument gives superb views of the almost constant stream of CalMac ferries heading into and out of the bay.\n\n**Lismore,** Port Ramsay\n\n## Lismore\n\nSet at the mouth of Loch Linnhe, Lismore is fifteen kilometres long but always less than two kilometres wide. Its name means 'Big Garden', which gives some impression of this verdant and fertile island, low-lying but surrounded by the hills and mountains of the mainland and Mull. There's a CalMac vehicle ferry that takes fifty minutes to cross from Oban to Achnacroish at the centre of the island, while the northernmost tip can be reached by a much shorter passenger-only ferry from Port Appin. Lismore has a choice of bed and breakfast and self-catering cottages, a bunkhouse and a campsite; there's also a small shop at Achnacroish.\n\n#### Discover Port Ramsay\n\nYou'd struggle to find an island hamlet more picturesque, unspoilt and sleepy than little Port Ramsay, a string of terraced whitewashed cottages which once housed workers producing lime. It can be visited as part of an enchanting circular walk from the jetty served by the Port Appin ferry, initially following an unmarked route around the northern coastline and passing the old lime kilns before returning to the ferry along quiet roads.\n\n#### Breach the defences of Tirefour broch\n\nTirefour Castle is actually an Iron Age broch, the best preserved in all the Inner Hebrides, and it remained in use until well into the Middle Ages. Dating back two millennia, the defensive walls would once have stood to around fifteen metres in height, but they are still imposing, reaching almost five metres in places and being four and a half metres thick, with passageways inside. Set atop a grassy mound, the broch has a superb location still commanding grand views up and down the Lynn of Lorn. It can be reached by a walk of around three kilometres each way from Achnacroish.\n\n**Lismore,** ferry from Port Appin\n\n**Lismore,** Tirefour broch\n\n#### Castle Coeffin\n\nOnce a stronghold of Clan MacDougall, the thirteenth-century ruins of Castle Coeffin still rise high from its rocky outcrop, though they are now heavily draped with ivy. Set right on the west coast of Lismore, the castle has great views across to Morven and along the coast to Achadun Castle; the walk to it starts from Clachan, near Lismore's main church.\n\n#### Bike to Achadun Castle\n\nLismore's sleepy lanes and low-lying relief make it an ideal island for leisurely exploration by bike. You can take your two wheels across with you on the ferry from Port Appin and cycle the length of the island; one great objective is to bike as far as Mid Auchinduin and then follow a grassy track down to visit the ruins of Achadun Castle which have fine views across to Mull. In proper cycling tradition, cake at the Liosbeag Cafe is an essential stop on your way back; adjacent is a fine heritage centre and museum, including a faithful reconstruction of a cottar's house.\n\n## Eriska\n\nThis small island at the mouth of Loch Creran is best known for its luxurious hotel, its whole 120-hectare extent making up the grounds. The island is separated from the Benderloch peninsula by the tidal narrows of An Doirlinn, which are crossed by a road bridge \u2013 though only the vehicles of hotel guests are allowed.\n\n#### Indulge yourself at a most opulent island retreat\n\nThe Isle of Eriska Hotel and Spa must rank amongst Scotland's most romantic retreats. Originally built as a grand family home, the hotel now offers five-star accommodation as well as a highly regarded fine dining restaurant. Sixteen of the thirty-four bedrooms are in the original house, which has a country house feel with open fires and oak panelled walls; Dame Judi Dench has been a guest, but you could imagine James Bond might choose to stay here too.  \n_**www.eriska-hotel.co.uk**_\n\n#### Discover Eriska's sculptures\n\nIf your budget doesn't stretch to the hotel, you can instead park at the Shian Wood car park, off to the right from the minor road to Eriska just before Balure of Shian. From here you can continue along the road and cross the bridge to the island on foot. Once on the island there is a network of informal paths \u2013 some signed, some not \u2013 that explore the whole of this magical oasis. Deserving of special note are some of the island sculptures \u2013 look out for Ronald Rae's abstract stone horse in the north of the island, or Kenneth Robertson's beautiful bronze otter further along the coast to the west.\n\n## Island of Shuna\n\nNot to be confused with its namesake Shuna in the Slate Islands group, the Island of Shuna lies to the north of Lismore, separated from the mainland by the 300-metre-wide Sound of Shuna. There's a table-shaped hill towards the southern end, above Castle Shuna \u2013 the ruins of an old tower house. The island is two kilometres long and one kilometre wide, and there is no regular boat access.\n\n**Eriska,** sculpture\n\n**Eriska,** bridge\n\n**Eriska,** hotel\n\n**Lismore,** cycling\nOne of the bigger Scottish islands, Mull seems even larger as you try to navigate its narrow, twisting roads. The tall, multicoloured houses clustered around Tobermory's harbour have become one of Scotland's most recognisable views, but away from the capital the island is a wild and rugged place, celebrated for its white-tailed eagles, high mountains and endlessly convoluted coastline. Surrounding it is a whole series of diminutive neighbours, including probably Scotland's holiest isle \u2013 Iona, perhaps its strangest \u2013 Staffa, and the home of its friendliest puffins \u2013 Lunga.\n\n# [THE ISLE OF  \nMULL  \nGROUP](9781912560318_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**Staffa,** Fingal's Cave\n\n**Mull,** Traigh na Cille beach\n\n## Overview map\n\n## Mull\n\nThe second largest of the Inner Hebrides after Skye, Mull packs a weighty punch with the number of things to see and do. You could easily spend a couple of weeks exploring, or plan a number of mini-adventures or do a spot of wildlife watching. Mull has plenty of accommodation options from campsites to hotels, and all shops and facilities, although expect it to take longer than you might think to drive around the island's wiggly, mostly single-track, roads.\n\nThree CalMac ferry routes cross to Mull. If coming from the south the most direct is from Oban, taking forty-five minutes to cross to Craignure. From the east or north check out the ferry from Lochaline to Fishnish which only takes fifteen minutes and is the cheapest option. There is also a ferry from Kilchoan in Ardnamurchan which takes thirty-five minutes. All three routes take vehicles; booking is recommended, especially on the very busy Oban\u2013Craignure route. There's a regular long-distance coach service from Glasgow (and in the summer a direct bus links Glasgow airport with Mull) and there is a reasonable local bus service once on Mull so it is possible to plan a trip using public transport. Trains run to Oban from Glasgow, and Oban train station is conveniently located next to the ferry terminal.\n\n#### Bag a Munro\n\nMull's highest peak, Ben More, is the only island Munro \u2013 or Scottish mountain over 3,000 feet high \u2013 outside of Skye. Standing at 966 metres above sea level, Ben More is often the mountain which baggers choose as their final Munro, due to it requiring a special trip to Mull and being a fairly accessible peak if non-mountain enthusiasts are joining the compleatist for the day. The quickest and easiest route is the up and down descent from Dhiseig which can be done in around five hours. An interesting and much more challenging ascent for more experienced mountain walkers takes you over the steep A'Chioch ridge with some rock scrambling and a real sense of accomplishment as you reach the top. Descending to Dhiseig makes a circuit out of it and leaves a fairly pleasant stretch along the coastal road at the end.\n\n#### Taste a dram at Tobermory\n\nFounded in 1798 and tucked away just off the seafront in Tobermory, the island's only distillery produces a range of single malts including a number of different barrel finishes and a forty-two-year-old which may or may not provide the answer to the meaning of life! Tobermory itself was established as a planned fishing settlement in 1788; before then there were just a number of farm buildings at the top of the hill. Not long afterwards a local kelp merchant, John Sinclair, leased the land at Ledaig and as soon as the ban on distilling was lifted in 1797 he built the distillery and began production. Its fortunes have ebbed and flowed with a forty-one-year closure following the depression of the 1930s and a number of shorter closures until the 1970s, but since the 1990s the distillery has expanded. There are a number of tours on offer, including tastings.  \n_**www.tobermorydistillery.com**_\n\n#### Sample Mull's cheese\n\nThe Gulf Stream warmth combined with frequent rain and fertile soils make Mull a great place to produce milk and cheese. Isle of Mull Cheese is produced using traditional methods at Sgriob-ruadh farm just outside Tobermory. You can take a self-guided tour of the dairy farm and then sample the produce in the lovely glass-sided barn that houses the cafe and shop.  \n_**www.isleofmullcheese.co.uk**_\n\n#### Experience Art in Nature\n\nThere could hardly be a more beautiful natural backdrop for the sculptures on this fascinating art walk. Either start at the stunning white sands of Calgary Bay and work your way up through the native woods, passing a number of stunning artworks including a large willow deer, or begin from the cafe where you can learn more about the project while refuelling on the home baking.  \n_**www.calgary.co.uk**_\n\n#### Adventure to the Fossil Tree\n\nVenture into Mull's most remote wilderness on this long and very rough coastal walk (about a nineteen-kilometre round trip) on the Ardmeanach peninsula. The route is not for the faint-hearted and a whole day needs to be dedicated to the expedition. After a long approach and an airy traverse, the route leads down a rickety metal ladder for the final clamber along the shore. It's essential to time your arrival at this part for low tide. At the end you really do reach a geologist's dream.\n\nRising above you is the fossilised remains of an entire tree, a twelve-metre-high imprint embedded in the cliff face. Discovered in 1819 by John MacCulloch, it is known as MacCulloch's Fossil Tree and would have been engulfed by lava around sixty million years ago. The same eruptions would also have formed the amazing basalt columns that surround the tree along this section of coast. Waterfalls and a cave are added attractions on this walk, but don't underestimate just how tiring it is and bear in mind you'll need a head for heights and that the ladder is not possible with dogs.\n\n#### Explore Mackinnon's Cave\n\nSoaring cliffs provide the backdrop to the longest sea cave in the Hebrides. Once a showplace visited by Samuel Johnson and James Boswell, the cave is reached by a relatively short but arduous walk that can only be undertaken at low tide. From the parking area at Gribun walk past the farm at Balmeanach and eventually down on to the rocky foreshore, passing an impressive high waterfall. The cave itself is reached after a scramble over tidal boulders. A torch is handy for exploring the deep cave, although Johnson and Boswell had to make do with a candle in 1773. Legend has it that a piper was once lost in the depths of the cave with his dog. Eventually the dog re-emerged minus its hair but of the piper there was no sign and it is said that in certain sea conditions a piping lament can be heard along this coast.\n\n#### See a sea eagle\n\nNo trip to Mull would be complete without a sighting of Britain's largest bird of prey. Your first encounter with the mighty sea \u2013 or white-tailed \u2013 eagle, may well be a swoosh in the sky above you as the bird's massive two-and-a-half-metre wingspan catches a thermal. Not for nothing are they known as 'flying barn doors'; these really are the kings of the air and once spotted you won't forget them. The RSPB runs Mull Eagle Watch, a hide-based experience with a guide which originally featured on BBC's _Springwatch_ when the viewing public voted to name that year's chicks Itchy and Scratchy. There are many wildlife guides operating on the island and you also stand a good chance of spotting the birds on boat trips. Walking remote sections of the coast or in the mountains offers a great opportunity to catch sight of these birds which are much bigger than the golden eagle and much, much bigger than the buzzard.  \n_**www.mulleaglewatch.com**_\n\n**Mull,** Calgary art\n\n**Mull,** Ben More\n\n**Mull,** Tobermory\n\n**Mull,** Fossil Tree\n\n**Mull,** sea eagle\n\n**Mull,** Mackinnon's Cave\n\n#### Visit the Carsaig Arches\n\nMull has an embarrassment of natural rock arches, waterfalls and caves, but the Carsaig Arches and the tough walk to reach them make for a truly memorable day and should be a priority for any keen hikers visiting the island. While the walk itself requires a head for heights, even the drive down to the starting point at Carsaig pier is a not for the faint-hearted \u2013 a long descent on single-track road with very few passing places and a perilous steep drop at the side. The coastal walk passes a large cave supposedly previously inhabited by nuns cast out from Iona; nowadays it's more likely to house a feral goat or two \u2013 you'll smell them before you see them. The route out to Malcolm's Point and the arches becomes increasingly rough, although the first arch, surrounded by basalt columns and deep water at high tide, is ample reward. The classic view of the second arch is reached along a narrow clifftop path; the arch itself is topped by a chimney-like pinnacle.\n\n#### Stroll to Tobermory's lighthouse\n\nThe walk out to Tobermory's lighthouse at Rubha nan Gall, Gaelic for 'stranger's point', is an absolute delight. To reach the start walk past the colourful properties of Tobermory's front towards the CalMac pier, turning off on a path to the left just after the RNLI centre. The path then weaves along the wooded cliff for two kilometres with tantalising glimpses of the hills of Ardnamurchan across the sea, sailing boats and the odd cruise liner between the trees. The point itself is a fantastic place to explore and watch for wildlife, particularly otters. The lighthouse was \u2013 like almost all in Scotland \u2013 built by the Stevenson lighthouse-building family, this one in 1857. Keepers and their families lived in the two cottages until the light was automated in 1960.\n\n**Mull,** crater loch\n\n#### Round the crater loch\n\nIt's not every day that you get to climb a volcano. Although the hill of 'S Airde Beinn is long extinct, use your imagination to step back fifty-five million years to when Mull was a hotbed of volcanic activity. A short but steep and boggy walk takes you right round the caldera of the volcano, with a lochan now filling the crater. The route starts just a few kilometres from Tobermory next to a ruined house on the Dervaig road. Climbing fairly steeply the path leads to the highest point, which despite being only 295 metres above sea level has fine views. You can continue all the way around the rim of the crater or descend to dip a toe in the lochan before returning back to the start.\n\n#### Explore Duart Castle\n\nYou can't miss this impressive defensive pile as the ferry glides into Craignure. Set on a rocky outcrop projecting into the Sound of Mull, the castle has a fantastic strategic outlook over the Firth of Lorn, the Sound of Mull and Loch Linnhe. The original structure dates back to the thirteenth century, but much of what you can see today is the result of a major restoration in the twentieth century following a long period as a ruin. Home to Clan Maclean, you may recognise some parts from the 1999 film _Entrapment_ (starring Sean Connery who claims Maclean ancestry), and the castle also had a role in some of the _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ TV series (no Maclean ancestry as far as we know). The castle itself is open from March to October but the grounds can be explored year round.  \n_**www.duartcastle.com**_\n\n#### See the white sand of Calgary Bay or dark sand of Traigh na Cille\n\nCalgary Bay is one of the finest beaches on Mull, with a fine expanse of white sand, informal camping area, superb ice cream shack and lovely clear water. Best enjoyed at dawn or dusk when you can appreciate the wild setting, it's the perfect beach to launch a kayak from and paddle about the bay. However, it can become ever-so-slightly busy in midsummer (that's more than five people and a dog roaming the sands), so if it's solitude you're after, check out Traigh na Cille. Here black volcanic sand provides a stunning contrast to Calgary and you're likely to have this small bay all to yourself. Walk down the track heading to the shore from the bridge over the Allt na Cille near Kilninian on the Dervaig to Gruline road.\n\n**Mull,** Duart Castle\n\n**Mull,** Calgary Bay ice cream shack\n\n#### Try a taste of Mull\n\nThere's usually a small queue at the Fishermen's Pier fish and chip van on Tobermory's harbourfront. It's not only hungry humans and seagulls hanging around; the local otter population is also in the know and you may well be rewarded with a sighting of this elusive mammal swimming in the harbour or even wandering about amongst the creels on the pier or the nearby marina pontoons.\n\nIf you've deep pockets and want to sample the best of local produce, then the Ninth Wave restaurant at Fionnphort near the ferry to Iona is the place to eat. Locally grown veg is coupled with super-fresh seafood caught from the owner's boat, Mull-reared meat and venison, and imaginative desserts. Only open in the evenings between May and October, this is a serious adult eatery for a special treat.\n\n#### See a show at Mull Theatre\n\nOnce the smallest professional theatre in the world, Mull Theatre company until recently produced and performed plays in a tiny converted cow byre at Dervaig. Now installed in a purpose-built theatre just outside Tobermory, the company has kept its reputation for innovative, high-quality and accessible performances. Catch it when you can, as the company is known for regularly being on the move and since it was established in 1966 it has performed in over 300 venues across the Highlands and Islands, playing to over a quarter of a million people, often in remote village halls.\n\n**Iona,** Abbey\n\n**Iona,** beach at Camas Cuiln an t-Saimh\n\n**Iona,** view from Dun I\n\n**Iona,** pier\n\n## Iona\n\nIt may be small, but Iona has a special place in the hearts of many Scots \u2013 and those from far beyond. Known as the cradle of Christianity in Scotland, the original monastery here was founded in the sixth century by St Columba, a monk who had been exiled from Ireland, and over the following centuries it became a great centre of culture and learning.\n\nIona is just a four-minute ferry ride from Fionnphort on Mull; cars can only be taken by residents, so you'll have to explore the island on foot or by bike. Coaches run day trips from Oban which can be a hassle-free and economical way to visit the island if you don't have time to also explore Mull. There are a number of accommodation options on Iona including a campsite, hostel, bed and breakfast, and two hotels, as well as a smattering of self-catering cottages. The two hotels offer food, as does the Martyr's Bay Restaurant situated right at the pier and specialising in local seafood. There are a couple of shops and bike hire.\n\n#### Climb Dun I\n\nThe great thing about Iona is that its size (approximately one to two kilometres wide and six kilometres long) makes it perfect for exploring on foot, and heading up its highest hill is a great way to start. Head north along the road passing the abbey and eventually a row of white cottages. Turn left after these to climb rough ground following wooden waymarkers to the summit of Dun I (pronounced Ee). It may be small, topping out at just a single metre over a hundred, but it's a superb viewpoint and the cairn and trig point on the site of an Iron Age fort make it feel like a summit of significance. From here you can see the white sands of Traigh an t-Suidhe at the far north of the island, often busier with seaweed-munching cattle than people.\n\n#### Be a pilgrim for the day at Iona Abbey\n\nTo many people, Iona \u2013 or _I Chaluim Chille_ , 'Iona of St Columba' in Gaelic \u2013 means the abbey, and a visit is a personal pilgrimage. Originally a monastery founded by Columba in AD 563 following his exile from Ireland, over the centuries it became known as a place of religious learning and art. Many stone carvers spread around the country from here and Iona is thought to have been the centre where the beautifully illustrated _Book of Kells_ was produced. The now restored abbey buildings house the ecumenical Iona Community, founded in response to what many saw as a failure of the traditional churches to respond to poverty particularly in west Scotland in the 1930s. You can stay with the community which also operates an adventure centre for young people.\n\n#### South end beaches and the spouting cave\n\nIona's wildest landscapes are found at the south-west end of the island. Visit on a stormy day and you'll see water jetting high above a blowhole cave as the waves force seawater up through a large hole in the roof of the sea cave. The safest place to view this phenomenon is from the beach at the brilliantly named Camas Cuil an t-Saimh \u2013 'Bay at the Back of the Ocean' \u2013 which itself is the perfect spot to spend an afternoon picnicking or beachcombing. To reach it head left along the road from the ferry and eventually aim westwards across Iona's golf course to reach the sandy machair at the back of the beach. From here you can continue across country via Loch Staoineig to the beach where St Columba is said to have landed when he first arrived from Ireland.\n\n**Erraid,** beach\n\n**Ulva,** The Boathouse cafe\n\n**Ulva,** coast\n\n**Ulva,** bothy\n\n#### Snack at Heritage Garden Cafe\n\nRelax at the picnic tables in the garden of the old manse and enjoy a cuppa and home-made cake or a toasted sandwich. The Heritage Centre can be found next to the historic church, designed by Thomas Telford, just to the right as you get off the ferry. The garden cafe is a peaceful oasis that feels hidden away even when Iona is busy with day trippers.\n\n## Erraid\n\nThere is something truly special about walking across the soft, sea-rippled sandy strait that separates Erraid from Mull. Or if you have a kayak you can land at the bay where David Balfour came ashore having been shipwrecked in Robert Louis Stevenson's novel _Kidnapped._ Erraid has been home to members of the Findhorn Foundation for over forty years; the residents aim to live as ecologically sustainable a life as possible while practising their spiritual values \u2013 overnight guests are welcomed by arrangement.\n\nIf crossing by foot check the tide times and aim to cross about an hour after high tide to give maximum time on the island before the return crossing becomes impassable.\n\n#### Send a message to Skerryvore\n\nClimbing to Erraid's high point, Cnoc Mor, is a must. Standing a mere seventy metres above sea level, the climb on a track and then a path is surprisingly tough. The view takes in all the tiny islets around Erraid as well Iona and much of Mull. On the way back down be sure to detour to the small white rocket-like building. This originally served as a relay station for sending messages to Skerryvore lighthouse over forty-five kilometres out at sea and another nearer, offshore light. Built by Alan Stevenson, his nephew Robert Louis spent much time as a child on the island and was inspired by the landscape when he came to write _Kidnapped_.\n\n## Ulva\n\nUlva is Scotland's newest community-owned island. Purchased in 2018, the island now belongs to the North West Mull Community Woodland Company. The island is reached by a short passenger ferry ride from Ulva Ferry on Mull; there is a community bus service to this point and also a car park. Summon the ferry by uncovering the red panel at the pier building \u2013 the ferry runs Monday to Friday, Easter to October, and on Sundays during high summer; in the winter the ferry runs to accommodate school times so it's best to check beforehand.\n\n#### Dine at the Boathouse\n\nOverlooking the ferry landing pier, The Boathouse can be a place of refuge on a foul weather day, or a welcome spot to sit outside and wait for the ferry while sampling the local seafood and home baking. The food is truly delicious, the welcome genuinely friendly and the setting unforgettable \u2013 even if you don't make it further than The Boathouse your visit to Ulva should count as a success.  \n_**www.theboathouseulva.co.uk**_\n\n#### Overnight in a private bothy\n\nOnce home to over 850 people at the height of the kelp boom in the 1840s, Ulva's population plummeted following a combination of potato famine, a crash in the kelp market and then a brutal new owner who ruthlessly cleared many of the people from their cottages to make way for sheep. Within a few years of Francis Clark taking over as laird, over two thirds of the island's population had left, many of them driven nearly to starvation. Accounts of their brutal treatment were relayed to the Napier Commission set up by the government to investigate the grievances of the crofters \u2013 evidence that Clark himself did nothing to refute. Clark was unusual in that he tended not to use a middle man or factor to enforce his evictions, preferring to do so himself even to the point of burning the thatch over people's heads to drive them from their homes. These days one of those homesteads at Cragaig is now a bothy where you can stay for the night by arrangement; it's a great destination for a walk and you can still make out the ruins of other houses. Records show that in 1841, fifty-seven people lived in this small settlement.\n\n## Gometra\n\nGometra is linked to Ulva by a bridge \u2013 and by a finger of land at low tide \u2013 a long walk from the Ulva's ferry jetty. The summit of the island, also known as Gometra, is classed as a Marilyn \u2013 a summit with a drop of 150 metres or more on all sides. Once home to a population high of 160 people, Gometra now has two permanent households and another with members who live on the island part-time. The island is privately owned and farmed; there are two basic bothies which can be booked for visitor stays.\n\n## Inch Kenneth\n\nLying to the south of Ulva is tiny Inch Kenneth, named after the saint who, as a follower of Columba, founded a monastery there. There is no regular access to Inch Kenneth without your own boat, but it is possible to make arrangements with local boat trip operators to be dropped off and picked up the same day, which will give you a few hours to explore the island. Alternative Boat Hire Iona can also arrange sailing trips in their boat the _Birthe Marie_ , and Mull Charters runs trips during the summer months.\n\n#### Circumnavigate the island on foot\n\nGreen and grassy Inch Kenneth provides easy walking and its small size makes it easy to explore on foot, with a number of sandy beaches for a break. Take in the eleventh-century chapel with its collection of delicately carved gravestones dating from between 1300 and 1500; several ancient Scottish kings are said to be buried on the island. The large ornate white house stands out against the green landscape and still gives the island an air of notoriety due to its association with the Mitford family, a number of whom were Nazi supporters, who bought the island in 1938. Unity Mitford was a friend \u2013 and some have claimed lover \u2013 of Adolf Hitler, and she attempted suicide in Germany by shooting herself in the head after Britain declared war in 1939. Hitler aided her return to the UK, and she lived on the island \u2013 damaged by her self-inflicted wound \u2013 until she died in Oban in 1948. The island eventually passed to Jessica Mitford, an ardent communist who fought in the Spanish Civil War, before being sold to the current owners in 1967. Nowadays the island is populated only by sheep.\n\n## Little Colonsay\n\nThis small green island lying between Ulva and Staffa was once home to sixteen people before the island was cleared by Francis Clark at the same time as the clearances on Ulva and Gometra. Now privately owned, just one large house remains habitable.\n\n**Staffa,** path to Fingal's Cave\n\n**Little Colonsay**\n\n**Gometra**\n\n## Staffa\n\nNamed by the Vikings for the amazing basalt columns that reminded them of the logs their houses were made from, Staffa is a geological, bird-rich wonder. Reaching it requires a boat trip from either Ulva Ferry or Tobermory on Mull, or Kilchoan on the Ardnamurchan peninsula \u2013 these are popular and can book up weeks in advance in the summer months. The intrepid and experienced can make it to the islands by kayak or sturdier craft, but Staffa and the Treshnish archipelago are quite a way out in open water and reaching them is a serious expedition. Many of the boat trips offer landing options with some also stopping at neighbouring Lunga.\n\n#### See Fingal's Cave\n\nOnce an essential call on the Victorian Grand Tour \u2013 and the inspiration for Mendelssohn's overture _The Hebrides_ \u2013 Fingal's Cave remains a remarkable spectacle. Most of the boat trips pause outside the cave entrance, giving you a chance to peer at the often swirling waters. If you take a landing trip you can pick your way along the basalt column walkway to peer into the depths of the cave and listen to the sounds of the sea. It's also worth climbing steps up on to the top of the island to explore the clifftops \u2013 there are puffins towards the northern end.\n\n## Lunga and the Treshnish Islands\n\nNorth-west of Staffa lie the eight main islands that make up this archipelago, often clearly visible from the coast of Mull, with numerous islets dotted in between. Uninhabited today, the islands contain evidence of being populated as far back as the Iron Age, with the remains of ancient hill forts, medieval chapels and other buildings being uncovered.\n\nThe largest island, Lunga, was inhabited until 1824 and is the easiest to visit \u2013 the others having very limited landing spots. A number of regular organised boat trips land here during the summer months, many of them offering the chance to combine Lunga with a trip to Staffa the same day.\n\n**Staffa,** Fingal's Cave\n\nBac M\u00f2r \u2013 also known as 'the Dutchman's Cap' \u2013 is the most distinctive island in the group, its name referring to its flat shape which surrounds a prominent dome. Its smaller sibling Bac Beag lies just to the south-west. The group's most northerly islands, Cairn na Burgh Beag and Cairn na Burgh Mor, share the defensive features of Cairnburgh Castle, the ruins of which are visible from passing boats on the larger isle. A matching guard house sits on the smaller isle, and both defend the entrance to Loch Tuath.\n\n#### Puffins on parade\n\nFrom April to August Lunga becomes one of the best places to watch puffins in all of Scotland. Climb up the first rise after you have clambered ashore from the landing area. Once past the seaweed and pebble-strewn foreshore ascend the grassy break in the cliff ahead to reach a wide strip of flat ground. Here thousands of puffin burrows lie all along the clifftops and, taking care not to crush any burrows, it's the perfect spot to lie on the ground and observe and photograph these colourful and most delightful of seabirds.\n\n#### See Harp Rock stack\n\nStuffed full of nesting kittiwakes, guillemots, shags and razorbills, this rocky stack provides a real spectacle for birdwatchers. Only a fifteen-minute walk from the landing bay on Lunga, you will smell the rock before you come upon it. The path is clear but narrow and care should be taken around the cliffs nearest to the harp-shaped sea stack.\n\n## Eorsa\n\nA small island lying in the middle of Loch na Keal, Eorsa is uninhabited except for sheep. It was used as an anchorage by the navy during the Second World War and can be visited by kayak or small boat.\n\n## Carna and Oronsay\n\nCarna and its heavily indented neighbour Oronsay are situated in Loch Sunart, south of Glenborrodale. Carna is the larger and taller of the two islands and its position almost blocks Loch Sunart, creating two narrows, or kyles, that can present a real challenge to passing sailors and kayakers at certain tides. The island is home to a wildlife conservation project and it is possible to visit on certain days or stay as a self-catering guest; kayakers and others under their own steam can land on the island.\n\nNeighbouring Oronsay is a tidal island but approaching by kayak is your best bet as a thick slick of muddy, treacherous ground needs to be crossed to access the island at low tide.\n\n**Treshnish Islands,** shag\n\n**Treshnish Islands,** puffins\nThe most remote of the Inner Hebrides, low-lying and blessed by long hours of spring sunshine and unmatched beaches, Coll and Tiree appear at first to be twins, but that's not the whole story. Tiree is fertile and heavily crofted, its few hills enhanced in stature by the almost flat terrain of the rest of the island. Coll, on the other hand, is rugged and sparsely inhabited away from its tiny capital, Arinagour.\n\nJust to the north are the Small Isles, which are even more varied. Rum has jagged rocky mountains; Canna is verdant green with a stunning coastline; Muck is a peaceful oasis; and Eigg has the unmistakeable Sg\u00f9rr, a dramatic history and an inspiring community.\n\n# [COLL,  \nTIREE  \n& THE SMALL ISLES](9781912560318_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**Laig Bay and the Cuillin of Skye,** from the Sg\u00f9rr of Eigg\n\n**Tiree,** the Maze\n\n## Overview map\n\n**Tiree,** Ceann a' Mhara\n\n**Tiree,** Ringing Stone\n\n**Tiree,** Traigh Bhi from Carnan Mor\n\n## Tiree\n\nThe most westerly of the Inner Hebrides, Tiree is renowned for its long hours of sunshine in the spring and early summer. The fertile soils here have helped Tiree retain a healthy population of around 650 people, many of them living in whitewashed cottages with tall, hipped roofs \u2013 a distinctive Tiree style known as a _Blacktop._ The island's Gaelic name _Tir fo Thuinn_ means 'the Land Beneath the Waves', a reference to its flatness; this gives the wind free rein, and Tiree has become a centre for windsurfing.\n\nTiree is served by CalMac vehicle ferries from Oban which also call at the Isle of Coll en route; the ferries can be heavily booked in the summer season. There are also flights from Glasgow on Loganair, and twice a week from Oban (and Coll) operated by Hebridean Air Services. The island has shops and all types of accommodation including a hostel and campsite.\n\n#### Find your way to the Maze\n\nTiree is justly famed for its beaches of finest white sand, which extend around a substantial part of its coastline. All are splendid, but if we had to choose just one it would be Traigh Thodhrasdail on the west coast \u2013 commonly known to windsurfers as 'the Maze'. On a fine summer's day it is heaven, while when the westerly wind gets up, the breaking waves can be truly spectacular. There's parking near Greenhill, from which it's a kilometre or so to walk along the shore.\n\n#### Climb Carnan Mor\n\nTiree has a reputation for being flat, and it's true that most of the island is level and low-lying. However, there are three prominent hills rising from its western coastline, each of which provides a bird's-eye view over these fertile grassy fields fringed by beaches and sea. At 141 metres and topped by a radar station, Carnan Mor is the highest; it can be easily reached along a tarmac lane up the western flank, or cross-country from Hynish.\n\n#### Sound the Ringing Stone\n\nThis massive boulder on Tiree's northern shore is balanced on top of smaller rocks and makes a metallic sound when struck gently by another rock \u2013 but take care not to cause damage. The surface of the rock has many cup markings thought to have been made by the Beaker people who lived here around 4,500 years ago. It is not related to local geology and was probably deposited here from the Isle of Rum by a glacier during the Iron Age, though local legend says it was thrown by a giant on Mull. The stone can be reached by following a track from near Gott across to the north coast, then following the coastline eastwards, or from Vaul by following the coast west from Dun Mor broch.\n\n#### Experience the wilds of Ceann a' Mhara\n\nThe far western headland of Ceann a' Mhara is this gentle island's most rugged corner. There's a parking area at Meningie, and the superb beach of Traigh Bhi at Balephuil Bay provides a perfect approach to the peninsula. Aim for the scant ruins of St Patrick's Chapel then keep above the increasingly dramatic coastline to ascend by a fence line to the summit of Beinn Ceann a' Mhara \u2013 with superb views over the beaches on either side as well as out to Skerryvore lighthouse.\n\n#### Uncover the story of Skerryvore\n\nScotland's tallest and most spectacular lighthouse, and often claimed to be the most graceful in the world, Skerryvore marks a treacherous reef in a very remote position some seventeen kilometres south-west of Tiree's shores. The slender forty-eight-metre-tall tower is well seen from the island's hills and western coast on a fine day. The remarkable story of how the tower was built can be discovered at the Skerryvore Museum, housed in the complex of buildings at Hynish that served as the lighthouse's land station. Here are the lighthouse keepers' cottages for when they were off shift, a signal station for communication with the lighthouse, and a picturesque harbour. Tiree Sea Tours run trips out on a RIB for a closer look at this iconic tower.\n\n#### Munch a lobster baguette\n\nSeafood doesn't get any fresher than straight off Frazer MacInnes' boat at Scarinish harbour. As well as supplying oysters, langoustines and scallops \u2013 and local meats \u2013 Frazer has a trailer where you can buy a lobster or crab baguette to munch with your cup of tea as you sit by the bay \u2013 does life get much better than that?\n\n#### Get into surf culture at Tiree Wave Classic\n\nFor a week every October, Tiree plays host to the world's longest-running professional windsurfing event. Spectators can experience the very best of wave culture, with social events through the week; you can also try out surfing, windsurfing and paddleboarding for yourself.  \n_**www.tireewaveclassic.co.uk**_\n\n#### Tiree Music Festival\n\nFounded by a musician from renowned Tiree-based band Skerryvore, Tiree's annual music festival has grown to become one of Scotland's best-known smaller festivals. The TMF is usually held each July and run by the local community. Numbers are limited to a maximum of 2,000 for a very special event with some of the best bands from across the G\u00e0idhealtachd, Scotland and beyond.  \n_**www.tireemusicfestival.co.uk**_\n\n#### Tiree Agricultural Show\n\nAn altogether more placid event, the agricultural show is one of the few in the Hebrides and is held in July. It's a real chance to get a peep into local island culture, with prizes for best cattle, sheep, poultry, tractors and even pets. There are demonstrations to watch, stalls to browse and the day's events draw to a close with the tossing of the sheaf! It's all rounded off with the obligatory evening ceilidh.\n\n## Coll\n\nA casual glance at a map suggests that Coll may be a twin to its neighbour Tiree, but while it's a similar size, Coll is an island of a quite different character. Although it's low-lying, the landscape here feels far more wild and rugged, with fewer roads and less than half the population. The white shell sands which surround the island are stunning.\n\nColl is served by the same CalMac vehicle ferry from Oban that continues on to Tiree; the ferries can be very busy and get booked up in the summer season. There are also flights which operate twice a week from Oban, also landing at Tiree. Coll has a general store as well as the T.E.S.Co shop (The Ethical Sales Company), a cafe, hotel, bed and breakfast, bunkhouse, campsite and cottages to rent; all facilities are at Arinagour.\n\n**Coll,** Hogh Bay\n\n**Tiree,** boats at Loch Bhasapoll\n\n**Tiree,** Hynish signal station\n\n**Coll,** Feall Bay\n\n**Coll,** Breachda Castles with distant Mull\n\n**Coll,** hotel\n\n**Coll,** Ben Hogh\n\n**Coll,** Sorisdale\n\n**Coll,** corncrake **Photo:** David Main\n\n**Coll,** the road to the north-west\n\n**Coll,** north-west coast\n\n#### See the Breachacha castles\n\nThese two spectacular castles were once the seats of the Macleans of Coll. The older of the two is a fifteenth-century tower house set right on the island's shores; it was replaced by the impressive Georgian pile built further inland in the 1750s. Both of the castles are now private residences with no public access, so do respect the owners' privacy and keep out of their garden grounds.\n\n#### Traigh Feall and Chrossapol\n\nThese two wonderful beaches are the largest on Coll, lying on either side of the narrowest part of the island. Feall Bay to the north and Crossapol Bay to the south make for a grand thirteen-kilometre circular walk, especially if combined with an exploration of the Calgary Point peninsula beyond. It's also worth ascending little Ben Feall nearby for an aerial view over this beautiful landscape.\n\n#### Reach far Sorisdale\n\nThe long, narrow strip of road that runs to the northern end of Coll is ideal for cycling. It terminates just short of the former crofting and fishing community of Sorisdale. While a few houses here have been restored, most of the buildings are abandoned, their old thatched roofs collapsing. This is an atmospheric place to ponder on the past challenges and future of island life. Just beyond \u2013 as goes without saying on Coll \u2013 is a fine sandy beach, while faint paths northwards lead to the massive dunes that back Traigh Tuath.\n\n#### Hear the call of the corncrake\n\nCorncrakes were once a common bird through much of Britain, but the decline of uncut meadows has seen the population collapse. Today it hangs on, predominantly on only a few remote islands, and the RSPB reserve at Totronald is one of the few remaining strongholds. The birds are very seldom seen as they hide amongst the long grasses, irises and nettles, but listen during the summer months for their unmistakable rasping call, which sounds like the teeth of a wooden comb being stroked. There's also \u2013 you guessed it \u2013 a wonderful beach on the reserve, Traigh Hogh.\n\n#### Visit the Queen's Stone on Ben Hogh\n\nBen Hogh is the only hill on Coll to top 100 metres in height, though the impression that gives of a flat island is belied by the reality of the landscape, which has many rocky mountains in miniature. Ben Hogh itself is well worth climbing, revealing superb views across the whole island. Near the summit is the Queen's Stone, a dramatic erratic boulder deposit by an Ice Age glacier atop three much smaller stones. The easiest ascent is from Clabhach, starting on a grassy track but rough and pathless towards the top.\n\n#### Find your own secret cove on the north-west coast\n\nWhile Coll has some magnificent wide sweeps of beach, probably its greatest sandy delights are found in the many tiny coves of perfect sand cradled amongst the rocks all along its north-western coastline. For several kilometres either side of the Iron Age fort of Dun Morbhaidh you can explore and find your own slice of perfection.\n\n#### Be a greedy gannet\n\nColl has only one hotel, but it has a great reputation, having been run by the same family since the 1960s. The bar here is the heart of the local community, while the Gannet restaurant overlooking the harbour is renowned for its superb freshly caught seafood. Everything is made on site, right down to the burger rolls and spaghetti. _**www.collhotel.com**_\n\n#### Gaze at the Milky Way\n\nThe first island to be awarded Dark Sky status, and one of only a few official sites in Scotland, care has been taken to reduce light pollution from the few settlements on Coll. Observing the skies here on a clear night is a humbling experience \u2013 particularly in winter. The Milky Way can be seen in all its glory with around 6,000 stars visible to the naked eye on a good night.\n\n#### Look for basking sharks\n\nThe second-largest fish in the world, basking sharks can grow to twelve metres in length and weigh up to nineteen tonnes. Present throughout the Hebrides, the seas off Coll are regarded as a particular hotspot in summer. Basking sharks feed on plankton, their huge mouths able to filter vast quantities of water as they swim just below the surface with their often floppy dorsal fin and tail visible above. You might be lucky enough to see one from the shore or the ferry; boat operator Basking Shark Scotland offers one-day tours from Coll (advance booking needed) that can even give the chance to swim with these great beasts of the ocean.  \n_**www.baskingsharkscotland.co.uk**_\n\n**Eigg,** the Finger of God\n\n**Eigg,** Cathedral Cave\n\n**Coll,** Basking shark **Photo:** Shane Wasik, _Basking Shark Scotland_\n\n**Eigg,** the Sg\u00f9rr from Galmisdal\n\n## Eigg\n\nEven by Hebridean standards, Eigg is a special island. The most populated \u2013 though not the largest \u2013 of the magical Small Isles, it has a striking appearance, dominated by the improbable rock peak of An Sg\u00f9rr. The whole island is packed with interest and history, running right up to modern times when the islanders themselves finally took on ownership after years living under absentee landlords. Eigg's community has a green ethos and has developed its own renewable energy. Eigg has its main shop and cafe near the ferry pier at Galmisdale, and there is a variety of accommodation here, including self-catering cottages, a bunkhouse, a bed and breakfast, private bothies to rent, wooden wigwams and yurts.\n\nEigg is served by CalMac's Small Isles ferry from Mallaig on a complex timetable that takes in a different combination of islands in a different order each day; only residents are allowed to bring vehicles over. During the summer months there is also a regular passenger service on the _M.V. Sheerwater_ from Arisaig.\n\n#### Climb the Sg\u00f9rr\n\nA first glimpse of An Sg\u00f9rr can make you doubt the evidence of your own eyes. This massive block of pitchstone lava was the result of one of the final eruptions of a volcano whose core now forms the nearby island of Rum. The lava filled a glen and solidified, and the surrounding rock later eroded away to leave this inverted landscape. It looks impregnable, but a rough unmarked hill path from Galmisdale forks off from the Grulin track and heads round the northern side before climbing up to a bealach west of the summit. From here the highest point can be reached with a short rocky scramble; the views are unforgettable.\n\n#### Explore the Massacre and Cathedral caves\n\nThese two fascinating caves on the southern coast of Eigg are reached by a track and then a rough path \u2013 partly waymarked in purple \u2013 from Galmisdale. From where the path reaches the coast, the Cathedral Cave can be reached by heading along the shore to the west but only if the tide is out. The massive entrance and roomy interior are said to have been used for Catholic services after the 1745 rebellion. Along the shore to the east is the much smaller entrance of the Uamh Fhraing (Cave of Frances) \u2013 better known as the Massacre Cave. This can be carefully explored if you have a torch; after a narrow passage it soon broadens to a roomy interior around seventy metres long. The story of the cave is a grim one; 395 islanders \u2013 Macdonalds \u2013 were killed here during a clan feud when the Macleods from Skye lit a fire to suffocate those hiding inside. Later the Macdonalds carried out a revenge massacre of the Macleods at Trumpan Church on Skye.\n\n#### Watch the sunset from Laig Bay\n\nLaig Bay is Eigg's largest beach, almost a kilometre of sand facing west towards the mountains of Rum, and the mix of sand colours here often form beautiful patterns. A visit at sunset can be an experience to remember as an orange sky silhouettes the jagged mountains across the sea, often reflected on the wet surface of the sand. The bay is a short walk from Cleadale in the northern part of Eigg; it can also be reached by a longer trip from Galmisdale, or by bike \u2013 cycle hire is available near the pier.\n\n#### See the Finger of God\n\nThe rocky escarpment of Sgorr an Fharaidh in northern Eigg is little known and visited, but for the discerning visitor it provides a memorable hillwalk and a great alternative to the more popular An Sg\u00f9rr. A tiny unmarked path heads up from just south of the road fork in Cleadale; this peters out before the plateau is reached, but once atop the escarpment a grand walk heads northwards along the clifftops before descending from Dunan Thalasgair in the north. Along the way is a rock pinnacle known as 'the Finger of God', which provides a dramatic foreground to a view over the bays to Rum.\n\n#### Make the Singing Sands sing\n\nCamas Sgiotaig beach at the north end of Cleadale has an outlook that rivals that from Laig Bay. In dry weather the grains of quartzite sand make a rasping or singing sound as you scuff your feet on them, or even when blasted by the wind. The bay can be reached by either of a couple of paths from each of the road ends in Cleadale; the two routes make for a good circuit but as usual a map is required.\n\n#### Discover the Kildonan beaches\n\nIf you don't have time to reach the beaches on the northern half of Eigg, Kildonan near Galmisdale offers an alternative. The bays east of the old pier are attractive and give good views of the Sg\u00f9rr, but it's worth following the path above Poll nam Partan to meet the track to Kildonan Farm before heading south towards the point for the finest beach in southern Eigg. While in the area make sure you head to the ruins of Kildonan Kirk just north-west of the farm to see the remains of a very fine carved Celtic cross.\n\n#### Dine at Eigg's cafe\n\nThe cafe\/restaurant at Galmisdale Bay \u2013 in the same building as the shop \u2013 is yet another great reason to visit the island. It serves home-made burgers and as good a bowl of local Arisaig mussels as you'll find anywhere, accompanied by hand-cut chips. If you score one of the tables on the terrace then the view out over the sea isn't too shabby either.  \n_**www.galmisdale-bay.com**_\n\n#### Dance at the Anniversary Ceilidh\n\nEigg was owned by a string of private landowners over many years, and in 1995 was sold to an eccentric German artist known as Maruma. By 1996 it was on the market once again and many of the islanders had had enough; after a national campaign and much fundraising, the islanders themselves secured ownership the following year. Now every June, Eigg celebrates its Independence Day in the community hall with a cracking community ceilidh \u2013 a raucous live music event that draws plenty of visitors too.\n\n## Rum\n\nThe largest of the Small Isles, Rum is magnificently wild and rugged, dominated by the jagged mountains of its Cuillin ridge. For a long time it was known as 'the forbidden isle', as visitors to the island were discouraged by its private owners, and even after it was sold to the Nature Conservancy Council in 1957 (now Scottish Natural Heritage) it was used as a nature reserve for scientific study. Only in recent years has the area around Kinloch become owned by its local community trust and visiting the island become much easier.\n\nThe island is served by CalMac's Small Isles ferry from Mallaig on a complex timetable that takes in a different combination of islands in a different order each day; often the ferry calls at Rum, sails on to Canna and then returns to Rum on the way back to Mallaig, enabling very short day visits for those who don't want to stay over. Only residents are allowed to bring vehicles on the ferry. During the summer months there is also a passenger service on the _M.V. Sheerwater_ from Arisaig. The island has a hostel, a bed and breakfast, camping pods and a campsite at Kinloch (pack midge repellent). There are also a couple of remote bothies.\n\n**Eigg,** Rum from the Singing Sands\n\n**Eigg,** Kildonan beach\n\n**Eigg,** summit of the Sg\u00f9rr\n\n**Eigg,** Kildonan Cross\n\n**Eigg,** Bay of Laig from near the Finger of God\n\n#### Visit Kinloch Castle\n\nThis massive sandstone edifice was built as a holiday home and shooting lodge by the island's then owners, the Bulloughs \u2013 industrialists from Accrington in Lancashire \u2013 between 1897 and 1900, and it looks strikingly incongruous in such a place. Today the castle is in a state of decay, but an association has been set up to attempt to safeguard and restore it for the future. It can be visited on a guided tour that usually operates between the times that the ferry calls. The interior is simply astonishing: a bizarre time-capsule of Edwardian opulence and excess, including an automated barrel organ known as an orchestrion and showers that shoot jets of water in all directions.\n\n#### Watch for otters\n\nA much more recent and fitting construction on the island is the otter hide overlooking Kinloch Bay. Reached by heading up the track from the ferry jetty and then taking a signed path on the left, a lovely ten-minute walk soon leads into woods past some old ruins to reach the hide. Otters are elusive creatures and tend to put in an appearance when least expected \u2013 sometimes they can be seen playing around the ferry as it turns in the bay, but they are shy and the hide at least gives you a chance to watch for them undetected. A much rougher walk continues on an often indistinct and boggy path parallel to the coast to reach the atmospheric deserted settlement of Port na Caranean, abandoned when the residents were moved to Kinloch.\n\n**Rum,** Kinloch Castle\n\n**Rum,** otter hide\n\n**Rum,** cycling back to Kinloch\n\n**Rum,** Kilmory Bay with Skye beyond\n\n#### Hike to the Harris mausoleum\n\nIf Kinloch Castle didn't convince you of the size of the Bulloughs' egos, this remarkable building on the wild west coast of the island certainly will. Constructed around 1900 in the form of an enormous Doric temple, it replaced an earlier structure decorated with mosaics that was demolished after someone remarked that it resembled the lavatories at Waterloo station. It has a stunning position above Harris Bay and is linked to Kinloch by eleven kilometres of Land Rover track through the heart of Rum, making for either a very long out-and-back walk, or a ride on a mountain bike (hire is available).\n\n#### See the deer at Kilmory Bay\n\nRum is not commonly associated with sandy beaches, but the magnificent sands on the north coast at Kilmory are the exception; they have superb views out to the Cuillin of Skye. The beach is roughly a nine-kilometre hike or bike along a good track from Kinloch, perfect for a bike ride if you don't mind the initial climb. The area behind the beach has been the subject of a continuous study of red deer since 1972, one of the longest running surveys of wild animals in the world. The rut here was featured on BBC TV's _Autumnwatch_ series, and you are very likely to see these magnificent creatures as you head to the beach.\n\n#### Stay in an island bothy\n\nVolunteers from the Mountain Bothies Association maintain around a hundred simple shelters \u2013 mostly in old cottages \u2013 around Scotland, which offer something like camping but with a roof. They are free to stay in for anyone who follows the bothy code \u2013 taking all your litter away and behaving responsibly. Two of the eight bothies situated on islands are on Rum \u2013 Dibidil on the rugged southern coastline below the Cuillin, and Guirdil in the remote north-west. Both require challenging hikes to reach, but for those who are properly prepared and equipped they offer an island bothy experience to remember.\n\n**Rum,** the deserted village of Port na Caranean\n\n**Rum,** Harris mausoleum\n\n#### Experience the Rum Cuillin\n\nThe dark volcanic peaks of the Rum Cuillin dominate the island. Steep, rocky, rugged and challenging, the range is a smaller version of its most famous namesake on the nearby Isle of Skye and offers unmatched views of mountain and sea. The complete traverse \u2013 from Kinloch, over all the peaks and descending to Dibidil bothy \u2013 is an epic expedition with tricky terrain and a good deal of scrambling, and is one of the great challenges for UK hill baggers. For the average hillwalker an ascent of Hallival is a dramatic objective from Kinloch in its own right, with only minimal scrambling.\n\n#### Hear or see the shearwaters\n\nAmazingly, a third of the world's population of Manx shearwaters nest on the Rum Cuillin every summer. You may hear their eerie call from underground on the ridge of Hallival; Norse settlers thought it was the noise of trolls, hence the name of one of the other summits on the ridge, Trollaval. Witnessing 100,000 pairs of birds returning to their burrows to feed their chicks at night is an incredible experience \u2013 but remember that these mountains are a challenging enough place even during the daytime, so it's not one open to everyone.\n\n## Canna\n\nCanna's position \u2013 remote and hidden away behind Rum in views from the mainland coast \u2013 has led to it being far less well known than its neighbours. Make no mistake though, this is a beautiful island, with emerald-green pastures, pockets of woodland, wild moors and dramatic cliffs. Canna is owned by the National Trust for Scotland.\n\nLike its Small Isles neighbours, Canna is served by CalMac ferries from Mallaig on a complex timetable that takes in a different combination of islands in a different order each day. The island has a guest house, a small bunkhouse and a campsite including camping pods. There's also a cafe and a small community shop.\n\n#### See Coroghan Castle\n\nThis crumbling ruin is situated atop a dramatic coastal outcrop high above a lovely beach, making it Canna's most picturesque sight. The small rectangular tower is thought to date from the seventeenth century, and according to local tradition it was used as a prison, once employed by Donald Macdonald of Clanranald to confine his wife Marion. It was described by the early traveller Thomas Pennant in 1772 as 'A lofty slender rock, that juts into the sea: on one side is a little tower, at a vast height above us, accessible by a narrow and horrible path: it seems so small as scarce to be able to contain half a dozen people'. Today it is in a dangerous state and is far better appreciated from the sands below.\n\n#### Get deflected to Compass Hill\n\nNorth from the foot of Coroghan Castle's crag rises Compass Hill \u2013 so named as the magnetic rock of the hill is said to affect the compass needles on passing ships. The ascent of Compass Hill is best made by heading up the landward side of a fence from near Coroghan and passing through a gate. The coastal cliffs become increasingly impressive towards the top of the hill; for a tough and pathless but superb all-day excursion you can make a traverse from here right around Canna's northern coastline.\n\n#### Discover Gaelic heritage at Canna House\n\nCanna's grandest house was the home of the renowned Gaelic scholar Dr John Lorne Campbell and his wife Margaret Fay Shaw. They dedicated their lives to recording the traditions, folklore and heritage of Hebridean culture, and bequeathed both the house and the whole island to the National Trust for Scotland. The house still contains the remarkable archive they amassed. It's currently closed to the public, but the gardens \u2013 entered via a tunnel of escallonia \u2013 are worth the visit.\n\n**Canna,** view to Rum from souterrains\n\n**Rum,** on Hallival, looking to Askival\n\n**Canna,** coast near Compass Hill\n\n**Canna,** cafe\n\n**Canna,** Coroghan Castle\n\n**Sanday,** Am Mialagan beach\n\n**Sanday,** Dun Mor\n\n#### Go underground at the souterrains\n\nThere's a wealth of more ancient remains to be found around the island, including an early Christian cross and a prominent standing stone amongst the bluebells, both situated fairly near the shop and cafe. A much longer walk is needed to visit the souterrains \u2013 reached by following the main track as far as Tarbet Bay until a marker indicates the start of a faint, boggy path heading north. These underground passages date from prehistoric times and are thought to have been used to store food. With care you can lower yourself into the entrance to feel how much cooler they are inside; the large stones lining the sides and roof of the passageway can still be seen.\n\n#### Eat truly local at Cafe Canna\n\nThis tiny whitewashed cafe has an enviable location on the sheltered southern shoreline looking across to neighbouring Sanday. Don't be deceived by its modest appearance, the menu here includes truly local food such as Canna rabbit stew, lobster landed here on the island, Arisaig moules frites and haddock in Skye Ale batter; bookings are highly recommended for evening meals. _**www.cafecanna.co.uk**_\n\n## Sanday\n\nConnected to Canna at low tide by mudflats and sand \u2013 and at high tide by a bridge \u2013 Sanday provides shelter to the pier that serves the two islands. There's a string of buildings along the north shore facing its larger neighbour with which it really forms a single community. The impressive deconsecrated St Edward's Church once operated as a hostel and Gaelic study centre but is now locked, and there's a self-catering cottage for rent but no other facilities for visitors to the island.\n\n#### Take time out at Am Mialagan beach\n\nThe finest beach on either of these two islands is situated on Sanday, just around a corner west of the bridge that links them. The perfect white shell sands look back north across to Canna; they are little known to the wider world and see very few visitors, offering perfect peace and solitude.\n\n#### Peek at the puffins on the stack of Dun Mor\n\nThe great blocky sea stack of Dun Mor stands detached from the dramatic cliffs of Sanday's south-eastern corner and presents the island's finest scenic feature. It's a fair yomp over some pathless moorland to see the stack, which is worth it for the rock scenery alone. However, in early summer there's another compelling reason to make the effort, as the stack is the home to a large colony of puffins, filling the air above it when seen from the nearby clifftop. Great skuas are well aware of the puffins too and these airborne pirates can often be seen harrying the puffins as they bring in their beakfuls of sand eels.\n\n## Muck\n\nThe smallest of the Small Isles, Muck appears from a distance to be relatively low-lying and lacking in the distinctive features that make its neighbours so enticing. Appearances are deceptive, however, as Muck is a wee gem. Most of the island consists of a single farm at Gallanach, while many of the small population of thirty-eight live in and around Port Mor where the ferry calls.\n\nMuck is served by by CalMac's Small Isles ferry service from Mallaig on four or five days each week, based on a complex timetable that takes in a different combination of islands in a different order each day. There's a surprising amount of accommodation available, with a fine modern country lodge, several self-catering cottages, a bed and breakfast, a bunkhouse and a yurt. There's also a craft shop and cafe.\n\n#### Cross Muck to Gallanach Bay\n\nThe only road on the island runs from the ferry jetty at Port Mor in the south to Gallanach on the north coast, where the fine sands look north towards Rum. If you aren't wanting just to sit on the beach, you can walk further, passing the farm buildings and heading on to the Aird nan Uan peninsula, which gives rougher walking. Near the end is a ring of stones \u2013 the remains of a Bronze Age cairn and more recent graves. Beyond it is Eilean Aird nan Uan, or Lamb Island. Not really an island at all, it can be reached by a wee scramble except at the highest tide. Further out is Eilean nan Each \u2013 Horse Island \u2013 which is linked to Muck by seaweed-covered rocks only briefly at the lowest spring tides.\n\n#### Climb Beinn Airein\n\nThe trig point marking the summit of Beinn Airein may be only 138 metres above the sea, but its dramatic position and 360-degree panorama make the ascent well worth the effort. Begin the climb from Gallanach, passing to the right of the farm buildings and then turning left through a small gate, following tractor tracks uphill initially; there's no path up the hill but there are gates as you make the climb.\n\n#### Indulge yourself at the Muck tea room\n\nIt may look like a simple stone bothy, but Muck's tea room is an unmissable port of call on any visit to the island. Just about everything is home-made, including all the cakes, soup and bread, but perhaps best of all are the huge set-menu evening meals, which must be booked in advance. It's a craft shop too, specialising in hand-knitted clothing and homespun wool.  \n_**www.isleofmuck.com**_\n\n#### Stay in a yurt\n\nThough there are other islands with yurts \u2013 including neighbouring Eigg \u2013 few can match the experience of a stay in Muck's solitary yurt. Set on the west coast, the sunsets from here \u2013 looking out to the mountains of Rum \u2013 are simply unforgettable. The yurt houses a stove and has both a double bed and additional camp beds, and a gas hob and grill, though you'll have to pop outside to use the composting loo.\n\n## Eilean Shona\n\nShona guards the entrance to Loch Moidart. between the Moidart and Ardnamurchan peninsulas of the mainland. Its eastern half is richly wooded, while to the west it rises to rugged, bare hills and a height of 265 metres at Beinn a' Bhaillidh. The eastern part of the island is accessible at low tide via a tidal causeway and track from the A861 road, but its main house and cottages are usually reached via a boat to a pier that looks out to Castle Tioram in Moidart. There is no regular boat service for visitors, but most of the cottages and the house itself are available for short-term holiday rentals \u2013 guests are picked up on a RIB.\n\n**Muck,** Gallanach Bay and Eigg\n\n**Muck,** yurt\n\n**Muck,** tea room\n\n**Muck,** graves at Aird nan Uan\nThe Isle of Skye is world renowned for its stunning landscapes, from the Alp-like peaks of the Cuillin to the remarkable landslips of the Trotternish peninsula, and from its fascinating history to its complex and spectacular coastline. Although it's the most visited of all the islands in this book, Skye is a big place and it's worth taking the time to explore far from the beaten track and discover its hidden gems. It is surrounded by many smaller islands, of which Raasay is the largest, with a character all its own and offering an easy escape from its better-known neighbour.\n\nNorth of Skye there are groups of tiny islands close to the west coast and continuing around the north coast. The Summer Isles near Ullapool are perhaps the best known of these, but \u2013 further north still \u2013 Handa offers the perfect island day trip.\n\n# [SKYE &  \nTHE NORTH-WEST](9781912560318_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**Skye,** Neist Point\n\n**Skye,** Quiraing\n\n## Overview map part 1\n\n## Skye\n\nThe best known of all Scottish islands, Skye occupies an almost mythical place in the minds of many. Its Gaelic name _An t-Eilean Sgitheanach_ \u2013 'the Winged Isle' \u2013 refers to its complex shape with many projecting peninsulas. The island has some of our most dramatic landscapes, from the jagged Cuillin mountains and the landslips of the Trotternish Ridge to some superb coastal cliffs. This physical drama combines with the island's rich history to create a truly special place.\n\nThe graceful arch of the Skye Bridge has connected the island to Kyle of Lochalsh on the mainland since 1995; it is free to cross. There's also a regular CalMac vehicle ferry from Mallaig that lands at Armadale on the Sleat peninsula. In the north the port of Uig has ferry services that connect Skye to North Uist and Harris in the Outer Hebrides. The island has a wide range of facilities and services, with its main centres of population being the picturesque capital at Portree and the straggling village of Broadford.\n\n#### Watch the sunset from Neist Point\n\nSkye's most westerly headland is home to one of the most dramatically situated lighthouses in Scotland. Driving there can be an adventure in itself, as this is the furthest part of the island from the bridge, and the last few kilometres are on a narrow and twisting single-track road. You can visit the lighthouse by a moderate walk, heading down concrete steps and bypassing the fine cliffs of An t-Aigeach \u2013 'the Stallion'. The best views, however, are just north along the cliff edge from the tiny parking area; the views from here out to the Point and North Uist beyond are breathtaking \u2013 especially at sunset.\n\n#### Pay your respects to the Old Man\n\nThis fifty-metre-tall pinnacle of basalt stands at the foot of the great cliffs of the Storr, and together with them is an iconic landmark. The Old Man is well seen from across the waters of Loch Fada when driving north from Portree, but for a close-up visit there's a parking area at the start of a well-maintained path that leads up towards its base. Reaching the pinnacle is a stiff climb but well worth it to explore the Sanctuary \u2013 the remarkable amphitheatre of rock scenery that the Old Man guards.\n\n#### Taste a dram of Talisker\n\nTalisker distillery at Carbost on the shores of Loch Harport has been producing whisky since 1830. The distillery tours \u2013 available throughout the year \u2013 conclude with a tasting of this sweet and smoky, peaty single malt that seems to absorb the flavour of its maritime setting. After you've visited the distillery \u2013 and if you have a driver \u2013 it's well worth taking a trip to nearby Talisker beach, nestled between high cliffs, where the black and white sands mingle into beautiful patterns.\n\n#### Visit the cleared village of Boreraig\n\nSkye is full of romantic connections with the story of Bonnie Prince Charlie's escape from his pursuers in the aftermath of the Jacobite defeat at Culloden, as celebrated in the Skye Boat Song. But there's a darker history here too, as the Highland Clearances saw many Skye folk driven from their land to make way for sheep farms. The landscape is dotted with deserted former settlements, and none are more atmospheric than the ruins of Boreraig on the north shore of Loch Eishort. This haunting place is reached by a path over the hills from the ruined church of Cill Chriosd on the Elgol road; it's possible to continue along the coast to Suisnish and Camas Malag to make a memorable day's walking.\n\n#### Marvel at the Quiraing\n\nThis fantastical rock landscape must be one of the strangest in Scotland. Formed by a series of enormous landslips, this northern part of the Trotternish Ridge has remarkable features such as the Table \u2013 a flat, grassy platform surrounded by craggy cliffs, the Needle \u2013 a great pinnacle of rock, and the craggy fortress of the Prison. A spectacular and narrow mountain road winds up to cross the ridge just south of the Quiraing and brings this amazing place within easy reach. A rocky path \u2013 with scrambling at one point \u2013 leads north from the top of the road and passes beneath the cliffs to reach the heart of the Quiraing.\n\n#### Take a boat trip to Loch Coruisk\n\nLoch Coruisk lies at the heart of the Cuillin, Britain's most alpine mountain range. The waters of this remote and remarkable place can be reached by a long and difficult walk, but it's easier and perhaps more enjoyable to take one of the regular boat trips from Elgol. The boat crosses the seas of Loch Scavaig to reach a landing stage from which it's just a short walk away. Surrounded by gaunt peaks of bare rock, the loch featured on the Grand Tour in the Victorian era and was celebrated in verse by Sir Walter Scott and Alfred Lord Tennyson, as well as being painted by J.M.W. Turner.\n\n#### Conquer a Cuillin\n\nThe Cuillin mountains dominate the famed views from Sligachan and Elgol, and just a glance at them reveals that any ascents here are generally much more serious undertakings than hillwalks on the mainland. Bruach na Frithe and Sgurr na Banachdaich are perhaps the most accessible peaks for skilled and experienced mountain walkers, but even these require great care and skilled route finding. Reaching any one of the major Cuillin summits is, however, an unforgettable experience; there are a good number of mountain guides available on the island that can help you realise your mountaineering dreams.\n\n#### Climb Ben Tianavaig\n\nA more modest objective for the humble hillwalker is this fine miniature mountain that dominates the coastline south of Portree. The half-day ascent from the pretty bay at Camustianavaig deserves to be regarded as a classic \u2013 a climb along a magnificent escarpment which rises high above the sea. The summit view is quite unforgettable, in particular looking back down the escarpment to the Cuillin and the Red Hills. There's also an aerial view of Portree to the north backed by all the drama of Trotternish, while Raasay closes the horizon to the east.\n\n#### Chill on the coral beaches\n\nWhile Skye is an island of superlatives, its fame doesn't rest on its sandy beaches. Talisker, Staffin, Camas Daraich and An Aird in the Braes are all worth a visit, but it's the 'coral' beaches near Claigan that are deservedly the best known. Accessed by an easy two-kilometre walk, a close look at the white sands here reveals them to be made of maerl, a dried and calcified seaweed. And for the dedicated island bagger there's a bonus in that the minor tidal island of Lampay is only just offshore.\n\n#### Dine at the Three Chimneys\n\nWhen Shirley Spear and her husband Eddie first realised their ambition to open a bistro-style eatery on Skye back in 1985, few would have guessed that the restaurant would develop into the culinary institution it has become today. Often featured in lists of the world's finest restaurants, the Three Chimneys still operates in the same humble whitewashed croft house, with stone walls and wooden beams within. This is fine dining with prices to match, but the restaurant really makes the most of the island's superb fresh ingredients and this is an excellent Skye, land and sea foodie experience.  \n_**www.threechimneys.co.uk**_\n\n**Skye,** cleared village of Boreraig\n\n**Skye,** view over the Cuillin from Bla Bheinn\n\n**Skye,** coral beach at Claigan\n\n**Skye,** Loch Coruisk\n\n**Skye,** Talisker Bay\n\n**Skye,** throwing the hammer at the Skye Games\n\n**Skye,** pipe bands at the Skye Games\n\n**Skye,** the Quiraing from Staffin\n\n**Skye,** Rubha Hunish\n\n**Skye,** Sgurr na h-Uamha in the Cuillin\n\n**Skye,** Museum of Island Life\n\n#### Tackle the Skye Trail\n\nFor backpackers who enjoy a real challenge, hiking the 128-kilometre Skye Trail makes for an unforgettable experience. It's unofficial and still unmarked, but for those with the necessary experience and navigation skills it's the perfect way to enjoy Skye in a week. The trail includes a traverse of the Trotternish Ridge, has some remarkable coastal sections, and passes through the shadow of the dramatic Cuillin, before reaching journey's end in Broadford. Whether you prefer to make use of island hospitality or opt for the freedom of a tent, the Skye Trail is a fitting match for the island's epic landscapes.  \n_**www.skyetrail.org.uk**_\n\n#### Soak up the atmosphere at Dun Scaith\n\nThe woodlands of the Sleat peninsula have led to it being known as 'the Garden of Skye', but taking the twisting and challenging minor loop road through Ord and Tokavaig offers an entirely different experience. The gem of this undiscovered corner of the island is the dramatic ruin of Dun Scaith castle on the shores of Loch Eishort. Set on a rocky promontory high above the sea, this thirteenth-century castle was once accessed via a high drawbridge. Now ruined, it's an atmospheric spot with an unforgettable view, and was heavily featured in Macpherson's mythic Ossian poems.\n\n#### Watch for whales at Rubha Hunish\n\nA former coastguard station \u2013 now a bothy open to all \u2013 is perched atop dramatic columnar basalt cliffs that overlook Skye's most northerly promontory, Rubha Hunish. An ingenious old path makes the awkward descent to this furthest headland, and walkers who make the effort are rewarded with superb rock scenery including stacks and geos. In the summer months the furthest point is one of the best places in Britain for watching cetaceans; minke whales visit frequently as the currents around the headland lead to plentiful supplies of food.\n\n#### Museum of Island Life\n\nSkye has a number of museums but this collection of seven traditional thatched cottages at Kilmuir stands out. It was begun by a local man back in 1965, then containing only the Old Croft House which was lived in until only a few years previously. The peat fire is always lit, and together with the other cottages the museum gives an impression of life on the island at the close of the nineteenth century. One of the cottages contains an archive of photographs and documents recording much local history, and near the entrance to the museum is the impressive grave of Flora MacDonald, who helped Bonnie Prince Charlie to escape to the island as remembered in the Skye Boat Song. _**www.skyemuseum.co.uk**_\n\n#### Go to the Skye Games\n\nAttending a Highland Games is a quintessential Scottish experience, and the Skye Games \u2013 held in Portree each year since 1877 \u2013 are one of the largest in the islands, always making for a fabulous day out. The grassy amphitheatre of An Meall (unromantically translated as 'the Lump') provides a perfect venue for the traditional mix of 'heavy' events (hammer throwing, caber-tossing), track and field, a hill race, highland dancing, piping and tug o' war. The massed pipe bands are a real spectacle, and the Portree games also adds sailing and rowing events to the usual mix.\n\n## Loch Bracadale islands\n\nThere are four main islands in Loch Bracadale \u2013 Wiay (the largest), Harlosh and Tarner islands, and Oronsay. All have fine cliff features and enjoy superlative views towards the Cuillin, but none have a boat service \u2013 or any people living on them. Oronsay is, however, accessible from Skye at low tide via a natural stony causeway, enabling walkers to make a memorable visit with careful observation of the tide times.\n\n#### Take a hike to Oronsay\n\nThe five-kilometre out-and-back walk begins from the end of a minor road near Ullinish, following a grass track over some boggy ground to reach the causeway that leads across to the island. This causeway is submerged for around two hours either side of high tide, so keep an eye on the time to ensure you don't become stranded. Once on the island the clifftops make for a grand short walk; they rise to seventy-four metres towards the south-west end \u2013 the highest point of the Bracadale islands \u2013 and the views are superb.\n\n## Soay\n\nAt over 1,000 hectares Soay is almost as large as nearby Canna, but its position off Skye's coast beneath the great mountains of the Cuillin leaves it feeling dwarfed. In 1851 the population here peaked at a remarkable 158 people, many of them fleeing clearances on its larger neighbour. After the Second World War the island was bought by the eccentric aristocrat Gavin Maxwell, who later found fame as the author of _Ring of Bright Water_ , an account of his life with otters on the Glenelg peninsula. He used the island as the base for a commercial basking shark fishery, but the business soon floundered; by 1952 most of the islanders petitioned the government for evacuation to Mull. There are currently two or three permanent inhabitants but there are no regular boats for visitors. It is possible to charter a boat trip from Elgol, and during the summer there's a weekly non-landing cruise from Kinloch on Rum.\n\n**Oronsay,** on the clifftops\n\n**Oronsay** causeway, from Skye\n\n## Eilean Ban\n\nThe best known of several small islands set off the coast around the Kyle of Lochalsh, Eilean Ban \u2013 or the White Island \u2013 is briefly visited by thousands of people every day as the Skye Bridge road leads across it. There's more to the island than most of them suspect, however, as the island has a fine lighthouse and was the last home of the author Gavin Maxwell.\n\n#### Visit the last home of Gavin Maxwell\n\nThe best way to start your adventure to Eilean Ban is at the Bright Water Centre in nearby Kyleakin. The island was purchased by Gavin Maxwell late in his life, and after his retreat at Sandaig was destroyed by fire, he moved to Eilean Ban and lived his final years here. The living room of the cottages \u2013 which Maxwell made into one long room \u2013 is now a museum to the incredible life of this great eccentric. Tours of the island can be booked at the centre and include a visit that provides an insight into the life of this complex man. If you are exceptionally lucky you might catch a glimpse of an otter.\n\n## Pabay\n\nThis low-lying island is well seen from Broadford Bay; its 122 hectares are still worked as a single farm. The island is perhaps best known amongst philatelists as special stamps are issued to convey post from the island to the mainland \u2013 and are sought after by collectors. There's a fine shell beach to the northern shores, but there is no regular boat access for visitors.\n\n## Scalpay\n\nScalpay dominates the view for several kilometres when driving north along Skye's main road from Broadford, an aspect that emphasises its bleak and rugged character. It rises to a height of 396 metres at Mullach na Carn, a fine viewpoint. Today the island is home to a single family, and there are three holiday cottages available for rent. Aside from those who have booked one of the cottages there are no regular boat trips.\n\n**Eilean Ban,** Gavin Maxwell's house\n\n**Eilean Ban** and the Skye Bridge\n\n## Raasay\n\nThe largest of the satellite islands off the coastline of Skye, Raasay is a real gem \u2013 especially when its busier, more glamorous neighbour is teeming with visitors. Almost twenty kilometres long and three to four kilometres wide, its landscape is dominated by the flat-topped volcanic summit of Dun Caan.\n\nThe island is served by a regular CalMac vehicle ferry from Sconser on Skye. There is a well-stocked community shop in its main settlement, Inverarish, and accommodation options include several bed and breakfasts, more upmarket rooms at the distillery and Raasay House, and self-catering cottages.\n\n#### Climb Dun Caan\n\nReaching Raasay's highest summit (444 metres) has long been an objective of visitors to the island. As part of his famed tour of the Highlands and Islands with Dr Samuel Johnson, James Boswell made the ascent and was so delighted with the view that he danced a jig upon the summit. The ascent is a moderate hillwalk; there is a rough path from the old ironstone mine on the road above Inverarish, close enough to the ferry pier to make bringing a vehicle unnecessary. If you get a clear day you'll share Boswell's joy at the 360-degree vista of sea and mountains.\n\n#### Feel the past at Hallaig\n\nThe most celebrated son of Raasay was the great Gaelic poet Sorley MacLean, whose work is at the heart of the language's cultural renaissance. One of his most renowned works, _Hallaig_ , is a symbolic poem inspired by the ruins and history of the cleared village of the same name, set above Raasay's eastern coastline. A path from the end of the North Fearns road leads to a monument a short distance short of the site of the village; it is inscribed with the words of the poem in both Gaelic and MacLean's own English translation. The ruins themselves can be reached by continuing on from the monument, passing through the birch wood mentioned in the poem \u2013 though the going underfoot becomes rougher.\n\n#### Take Calum's Road\n\nFor many years Raasay's slender ribbon of tarmac road ended near Brochel Castle, some two and a half kilometres short of the community at Arnish in the north. The inhabitants campaigned unsuccessfully over several decades for the council to provide a road, but to no avail, and the population at Arnish dwindled. One man decided to take matters into his own hands. Calum MacLeod, a local crofter and the assistant keeper of the lighthouse on Rona, had learned road-making from a book and began work himself in 1964, with a shovel, pick-axe and wheelbarrow. It took him ten years to complete the road, after which it was finally adopted and surfaced by the council, though by then Calum and his wife were the last inhabitants of Arnish. You can drive the road, park at Brochel and walk it, or, perhaps best of all, bike it in a grand ride from the ferry. If undertaking the latter you will appreciate that Calum's Road is better graded than the rest of Raasay's road network.\n\n**Raasay,** North Fearns\n\n**Left** and **Right:** **Raasay,** distillery **Photos:** Isle of Raasay Distillery\n\n**Raasay,** Calum's Road\n\n**Raasay,** Dun Caan\n\n#### Raasay distillery\n\nAfter learning about the struggles of Raasay's difficult past, it's good to be able to raise a dram to the island's future. You can do so at the end of a tour of its state-of-the-art distillery. Using barley grown in adjacent fields, dried using local peat, and water that has flowed down through the island's volcanic rocks, this new distillery is maturing all its spirit on site. The aim is to make a lightly peated dram which will be matured in three different kinds of oak casks. The first single malt will be available in 2020, and before then you can enjoy a dram of 'Raasay While We Wait' \u2013 a dram created to give an impression of the kind of whisky the distillers are aiming for.  \n_**www.raasaydistillery.com**_\n\n## Eilean Fladday\n\nThis tidal island is separated from Raasay by the narrows of Caol Fladda, a couple of kilometres north from Arnish. The path to it was built by Calum MacLeod and his brother Charles under a contract with the council between 1949 and 1952, and it was here that Calum perfected the road-building skills which later earned him his fame. The island had five families in the 1920s, but the last left in 1965; today the remaining cottages are only used for part of the year. Walkers can cross to the island at low tide, but care is needed to avoid becoming stranded.\n\n## Rona\n\nNot to be confused with North Rona, isolated far from Lewis, this Rona is set to the immediate north of Raasay. Its landscape of bare Lewisian gneiss \u2013 one of the oldest rocks in Europe \u2013 is punctuated by small pockets of natural woodland. There is no regular boat access for visitors except those who have booked in one of the three holiday cottages here. An Acarsaid Mhor provides a picturesque natural harbour and an approach for kayakers.\n\n## Isle of Ewe\n\nSome three and a half kilometres long and around one kilometre wide, the Isle of Ewe takes up a surprisingly extensive part of Loch Ewe. It was once home to several families, but is now uninhabited, and the loch itself was used as a naval anchorage during the Second World War. There is no regular access, but it may be possible to arrange a boat from nearby Aultbea.\n\n## Gruinard Island\n\nSet offshore from one of the Highlands' most picturesque beaches, the recent history of Gruinard Island is a dark one. The island has been uninhabited since the 1920s, but in 1942 it became the site of an experiment in biological warfare. The ground was deliberately contaminated with anthrax bombs so as to infect the sheep which were used in the experiment, and the final report concluded that anthrax could be used to make cities uninhabitable for 'generations'. The island was left in this state until 1981 when a group calling itself Operation Dark Harvest wrote to newspapers threatening to leave soil samples from the island at 'appropriate points' to raise public awareness and demanding a clean-up. Two packets were left at government locations, and in 1986 a project began to decontaminate Gruinard. In 1990 it was declared clean, but many have publicly doubted whether this is the case. It's probably not at the top of many people's intended island bagging lists!\n\n## Overview map part 2\n\n## Summer Isles\n\nThis extensive archipelago of smaller islands is scattered in the outermost reaches of Loch Broom. Stretching from Priest Island in the south-west to Horse Island in the east and Isle Ristol and Eilean Mullagrach in the north, there are around twenty isles and islets in the group, although only Tanera Mor is inhabited. In the summer season boat trips are available from Ullapool and Achiltibuie; these include both cruises around the islands. The name 'Summerisle' was used as the island home of a pagan sect in the cult film _The Wicker Man_ , though the film itself was shot in Galloway and at Plockton.\n\n#### Cruise around Tanera Mor\n\nTanera Mor was one of the settings described by the ecologist Frank Fraser Darling in his fascinating book _Island Years_ , published in 1940. Together with his wife and young son, he set up a home on the island in 1939 and tried to reclaim the derelict land for agricultural production. Subsequently he became one of Britain's most prominent voices in the ecology movement, and an expert on both the human and natural economy of the Highlands.\n\n**Eilean Fladday,** causeway from Raasay\n\n**Isle of Ewe,** from near Aultbea\n\n**Tanera Beag,** the Cathedral Cave\n\nFor many years the island was perhaps best known for the special stamps, sold at its tiny cafe and shop, which were issued to carry mail to the mainland (you still needed to affix a Royal Mail stamp to ensure onwards delivery). The island was placed on the market in 2013 and briefly lost its resident family; however, a new owner began a major development in 2017 to make the island 'an idyllic retreat' for guests. At the time of writing it is unclear whether regular landing trips will operate in the future and whether the island stamps will be on sale.\n\n#### Enter the Cathedral Cave on Tanera Beag\n\nTanera Beag is an uninhabited island set a kilometre west of its larger neighbour and sometimes used for grazing sheep. It is best known for a fine sea cave \u2013 Cathedral Cave, or _An Eaglais Mhor_ in the original Gaelic \u2013 in its south-western cliffs. This is often visited by keen kayakers as well as the boat trips which, if the weather permits, take visitors right into its spectacular opening.\n\n## Isle Martin\n\nSouth-east of the Summer Isles, Isle Martin was the site of an early monastery, and its more fertile southern part was used for crofting until the 1960s. A new owner then began establishing the island as a nature reserve and gifted it to the RSPB in 1980 to be managed for conservation. Its location made it a difficult property and the charity gifted the island to a community trust run by locals on the nearby mainland. It is possible to visit the island as a volunteer for the Isle Martin Trust in July and August, or to rent one of the old houses. There are plans to develop the facilities which will begin with improvements to the pontoon.\n\n**Tanera Mor,** with the CalMac ferry to Stornoway, and Stac Pollaidh beyond\n\n## Handa\n\nSet off the coast of Sutherland near Scourie, Handa is a gem. It lost its indigenous population following the potato famine in 1847, and today it's a nature reserve in the care of the Scottish Wildlife Trust, renowned for its seabirds. Its landscape has remarkable variety for its size, from a perfect sandy beach in the south to dramatic cliffs around its northern coastline.\n\nThere's a regular passenger ferry service that runs through the summer season \u2013 except on Sundays \u2013 from the hamlet of Tarbet.\n\n#### See the Great Stack\n\nThere's a superb marked circular walk around Handa which is simply unmissable. The highlight is the spectacular northern coast, where the Great Stack of Handa stands detached just offshore. The stack is home to a colony of puffins. Handa once had a large population of rats which decimated its birdlife, until the rodents were eradicated by the Wildlife Trust back in 1997, but most puffins still prefer the safety of the stack. Incredibly, the top of the stack was reached back in the nineteenth century by a group of lads from Lewis who traversed across to it hand-over-hand in what is one of the first recorded instances of climbing for sport.\n\n#### Get dive-bombed by an arctic skua\n\nEvery spring a colony of these spectacular birds come to Handa to nest, and if you visit at the right time then getting attacked by them is one island experience you are unlikely to be able to avoid! These pirates of the seas get their food by aggressively harassing other seabirds, and they are not afraid to have a go at human visitors too when they feel you are too close to their nests. The species is actually red-listed and in serious decline, and short of heading to Orkney or Shetland, this is your best chance to see them.\n\n## Rabbit Islands and Eilean nan R\u00f2n\n\nThere are surprisingly few significant islands off Scotland's northern coastline, west of Orkney. The Rabbit Islands out in Tongue Bay are linked to the mainland at the lowest of tides, and are fringed with sandy beaches. North-east of them is the larger Eilean nan R\u00f2n \u2013 the island of the seals, very well-named as around 350 pups are born here each year. The island once supported a human population too, until the last locals were evacuated in 1931. Closer to the mainland is Neave or Coomb Island which once had a monastery dedicated to St Columba but no trace of this now remains. None of these islands have any regular boat access.\n\n**Handa,** ferry landing on the beach\n\n**Handa,** the Great Stack\n\n**Handa,** Arctic skua\n\n**Handa,** clifftop walking\nKnown to Gaelic-speaking locals as _Na h-Eileanan Siar_ , 'the Western Isles', this great island chain is a place apart. Stretching from the Butt of Lewis in the north to Barra and its neighbours in the south, the Outer Hebrides have a character all their own. There's something of everything here, from the great mountains of Harris and North Uist to as fine an array of sandy beaches as you'll find anywhere in the world; from a harsh history of forced clearances to today's culture, rich in music and with the Gaelic language thriving. Many of the larger islands are now connected by causeways, with a few gaps served by inter-island ferries.\n\n# [THE  \nOUTER  \nHEBRIDES](9781912560318_tableofcontents.html)\n\n**North Uist,** Phobuil Fhin\n\n**Berneray,** West beach\n\n## Overview map part 1\n\n## Lewis\n\nThe most intriguing thing about the Isle of Lewis (Eilean Leodhais) is that it isn't an individual island at all. Its conjoined twin, the Isle of Harris, comprises the southernmost third of the land mass, divided by rocky mountains from Lewis in the north. Lewis has the largest population in the Hebrides and contains the administrative capital of the Western Isles (or Outer Hebrides), Stornoway.\n\nThe main ferry route to Lewis plies between Ullapool and Stornoway. Taking just under three hours, the service runs twice a day, with extra sailings during peak summer times and reducing to one sailing on winter Sundays. There is also the option of taking the ferry from Uig on Skye to Tarbet in Harris and continuing by car, bus or bicycle on to Lewis. Ferry operator CalMac also sells a Hopscotch ticket which allows numerous combined journeys within the Outer Hebrides on one ticket. All of these ferries take vehicles. Air travel has increased in recent years with regular direct flights to Stornoway from Glasgow, Inverness, Edinburgh and Manchester. Loganair is the main operator.\n\nLewis has all major services and a good mix of accommodation options. However, as most of the settlements are on the coast with major services centred in and around Stornoway, do bear in mind that in remote places the nearest shop or petrol station can be a long way away. Note that most services are closed on Sundays, including the big supermarket in Stornoway, so you may need to plan ahead. However things are changing fast and it's no longer the case that tourists go hungry on the sabbath as many more cafes, hotels and restaurants open their doors.\n\n#### See the Butt\n\nKeep heading north and you will eventually reach the most northerly point on the island, the Butt of Lewis. Topped by an unusual brick-built lighthouse, this spot gained a place in the _Guinness Book of Records_ for being the windiest place in the UK. It's certainly always pretty breezy, but on stormy days the waves crashing against the high cliffs and sea stacks become truly spectacular. If the elements allow, a dramatic circular walk leads along the coast to the stunning sands of nearby Eoropie beach, passing a natural arch on the way. Behind the dunes lies one of the largest and best equipped play parks in Scotland \u2013 be warned it can be hard to prise children of all ages away.\n\n#### Take the peat road\n\nThe Pentland road (Rathad a' Phentland) stretches across the wild open moors between Stornoway and Carloway in the west. Originally planned as a railway which it was hoped would hasten the transport of fish from the fishing station at Carloway on towards markets on the mainland, the road was completed in 1921. Driving, cycling or running across this seemingly desolate landscape reveals a land carved by local hands for generations. The deep peat cuttings on both sides of the road, many of which are still worked today, are the scars where peat has been hefted from the sodden ground. This was traditionally a communal effort, with peats being cut in late spring and left to dry on the ground for a month or so before being piled on to carefully constructed stacks usually adjacent to the house and in past times often rivalling the size of the house itself. Peat burns fairly cool so a household could easily get through 1,500 peats in a winter. Nowadays, less backbreaking forms of heating are available, but many locals still have the rights to cut peats from a personally allocated peat bank, and sales of the tairsgear, a traditional peat cutting tool, have risen recently as more people use this free, if labour-intensive, form of fuel. While the peat road is used as a shortcut by some locals, it can feel utterly deserted and desolate \u2013 especially with a storm brewing. A good place to recall stories of ancient bog burials, or as the setting for the latest of Peter May's Lewis-based tartannoir novels, but not a place to break down. The views are best when heading west, but if cycling the headwinds can be cruel and facing east is the better option.\n\n#### Stand amidst the stones at Callanish\n\nVisit the windswept site at Callanish at sunset or early morning and watch the light change on these enormous prehistoric standing stones. Five rows of stones form a large cross shape, and near the centre of the arrangement stands a massive monolith almost five metres high. The stones are thought to date from between 2900 and 2600 BC, with a later chambered cairn lying in their midst. While some stones line up with various phases of the moon, the true purpose of the site remains unknown, although local folklore explains the stones are the petrified remains of giants who refused to convert to Christianity. There's a visitor centre and several smaller stone circles nearby.\n\n#### Cross the Bridge to Nowhere\n\nThis curious, well-constructed bridge was once part of an ambitious plan by the island's one-time owner, Lord Leverhulme, to build a road up the east coast of Lewis. The bridge lies just north of Tolsta near a spectacular beach, and is all that remains of the grand plans for a road all the way to Ness. The road, now just a rough track, peters out about a mile further on with the rest of the route a tough walk over relentless bog and dramatic coastal ravines and clifftops. The bridge features in Peter May's thriller _The Chessmen_ as the scene of a teenage scooter race.\n\nLeverhulme owned Lewis and Harris between 1918 and 1923. Having made his fortune in soap (the company eventually became the global giant Unilever), the English businessman turned his attention to projects aimed at modernising and industrialising this outpost of the British Isles. Many of his projects proved overly ambitious or lacked much local support; the Bridge to Nowhere provides a metaphor to folly.\n\n#### Retreat to Dun Carloway broch\n\nExplore the double-walled tower that would once have provided a defensive refuge for locals during Norse raids. Built in the first century, Dun Carloway is a fine example of a broch, a round and heavily fortified structure unique to Scotland. This impressive ruin sits alongside an underground visitor centre which can be used as the starting point for a rugged moorland and lochans circular walk.\n\n#### Na Gearrannan blackhouse village and the west side\n\nThe best of the west coast scenery is revealed to those who venture on foot. A challenging nineteen-kilometre linear hike from Bragar takes in natural arches, sea stacks and sandy coves and as it mirrors a bus route it's possible to cut this linear walk short at a number of places. The cliffs are perfect for watching seabirds as well as keeping an eye out for passing sea creatures, including dolphins, porpoises, whales and \u2013 of course \u2013 curious seals. The added bonus is that the hike ends at the atmospheric Na Gearrannan blackhouse village, a restored thatched settlement where, in addition to visiting a museum, you can stay overnight as some of the cottages provide self-catering and hostel accommodation.\n\n**Lewis,** lighthouse at the Butt\n\n**Lewis,** peat stacks\n\n**Lewis,** Callanish stone circle\n\n**Lewis,** Dun Carloway broch\n\n**Lewis,** Bridge to Nowhere\n\n**Lewis,** Na Gearrannan blackhouse village\n\n**Lewis,** cleared village of Stiomrabhaigh\n\n**Lewis,** west side coast walk\n\n**Lewis,** Uig Sands\n\n**Lewis,** heading towards Mealaisbhal\n\n**Lewis,** Mealaisbhal summit view\n\n#### Enjoy a well-earned strupag\n\nAround half the 27,000 people living in the Outer Hebrides can speak Gaelic and you will encounter the Celtic language everywhere \u2013 road signs, menus, place names, songs and in overheard conversations on the bus or in the cafe. While there's no necessity to learn any Gaelic to visit this bilingual outpost, it's fun to pick up a few words to help understand the names on the map and local names for the wildlife. Local ceilidhs will often include Gaelic singing \u2013 keep an eye out for Feis events or the annual HebCelt Festival. There are a number of leaflets and websites that can help, but chance encounters with native speakers, maybe over a _strupag_ \u2013 or cuppa \u2013 in your B&B, can be more illuminating. _Sl\u00e0inte!_\n\n#### Dig in at Uig sands\n\nThese fabulous sands are where the Lewis chessmen were unearthed in 1831 by a local crofter. Carved from walrus ivory in the twelfth century, they are likely to be Norse, this part of Scotland being under Norwegian rule at that time. The pieces are incredibly lifelike, many with expressions we now associate with boredom, madness and grumpiness. Experts believe the ninety-three-piece hoard may actually be made up from five different chess sets, but this is a place to abandon all thought of treasure hunting to instead relax on Lewis's most spectacular beach.\n\n#### Explore a cleared village\n\nThe walk over rough moorland to Stiomrabhaigh from the remote settlement of Orasaigh may convince you that no one could ever have lived in this forbidding environment. However a quick look around the location high above the lochside reveals the remains of sturdy stone-built dwellings, the telltale ridges of lazy beds, where potatoes and barley would have been grown, the near landscape green against the brown, heather-clad hillside hinting at the cultivation and animal husbandry of the past. In fact, eighty-one people lived in Stiomrabhaigh in sixteen houses in 1851. Eight years later the whole village had been cleared by the landowner to make way for deer. Later the settlement was inhabited again before finally being abandoned in the 1940s. More recently, much of this area, Pairc, has been purchased by the local community who are now in charge of their own land.\n\n#### Climb Mealaisbhal\n\nHiking to the highest point on Lewis is worth it for the journey to the start alone. Sitting proud of the other Uig hills on the far west of the island, Mealaisbhal has to be sought out. The journey passes the sandy beaches of Uig and Mangersta, continuing through scattered crofting townships well beyond the tourist trail. The start from Breanais is unprepossessing \u2013 heading directly towards the looming hill on an old peat-cutting track which soon deteriorates into a bog. Reaching the rock-strewn slopes of the hill is a relief and the climb gradually rewards with ever-expanding views. From the 574-metre summit the Uig sands, surrounding mountains and watery landscape lie beneath. Expect to be up and down in around four hours. Hardened hillwalkers keen on rocky, pathless scrambling can climb Mealaisbhal as part of a very tough circuit of the Uig hills.\n\n#### Attend a Gaelic psalm service\n\nLewis and Harris have a very high level of church attendance \u2013 and sabbath observance \u2013 compared to the Scottish mainland, and while these traditions are changing fast, Sunday is still a quiet day with very few shops open. The Free Church of Scotland is the main church here, followed by the Church of Scotland and the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland. Many will hold a Gaelic service in the morning and an English service in the evening, and unaccompanied Gaelic psalm singing is a unique and remarkable experience. Visitors are welcome to attend services \u2013 community noticeboards will often give the times \u2013 although you should ask locally what is required in the way of dress code as smart clothes and hats are still expected at many churches.\n\n#### Shuck a scallop\n\nSampling local, fresh seafood is a must during any visit to the Outer Hebrides. Much of the catch makes its way to mainland Europe and with restaurants far flung in this remote community it's not always easy to source despite the number of creel pots and tiny fishing boats seen around the coast. Luckily the Scallop Shack on Uig pier provides a steady stream of ultra-fresh scallops, mussels and oysters prepared for you to take away and cook. Open all year, the shack also has a cafe serving lunches and takeaways in the summer months \u2013 dig in!\n\n## Eilean Chaluim Cille\n\nOne of at least three Scottish islands bearing this name \u2013 which means 'the isle of St Columba' \u2013 this one is a tidal isle at the entrance to Loch Erisort on Lewis and is best reached from Cromor in South Lochs.\n\n#### Discover the ruins of St Columba's Church\n\nCheck the tide times as the causeway to Eilean Chaluim Cille is only crossable for a couple of hours either side of low tide and make sure you leave plenty of time to complete the two-kilometre each way walk from Cromor. Start by taking the track towards the island, passing a number of houses before crossing the causeway, often slippery with seaweed. Once on the green and fertile island bear left to visit the remains of the ancient monastery and church. It is thought that St Columba's followers first built a church on this site around AD 800. The site certainly retains a tranquil and spiritual atmosphere to this day, even though your only companions on this now uninhabited island are likely to be sheep.\n\n## Great Bernera\n\nFour thousand people turned up to walk across to Great Bernera when the bridge was opened in 1953. Known as _Be\u00e0rnaraigh M\u00f2r_ in Gaelic, the island is often referred to simply Bernera or Be\u00e0rnaraigh, and the fact that a bridge was built at all was testament to the spirit of the inhabitants who had threatened to take matters into their own hands with a plan to blow up the cliffs to form a causeway. Today's easy access means the island has a sustainable population and a future to match its long history of habitation dating back to Viking times.\n\n#### Visit the Bostadh roundhouse\n\nIn addition to the large standing stone and ancient broch that greet you as you come over the bridge, a large Iron Age settlement lies preserved at the spectacular beach at Bostadh. Uncovered by a storm and since reburied, a replica roundhouse has been built nearby. It can be visited from a nearby parking spot or as part of a half-day (eleven-kilometre) circular walk from Breacleit. It's easy to imagine yourself back in Pictish times as you descend towards the sea and eventually open the door of the thatched building to explore inside.\n\n## Pabbay (Loch Roag)\n\nActually a linked pair of small islands (Pabaigh Mor and Pabaigh Beag) in Loch Roag, Pabbay has a starring role in _The Chessmen_ , one of the books in the Peter May's Lewis trilogy, when a boat chase ends in tragedy in one of the island's caves on the day of the Uig Gala. The gala is a real event taking place each July on Reef beach (Traigh na Beirghe) on Lewis and boat trips often run out to Pabbay during the day \u2013 otherwise Seatrek can organise a trip.\n\n**Great Bernera,** Bostadh roundhouse\n\n**Harris,** approaching An Cliseam on the horseshoe\n\n**Harris,** tweed\n\n**Harris,** An Cliseam summit\n\n**Harris,** Huisinis beach\n\n**Harris,** Rodel church\n\n**Harris,** Sheela-na-gig at Rodel\n\n## Harris\n\nHarris is Lewis's rough and ready southern sibling \u2013 all mountains, wild bog and vast sandy beaches. While technically not an island in its own right as it's part of the same landmass as Lewis, it is always referred to as the Isle of Harris and has its own distinct geography and culture \u2013 and deserves bagging rights of its own. Tarbert, situated at the narrow waist which almost divides Harris in two, is the main centre and this is where the CalMac ferry from Skye docks. There is a hotel, shops and a school here. A recent tourist boom across the Outer Hebrides has increased the accommodation options across the island, but it's always advisable to book in advance in the summer months. A fairly fast road links Tarbert with Lewis to the north, while the ferry on to Berneray leaves from Leverburgh in the south.\n\n#### Climb An Cliseam\n\nThe Harris hills are rough and unforgiving but the ascent of An Cliseam (Clisham) \u2013 the highest in the Outer Hebrides \u2013 is rewarded with stunning views over mountains and endless seas. The 799-metre-high summit is not so far from the road, yet it isn't obtained easily \u2013 the most direct route climbs relentlessly across boggy then rocky ground from the A859 and for a fit walker it's possible to get up and down in under four hours. A much more satisfying route, known as the Clisham horseshoe, makes a day-long circuit by approaching via the ridges of Mulla-Fo-Thuath and Mulla-Fo-Dheas. With some scrambling in places, it's regarded as a Hebridean hillwalking classic and definitely not one to miss if you have the necessary skills and experience.\n\n#### Look out for the Orb\n\nSelf-sufficient Harris folk have traditionally spun wool from their sheep and woven it into cloth, using dyes from local plants and lichens and urine to 'fix' the colour (many croft houses would have had a large pisspot outside to collect this valuable asset). After spinning, the cloth would be created on a loom and then the fabric 'waulked' \u2013 or finished \u2013 by repeatedly soaking and thumping it rhythmically, often by a group of women singing traditional Gaelic 'waulking' songs to keep time. Today, Harris Tweed is still produced by hand and it is world-famous \u2013 and protected by the Orb trademark. Look out for signs to modern-day weaving sheds where the production techniques have changed little over the years; many will have lengths of cloth for sale and often finished products in this iconic fabric.\n\n#### Huisinis beach hunt\n\nQuite possibly the most scenic drive in the Outer Hebrides, the last few miles of single-track B887 from near Tarbert provide stunning views across Loch a Siar to the island of Taransay. The sands at Huisinis (Hushinish) are the main draw, and while this pristine white strand is often completely deserted, there are even more isolated and pristine beaches just waiting to be discovered just out of view. Follow a rough path north from the parking area eventually walking under the imposing flank of Sr\u00f2n nam Fiadh and alongside Loch na Cleabhaig, passing a lonely cottage before reaching the sandy beach at Crabhadail.\n\n#### Gawp at the Sheela-na-gig at Rodel church\n\nFound on religious buildings throughout Europe, Sheela-na-gigs are stone-carved female figures pointing to or pulling open their vulvas. It is thought they served the same purpose as grotesques or gargoyles to ward off evil spirits, but the immodesty of the Sheela-na-gig suggests the possible survival of a pagan goddess into Christian times, a fertility symbol or even a warning against the dangers of lust. Make your own mind up as you search out the walls of beautiful and ancient St Clement's church in Rodel for this fine example.\n\n#### Cycle the golden road\n\nSo called because of the extremely high cost of construction, the 'golden road' runs down the rocky lunar landscape of the east side of Harris from Tarbet to Leverburgh. The project was government funded, partly to provide children with access to schools. The route links a number of tiny coastal settlements on the rough heather and rock moonscape that contrasts so vividly with the sandy coastal strip on the west. Today this quiet switchback road is a cyclist's dream, passing numerous tidal inlets with the chance to get close to otters and eagles. As always in the Outer Hebrides, the weather will decide how arduous the twisty-turny, uppy-downy road will feel from the saddle.\n\n#### Claim your own stretch of perfection\n\nThe west coast of Harris is brimming with spectacular golden sandy beaches. The huge expanse of Luskentyre is many people's pick as the finest in all the Hebrides, and with its backdrop of Harris mountains it is spectacular. If you have the time, however, why not seek out your own strand and make your claim? The A859 snakes down the island's west side and is dotted with magnificent beaches, often backed by colourful machair or dunes. Leave no trace and these often deserted sands can be yours for the day \u2013 check out the shoreline for otter prints and scan the waves for birds or dolphins.\n\n**Harris,** Traigh Iar\n\n**Harris,** the Golden Road\n\n## Scalpay\n\nJoined to Harris by an elegant bridge which opened in 1997, Scalpay is one of a growing number of Scottish islands owned by its residents, in this case thanks to the previous owner who gifted the island to the community. Blessed by two great natural harbours, Scalpay has traditionally been an island of fishermen, with an equally thriving female-driven knitting industry. In recent decades fishing has declined in importance and the replacement of the ferry by the bridge has seen more people move to the island, making it easier to commute to Tarbert or elsewhere. Approximately 300 people currently live on the island, many of them in or around North Harbour (An Acairsaid a Tuath). The interior is rugged and dotted with lochans. Scalpay has a bed and breakfast, a number of self-catering options and two cafes.\n\n#### Visit the first lighthouse in these isles\n\nThe first lighthouse to be built on the Outer Hebrides, Eilean Glas stands at the far south-east corner of Scalpay. You can still see the stump of the original lighthouse, built in 1789 but replaced less than forty years later by the red-and-white-striped Stevenson tower that stands today. You can visit it as part of a circular ten-kilometre hike around Scalpay, following rough waymarkers and exploring moorland lochans as well the island's highest point with views to Skye on a clear day.\n\n#### Tickle your taste buds at the North Harbour Bistro and Tearoom\n\nWith so much fine seafood being caught by fishermen from this island it would be shame to leave without sampling some of it. This friendly bistro and tearoom is the place to do it. In addition to seafood, the imaginative cooking \u2013 think _Masterchef_ final without the presenters' gurning \u2013 really showcases the local produce. Booking is essential for evenings, but they also rustle up a mean soup and scone at lunchtime.\n\n## Taransay\n\nTaransay is best known for its starring role in the early reality TV show _Castaway 2000_ when thirty-six people were tasked with building a community on this small island just three kilometres off the Harris coast. Owned by the Borve Lodge Estate, it is possible to visit by kayak or private charter; Seatrek, based on Lewis, occasionally runs trips here.\n\n**Harris,** Luskentyre and Taransay\n\nThe island once supported a number of crofters in three settlements but the last family left in 1974. Since then there have been no permanent residents except a herd of red deer, large bird populations and sheep grazed here. In addition to the more modern properties you can still see the remains of two ancient burial chapels at Paible. The island is almost split in two, a narrow strip of land joining the two sections both of which have a notable small hill and a number of sandy bays backed by machair awash with flowers in early summer.\n\n## Overview map part 2\n\n## Scarp\n\nThe number of buildings still standing on Scarp is testament to the thriving community that once lived here. Lying just off the west coast of Harris and only a short distance from Huisinis, Scarp has been uninhabited since 1971; the maintained houses are now used as summer holiday homes. The narrow strait was the site of a postal experiment in 1943 when German inventor Gerhard Zucker used rockets to deliver mail over the sea to the island. As the singed remains of letters rained down, it became apparent this was not a permanent replacement for the local waterborne postie. Lacking a rocket launcher, the only way to reach Scarp today is by boat or kayak.\n\n## Pabbay\n\nA few kilometres west of Leverburgh on Harris, Pabbay is a low-lying green island with some amazing sandy beaches. So fertile it became known as the 'granary of Harris', it was once home to over 300 people before being cleared to make way for sheep by 1846. It is now uninhabited. Pabbay residents were renowned as skilled illicit distillers, putting their ample barley crops to good use and working alongside the ferrymen on Bernera who would hoist a warning flag if they had excisemen on board so as to give time for evidence to be hidden. However, a successful raid provided evidence then used by the landlord's factor as the basis for the later evictions, eventually leaving only one shepherd and family on the island. The ruins of houses can still be seen amidst the grazing sheep and deer. It is possible to charter a boat from Seatrek on Lewis.\n\n## Flannan Isles\n\nThis small group of islands \u2013 also known as the Seven Hunters \u2013 lies thirty-four kilometres north-west of Gallan Head on the Lewis coast. Visits are only possible through private charters, but there is no sheltered anchorage for yachts.\n\nThe largest island, Eilean M\u00f2r, is home to the Flannan Isles lighthouse, itself the setting for an enduring mystery. Just before Christmas 1900 the three lighthouse keepers seemingly vanished off the face of the earth with no obvious explanation. The disappearance spawned a cottage industry in theories including abduction by pirates, being eaten by seabirds or a cabin-fever quarrel that got out of hand. More recent historians suggest that stormy seas and an accident were most likely to blame, but no remains have ever been recovered. The lighthouse was automated in 1971 which is when the last residents left.\n\n## St Kilda Archipelago\n\nScotland's _Ultima Thule_ , St Kilda is at the top of many island baggers' wish lists, with the long, long journey west to the isolated island group over eighty kilometres west of Harris becoming something of a pilgrimage.\n\n**St Kilda (Hirta),** Boreray, from Conachair\n\n**St Kilda (Hirta),** looking over Village Bay from Conachair\n\n**St Kilda,** Stac Lee, Boreray\n\n**Left** and **Right:** **St Kilda (Hirta),** the houses of Village Bay\n\nThere are now many day trips to the islands, most of which allow between four and five hours ashore on the largest island, Hirta, together with a cruise around Boreray and its great stacks. The fastest crossing from Leverburgh on Harris takes around two hours each way, but many of the boats are slower and actual journey times depend on the weather and any stops for wildlife viewing. Go to St Kilda operates trips from Stein on Skye.\n\nAll trips to St Kilda are prone to cancellation due to poor weather so it is best to be flexible with your plans. Some operators will arrange longer trips allowing stays at the basic campsite at Village Bay which is run by the custodians of St Kilda, the National Trust for Scotland. It is also possible to spend a week or longer as a volunteer with the Trust undertaking conservation work.\n\n#### Top out on Hirta\n\nOn a clear day, climbing to the highest point of the archipelago is a fantastic way to appreciate the isolation of St Kilda, experiencing the immensity of its cliffs and imagining the hardships of scratching a living from them.\n\nOnce ashore, head right from the pier, skirting round the army base buildings and aiming uphill, passing a number of stone-built cleits or shelters used by the St Kildans to store peats, eggs and other foodstuffs. Aim for The Gap where suddenly the climb gives way to a cliff plunging 150 metres vertically to the sea. The residents of St Kilda were skilled climbers who used these cliffs to catch seabirds for food and oil and also to collect eggs. From The Gap continue to the left, heading up steep ground populated with often angry nesting bonxies (great skuas) in the summer months, to eventually reach the summit of Conachair (430 metres). The stone trig point teeters frighteningly close to the sheer cliff edge \u2013 Conachair has the highest sea cliff in all Britain \u2013 and the view out to Boreray and its stacks is unique.\n\nA 200-metre detour leads to a second trig point which gives an aerial view of Village Bay and the neat row of houses occupied until the island was evacuated in 1930. The quickest descent is to take the track down from the Ministry of Defence station to leave enough time to explore the poignant remains of the village, museum, church and schoolroom.\n\n#### Join the St Kilda parliament\n\nEvery day the men of St Kilda would line the main street for their parliament meeting where the day's activities would be decided on and any matters of discord in the community resolved \u2013 presumably while the women got on with work. Everyone was free to speak and there was no one in charge \u2013 decisions had to be agreed upon. Various visitors from Martin Martin in 1697 onwards, including a steady stream of intrepid 'tourists' in Victorian times, recorded that there were few long-term divisions in the St Kildan society and that no serious crimes had been committed.\n\nThe last residents were evacuated from St Kilda in 1930 at their own request, the population having been ravaged by a combination of disease and emigration. The last person to be born on St Kilda died in 2016 although descendants still visit. Today you can wander into many of the ruined houses \u2013 look out for the pebbles placed near the fireplaces that record the names of the last inhabitants.\n\n#### Spot the St Kilda wren\n\nThe island group's isolation from the rest of Scotland means it has become something of an evolutionary test case, a more northerly and considerably more bracing Gal\u00e1pagos. Keen-eyed island baggers may be lucky enough to spot the St Kilda wren, which has adapted to life on the island and is different enough from its mainland cousins to qualify as its own sub-species ( _Troglodytes troglodytes hirtensis_ to give it its Sunday name). While slightly larger than a normal wren, it is also greyer with more obvious stripy markings but is still hard to spot as it flits amongst the stones and cleits on the island. There's also a St Kilda mouse.\n\n#### See the great stacks of Boreray\n\nStac an Armin and Stac Lee project from the sea near the tiny island of Boreray like sharks' fins. Housing an unfathomable number of seabirds, the stacs present a whirling mass of feathers when viewed from the sea during the nesting season. The stacks are the highest in Britain, and both are Marilyns (hills with a relative drop of 150 metres all the way round), presenting perhaps the ultimate challenge to hill baggers. Getting ashore, let alone climbing up the guano-covered rock, is a very serious undertaking, and given the protected status of this National Nature Reserve is only permitted outside the bird nesting season.\n\nBoreray is the smallest Scottish island to have a summit over a thousand feet high \u2013 Mullach an Eilein, at 384 metres \u2013 and it appears as a great mountain rising sheer from the sea. Landing is difficult, yet incredibly there are prehistoric remains that suggest an early farming community survived here. In more modern times, eleven St Kildans were marooned on the island over winter in 1727 when a smallpox epidemic meant there was no one able to row over to rescue the group which had been left on Boreray to undertake a fowling trip.\n\n**St Kilda,** Boreray\n\nCruising round the stacks and Boreray is an incredible experience, visiting these fearsome cliffs up close and marvelling at the St Kildans who regularly climbed the stacks hunting fulmar, gannets and other seabirds, and collecting eggs.\n\n## Rockall\n\nThis tiny block of granite projecting from the open Atlantic lies over 300 kilometres further west even than St Kilda. It was first claimed by the UK in 1955 when two marines and a naturalist raised a flag on the rock and affixed a plaque \u2013 though this has long gone. It became part of Scotland in 1972, although Ireland has never recognised the UK's claim.\n\nFewer than twenty people have ever set foot on Rockall, and it remains a magnet for eccentric adventurers and the most extreme of island baggers. Explorer Nick Hancock managed to survive forty-three days on it in 2014, breaking the previous solo record of forty days set by a former member of the SAS in 1985.\n\nIt is hard to imagine a more forbidding place than this bare rock out of all sight of any other land. For most island baggers it remains forever just a dream \u2013 or perhaps a nightmare.\n\n## North Rona\n\nActually just named Rona, it is often referred to as North Rona to distinguish this isolated island from the Rona off the coast of Skye. Lying seventy-seven kilometres north of the Butt of Lewis it is seriously remote, the perfect spot for the medieval hermits who came to live here, following in the footsteps of St Ronan who is thought to have stayed in the eighth century. Life would certainly have been tough, and there is evidence that at one point in the seventeenth century the population died out from a combination of starvation and the plague.\n\nShepherds clung on as residents until 1844 when the owner made an offer of the island for use as penal colony. This was declined by the government, and the island has remained uninhabited ever since. It is possible to make the long journey by chartering a boat, and Seatrek will sometimes run trips although landing can never be guaranteed. Exploring the grassy island on foot is relatively easy once ashore and the remains of settlements and the chapel are easy to make out.\n\n## Sula Sgeir\n\n_Sula_ is the Norse word for gannet and it is this elegant seabird that dominates and makes its home on the tiny rocky island of Sula Sgeir, sixty-four kilometres north of the Butt of Lewis. For centuries men from Ness have journeyed out to this remote rock to hunt the juvenile gannets, or guga, for their meat and feathers. This controversial tradition carries on today under a special licence issued by the Scottish Government. The resulting guga meat is highly prized by those who have acquired the taste \u2013 heavily salted, it is best accompanied by a large glass of milk. As the hunt is limited to 2,000 birds, the guga meat is rationed and sold on the quayside when the annual hunt boat returns. It is possible to visit Sula Sgeir by chartered boat, often in combination with a longer trip to North Rona. If a visit is not possible, watching the fascinating 2011 documentary _The Guga Hunters of Ness_ will give you an insight into the local tradition as well as many views of the forbidding island scenery.\n\n## Shiant Islands\n\nThe Shiants are a group of small islands renowned for their seabirds, and lie approximately seven kilometres from the Lewis coast in the Minch, the waters between Skye and the Outer Hebrides. Geologically a continuation of the Trotternish Ridge on Skye, the rock is volcanic and forms some impressively high sea cliffs providing a natural haven for seabirds, particularly puffins and razorbills as well as Manx shearwaters and European storm petrels.\n\nGetting to the Shiants usually involves a private charter from either Skye or Lewis unless you have your own boat or kayak. There is a bothy on the island which is available for visitors to stay in with the arrangement of the owner, Tom Nicolson. Tom's father, Adam, wrote a fine book about the islands called _Sea Room_ , as well as a more recent discussion about the future of our seabirds and oceans, _The Seabird's Cry_.  \n_**www.shiantisles.net**_\n\n## Berneray\n\nThe only inhabited island in the Sound of Harris, Berneray is linked to North Uist via a causeway which was opened in 1999, and to Leverburgh on Harris by a CalMac ferry. Berneray supports a population of around 130, most involved in crofting. There is a shop, cafe and post office, as well as a community centre, two hostels and a number of bed and breakfast and self-catering options. In the summer, the old Nurses Cottage houses displays on history, ancestry, crofting and wildlife, as well as information about facilities on the island \u2013 follow the east road to find it.\n\n**Berneray,** hostel\n\n#### Stay in a blackhouse\n\nThe picturesque hostel on Berneray is run by the Hebrides-based Gatliff Hebridean Hostels Trust. Converted from a traditional blackhouse, it's actually painted white. _Dubh_ is Gaelic for black and some say the name comes from the dark interior and peat, but it could also be a corruption from _tughadh_ which means 'thatched', and used to differentiate from the more modern harled 'white houses' that often replaced the blackhouses. These dwellings would have housed the family at one end and their livestock partitioned off at the other, providing a source of warmth in the winter. The hostel sits right on the beach and is a wonderful place to swap island tales with other travellers.\n\n#### Watch for otters from the causeway\n\nThe first thing to notice as you approach the causeway to Berneray is the _Caution Otters Crossing_ road sign. When the causeway was built in the late 1990s several underwater otter runs were incorporated in the structure to allow the otters to pass through \u2013 but you still need to watch out for any on the road. Almost anywhere on the coast of Berneray is good for otter spotting, and they are most likely to be seen on a rising tide. Scan the water for the telltale V-shape created as they swim. They often come ashore to eat crab, butterfish or some other tasty prey, but are easy to lose amongst the kelp and rocks. Their footprints in the sand are also a giveaway as otters have five toes in comparison with a dog's four. Keep binoculars handy, and if you do fail to spot this elusive creature check out the otter sculpture on the roof of the thatched hostel.\n\n#### Climb Beinn Shleibhe\n\nMuch of Berneray is low-lying, fertile machair. For the best view climb to the trig point atop Beinn Shleibhe from where there are panoramic views over the whole island as well as nearby Pabbay and the mountains of Harris. Climbing this ninety-three-metre high point can easily be incorporated into a circular walk around Berneray which can also include the impressive Cladh Maolrithe standing stone.\n\n#### Visit the great West Beach\n\nNo visit to Berneray is complete without a frolic on the stunning sands of the five-kilometre-long West Beach \u2013 so good they were once used by the Thai tourist office to promote their own beaches. Start from the community hall and head out, passing some prehistoric remains including an ancient souterrain before crossing the machair and dunes to reach the beach.\n\n**Berneray,** causeway to North Uist\n\n**Berneray,** Beinn Sleibhe\n\n**North Uist,** Eaval\n\n**North Uist,** view from Eaval\n\n## North Uist\n\nA remarkable watery landscape of blue, green and purple, North Uist consists of peat moorland dotted with innumerable lochans and bog. In fact, over half the 'landmass' is covered with water, and the divide between salt and freshwater is frequently unclear.\n\nThe main settlement Lochmaddy is linked by CalMac vehicle ferry to Uig on Skye. North Uist is also linked by causeway to Berneray in the north (from where a ferry runs to Leverburgh on Harris), and to Benbecula via Grimsay in the south. Most of the shops and accommodation, which includes a hotel, is in Lochmaddy, as well as Taigh Chearsabhagh, a fine arts centre and museum. There are self-catering cottages to rent dotted around the island.\n\n#### See no Eaval\n\nAn ascent of Eaval is the perfect introduction to the watery landscape of North Uist. The bird's-eye view from the summit of this conical hill looks down on a maze of tiny lochans and larger sea lochs. The route starts from the end of the road heading along the south side of Loch Euphort. The often-wet approach soon runs alongside Loch Obasaraigh, crossing an outflow that can be impassable at the highest tides. There are good views to the cone-shaped Eaval and the climb soon begins in earnest, eventually reaching the trig point and shelter cairn marking the 347-metre summit; it boasts a unique view that will never be forgotten.\n\n#### Try peat-smoked salmon from the Hebridean Smokehouse\n\nThe Hebridean Smokehouse has been combining the flavours of salmon and peat smoke for almost thirty years. A truly locally produced food, the fish and shellfish all comes from the waters surrounding North Uist, while the peat is locally cut. As well as salmon, sea trout, scallops and other shellfish, the smokehouse also produces a salmon smoked using old whisky barrels and finished with a sprinkling of the water of life itself \u2013 try it with an oat cake and smear of soft crowdie cheese. The smokehouse can be found on the west side of the island at Clachan.  \n_**www.hebrideansmokehouse.com**_\n\n#### Meet Finn's people at North Uist's ancient sites\n\nThere are a number of ancient chambered cairns in the Uists but Barpa Langass is by far the most impressive. A massive pile of stones covers three chambers, thought to have been used for the burial of an important tribe rather than just a select few individuals. Although the narrow entrance can still be made out, recent collapses mean the structure is now too dangerous to enter. While here be sure to walk to the nearby and incredibly atmospheric Pobull Fhinn stone circle. Overlooking Loch Langais, the stones date back at least 3,000 years. The path from the cairn to the stone circle continues past the Langass Lodge Hotel from where it is possible to complete the circuit by heading back up to the main road and turning right.\n\n#### Listen for the corncrake's rasp at Balranald\n\nOften heard but rarely seen, the corncrake is a summer visitor to North Uist and the RSPB reserve at Balranald is one of the best places to try and spot this elusive bird. Related to the moorhen and only slightly bigger than a blackbird, the brown, slightly striped corncrake has bright brown wings and long legs and tends to hide in the nettles and flag iris that dot the crofts of North Uist. The RSPB runs evening walks where you are most likely to hear the bird's unmistakable rasping call or catch a glimpse. Even if you don't spot a corncrake, Balranald is a fantastic place to walk \u2013 follow marker cairns to the most westerly point, the Aird an Runair peninsula.\n\n**North Uist,** Hut of the Shadows\n\n**North Uist,** smoking salmon **Photo:** Hebridean Smokehouse\n\n**North Uist,** Sanctuary \u2013 on the Uist sculpture trail\n\n**North Uist,** beach at Balranald RSPB reserve\n\n#### The Uist Sculpture Trail\n\nSpend a day hunting for these seven sculptures dotted across the island. Commissioned by the Taigh Chearsabhagh museum and arts centre in Lochmaddy, all the artworks interact with the natural environment, including High Tide, Low Tide where the sea slowly draws salt from a dome situated on rocks in the intertidal zone of the shore. This piece and Mosaic Mackerel, a large fish sculpture incorporating mussel and other shells, are close to the arts centre, while the others, including an intriguing camera obscura called Hut of the Shadows, require a bit more exploring to find.\n\n#### Beachcomb at Clachan Sands\n\nTraigh Hornais ranks amongst the finest of the stunning sandy beaches in the Outer Hebrides. Backed by dunes, the sparkling turquoise waters look tropical on a sunny day \u2013 until you dip your toe in the bracing waves. Unless you're feeling very brave, leave the swimming to the dolphins, seals and the occasional otter that sometimes ride the waves. Access the beach on foot from the Hornais cemetery; bear left at the sands to pass a much older burial ground and eventually reach the headland at the end of the beach where there is a good view to the island of Orasaigh.\n\n## Vallay (Bh\u00e0laigh)\n\nNow uninhabited, this tiny tidal island is still farmed as well as being run as a nature reserve by the RSPB, but it was once home to over fifty people. The impressive ruins that dominate the island were once the very grand Vallay House, built in the early twentieth century by the industrialist and amateur archaeologist Erskine Beveridge. After Beveridge's death in 1920 the house was left to his son, but was later abandoned after he drowned in the waters here in 1944.\n\n#### Cross the tidal sands to the island (Bh\u00e0laigh)\n\nWith bare feet, a keen eye on the tide times and a sense of adventure, the hike over to Vallay is a fabulous experience. Start from Aird Glas just west of Malacleit on North Uist and leave enough time to cross to the far side of the island where there is a sandy beach and headland with the remains of an ancient chapel. Only undertake this at the start of low tide and in fine weather \u2013 the water rushes back in extremely quickly and there are deeper, dangerous channels, so leave plenty of time to return safely (and warm up your feet!).\n\n**Vallay,** crossing the tidal sands\n\n**Vallay,** ruins\n\n## Baleshare (Baile Sear)\n\nLinked to North Uist by a causeway since 1962, Baleshare is a low-lying island so flat it doesn't even warrant a contour line on the Ordnance Survey's Landranger map, rising to only twelve metres at its highest point. However it does boast a spectacular white sandy beach backed by dunes. The causeway has helped to preserve the crofting lifestyle here, with around fifty residents continuing a history of habitation stretching back to prehistoric times. Acting as a buffer protecting North Uist from the Atlantic, coastal erosion has eaten away at Baleshare over the centuries, and it is said that until a seventeenth-century storm it was possible at low tide to walk to the Monach Isles fourteen kilometres away.\n\n## Monach Isles\n\nThis group of islands, also known as Heisker ( _Heisgeir_ in Gaelic), lie west from the North Uist coast. The main three islands, Ceann Iar, Shivinish and Ceann Ear, are thought to have once been a single island but the coastal erosion that also took away the land bridge that until the seventeenth century linked the Monachs to Baleshare also separated these islands.\n\nLow-lying and once crofted by over a hundred inhabitants, the islands are now a National Nature Reserve famed for their flower-rich carpet of machair and one of the largest breeding colonies of grey seals in the world. There is a Stevenson lighthouse on the smaller island of Shillay. Getting to the Monachs usually requires your own boat or charter, though Lady Anne Boat Trips based on Grimsay sometimes offers day trips.\n\n## Grimsay\n\nGrimsay lies between North Uist and Benbecula, and has been crossed by a road and causeways between these two islands since 1960. Previously it had to be reached either by boat or a hazardous tidal ford.\n\n#### Learn a traditional craft\n\nGrimsay has long been a centre of traditional boatbuilding and there is a boatyard at Kallin. If you don't have the time to learn to craft an entire boat, check out the beautiful boat shed and nearby museum. If boatbuilding isn't your thing, why not master spinning at Uist Wool? Here you can learn about the entire process required to transform sheep's wool into stylish garments.\n\n## Ronay (R\u00f2naigh)\n\nLying to the east of Grimsay, privately owned Ronay is a rugged island of small, rounded, heather-clad peaks, with a complex, deeply indented coastline. There is a self-catering property available for weekly lets, although you will need to hire a boat to take you across \u2013 or kayak or sail there under your own steam. Cleared for sheep farming in the 1820s, the island once had a population of 180.\n\n**Left** and **Right:** **Bebencula,** Rueval summit\n\nGrey seal\n\nGrey seal pup\n\n**South Uist,** beach near Hallan\n\n## Benbecula (Beinn na Faoghla)\n\nLying between North Uist and South Uist, and with a name deriving from 'pennyland of the fords' in Gaelic, is Benbecula. Before the causeways which link these islands were built, it would have been necessary to ford the tidal sands between the land masses. Now, as well as the causeways which link to North Uist via Grimsay, and to South Uist, the island has its own airport with direct flights from Glasgow, Stornoway and Barra. The main settlement is Balivanich, which has shops, a post office, a cafe and a small hospital. The annual Eilean Dorcha Festival takes place on the island in July featuring an eclectic mix of traditional music, rock and pop, and even the occasional tribute band.\n\n#### Reveal the whole island from Rueval (Ruabhal)\n\nTop out on the diminutive summit of Rueval to get a true understanding of the watery moorland landscape of the Dark Island \u2013 An t-Eilean Dorcha \u2013 as Benbecula is sometimes known. From the island's highest point at 124 metres an expanse of loch and rock is spread out beneath you. On a clear day the jagged mountains of the Skye Cuillin can be made out across the Minch. It was this thirty-nine-kilometre stretch of water that Flora MacDonald rowed with Bonnie Prince Charlie during his escape after defeat at Culloden in 1746, getting blown ashore at Rosinish, seen to the east from Rueval's summit. The ascent starts from near a recycling centre on the A865 in the centre of the island, and it forms part of the Hebridean Way long-distance walk.\n\n#### Know your oats\n\nOatcakes are a Scottish institution and particularly popular in the Outer Hebrides. The three brothers of Macleans bakery have been producing the savoury biscuits here since 1987, and they are sold widely throughout Scotland. Check out the bakery shop in Uachdar and try one with local crowdie or smoked salmon \u2013 but, be warned: oatcakes are very addictive and go well with practically any topping!\n\n## Flodaigh (Fladda)\n\nOriginally a tidal island, Flodaigh is now linked to Benbecula by a causeway \u2013 though this island is a dead end. Its 145 hectares are crofted by a population of around ten, and stepping ashore can feel like stepping back in time by a generation.\n\n#### Sing with the seals\n\nIt's all about the seals that haul out on rocks and generally hang out in a large sheltered bay on the east of this small island. To reach the seals it's best to aim for low tide and follow a track on foot to the right after the causeway, heading through a couple of gates and following signs to reach the shore. While grey seals dominate here there are also signs of otters and the patient and keen-eyed may be rewarded with a sighting.\n\n## South Uist\n\nMore than 1,700 people \u2013 known as _Deasaich_ , or 'southerners' \u2013 live scattered around South Uist. Most of them reside in settlements along the flatter fertile strip of machair on the west which is lined by seemingly endless beaches. To the east is a complete contrast as the island rises to a rugged mountain range.\n\nSouth Uist is linked to Benbecula in the north \u2013 and from there on to North Uist \u2013 by a causeway, and also to Eriskay in the south. CalMac ferries run from the main settlement, Lochboisdale, to Mallaig and Oban on the mainland, as well as to the island of Barra. Lochboisdale was a major fishing port during the nineteenth-century herring boom and today has a hotel, a couple of shops, cafe and garage. Accommodation of all types is scattered across the length of South Uist.\n\n**South Uist,** Hecla and Beinn Corrodale, from Beinn Mhor\n\n**South Uist,** Beinn Mhor\n\n#### Fish finger food\n\nHot-smoked salmon is a unique taste that should not be missed during a visit to South Uist. Smoked in small batches in traditional hand-built kilns, the flaky salmon has a distinctive and delicious taste quite different from traditional cold-smoked salmon. Located in the north of the island, the Salar smokehouse overlooks the water and the pier where fishing boats tie up \u2013 a small shop means you'll be prepared for a true Hebridean picnic.  \n_**www.salarsmokehouse.co.uk**_\n\n#### Hang out at Howmore hostel\n\nThe Gatliff Hebridean Hostels Trust has converted one of this cluster of thatched blackhouses into a basic, atmospheric hostel. Sited on the machair only a stone's throw from the sea, the tiny building neighbours the remains of a thirteenth-century monastery. Sleeping sixteen in four dormitories, the friendly hostel is a great way to meet other travellers and is popular with those undertaking the Hebridean Way on foot or by bike.\n\n#### Raise the Saltire at Flora MacDonald's house\n\nFlora MacDonald was born nearby and was brought up at the spot marked by this ruin and memorial. While only the parts of the cottage walls remain, the large memorial erected by Clan MacDonald and the wide sweeping views make this an atmospheric pilgrimage to the Jacobite cause. Flora herself was rather a reluctant activist, persuaded by friends to aid the Stuart heir. She helped Bonnie Prince Charlie \u2013 dressed as her maid \u2013 escape to Skye from Uist in a rowing boat following his defeat at the Battle of Culloden in 1746, a feat later immortalised in the Skye Boat Song.\n\n**South Uist,** Howmore blackhouses\n\n**South Uist,** Salar hot-smoked salmon\n\n#### Climb Beinn Mhor\n\nThe ascent of South Uist's highest mountain is a serious hillwalking challenge requiring a full day and competent navigation skills. Start from the A865 just north of Loch Dobhrain and take the track used to access the peat cuttings heading directly for three distant mountains \u2013 once beyond this the going is rough and pathless. Beinn Mhor means 'big mountain', yet is actually only 620 metres above sea level. The summit is reached along a spectacular ridge and is blessed with fantastic views. Enthusiastic hillwalkers often combine the ascent with Hecla and Beinn Corradail to make a Hebridean classic.\n\n#### Play a round on Tom Morris's course at Askernish\n\nOriginally created in 1891 by the father of modern golf, Old Tom Morris, this 'lost' eighteen-hole course was brought back to life in 2008. Now you can experience traditional links golf with a round at Askernish Golf Club \u2013 look out for the corncrake on the club's logo. Ecological management techniques, including a ban on herbicides, have helped protect the fragile machair environment, and the continued use of the course for cattle and sheep grazing in the winter has earned the club the moniker 'the most natural golf course in the world'. Clubs and trolleys are available for hire.\n\n#### Take in a roundhouse at Cladh Hallan\n\nA short walk near Dalabrog brings you to the remains of three large early Bronze Age roundhouses. The sunken circles and remains of the stone walls can be clearly seen. It is thought people lived in these dwellings between 1100 BC and AD 200, making them rank amongst the longest inhabited prehistoric houses in the world. Several burials have been excavated here including a mummified man and woman. It is possible to make a longer circular walk by heading on to the spectacular sandy beach and returning via the machair.\n\n**South Uist,** pony at Loch Druidibeg\n\n**South Uist,** Cladh Hallan roundhouse\n\n#### Walk on water at Loch Druidibeg\n\nPaths including sections of boardwalk enable you to explore this watery landscape. A circular walk taking in four lochs and the contrasting sandy coastal machair gives the best chance of seeing the wide range of birdlife and the free-roaming ponies living here. Designated a National Nature Reserve, this rare habitat is now managed by local community organisation St\u00f2ras Uibhist, owners of a large part of the island following one of the first large-scale community buyouts of land in Scotland. St\u00f2ras Uibhist also owns Eriskay to the south, and parts of Benbecula.\n\n#### Bag a remote bothy at Uisinis\n\nConsidered one of the most remote bothies in Scotland, Uisinis is an open shelter for walkers, nestled against the mountain of Hecla behind and overlooking the sea. Maintained by the Mountain Bothies Association, this simple shelter, furnished with a stove, sleeping platform and a couple of chairs, provides a real get-away-from-it-all retreat. Take all your own gear \u2013 including fuel, unless you are going to take a chance on finding driftwood on the pebbly shore.\n\n#### Catch a mobile movie at the Screen Machine\n\nWith the nearest cinema in faraway Stornoway, a night at the movies in this part of the Outer Hebrides may feel unlikely. However, every ten weeks or so, the eighteen-wheeled truck that is the Screen Machine mobile cinema rocks up on South Uist and in many other places around the Highlands and Islands. The sides of the wagon slide out to reveal an eighty-seater cinema which shows the latest releases, although you do have to bring your own popcorn. Watch out for posters showing where it will be next, or book online: _**www.screenmachine.co.uk**_\n\n**Eriskay,** from the slopes of Beinn Sciathan\n\n## Eriskay\n\nLying offshore from South Uist but connected by a causeway, Eriskay is a real gem. Traditionally a crofting and fishing community, tourism now bolsters the economy although a number of fishing boats still run out of Acarseid Mh\u00f2r on the sheltered east side of the island. Just under 150 people live here, and there is a supermarket, cafe, pub which serves food, a bed and breakfast and a couple of self-catering cottages. Locals took control of the island when it was part of a larger community buyout by St\u00f2ras Uibhist in 2006.\n\nEriskay is linked to South Uist by a causeway, the last one to be built in the Outer Hebrides and opened in 2001. Since then the island has become the main CalMac vehicle ferry link connecting the Uists to Barra \u2013 a forty-minute journey south from Eriskay.\n\n#### Climb to the highest point for 360-degree views\n\nThe hike to the 186-metre summit of Ben Scrien (Beinn Sciathan) may be short but it's also very rough, pathless and steep. The reward is a fabulous all-round view of Eriskay and its neighbours. Although other walkers are rare, you are likely to encounter Eriskay ponies, a hardy breed endemic to the Hebrides with a thick waterproof coat \u2013 something you are also likely to find useful here.\n\n#### Sample Whisky Galore\n\nAm Politician is the place for a dram and a tale. Just offshore from here the _SS Politician_ floundered and ran aground in rough seas in 1941. Locals rushed out in boats to liberate, or rescue, the cargo which included a large number of whisky bottles, many of which were secreted away across the island. The episode was immortalised \u2013 and exaggerated \u2013 in Compton Mackenzie's _Whisky Galore_ , which was later made into a successful Ealing comedy (recently remade). Today you can see one of the original bottles, with some of its whisky still inside, behind the bar of Am Politician.\n\n#### Visit Bonnie Prince Charlie's beach\n\nThis stunning strip of white sand just north of the ferry terminal is the place where Bonnie Prince Charlie first set foot on Scottish soil. Arriving from France in July 1745 he received scant support initially from local clans, soon moving on to the mainland where he raised his standard at Glenfinnan and began the Jacobite rebellion. Today the beach is named Coilleag a'Phrionnsa, meaning the 'prince's cockleshell strand'; you'll often have it to yourself. Check out the sandy ground at the back of the beach for the low-growing white and pink flower, sea bindweed \u2013 the only place it is found in the Outer Hebrides. It is said that it grows here because seeds fell from the Young Pretender's pockets as he came ashore.\n\n**Eriskay,** Coilleag a'Phrionnsa\n\n## Barra\n\nOn a fine summer's day there are few islands that can compete with Barra for its sheer beauty, with steep hills, machair rich in wild flowers, and perfect beaches. Together with its neighbour Vatersay \u2013 to which it is linked by a causeway \u2013 it is home to just over a thousand people. Most of the facilities are centred around Castlebay, which has a shop, cafe\/bistro, hotels and a hostel. There's also a hotel by Halaman Bay. Tourism is now a major contributor to the island economy, although fishing and fish processing remain important, together with crofting.\n\nBarra can be reached by a long CalMac ferry ride from Oban on the mainland, or a shorter run from either Eriskay or Lochboisdale on South Uist. Regular flights from Glasgow touch down on the beach runaway, providing an unforgettable approach to the island. There is a good bus service which trundles around the circular main road on Barra and also across the causeway to Vatersay.\n\n**Barra,** Castlebay\n\n**Barra,** Castle Kisimul\n\n**Barra,** taking off from the cockle strand\n\n#### Look over the shoulder of Our Lady of the Sea\n\nBarra, like South Uist, is predominantly Catholic \u2013 a contrast to the strong Protestant tradition on Harris and Lewis at the opposite end of the island chain. The large white statue of Madonna and Child stands on the flanks of the island's highest peak, Heaval, and provides an aerial view of Castlebay directly below. Erected in 1954, the best way to reach it is to take the main island road north-east from Castlebay to a parking area at the shoulder of the hill. From here a rough path makes the extremely steep but grassy ascent. Having already climbed to the statue you may as well continue up the steep slopes to the summit of Heaval; the 360-degree views of the island and encircling ocean are awe-inspiring on a clear day. The steep slopes also play host to a gruelling annual hill race where competitors are free to take any route up and down.\n\n#### Take a boat to the castle\n\nIf arriving at Castlebay by ferry, Kisimul Castle is the first thing to catch your eye as the boat approaches the island. Perched on a tiny rocky skerry in the middle of the bay it couldn't have a better strategic position. A visit starts with a short boat trip before you step ashore to explore the stronghold of the chief of the MacNeil clan who ruled Barra. Built in the 1400s the castle has been restored and includes an impressive feasting hall, chapel and watchman's house. Don't miss the climb to the top of the three-storey tower for a unique view of Castlebay, backed by the steep slopes of Heaval.\n\n#### Complete the Barrathon\n\nBarra's half marathon takes place each June or July and follows the main road around the island which conveniently clocks in at exactly half-marathon distance. Heading clockwise from Castlebay, the runners are soon heading uphill on a course that quickly weeds out the serious club runners from the so-called 'fun' runners. The mix of undulating course and unpredictable, often windy weather means completing this run earns the respect of anyone on the Scottish running scene. Remember to keep enough stamina for the legendary amounts of fine homebaking provided by the locals, not to mention the post-race ceilidh which has been known to go on well into the wee hours.\n\n#### Spice up the seafood at Cafe Kisimul\n\nNamed for the castle it overlooks, this tiny cafe-cum-bistro on Castlebay's main street packs a hefty punch. Indian and Italian food is given a Barra-style makeover with the emphasis on incorporating as much local fish and seafood as possible. Check out the scallop pakoras or Barra lamb balti. _**www.cafekisimul.co.uk**_\n\n**Barra,** machair at Halaman Bay\n\n**Barra,** Our Lady of the Sea\n\n#### Cycle the roller-coaster road\n\nThe circuit of the island by bike makes for a perfect day out on two wheels. It may be short but be warned \u2013 there are very few flat sections! If time allows, detour to the most northerly point passing the beachside airport at Tr\u00e0igh Mh\u00f2r on the way. Compton Mackenzie \u2013 the author of _Whisky Galore_ and _The Monarch of the Glen_ \u2013 was a devoted islandphile. He lived for some time on Barra and campaigned to try and ensure the island economy and community was sustainable for the future. Stop off at the tranquil Eoligarry cemetery overlooking the Eriskay ferry jetty to pay your respects. Detouring south to explore the fabulous beaches on Vatersay is also worthwhile if you have anything left in your legs. Bike hire is available in Castlebay.\n\n#### Make a landing on the cockle strand\n\nWhile cruising past Kisimul Castle on the CalMac ferry is a pretty dramatic arrival, nothing can beat the adrenaline rush produced from a landing on the beach runway that serves as Barra's airport. Flight times are dependent on the tide and warning flags show the area that whelk collectors, tourists and seaweed-browsing sheep need to keep clear of. The terminal building may well be one of the least stressful airports in the world \u2013 going airside means walking round the back, and to approach the plane simply stroll over the beach. The cafe here is open to all.\n\n#### Picnic on Barra-dise beach\n\nThere's no shortage of stunning sandy beaches on Barra but Halaman Bay may just come top of the pile. Located near Tangasdale on the west coast of the island it is backed by flowering machair and dunes. Bike or bus the three kilometres from Castlebay, or take a longer hike around the coast to the site of an ancient fort at Dun Ban before returning to watch the waves from the pristine sands.\n\n## Vatersay\n\nLinked to Barra by a 200-metre causeway opened in 1991, Vatersay lays claim to being both the most southerly inhabited island in the Outer Hebrides and the most westerly inhabited place in Scotland. Almost divided in two, the island narrows to a dune and sandy beach-lined isthmus; the community hall serves as a popular cafe here in the summer months. Most people live in the south of the island in Vatersay village which boasts a tiny post office.\n\n#### Discover the Vatersay Raiders\n\nIn 1908 a group of men from Barra and Mingulay were imprisoned following a high-profile court case held in Edinburgh. Their crime had been to seize small areas of land and build huts on Vatersay to try and scratch a living, having been impoverished by overcrowded conditions, disease and the effect of absentee landlords using the island as a source of income. These were cottars who held no land of their own and were therefore at the bottom of the pile. The public sympathy aroused allowed the raiders to continue living on Vatersay on their release. Seek out the ruins of their houses at Eorisdale on a walk around the southern half of the island.\n\n#### Beware the Vatersay Boys\n\nHailing from Vatersay and Barra and with two great-grandsons of the Vatersay Raiders in the five-piece line-up, the Vatersay Boys are an energetic band that has taken the traditional Celtic music scene by storm. Despite playing sell-out tours and festivals they can still often be found playing at the Castlebay Bar on Barra, or at Vatersay hall's regular summer weekend ceilidhs. Featuring accordions, pipes, guitar, whistles and driving drums, this is real local music to dance and stomp your feet to.\n\n## Fuday\n\nThis small island sits between Barra and Eriskay. Now uninhabited, there is evidence of early Norse settlement and records show that before 1901 it supported up to seven people. The island is currently used for summer grazing; traditionally cattle swam the mile-wide strait from Barra. It is said that the first herd of cattle to be put to the summer pasture died of dehydration as they had not been led to the only freshwater source on the island, an inland lochan, and despite the island being only 232 hectares they failed to locate it. Fuday boasts a couple of sandy beaches, one backed by dunes, and a tiny hilltop eighty-nine metres above the sea.\n\n## Bishop's Isles (Barra)\n\nThe five main islands lying south-east and south of Barra are known as the Bishop's Isles and comprise Maol D\u00f2mhnaich, Sandray, Pabbay, Mingulay and Berneray. They are prized for their birdlife and are gaining popularity with hill baggers (there are several Marilyns) and those seeking a connection with the people that used to inhabit the islands. There are a number of boat operators on Barra who will organise bespoke trips \u2013 it is possible to land on all five on a single calm, summer's day, but they also lend themselves to self-sufficient camping stays or day trips.\n\nSouth of Vatersay, Sandray (Sanndraigh) is a small rocky island boasting cliffs, sea caves and sandy beaches. The last residents left in 1934 and it is now home to a large seabird population. Kayakers can land on one of two sandy beaches.\n\nTogether with its southern neighbours Mingulay and Berneray, uninhabited Pabbay (Pabaigh) was bought by the National Trust for Scotland in 2000. The island was evacuated in 1912 after a storm had drowned half the ten-strong male population during a fishing trip in 1897. A bucket-list destination for serious climbers, the cliffs of Lewisian gneiss are regarded as amongst the very best sea cliff climbing venues in Britain. The beautiful and challenging Great Arch includes the fabulously named routes _Prophecy of Drowning_ and _Child of the Sea._ The first ascents here were by a team that included Chris Bonington and Mick Fowler in 1993. There are only a couple of safe landing sites on Pabbay, which is separated from its immediate neighbours by dangerous tidal flows; a couple of operators on Barra offer boat charter.\n\nMingulay (Mi\u00f9ghlaigh) attracts the most visitors, a mix of naturalists, hill and island baggers and climbers, but it still remains a lonely and difficult place to reach. A couple of boat operators from Barra are licensed to land on the NTS-owned island but the weather means trips often have to be cancelled at the last minute. The remains of the settlements and burial ground, impressive sea stacks and cliffs teeming with seabirds, rare fauna, and a real sense of isolation make a trip to Mingulay memorable. The island has been uninhabited since it was evacuated at the islanders' request in 1912. Climb to the summit of Carnan at 273 metres for a 360-degree view of the island and neighbouring Berneray.\n\nAlso known as Barra Head, Berneray is an exposed island with huge sea cliffs and is the most southerly of the entire Outer Hebridean chain. Most visitors will want to bag the island by climbing to the dramatic clifftop high point of Sotan. A remote community made a living from fishing and crofting until the start of the twentieth century, when only the lighthouse keepers remained. They too left when the Stevenson lighthouse at the far west of the island was fully automated in 1980. If visiting the lighthouse check out the poignant keepers' graveyard nearby. It includes the grave of a two-year-old who died of croup and also a lighthouse inspector who died while visiting the island.\nJust off Scotland's north coast, the Orkney archipelago is an archaeological wonderland. This extensive group of islands enjoys a relatively mild climate and fertile soils which have attracted inhabitants for more than 8,500 years. Nowhere in Britain is richer in ancient remains, which include Skara Brae, the best-preserved Neolithic settlement in all Europe, the spectacular Bronze Age tomb of Maes Howe and the stunning standing stones of the Ring of Brodgar. The capital Kirkwall is a vibrant and charming small town, while the outlying islands include Hoy \u2013 famed for its Old Man \u2013 and a string of lesser-known islands, all with their own secrets to discover.\n\n# ORKNEY\n\n**Mainland,** Ring of Brodgar\n\n**Westray,** Mae Sands\n\n## Overview map\n\n## Mainland\n\nThe largest island in Orkney is known simply as Mainland. Centrally situated, it is also the hub for transport and services throughout these islands. With an area of 523 square kilometres and an irregular shape with a number of large bays and indented sea lochs, it can take time to really explore Mainland.\n\nKirkwall is the administrative capital. It has an abundance of historic streets as well as modern services and ferries to many of the northern islands. The island's airport is a short distance to the east. Many visitors arrive in the southern hub of Stromness where the _Hamnavoe_ , the large roll-on roll-off ferry from Scrabster near Thurso on the Scottish mainland, lands. Being fairly close to many prehistoric sites, Stromness also makes a good base from which to explore the island. The bus service is relatively good, so with a bit of pre-planning and plenty of time it is possible to bag the island using public transport. If visiting with a bike, bear in mind that Orkney as a whole can be very windy and pedalling into a headwind requires stamina. Mainland, Lamb Holm, Burray and South Ronaldsay are linked by causeways \u2013 the latter is served by a vehicle ferry to Gills Bay near John o'Groats.\n\n#### Descend into Wideford Hill cairn\n\nSome of the most memorable prehistoric sites are those that you can just stumble across with no swish visitor centre or latte-hawking cafe. One of the best on Orkney is within walking distance of Kirkwall. Starting from the Pickaquoy Centre follow Muddisdale Road and then a path to climb Wideford Hill. Fine though the view from the summit is, the real objective lies part way down the far side. Here a sliding trapdoor leads to a ladder accessing a large burial cairn dating back to 3000 BC. You can use the torch provided to explore the interior, where ancient Orcadian farmers were once laid to rest. Never busy, it's likely you'll have the cairn to yourself so you can practise your Neil Oliver or Alice Roberts impressions in peace.\n\n#### Take the tour at St Magnus Cathedral\n\nKnown as the 'Light in the North', this beautiful red sandstone cathedral was founded in 1137. Dedicated to St Magnus, who was martyred on the island of Egilsay, this great building takes your breath away as you enter and glance upwards to the high vaulted ceiling. To get up there and discover the small, high-level walkways, the clock mechanism and the huge bells, you'll need to book on to one of the tours that run two days a week. Squeeze up the narrow spiral stone staircase, creep along the upper levels and see the cathedral interior in a whole new light. Don't forget to climb the tower for a bird's-eye view of Kirkwall.\n\n#### Witness the Ba'\n\nTwice a year the narrow streets of Kirkwall's old town are transformed into a heaving mass of players as the 'Uppies' from the top of the town struggle with the 'Doonies' for control of the ball. The huge scrum can number 350 people with games sometimes lasting several hours. The Doonies' goal is the sea of Kirkwall Bay and the Uppies must round the Lang corner where the old town gates used to be. Played on Christmas and New Year's days, the 'no rules' game is strictly for Orcadians but makes a great spectacle for visitors.\n\n#### Try a beremeal bannock\n\nBere is an ancient form of barley which was once the main crop on the island, able to withstand the cool climate and short growing season. It's now rare but Barony Mill near Birsay still grinds bere and you can buy a bag of the flour to try making your own bannock. Once a staple for Orcadians, the bannock is a tasty, thick flatbread traditionally cooked on a flat metal griddle over an open fire. Due to the low summer daylight, climate and poor soil, beremeal has always been a low yielding crop and gave rise to the phrase 'beremeal marriage' \u2013 a marriage that would not bring any wealth with it.\n\n**Mainland,** Kitchener Memorial on Marwick Head\n\n**Mainland,** Skara Brae\n\n**Mainland,** Kirkwall Cathedral\n\n**Mainland,** sea stack at Yesnaby\n\n**Mainland,** chambered cairn on Wideford Hill\n\n**Mainland,** Kirkwall Cathedral\n\n**Mainland,** Kirkwall harbour\n\n#### Experience the Ring of Brodgar\n\nWhile we tend to think of Orkney as wild and remote, archaeologists have long argued that it may once have been the epicentre of life in Britain \u2013 the place to be in Neolithic times. Nowhere is this more apparent than the Ness of Brodgar. Home to Scotland's largest stone circle, walking around the twenty-seven stones which are still standing is an experience not to be missed. When built around 5,000 years ago there were around sixty stones.\n\nTowards Stenness a large area has been a hive of archaeological activity in the summer months for many years, and the dig has so far revealed the remains of numerous buildings including a Neolithic temple. There is evidence that before the complex was closed down around 2200 BC, the ceremonial slaughter of over 400 head of cattle and a huge feast were held, the purpose of which remain a mystery. Equally mysterious are the enormous Stones of Stenness just along the road, where four great monoliths tower over six metres high and were once part of another large stone circle. A sense of great antiquity doesn't get any more palpable than here.\n\n#### Check out the fitted furniture at the 5,000-year-old houses at Skara Brae\n\nOne of the best-preserved Neolithic sites in Europe, Skara Brae was a bustling village well before Stonehenge was built. A huge storm in 1850 uncovered some of the coastal remains and today you can explore nine houses, incredibly some of them still with their stone-built box beds, shelves and furniture. The visitor centre includes a full replica house as well as the obligatory audio-visual presentation, helping to make sense of what you can see on the ground. The setting immediately above the beach adds to the magic. Entry to the nearby seventeenth-century mansion Skaill House is included in the Skara Brae entrance charge.\n\n#### Walk the west side\n\nThis challenging thirty-one-kilometre hike along Mainland's west coast takes in a wealth of stunning scenery, historic sites and wildlife-watching spots. It can be split into sections, or the very fit could hike the lot on a long summer's day. Starting from Stromness the route soon leaves civilisation behind as it rounds the southern tip of Mainland and climbs to the great cliffs of the west coast. The route passes an array of sea stacks including the dramatic two-legged Yesnaby Castle, popular with climbers. Further north it takes in an ancient broch and descends to the Neolithic village of Skara Brae. The next section climbs again along fabulous clifftops to reach the Kitchener Memorial. The tower commemorates the 588 men, including Lord Kitchener, who lost their lives when the HMS _Hampshire_ hit a mine and sank just offshore here in 1916. The walk finishes at the imposing ruins of the Earl's Palace in Birsay.\n\n#### Decipher the Viking graffiti at Maeshowe\n\nAccess to Maeshowe, the largest and most mysterious Neolithic tomb on Orkney, is understandably restricted to tours which must be booked in advance. At the appointed time you'll find yourself in a small group, crouched almost on all fours as you negotiate the eleven-metre-long entrance tunnel, the sides of which are, incredibly, single massive slabs. Once the heart of the tomb is reached you can stand comfortably and the exquisite craftsmanship of the people who built the tomb becomes immediately apparent. Flagstones taper inwards forming the beehive-shaped roof of the large central chamber, built over 5,000 years ago. The tomb was discovered and raided by Vikings who left their own marks in the form of runic graffiti. After much painstaking work, historians have managed to translate these thirty early messages, including the highest one which merely boasts that Tholfir Kolbeinsson carved these runes high up \u2013 it seems human nature never changes!\n\n#### Dive into Scapa Flow\n\nFollowing the First World War armistice the German fleet was held at Scapa Flow while the fate of the ships was negotiated. Fearing the loss of the ships and honour, the German commander ordered the ships to be scuttled in June 1919. Over fifty ships were sunk in the Flow and although many were later salvaged for scrap, a number remain and have become popular dive sites. A number of dive boats operate in the Flow, including two with dive shops in Stromness. One of them offers a half-day dive for complete beginners.\n\nIf diving doesn't rock your boat or you need to warm up after a dip in the cold waters of the Flow, a dram of Scapa whisky may be just the tipple. Distilled on the shores of the Flow, Scapa is one of two distilleries on Mainland Orkney, the other being Highland Park.\n\n#### Follow the ancient path on to the Brough of Deerness\n\nThe Brough of Deerness is a massive lump of rocky ground detached from the rest of the Deerness peninsula and jutting out into the North Sea. With thirty-metre vertical cliffs on all sides, getting to the top is a bit of a challenge. First you must descend steep steps into Little Burrageo and then climb the narrow, sloping path to the top. Here are the remains of a settlement which once surrounded a tenth-century chapel, although recent excavations have suggested the ruins are from the Viking era. It's worth continuing around the coast along the high cliffs to Mull Head; the area is a nature reserve.\n\n#### Step out to an Orcadian Strip the Willow\n\nThe traditional music scene is alive and fiddling across Orkney and the best way to experience it is to join a local ceilidh. These can range from semi-formal concerts with a variety of musicians, to dances with a traditional band and a break for homebaking and the ubiquitous raffle. Check out community noticeboards for venues. One of the simplest but most popular ceilidh dances has to be Orcadian Strip the Willow where two lines of men and women face each other and the top couple 'strip' the willow by dancing with their partner alternately with everyone else in the line. If dancing isn't your thing, try and catch a music session at The Reel next to St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall where some of the best Orcadian musicians play.\n\n**Mainland,** Maes Howe\n\n**Mainland,** path on Brough of Deerness\n\n**Mainland,** Brough of Deerness\n\n**Mainland,** Stromness\n\n**Mainland,** Mull Head\n\n**Brough of Birsay,** kirk ruins\n\n**Brough of Birsay,** causeway\n\n**Lamb Holm,** Churchill Barrier\n\n**Left** and **Right:** **Lamb Holm,** Italian chapel\n\n## Brough of Birsay\n\nThis tidal island is a must not just for island baggers but for anyone with a taste for history or a love of puffins. Situated at the far north-west of Mainland, the causeway across is only exposed for a couple of hours either side of low tide, so visits need to be planned carefully.\n\n#### Cross to the Brough\n\nFrom Point of Buckquoy it's fun to cross the concrete walkway that appears to float over the receding waters of the Sound of Birsay to reach this uninhabited island. Evidence of previous residents is soon on show as the round-island walk passes the remains of a Norse settlement and twelfth-century church. The island's lighthouse is only 11 metres tall, taking advantage of its position perched on the cliffs of Brough Head. These cliffs are also home to numerous seabirds including puffins in the summer. It's possible to make a complete circuit of the cliffs, hopefully with plenty of time to beat the incoming tide.\n\n## Lamb Holm\n\nLinked from Mainland Orkney by the first Churchill Barrier \u2013 the second and third provide the onward road link to tiny Glimps Holm and then Burray \u2013 Lamb Holm is a small uninhabited island that most visitors would whizz across unnoticed were it not for the lasting legacy of Second World War POW Camp 60.\n\n#### Marvel at the Italian Chapel\n\nOver 500 Italian prisoners of war were housed at Camp 60 on Lamb Holm and used as labour for building the causeways linking the islands and preventing sea access to Scapa Flow. Having been captured in North Africa and transported to Orkney the climate must have been quite a shock to these men. To assist with camp order and morale, the POWs were allowed to transform two Nissen huts into a chapel. Using concrete and plaster, the beautifully ornate facade and interior, including painted frescoes and carvings, were crafted under the direction of Domenico Chiocchetti, who returned twice to Orkney after the war. Today the chapel operates as a poignant visitor attraction.\n\n## Burray\n\nLying between Mainland Orkney and South Ronaldsay, life on Burray changed forever when the causeways were built towards the end of the Second World War, ending the isolation of these southern islands. Burray Village has a shop, school and hotel, and the island has a fascinating museum housing a large fossil collection. Burray is home to around 350 people.\n\n#### Cross the Churchill Barriers\n\nHome to the British naval fleet during much the Second World War, Scapa Flow had to be heavily defended. The main entrances to this huge natural harbour were obstructed by sunken blockships, anti-submarine nets and mines, all backed up by land-based lookouts and artillery. Despite these efforts, a German U-boat slunk into the Flow just north of Burray during high tide in October 1939. It sunk HMS _Royal Oak_ with the loss of 833 men. Following these terrible losses Winston Churchill ordered the construction of permanent barriers.\n\nThe barriers were built primarily by 1,200 prisoners of war based in camps on Burray and Lamb Holm. The use of POWs for war work is prohibited by the Geneva Conventions but the British have always argued that the work was for improving communications and certainly that has been the benefit for modern-day Orcadians. There are four barriers, the first linking Mainland Orkney with Lamb Holm, the next links to Glimps Holm, then Burray, and finally Barrier 4 continues to South Ronaldsay. Cross them all and you will also see some of the original blockships projecting from the water.\n\n## Hunda\n\nConstructed during the Second World War, possibly as a practice run for the Churchill Barriers built to block German U-boat access to the British naval fleet, the causeway to Hunda means it's easy to access this delightful small island. A mere 100 hectares in size, the island is uninhabited and currently used for sheep grazing \u2013 its name comes from the Norse for 'dog island'.\n\n#### Cross the causeway to Hunda\n\nThe 500-metre-long stone and concrete causeway offers a grand approach to Hunda. The island itself is easily walked around in half a day \u2013 there is a clear path, excellent views, plenty of birdlife and the chance to spot otters, seals and passing porpoises. There's no parking at Littlequoy so it's best to walk in along the track from Burray Village, eventually making for the coast before the crossing of the causeway at Hunda Reef.\n\n## South Ronaldsay\n\nSouth Ronaldsay is the fourth largest of the Orkney islands with just under 5,000 hectares of relatively fertile land. It is surrounded by a hugely indented coastline boasting a variety of cliffs, arches and caves, and sandy beaches. The large vehicle ferry, the _Pentalina_ , is a catamaran and runs from Gills Bay on the Scottish mainland to St Margaret's Hope, while the John o'Groats passenger ferry disgorges a large number of visitors on to coach tours as well as cyclists and others at Burwick at the southern end of the island. Most services are found in St Margaret's Hope, although there are eating and accommodation options throughout the island.\n\n**Hunda,** causeway\n\n#### Get off your trolley in the Tomb of the Eagles\n\nNumerous well-preserved Neolithic tombs are dotted around Orkney, but this is the only one usually entered by lying on your back \u2013 visitors haul themselves through the entrance on a small, wheeled trolley, though knee pads are provided for those who prefer to crawl! Once inside, this coastal cairn reveals several chambers including one where farmer Ronnie Simison discovered 30 human skulls after stumbling across the site in 1958. Still in family hands, the cairn and museum are surprisingly hands-on with visitors encouraged to handle some of the finds and chat to Ronnie's two enthusiastic and knowledgeable daughters. The tomb is named after the large number of eagle talons discovered during the excavations; it is likely that the birds had a symbolic significance for the people who lived and were buried here 5,000 years ago.\n\n#### Clear your head at Hoxa\n\nHoxa Head is one of the best places to explore wartime defences and get a feeling for how central Orkney was for Britain's naval fleet during both world wars. From a small parking area a path leads around to Hoxa Head, offering great views over the spectacular natural harbour that is Scapa Flow. Along the way you'll find the remains of a large number of gun batteries, bunkers and a small lighthouse used to defend the narrow Sound of Hoxa that lies between here and the island of Flotta. Huge underwater nets, as well as mines activated from the shore, were hung across to Stanger Head on Flotta to try and prevent German U-boats accessing the anchorage during both world wars. Now home to grazing sheep and seabirds, it is worth continuing around the coast to pass three deep inlets \u2013 known as geos \u2013 in the cliffs before returning past the site of a military camp to the start of the walk near The Bu.\n\n#### Hike the east coast\n\nThis challenging half-day walk is the best opportunity to get a real taste for South Ronaldsay's coastline: a mix of low and high cliffs, many with impressive flagstone strata; deep sea inlets or geos; and a gloup, a collapsed cave which now acts as a blowhole in stormy weather. Start from Burwick near the pier for the John o'Groats ferry and head south initially to round Brough Ness before the coast curves to the north. The walk diverts inland to pass the visitor centre for the Tomb of the Eagles chambered cairn, and the tomb itself is passed another 1.5 kilometres further along the coast. Look out for peregrine falcons at Mouster Head before the walk reaches its final stage crossing the wide sandy arc of Newark Bay to reach one of Orkney's oldest parish churches, St Peter's Kirk. From here you would need to have arranged transport or it's a three-kilometre walk on quiet roads to St Margaret's Hope.\n\n**South Ronaldsay,** Tomb of the Eagles\n\n**South Ronaldsay,** east coast walk\n\n## Hoy\n\nHoy is the second largest of the Orkney islands, and its name comes from the Norse word _haey_ meaning 'high' \u2013 a reference to Hoy's great hills and cliffs. A car ferry from Houton on Orkney Mainland links to Lyness at the southern end of Hoy, or to Longhope on neighbouring South Walls which is linked by a causeway. There's also a useful passenger ferry service from Stromness which lands at Moaness in north Hoy (usually via Graemsay).\n\nMost facilities and shops are found in the south of the island including hotel, pub and bed and breakfast accommodation. There is a cafe and hostel at Moaness and another tiny hostel at Rackwick.\n\n#### Visit the Old Man of Hoy\n\nFirst climbed in 1966, this iconic pillar of red sandstone is a must-see for every visitor to Hoy. None of the climbing routes on this 137-metre sea stack are graded less than Extremely Severe, and reaching the base involves a potentially dangerous rope traverse. But even if you'll never get up there to add your name to the logbook stored in a box in the summit cairn, reaching the clifftops opposite on Hoy's dramatic coast is good enough for most island baggers. The shortest approach is from Rackwick Bay, just over a nine-kilometre round trip on a clear track and path. If you don't have a car on Hoy then you can walk from Moaness to Rackwick through the Rackwick Glen, another seven kilometres each way.\n\n#### Squeeze inside the Dwarfie Stane\n\nIt's not often you get to crawl _inside_ a prehistoric carved boulder. The Dwarfie Stane, a Neolithic rock-cut tomb, can be found not far from the road to Rackwick in the glaciated valley below Ward Hill. Hollowed out from a single block of stone using primitive tools before metal had been discovered, the entrance leads to two side chambers, each just long enough to hold a body (or two) and featuring a rougher 'pillow'. The original stone slab which sealed the entrance sits on the ground outside. Local legend suggests a giant and his wife originally lived in the Stane and were imprisoned in it by a third giant who wanted to rule Hoy. The captors are said to have gnawed their way out through the roof, neatly explaining the hole which is presumed to have been made by grave robbers and has been there since the sixteenth century.\n\n#### Experience a bonxie bombing\n\nHoy is home to the second largest colony of great skuas in Britain. Known locally as bonxies, these large birds have a grace and speed of movement in the air, lacking when on the ground. These 'pirates of the sea' harry other seabirds until they drop their catch, at which point the skuas help themselves to the still-warm takeaway. They will also take eggs and young chicks from nests in cliffs, as well as dive-bomb unsuspecting walkers who get too close to this ground-nesting bird during the breeding season. The best place to see them on Hoy is on the wide plateau of Cuilags, most easily accessed via the ridge facing the Moaness Pier ferry. Hillwalkers with the energy and time can extend the walk over the Sui Fea plateau before heading to the immense cliffs of St John's Head. The coastal cliffs can then be followed southwards to the Old Man of Hoy and on to Rackwick Bay.\n\n**Hoy,** Scad Head\n\n**Hoy,** the Old Man of Hoy\n\n**Hoy,** Berriedale Wood\n\n**Hoy,** Dwarfie Stane\n\n**Hoy,** Ward Hill\n\n**Hoy,** battery at Scad Head\n\n**Hoy,** view from Ward Hill\n\n#### Discover Orkney's native woodland\n\nLying deep in Rackwick Glen, Berriedale Wood is thought to be a remnant of the type of woodland that would have covered most of Orkney and Shetland around 7,000 years ago. Today it is an important habitat for other wildlife making a home amongst its downy birch, hazel, rowan, aspen, willow and roses. Find it nestled in a deep gully on the west side of Rackwick Glen about two and half kilometres from Rackwick. Those keen to spot more wildlife should keep their eyes peeled for white-tailed eagles \u2013 a pair has nested on crags above the Dwarfie Stane and successfully hatched a chick for the first time in 2018. The sheer size of these birds, with a wing span of well over two metres, makes them hard to miss.\n\n#### Survey all Orkney from Ward Hill\n\nIt is said that from the summit of Ward Hill, the highest point on Hoy and indeed all Orkney, all the islands except one \u2013 Rysa Little \u2013 can be seen. You'd certainly need to be blessed with good weather, but the ascent is worth it for the views of Scapa Flow and Hoy alone. All ascent routes are very steep. One option is to head up from the road near the Dwarfie Stane \u2013 your calf muscles will be screaming on the unrelenting turf-clutching ascent. The summit of Haist (333 metres) is visited en route to the main summit of Ward Hill, the highest point in Orkney at 479 metres. It is possible to descend to the bealach between it and Cuilags before returning past Sandy Loch.\n\n#### Search for the searchlights at Scad Head\n\nNo trip to Hoy is complete without visiting some of the sites associated with the island's prominent role in the Second World War. Over 12,000 military personnel were stationed on Hoy during the war, mostly at Lyness, dwarfing the island's small population. The Scapa Flow Visitor Centre is a great place to learn more and explore the remaining building which includes the Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes (NAAFI) recreation centre where over 1,900 used the cinema, dance hall and leisure facilities a week. There are also air raid shelters and a naval cemetery. The most atmospheric place to contrast the beautiful peacetime landscape with the wartime reality is at Scad Head. Here the remains of coastal gun emplacements and lookout towers contrast oddly with their surroundings. It's now simply a surreal place from which to watch the seabirds and seals. Halfway between Lyness and Quoyness, the remains of an old tramway lead down to Scad Head \u2013 if time allows you can make a circuit by walking up to the viewpoint on Lyrawa Hill.\n\n## South Walls\n\nSouth Walls is attached by a causeway known as the Ayre to the south-east corner of Hoy. Originally a tidal island, the causeway made access more permanent during the First World War. The island shelters the North Bay and includes the settlement of Longhope where the ferry from Houton and Flotta calls, alternating with stops at Lyness on Hoy.\n\n#### Climb the Martello Tower at Hackness\n\nThe robust circular Martello Tower at the Point of Hackness is one of a pair guarding the Switha Sound between South Walls and Flotta. Built during the Napoleonic Wars to protect a northern trade route to Scandinavia and Baltic ports from French and American attacks, it never saw action. Today you can climb the ladder to the high entrance door and imagine what life was like for those stationed at this remote fortress. Open April to the end of September, the tower is operated by Historic Environment Scotland and there is an entrance charge.\n\n#### Light your candle on the amazing south coast\n\nThe south coast of South Walls boasts an embarrassment of natural sea features. Arches, caves, blowholes and stacks all vie for your attention on the seven-kilometre walk between the Ayre and Cantick Head. Keep a particular eye out for the Axe and the Candle, both prominent sea stacks. The cliffs are home to numerous seabirds and the keen-eyed may spot peregrine falcons as well as Arctic skuas hunting amongst the nesting birds. Look beneath your feet and you might see a purple Scottish primrose which flowers in May and August. The walk finishes with a dramatic approach to Cantick Head lighthouse. It is possible to make a circuit by returning inland to the Ayre via Osmondwall.\n\n## Graemsay\n\nGraemsay, a fertile island known as 'Orkney's Green Isle', has a population of around twenty-five.\n\nThe passenger ferry to Hoy from Stromness stops at Graemsay and takes only fifteen minutes when going direct, though it often calls first at Hoy, extending the journey time to forty-five minutes. Expect to share the journey with schoolchildren and commuters from both islands.\n\n#### Highlights and low lights\n\nThe best way to see the island is on foot and it's easy to walk all the way round the island in a day between ferries. Once on Graemsay follow the road towards Hoy High Lighthouse; one of a pair of Stevenson lighthouses on the island, this one is thirty-three metres tall. Continuing on the road, the verge often ablaze with orchids and other wild flowers, pass the community hall and descend to the coast. Rougher walking hugs the coastline, passing the Low Lighthouse (a mere twelve metres tall), a Second World War gun battery. On the foreshore you may find pottery fragments from an 1866 shipwreck which claimed the lives of eleven people. It's necessary to return to the road for a distance before a final stretch along the south coast offers great views of Hoy. After passing the remote Old Kirk the route returns to the ferry pier having completed a 360-degree tour of the island.\n\n## Flotta\n\nFlotta lies at the southern end of Scapa Flow and has a resident population of around eighty, although many more people commute to the island every day to work at the large oil terminal which handles around ten per cent of the UK's oil. The island also experienced two huge but temporary population explosions during the two world wars. Ferries to Flotta run from Houton on Orkney Mainland, and also from Lyness on Hoy and Longhope on South Walls.\n\n**South Walls,** coast walk\n\n**South Walls,** Hackness martello tower\n\n**Graemsay,** Hoy High lighthouse\n\n**Flotta,** sculptures\n\n**Flotta,** the ferry\n\n**Flotta,** battery overlooking Scapa Flow\n\n**Flotta,** stacks at Stanger Head\n\n**Rousay,** on Blotchnie Fiold\n\n**Rousay,** ferry jetty\n\n**Rousay,** the ferry, Eynhallow\n\n**Rousay,** Taversoe Tuick chambered cairn\n\n**Rousay,** broch\n\n**Rousay,** path on Knitchen Hill\n\n#### See the sea stacks\n\nSometimes overlooked as a place to visit because of the industrial oil terminal, the rest of Flotta is very quiet and green, with good views over Scapa Flow and to Hoy. However, the highlight has to be Flotta's sea stacks, closely followed by the quirky scrap metal sculptures dotted about the island. Both can be seen from the fifteen-kilometre trail around the southern half of the island. The cletts, or sea stacks, make for an impressive view from Stanger Head, and both are wider at the top than the bottom. While on the trail see how many of the Flotta-made recycled sculptures you can spot \u2013 the three penguins are a favourite.\n\n## Rousay\n\nRousay is a must for any island bagger, offering an amazing range of archaeological sites outside the mainstream tourism circuit of Mainland. This small, hilly island is one of great character, deserving a full exploration. The car ferry runs from Tingwall on Mainland \u2013 but be warned if you are taking a vehicle you will have to reverse either on or off. The same ferry also links Egilsay and Wyre to Mainland. Rousay has a primary school and a cafe\/pub, and is home to just over 200 people.\n\n#### Dig in to Rousay's deep past\n\nA short walk along the coast at Westside leads through thousands of years of history. First up is Midhowe Cairn \u2013 a huge chambered burial cairn where human remains were placed in separate stalls within the 4,000-year-old structure. Today a modern building protects the old one from the elements, so that the latter remains as well preserved as when it was first excavated in 1932. Just along the coast is a large and well-preserved Iron Age broch, perched on the water's edge. You can still see the double-wall construction of this defensive building. For a chance to watch modern-day time-teamers in action, head back along the coast, passing the sixteenth-century St Mary's Kirk, to reach the site of the archaeological dig at Swandro. Every summer archaeologists and students descend on the site keen to uncover the secrets of the Pictish and Viking buildings before storms and rising sea levels take their toll.\n\n#### Top out on Blotchnie Fiold\n\nThe highest point on Rousay is part of an RSPB reserve, famed for its birds of prey including short-eared owls. The seven-and-a-half-kilometre round trip can easily be done in half a day, leaving plenty of time to clamber inside the 5,000-year-old Taversoe Tuick chambered burial cairn passed on the way up from the ferry pier. The route climbs over heather moorland, following old peat cuttings for a time; it has occasional waymarkers. Climb to the high point of Blotchnie Fiold (250 metres) before another climb to reach the trig point on the lower summit of Knitchen Hill. From here the view is all expansive skies, and the blue sea dotted with green isles. If time allows there is a fascinating heritage centre near the ferry and also a cafe\/bar.\n\n#### Take a Rousay Lap\n\nThe undulating road around Rousay is 13.1 miles long, lending itself to the annual half marathon \u2013 the Rousay Lap \u2013 which takes place in August. Steep in places with two notable hills known locally as the Leeon and Sourin Brae, it's incredibly scenic. Free to enter, the event is open to cyclists, runners and walkers, and if it's all too much there's also a five-kilometre Peedie Lap each June. Even if you can't take part on the day, the road round Rousay makes for a great half-day cycle ride. A number of detours on foot enable you to visit the brochs and cairns for which the island is famous, and the gardens at Trumland House are also worth a visit. Cycle hire is available from Trumland Organic Farm.\n\n## Egilsay\n\nLinked by ferry from Tingwall on Mainland via either Rousay or Wyre, Egilsay is a long thin island with a resident population of around fifteen. Home to the elusive corncrake in the summer, it's a good place for a quiet wildlife wander or a natter with friendly locals. Its size makes it ideal for a half day's exploration on foot or by bike. The community hall is open to visitors with an honesty system for hot drinks.\n\n#### Watch your head at St Magnus Church\n\nThe distinctive cylindrical tower of St Magnus Church is unmissable as the ferry draws into Egilsay. An ancient place of pilgrimage, it was here that Magnus was killed by an axe blow to the head. Having shared the Viking kingdom in an uneasy alliance with Earl Haakon, the two rulers arranged a meeting on Egilsay in 1115. On arrival it was obvious that Haakon intended to kill him, having arrived with boatloads of armed men. Magnus led his men to pray in the church, and he was duly executed. Although it featured in the _Orkneyinga Saga_ , what seems like the stuff of legend became more real when a skull with a large crack in it \u2013 possibly caused by an axe \u2013 was discovered in the walls of St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall.\n\n**Egilsay,** isolated farmstead\n\n**Wyre,** Cubbie Roo's castle\n\n**Egilsay,** St Magnus Church\n\n## Wyre\n\nThe smallest of the three islands linked by ferry from Tingwall on Mainland, Wyre is reached either via Rousay or Egilsay. Known for the seals which haul out at The Taing at the westernmost point on the island, Wyre also has a heritage centre packed full of fascinating photographs and information about life on the island.\n\n#### Check out Cubbie Roo's Castle\n\nCubbie Roo was a man so massive that according to legend he used many of Orkney's islands as stepping stones. He is said to have made Wyre his home, and the castle built around 1145 is one of the oldest castles in all Scotland. Most of the stories surrounding Cubbie Roo have him trying to build stone bridges between islands or hurling boulders across the water to their current resting places. One tells that he built a bridge between Wyre and Rousay that collapsed and formed the mound known as Cubbie Roo's Burden. The castle remains can be found next to the twelfth-century ruins of St Mary's Chapel \u2013 turn right off the main road just before the heritage centre on the way from the ferry.\n\n## Westray\n\nThe sixth largest and one of the more remote major islands in Orkney, fertile Westray lies over thirty-two kilometres north of Kirkwall and is home to around 600 people. It is served by a vehicle ferry which takes an hour and half to reach Rapness, where it is usually met by a bus. There are also daily flights from Kirkwall. Although most shops and services are centred on the main settlement Pierowall, accommodation is scattered across the island, including hotels, bed and breakfasts, self-catering, a hostel and camping. There are two general stores in Pierowall, one of which also has a cafe. Jack's Chippy, also in Pierowall, is a takeaway very popular with locals. There is also a well-stocked general store and post office at Skelwick.\n\n#### Pootle with the puffins at Castle o'Burrian\n\nWestray is the best place in Orkney to see puffins. Many visitors come here especially to see them, and Castle o'Burrian is the place to do it. The Castle is actually a large sea stack, detached from the cliff and with a thick wodge of turf on top for the puffins to make their burrows safe from predators and the blundering feet of birdwatchers. Take the coast path for approximately one and a half kilometres from Rapness Mill at Rack Wick bay in the south of the island and find a comfortable place to sit opposite the Castle and let the show begin; keep a look out just below the path, as many puffins nest right by it too. These colourful and characterful birds spend most of the year at sea, coming ashore from May to July to breed.\n\n#### Get a head for heights at Noup Head\n\nThe seventy-six-metre-high cliffs at Noup Head are the best place to see the masses of seabirds that come to Westray to breed during the spring and early summer. The flagstone cliffs have formed millions of natural ledges which are used by gannets, guillemots and kittiwakes, while the springy turf on top provides a home for puffins and Arctic terns. This is a great place to visit at any time of year as the cliffs and nearby natural arches and caves are spectacular, while the now solar-powered Stevenson lighthouse makes a great focal point. The shape and terracing of the cliffs here provided the inspiration to architect Kengo Kuma for his striking V&A building on Dundee's waterfront. There's no public transport but Noup Head is a short cycle ride from Pierowall, or you can drive along the bumpy track to the lighthouse. It's also possible to make a circular walk from Backarass.\n\n**Westray,** Castle o' Burrian\n\n**Westray,** sunset at Tuquoy\n\n**Westray,** puffin at Castle o'Burrian\n\n**Westray,** Mae Sand\n\n**Westray,** Noup Head\n\n**Westray,** signpost\n\n**Papa Westray,** the last great auk\n\n**Papa Westray,** North Hill RSPB reserve\n\n#### Discover the nousts at Mae Sand\n\nWestray's eighty-kilometre coastline boasts eighteen sandy beaches and all are worth discovering. Mae Sand is particularly atmospheric \u2013 and usually deserted \u2013 and you can still see the shelters once used by Vikings to store their boats. Mae Sand can be approached on foot via a rough coastal path from Tuqouy or via the tiny settlement of Langskaill. Search for the boat-shaped drystane-walled depressions at the back of the beach \u2013 these are where early Norse settlers would have protected their boats. Known as 'nousts', they have been used by Westray folk for generations. The recently built Westray skiff bears a striking resemblance to open boats used right back to Viking times.\n\n#### Nibble on Westray Wife\n\nThe Westray Wife is a 5,000-year-old figurine also known as the 'Orkney Venus'. Discovered at the Links of Noltland in 2009, it was the first Neolithic carving of a human figure found in Scotland. Only four centimetres tall, the figure consists of a round 'head' and square 'body'. Find it at the Westray Heritage Centre in Pierowall. To really get a taste for Westray life, sample the moreish washed-rind cheese also known as Westray Wife, produced on the island by Wilsons of Westray and available in local shops.\n\n## Papa Westray\n\nThis remote island, known locally as Papay, sits to the north-east of Westray and can be visited from there either via the world's shortest scheduled flight, or by passenger ferry from Gill Pier in Pierowall. As well as bed and breakfast and self-catering accommodation, there is a modern hostel at Beltane House close to the community shop. Bicycle hire is available by contacting the Papay ranger (details on Facebook).\n\n#### Walk the island circuit\n\nHiking right round the coastline makes for a fantastic day out \u2013 take in the high flagstone cliffs, endless sandy beaches, rich farmland and ancient buildings to get a real feel for island life. Start by turning right at Moclett pier and following the coast path past the Bay of Burland. The huge white sands of South Wick offer tantalising views to the tiny Holm of Papa just offshore. Further along, the RSPB North Hill reserve is reached. The cliffs here offer great spots for watching the black guillemots, and further on you may have to defend yourself against aggressive terns who nest on the far side of Mull Head. The west coast of the island is gentler and includes the serene and ancient St Boniface Kirk, and then the impressive and well-preserved Neolithic farmstead the Knap of Howar, said to be the oldest north European dwelling still standing. The circuit of the island finishes by crossing a fine sandy beach, not the worst place to wait for the return ferry.\n\n#### Find the last great auk\n\nIt was on the cliffs of Fowl Craig that the world's last breeding pair of great auk were killed, causing the extinction of the species within thirty years. Also known as the 'northern penguin', these flightless black and white birds stood a metre tall. The male was shot by local man, William Foulis, on the command of a collector in 1813; the female and her egg had been destroyed the previous year. Although excellent swimmers, great auks moved slowly on land and having few natural predators they were not naturally scared of humans. First killed for their meat and feathers, the last birds were shot as specimens for museums and private collections. A small memorial stands on Fowl Craig which today is a great place to spot our surviving species of auks, namely guillemots, razorbills, black guillemots and puffins. Fowl Craig is found on the north-east of the island and can be reached on foot along the coast or by cycling as far as Hundland.\n\n## Holm of Papa\n\nThe Holm is a small \u2013 twenty-one hectares \u2013 uninhabited island that sits in South Wick bay just off the east coast of Papa Westray. Known locally as Papay Holm, visits can be arranged by private boat \u2013 ask at the Papa Westray community shop. The main attraction is a twenty-metre-long chambered burial cairn known as Southcairn with a characteristically Orcadian stalled structure.\n\n## Shapinsay\n\nShapinsay is a mere twenty-five minutes by ferry from Kirkwall, and as a result many of its 300 or so residents work in Orkney's capital, commuting by sea. This fertile, low-lying island is mainly given over to farming with a couple of small nature reserves known for waterfowl, waders and Arctic terns. The approach to Shapinsay by ferry is dominated by Balfour Castle. This large Scottish Baronial pile dates back to the 1840s and was originally designed as a so-called 'calendar house' comprising fifty-two rooms, twelve exterior doors, seven turrets and 365 panes of glass. It's a private home, but the former gatehouse near the ferry slipway now houses the island pub. There is also a shop, cafe and heritage centre in the small village of Balfour.\n\n**Shapinsay,** the douche\n\n**Eday,** Stone of Setter\n\n#### Check out the Shapinsay shower\n\nFrom the harbour it's a short walk south along the coast to reach a prominent stone tower. Originally built as a dovecote used to breed the birds for meat back in the seventeenth century, it was later converted to use as a saltwater shower by David Balfour as part of his works completing the castle in the 1840s. It's not possible to enter the tower \u2013 known locally as 'the douche' \u2013 but it can be visited by a brief walk from the ferry pier. It's possible to continue round the coast to Vasa Loch before heading back to Balfour on quiet lanes.\n\n## Eday\n\nEday is fourteen kilometres long but narrows to a mere 500 metres at one point, giving rise to its name which comes from the Norse for 'isthmus island'. Today it is linked by daily vehicle ferries from Kirkwall on Mainland which land at Backaland in the south of the island, and by a weekly inter-island flight from Kirkwall. There has been talk of building bridges or causeways to link to nearby Westray. The island has a population of around 160, down from a high of just under a thousand in the early 1800s. There is a heritage centre with cafe, small store, hostel, bed and breakfast and self-catering accommodation, and bike hire.\n\n#### Journey through time\n\nEday has a rich array of archaeological sites and the island's heritage trail means you can explore them all on foot. The route starts at the shop \u2013 either use the bus from the ferry or bike or walk \u2013 and soon passes the four-and-a-half-metre tall Stone of Setter, one of the tallest standing stones in Orkney. Follow marker posts towards Vinquoy Hill, passing two smaller chambered cairns before reaching Vinquoy chambered cairn, thought to be at least 4,000 years old. The walk then heads past old peat cuttings to reach a trig point on the cliffs at the most northerly point of the island \u2013 a wonderful vantage point and a good place to watch the seabirds before the return leg.\n\n#### Hang out with the seals\n\nMany come to Eday for some peaceful wildlife watching and setting yourself the target of spotting a seal or even an otter or red-throated diver is one way to bag the island. The divers arrive in the summer and can often be seen on Mill Loch where there is a handy hide. If you hear a regular whirring sound it's likely to be a snipe and you can add that to the wildlife tick list. For seals, head to the very south of the island where they often haul out at the Point of War Ness. Keep an eye out here too for passing dolphins, minke whales and the very occasional orca.\n\n## Stronsay\n\nKnown as the 'Island of Bays' due to its irregular shape indented by three fine beaches, Stronsay is a low-lying island which is home to around 300 people. It is linked to Mainland Orkney via a daily ferry from Kirkwall to Whitehall, sometimes stopping at Eday en route. There are also daily flights on the island hopper from Kirkwall airport. There is a hotel, bed and breakfast, hostel, two cafes, school and two general shops including Ebenezer Stores which also offers free bikes for visitors.\n\n#### Check out the Vat of Kirbister\n\nStronsay's standout feature is a collapsed sea cave with an impressive natural arch spanning the entrance to a gloup, or blowhole. It can be visited as part of a twelve-kilometre circular walk that heads around Lamb Head, starting from the parking area near Kirbuster Farm. The huge rock arch itself is soon reached but the rest of the coastline is no disappointment. A couple of high sea stacks include Tam's Castle on which a hermit is said to have lived. Nowadays it's home to a whirling cacophony of fulmars and guillemots. Two more headlands and a number of deep geos keep adding interest to the walk before the final section through farmland leads back to the start.\n\n#### Search for mermaids at the Sands of Rothiesholm\n\nIt's hard to choose a favourite but the Sands of Rothiesholm just pips St Catherine's Bay to the post in the battle to be Stronsay's finest beach. The bright white sands stretch out for over 1,500 metres, and beachcombers can search for the rare woody canoe-bubble shell, a type of sea snail shell found in shades from cream to orangey-brown. Mermaids are even rarer \u2013 if you're really desperate to spot one you may need to head over to Mill Bay on the east of the island where they are said to have been seen reclining on the rocks in the middle of the bay. The Sands of Rothiesholm has its own semi-mythical beast \u2013 a seventeen-metre-long creature washed ashore in 1808 which was thought to be some kind of unknown sea serpent. Modern commentators suggest it may have been the bloated body of a long-dead basking shark.\n\n## Papa Stronsay\n\nLying just north-east of Stronsay, Papa Stronsay provides shelter for the ferry pier on its parent island. It has long been associated with those of a religious calling, being the site of a seventh- or eighth-century monastery. Today it is home to a congregation of traditional Catholic Redemptorist monks who run the Golgotha Monastery, farm the island and offer residential retreats. If rising for prayers at 5 a.m. isn't your thing it may be possible to arrange a boat trip to the island with the monks.\n\n## Sanday\n\nA quick look at an aerial photograph of Sanday reveals vast amounts of sandy beach giving rise to the island's original Norse name of _Sandey._ The third largest of the Orkney islands, Sanday is divided into three peninsulas and is home to over 500 people. The island boasts a couple of shops (including the cavernous Sinclair General Stores where you can pretty much buy anything), a couple of hotels, a hostel, bed and breakfasts, self-catering cottages and even a community-run swimming pool.\n\nSanday is served by a roll-on roll-off ferry twice a day from Kirkwall on Mainland, often via Eday or Stronsay. There are also daily flights from Kirkwall. An on-demand bus operates on the island and should be booked in advance.\n\n#### Dodge the tides to reach Start Point\n\nStart Point lighthouse is built on a tidal islet sitting off the most easterly point of Sanday and can only be reached at low tide. Start from the road end beyond Thrave and head over the exposed pebbly causeway of Ayre Sound, aiming for the lighthouse. Vertical black and white stripes give this Stevenson lighthouse a unique appearance. The first Scottish lighthouse to have a revolving light, it replaced a more basic tower which proved inadequate at stopping ships getting wrecked just offshore. The massive stone ball from that tower now sits atop the old lighthouse on North Ronaldsay. Tours of the lighthouse can be arranged with the Sanday ranger. If visiting during the summer take care not to disturb the terns that nest off the foreshore \u2013 they will certainly let you know loud and clear if you get too close!\n\n**Stronsay,** Sands of Rothiesholm\n\n**Stronsay,** Vat of Kirbuster\n\n**Sanday,** The Croft\n\n**Sanday,** Start Point lighthouse\n\n**Sanday,** Whitemill Bay\n\n**Left** and **Right:** **Sanday,** Quoyness chambered cairn\n\n#### Crawl into Quoyness cairn\n\nA slightly less grand version of Maeshowe, this 5,000-year-old chambered burial chamber is one of the finest you'll find anywhere, enhanced by a fantastic shoreside setting and lack of visitors. The cairn is made more atmospheric by the nine-metre crawl along the low entrance passage before you can stand up in the square central space. A torch is handy for exploring the side chambers. The best approach is to walk from Lady, crossing the narrow strip of Quoy Ayre with the sea either side before following the coast to the cairn.\n\n#### Beachcomb at Whitemill Bay\n\nThe bleached sand of Whitemill Bay is the perfect backdrop for a spot of beachcombing. Starting from the parking area at the western end of the bay, this long arc of sand, backed by dunes, eventually leads to Whitemill Point where seals often haul out at low tide. Even if you have the sands to yourself, continue around the coast to the ruined farmstead at Helliehow and you may find yourself with a Hogboon for company. Rather like an imp, the Hogboon is a mythical figure said to have bullied the farm residents into moving only to hide himself amongst their belongings to continue his persecution of them \u2013 Helliehow remains deserted to this day.\n\n#### Sample crofting life\n\nStep through the low door of The Croft to see how life was lived in the early part of the twentieth century. Restored by locals, this typical two-roomed croft house sits alongside Sanday Heritage Centre on the outskirts of Lady village. Inside are box beds, a peat range complete with griddle for making oatcakes and bannocks, Orkney chairs made the traditional way from driftwood with woven backs, and plenty of genuine household items giving an authentic feel. Chat with the volunteers who helped restore the house; some of them remember growing up in properties just like this one.\n\n## North Ronaldsay\n\nNorth Ronaldsay is an Orcadian anomaly: the most isolated inhabited island in the island group, it is served only twice a week by car ferry (weekly in the winter), though there are daily flights from Kirkwall. A visit here feels like a real step back in time from Orkney's other islands. Although low-lying it is extremely rocky and exposed, and is best known for its seaweed-eating sheep and its two lighthouses. It's home to fewer than seventy people, although there are moves to try and encourage more people to move here. The isolation means it's a popular spot for migratory birds \u2013 there's a bird observatory which also provides the main visitor accommodation, cafe and evening meals for guests. There's also a cafe at the lighthouse. As with the other islands, the return flight is cheaper if you stay on the island overnight.\n\n#### Walk the wall\n\nA twenty-kilometre drystane dyke (wall) has been used since 1832 to keep North Ronaldsay's sheep on the foreshore where they graze on the seaweed, freeing up the land inside for cultivation. The complete walk around the wall is an obscure Orkney classic, though it is rough-going in places and a tough undertaking to complete in one go. If you are fit and determined it can make a wonderful day, with plenty of opportunities for a bit of bird or seal watching. The very distinctive, shaggy brown to red Ronaldsay sheep will be your companions. They are smaller than more modern breeds and have adapted to life on the foreshore, grazing at low tide and ruminating at high tide. The gamey-tasting meat is particularly prized and served at a number of restaurants across Orkney. The island hosts an annual Sheep Festival where volunteers help repair the dyke as well as taking part in wool-related activities.\n\n#### Visit the bird observatory\n\nAs Orkney's most northerly island, North Ronaldsay is renowned by twitchers as the place to watch migratory birds in the spring and autumn and spot rare species that are unexpectedly blown in. The bird observatory is the place to hear about recent sightings and other bird-related news. It was founded in 1987 and has monitored the birds visiting the island ever since. Anyone can stay at the observatory which has bed and breakfast, hostel and camping accommodation, as well as a cafe; they often serve North Ronaldsay lamb. The observatory also has a number of opportunities for ornithological volunteers.  \n_**www.nrbo.org.uk**_\n\n**Left** and **Right:** **North Ronaldsay,** the lighthouse\n\n**North Ronaldsay,** the wall\n\n**North Ronaldsay,** Ronaldsay sheep\n\n#### Visit the light\n\nHead to the north of the island to see the twin lighthouses that have served to protect seafarers from this stretch of coast which is notorious for shipwrecks. The Old Beacon is a twenty-one-metre-tall stone lighthouse built at Dennis Head in 1789 and lit with a series of oil burners and copper reflectors. The light was extinguished in 1809 when the Start Point lighthouse on Sanday came onstream, and the lantern here was replaced by the massive stone ball seen today. A number of wrecks proved the provision at Start Point was inadequate and the red-and-white-striped lighthouse was built just along the coast in 1852. At forty-three metres it is the tallest land-based lighthouse in the whole of the UK. A visitor centre, cafe and self-catering accommodation are housed in the lighthouse buildings.\n\n## Copinsay\n\nCopinsay lies to the east of Mainland Orkney and is best seen from the Deerness peninsula. Now uninhabited, it is an RSPB bird reserve and its farmland is managed to foster wildlife including corncrakes. A huge number of seabirds including razorbills, guillemots, fulmars, puffins, black guillemots and shags nest on the high cliffs during the breeding season. The island is also home to a large colony of grey seals who pup here every November. Up until 1958 there was a resident farming population on the island as well as the lighthouse keepers and their families; the latter remained until 1991. Visiting the island relies on private boat charter or kayak but the tidal currents are particularly dangerous so local knowledge should be sought. Adjacent is the Horse of Copinsay, little more than a sea stack but with the attraction of Blaster Hole, a large blowhole, which can be viewed from a passing boat.\n\n## Stroma\n\nLying in the Pentland Firth between Orkney and the Scottish mainland, Stroma belongs to neither. It was home to over 300 people at the beginning of the twentieth century but is now abandoned. The population fell rapidly until the last permanent residents left in 1962, though lighthouse keepers continued to live here until 1997.\n\nThe houses in many of the two settlements are still standing \u2013 left to a slow decay, in many cases they still have all their furniture inside. The ferocious tides of the Firth that contributed to the decline of the community continue to make access difficult; it may be possible to arrange a charter boat from John o'Groats.\n\n## Swona\n\nThis smaller island to the north of Stroma suffered a similar fate, though it held on to its last inhabitants \u2013 a brother and sister \u2013 until 1974. While still in the ownership of two Orkney farms, the island is no longer farmed due to the difficulty of access. When the last people left \u2013 one was sick, and the other knew she might not be able to return \u2013 the sister released their beef cattle, eight cows and a bull, to roam free on the island. Several generations later the herd is still going strong and numbered seventeen at the last count. Living completely feral, the beasts have reverted to natural behaviour.\n\nLanding on the island is difficult, and the good view of it from the _Pentalina_ ferry from Gills Bay to Orkney is as close as most people will get.\nLying over 160 kilometres from Scotland's mainland, Shetland is so far north that on many maps of the UK it appears in its own inset box. Culture here has a distinctly Scandinavian influence, and the community has been greatly strengthened by money from North Sea oil. Reaching Shetland takes a real effort, but the rewards are rich. The islands are particularly renowned for their bird life, having some of Europe's most important colonies of seabirds, but there are superb beaches too, a remarkable tradition of fiddle music, the fire festival of Up Helly Aa, and some of the finest clifftop coastal walks you'll find anywhere.\n\n# SHETLAND\n\n**Mainland,** puffin at Sumburgh Head\n\n**Unst,** Sandwick Beach\n\n## Overview map\n\n## Mainland\n\nWith its capital Lerwick lying over 450 kilometres north of Edinburgh \u2013 and being considerably closer to Norway \u2013 Shetland truly feels a place apart from the rest of Scotland. Its largest island, Mainland, is long and straggly with innumerable long inlets \u2013 known as Voes \u2013 and countless headlands and peninsulas. While the massive oil terminal at Sullom Voe has brought wealth to this remote outpost, the coastal scenery, improbably rich with natural arches, stacks and caves, is simply magnificent.\n\nThe large vehicle ferries travel overnight \u2013 sea conditions permitting \u2013 between Aberdeen and Lerwick, taking twelve to fourteen hours depending on whether the boat is calling at Orkney along the way. The alternative is to take a flight to Sumburgh Airport towards the southern end of Mainland; there are connections to Aberdeen, Inverness, Orkney, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Manchester and Bergen. There's a good range of shops, services, places to eat and accommodation available, heavily concentrated in Lerwick.\n\n#### Catch some jigs and reels\n\nShetland has a vibrant community music scene and is especially renowned for its fiddle music. Scotland's most famous fiddler, Aly Bain, is from Shetland, as are more recent bands such as Fiddlers' Bid. There's a wide-ranging programme of concerts held at Lerwick's Mareel arts centre, but perhaps the best way to experience some fine fiddling is in one of the pubs around the town. Try the Lounge Bar on Mounthooly Street \u2013 or ask a local.\n\n#### Discover the Dark Side at Scalloway Castle\n\nWhile Lerwick is the heart of Shetland today, the original capital was at nearby Scalloway, clustered around its impressive ruined castle. This was built by Patrick Stewart \u2013 nicknamed 'Black Patie' due to his oppressive rule over the islands. He is said to have used forced labour to build this forbidding keep in 1599, but eventually his wicked ways caught up with him and he was forced to flee Shetland in 1609, before being executed in Edinburgh. The castle is free and usually unlocked \u2013 if not then the key can be obtained from the Scalloway Museum adjacent.\n\n#### Cross the tombolo to St Ninian's Isle\n\nMagnificent sandy beaches aren't perhaps the first thing you'd imagine finding on Shetland, but this wonderful stretch of perfect shell sand must rank amongst the finest in the country. The beach here is a tombolo, a narrow strip of sand that forms a link from Mainland to St Ninian's Isle. It's only covered at exceptional tides, so whether wandering across it to St Ninian's counts as another island bagged is up to you! Once across it's well worth walking around the coastline of the isle to take in the magnificent scenery. The ruins of the ancient chapel here yielded one of Shetland's richest archaeological finds, the St Ninian's hoard, replicas of which can be seen at the museum in Lerwick.\n\n#### Get up close with a puffin at Sumburgh Head\n\nThe lighthouse complex at the southernmost tip of Mainland is one of Shetland's most popular attractions. There are displays on marine life, you can visit the engine room that powered the foghorns, have a cuppa in the cafe, and climb the wee tower for a stunning outlook over the open ocean towards the Fair Isle. What draws most visitors to make the trip though is a chance to view the bird colonies \u2013 and most especially the puffins. There are many viewing points around the headland, giving a chance to get close to these most magical of seabirds.\n\n#### Uncover the many layers of the past at Jarlshof\n\nA short distance north from Sumburgh Head is Jarlshof, one of the most fascinating archaeological sites in the whole of the UK. A community was first established here around 2700 BC and people lived on the site continuously for the next 4,000 years, leaving an entire smorgasbord of ancient remains for archaeologists and modern visitors to drool over. Walk around the well-preserved remains of oval Bronze Age houses, an Iron Age broch and wheelhouse, and Norse longhouses which may have been built cheek by jowl with the medieval farmstead on the site. The most recent building is a laird's house dating from the sixteenth century. Jarlshof is open between April and September and there is an entrance charge.\n\n#### Sample the very best fish and chips at Frankie's\n\nThe tiny village of Brae in the north of Mainland is the unlikely setting for one of Britain's finest fish and chip shops. Frankie's has not only been a winner of the award for the best in the UK, it operates with a real eye for sustainability. Its owner even scooped a British Empire Medal in the Queen's Birthday Honours list for her services to fish and chips. The place has a small sit-in area as well as operating as a takeaway; if you can manage to resist perfect fish and home-made chips then they do crab claws, langoustines, scallops, local mussels... yes, you'll need to come back more than once.  \n_**www.frankiesfishandchips.com**_\n\n#### Get wind-blasted at Esha Ness\n\nThe westernmost tip of the Northmavine peninsula well repays the long drive to get there. A squat lighthouse stands atop the incredibly convoluted coastline, and a short walk northwards along the clifftops revealing an intricate array of deep geos, blocky stacks and natural arches. It's bleak, bare and completely exposed to the prevailing westerly winds \u2013 an unforgiving place to be when the winter storms hit, but quite unforgettable. Keen walkers can take a much longer fourteen-kilometre circular hike right around the headland, using minor roads to cross the hinterland from Bordigarth to Tangwick.\n\n#### Visit the haunting ruins of Fethaland\n\nThe 'Isle of Fethaland' may not really be an island in itself, but this shouldn't deter keen island baggers from making time to experience this far-flung corner of Shetland Mainland. Northmavine's road terminates just short of Isbister, and from here you have to hike almost four kilometres of rough track to reach the atmospheric ruins. The site was inhabited from prehistoric times, but most of the ruins you see today are of a salmon fishing station that operated from the 1600s until the early twentieth century. Workers manned up to sixty open rowboats known as sixareens, which incredibly used to fish from here to the edge of the continental shelf \u2013 eighty kilometres out to the west. Beyond the ruins is the northernmost part of Mainland, where a small lighthouse offers superb views along the coast to Uyea, out to the Ramna Stacks and across to Yell.\n\n#### Climb Ronas Hill\n\nAt 450 metres, Shetland's highest hill is not a place of dizzying summitry, instead being the utmost dome of the vast, utterly empty and windswept North Roe plateau. The ascent is eased by a tarmac road that climbs steeply up to the telecoms equipment on nearby Collafirth Hill, but the hike from here \u2013 even though it only involves another 270 metres or so of ascent \u2013 should not be underestimated. The bare, stony tundra can make navigation a serious challenge when the frequent mists come down, but on a good day the view from the highest cairn is superb, taking in all Northmavine and far beyond.\n\n**Mainland,** Jarlshof\n\n**Mainland,** fiddle music in the Lounge Bar, Lerwick\n\n**Mainland,** ruins at Fethaland\n\n**Mainland,** St Ninian's beach and isle\n\n**Mainland,** Frankie's Fish and Chips **Photo:** Frankie's\n\n**Mainland,** Esha Ness\n\n**Mainland,** Westerwick\n\n**Mainland,** Scalloway Castle\n\n**Mainland,** Ronas Hill\n\n**Left** and **Right:** **Mainland,** Up Helly Aa, Lerwick\n\n#### Visit the great stacks of Silwick and Westerwick\n\nThe wild and deeply indented coastline of West Mainland is packed with interest, but it is the little-known section south of Silwick and Westerwick that is perhaps the most dramatic of all. You can walk the rugged coastline between these two farmsteads and beyond to the west \u2013 there's no path but every step reveals remarkable rock features. The many spires of castellated Erne's Stack are followed by the fine individual tower of the Skerry of the Wick, surrounded by grand cliffs. Beyond Westerwick is the rock architecture of the Giltarump, and if you are full of energy you can continue around the coast all the way to the remains of the Culswick broch.\n\n#### Attend an Up Helly Aa\n\nThis Viking-themed fire festival dates back to the nineteenth century, but it has grown to become the best known of all the events on Scotland's islands. There are actually many Up Helly Aas held all around Shetland through January, but the one in Lerwick on the last Tuesday of the month is by far the largest.\n\nThere are forty-six squads totalling 1,000 men \u2013 women only take part in the Up Helly Aas outside of Lerwick \u2013 and one man each year is chosen as the Guizer Jarl, a great honour, and his squad becomes the Jarl's squad for that year. A great amount of care goes into the construction of the outfits every year, as well as the boat which is burnt at the end of a great torchlit procession for all the squads.\n\nLess well known outside Shetland are the events in the halls that follow, as every hall around Lerwick puts on a ceilidh. Every squad of men then tours around the town throughout all the hours of the night, and every man must dance with a woman in every hall. Only the Jarl's squad are Vikings \u2013 all the other squads choose their own humorous outfits and perform a comic routine at each hall, often poking fun at local characters and politics. It's first and foremost a huge community event, but if you are lucky enough to be in Lerwick on Up Helly Aa, ask at the tourist office or check the local paper to see if any of the halls have spare tickets for visitors \u2013 it's an experience you'll never forget.\n\n## Bressay\n\nThe fifth largest island in Shetland, Bressay lies just offshore from Lerwick and shelters the harbour from easterly winds. Most of the population of around 350 people lives on the western side of the island, many of them commuting to work on Mainland. The interior rises to wild moorlands before descending to the more exposed and isolated east coast.\n\nThe island is served by regular vehicle ferries from the centre of Lerwick, taking around ten minutes to cross Bressay Sound. Bressay has a single hotel and a community shop.\n\n#### Climb the Ward\n\nThe highest hill on Bressay, the Ward, topped by television and radio transmitter masts, is a prominent landmark from Lerwick, so it comes as little surprise that it's a really superb viewpoint. An excellent track leads up to the 226-metre summit from the housing development at Glebe, making for a straightforward walk or even a mountain bike ride if you are fit enough. If you decide to extend the walk and leave the track, the going is tough over peat-hagged moorland and the area can be full of aggressive bonxies (great skuas) during the breeding season.\n\n#### See the arch under Kirkabister Ness\n\nThe lighthouse complex at Kirkabister Ness provides a guide for ships heading north into the Bressay Sound. As you approach the lighthouse along the road from Kirkabister the whitewashed buildings look picturesque enough, but the true drama of the location is only revealed to those prepared to do a little more exploring. Head along the coast to the east of the lighthouse and you'll see that it's built almost on top of a fine natural rock arch. The light is still active but automated, and the former keepers' cottages are available for holiday rentals.\n\n## Noss\n\nThe island of Noss is rather hidden away behind its larger neighbour Bressay, but don't let this shyness deter you from visiting \u2013 it's an unmissable gem for island baggers. Fringed by some spectacular cliffs, Noss is one of the most important sites for breeding seabirds in Scotland and is a National Nature Reserve. Its name comes from the Norse word for nose, and likely refers to the great promontory of Noss Head.\n\nTo reach Noss, first access the parking area on the far side of Bressay just before the track descends to Noss Sound. From here, a small inflatable boat ferries visitors across the narrows during the summer season, weather permitting \u2013 the crossing is often an adventure in itself. The sound is a hotspot for sightings of orca, so keep your eyes peeled. Once on the island the only facility is the visitor centre, which has toilets.\n\n**Bressay,** Kirkabister Ness\n\n#### Blow your mind at Noss Head\n\nThe eight-kilometre circular walk around Noss's coastline takes around four hours and is one of the finest in all Shetland. The island's interior hosts the world's fourth largest colony of bonxies (great skuas); there are otters to be seen along the west coast; eiders, shags and black guillemots (tysties) abound; and plenty of puffins top the southern cliffs. The highlight, however, is undoubtedly the climb up to the top of the 180-metre vertical cliffs of Noss Head \u2013 or the Noup of Noss. The cliffs are home to 25,000 guillemots and 10,000 pairs of beautiful gannets. Watching the latter dive for fish from above is enough to fill the coolest head with vertigo.\n\n## Mousa\n\nJust off the east coast of Mainland, Mousa is another island nature reserve, this time in the ownership of the RSPB. It provides a home for colonies of grey and common seals, black guillemots (tysties) and storm petrels. Although today Mousa is uninhabited, human occupation can be traced back over 3,000 years \u2013 most spectacularly in the island's celebrated Iron Age broch.\n\nA private passenger boat operates trips out to the island from Sandsayre pier on Mainland throughout the summer months and booking is recommended. There are public toilets and a small museum in Sandsayre, but no facilities on Mousa itself.\n\n**Noss,** Noss Head\n\n#### Stand atop the greatest of brochs\n\nReached by a fifteen-minute walk southwards from the jetty is a truly magnificent structure, the Mousa broch. Defensive structures built during the Iron Age, brochs occur on many islands and along Scotland's north and west coastlines, but Mousa is by far the best preserved of them all. Built around 300 BC with the most remarkable craftsmanship, this circular drystone tower still stands to a height of thirteen metres. The broch has two parallel walls, and between them are various smaller chambers, and a stone staircase that still allows visitors to ascend to the top. There are great views across the Mousa Sound \u2013 watch out for orca passing through \u2013 and you may note the more ruinous remains of the Broch of Burraland on the opposite side of the channel.\n\n#### Witness the return of the storm petrels\n\nFor night-time visitors to Mousa broch, an even more special experience awaits. From late May until mid-July, hundreds of storm petrels return to their nests on the broch walls, drystane dykes and the beach. Special boat trips operate several times a week to take visitors out to witness this great spectacle. As darkness falls, the ancient, lichen-encrusted walls of the broch echo with the strange, eerie, troll-like calls of these tiny but remarkable seabirds that spend all the rest of their lives out at sea.\n\n## Trondra\n\nThe Scalloway Islands lie south of the town and provide shelter to its harbour. They were steadily losing their population until 1971, when new road bridges were built linking Trondra to Mainland, and then onwards from Trondra to West and East Burra. Since then the population has recovered and now stands at over a hundred. For most visitors, Trondra is a stepping stone en route to its neighbours.\n\n#### Experience a slice of Shetland croft life\n\nOf the visitors who do pause on Trondra, most are headed for the Burland Croft Trail. The Isbister family have worked the croft here since the 1970s, maintaining local Shetland breeds of animals and poultry as well as raising crops. In the summer months they welcome visitors and it's a great chance especially for children to meet and feed the animals which include Shetland ponies, cows, sheep, pigs and ducks.\n\n## West Burra\n\nOver nine kilometres in length but never much more than a kilometre wide, West Burra is home to over 700 people, with the largest settlement at Hamnavoe in the north. Here is the Scalloway Islands' only shop and petrol station, and bed and breakfast is also available. There is also low-cost accommodation at the Bridge End Outdoor Centre near the bridge to East Burra.\n\nWest Burra is connected to mainland Shetland by road bridges via the neighbouring island of Trondra.\n\n#### Visit Meal beach\n\nJust outside Hamnavoe is a parking area from where a boardwalk path leads down to this beautiful sandy beach. Meal faces south, sheltered from the prevailing winds, and is a popular beach by Shetland standards \u2013 which means you _might_ even find someone else here at the same time. If the temperature isn't high enough for sunbathing, you can walk west along the coast to visit the rocky Fugla Ness peninsula and on into Hamnavoe.\n\n**Left** and **Right:** **Moussa,** broch\n\n**West Burra,** Meal beach\n\n**Moussa,** ferry\n\n**West Burra,** Banna Min\n\n**East Burra,** from the Ward of Symbister\n\n**Papa Stour,** the kirk\n\n**Papa Stour,** Kirk Sand\n\n**Papa Stour,** Aesha Head\n\n#### Cross Banna Min\n\nAt the southern end of West Burra's road is the restored East House \u2013 sometimes open as a museum \u2013 and a parking area. A short stroll from here leads to one of Shetland's finest and lesser known beaches, Banna Min. The sandy bay here is on the north side of the narrow tombolo that connects the wild Kettla Ness peninsula to the rest of the island. The beach is well sheltered from most directions, and if you tire of relaxing then there's the fine cliffs of Kettla Ness to explore. Head over the Ward to reach the impressive rock scenery around the Heugg.\n\n## East Burra\n\nIf you've followed the road from Mainland over the bridges to Trondra and then West Burra, a much smaller bridge makes the onward connection to East Burra, which is the end of the line. East Burra has a much smaller population than its neighbour, and feels rather sandwiched between it and the forbidding and bare Clift Hills on the nearest part of Mainland.\n\n#### Ascend the Ward of Symbister\n\nThe road south ends at Houss and the island narrows just beyond here at Ayre Dyke, though there is no spectacular beach like that at Banna Min on West Burra. A track leads across to the Houss Ness peninsula, whose open coastline provides a great place to explore. Be sure to climb to the top of the Ward of Symbister for comprehensive views over this island group and its long voes and sounds.\n\n## Papa Stour\n\nBoasting a fantastical coastline with some of Britain's finest sea caves, arches, tunnels and stacks, a visit to Papa Stour is a wonderful experience. Often known locally simply as Papa, the island has a population of fewer than twenty, all in the Biggings area in the east, while the western part is magnificently wild and exposed.\n\nPapa Stour is connected to Mainland by a ferry from West Burrafirth which takes forty minutes and operates four days a week, though only three of these allow time for a day trip. All sailings must be pre-booked. The ferryboat, the _Snolda_ , does take vehicles, but there is little point in visitors bringing cars to the island as there is only two kilometres of road. There is also an airstrip on the island, with a very limited flight schedule from Tingwall airport near Lerwick. The toilets and small waiting room above the pier are the main facilities for visitors, though it may be possible to rent a self-catering cottage.\n\n#### Visit the kirk and beach\n\nPapa's narrow strip of tarmac leads past a partly reconstructed stofa \u2013 a medieval Norse house \u2013 en route to the church. The current kirk dates back to 1806, replacing an earlier thatched one that had partly collapsed some years before. It's well worth heading inside to see the beautiful stained-glass window by Victor Noble Rainbird \u2013 it commemorates the six men from Papa who lost their lives in the First World War. A short stroll across croftland leads to Kirk Sand, probably the finest beach on the island.\n\n#### Cross the arch at Aesha Head\n\nPapa Stour's most magnificent coastal scenery is reserved for those who undertake a long and rough hike to visit its western cliffs. Here there's a vast array of remarkable cliff features, including Kirstan's Hole \u2013 a great blowhole \u2013 and a range of stacks and geos. Offshore are the dramatic islets of Fogla Skerry and Lyra Skerry \u2013 both pierced by tunnels \u2013 and the UK's longest subterranean sea passage under Virda Field, though the latter can only be seen from the sea. It's hard to pick out a single highlight, but a walk over the spectacular arch that cuts through Aesha Head is difficult to surpass.\n\n## Muckle Roe\n\nThis almost circular island is five kilometres across and linked to Shetland Mainland by the Muckle Roe bridge over the Roe Sound. Much of the island is composed of red granite, giving rise to its name \u2013 based on old Norse and Scots \u2013 which means 'big red island'. The population of around 130 lives along the eastern coastal strip, while the centre rises to rugged hills, falling in fine cliffs to the south and west.\n\n#### Hike to the light\n\nMuckle Roe has the reputation of having some of Shetland's finest walking, and the two-kilometre-long path to its tiny lighthouse gives a dramatic and memorable outing. Beginning from Little-ayre, a track soon leads to the fine bay of Muckle Ayre. A rugged path then climbs steeply, crossing a boggy area, before embarking on a fine traverse high above the coast. After reaching Gilsa Water it climbs again briefly before descending past the great collapsed cave known as the Hole of Hellier. The modern lighthouse is a short distance beyond, in as wild and dramatic a spot as you could hope for. Watch out for seals around the bases of the Murbie Stacks.\n\n#### Visit the Hams\n\nIt is possible to extend the above walk by a very rugged but dramatic route along the clifftops from the light to the bays of the South and North Hams, or you can reach them much more easily by following a Land Rover track for four kilometres each way direct from Little-ayre. South Ham was once used for smuggling from the Faroes; the ruins at Burg overlook this open and beautiful bay. The North Ham is much narrower and more dramatic with spectacular cliffs as well as the remains of an old Norse mill.\n\n## Uyea\n\nThis small tidal island off the north-western extremity of Mainland's Northmavine has built a reputation for its remoteness and the beauty of its setting. Reaching Uyea on foot is a real challenge.\n\n#### An Uyea adventure\n\nJust getting to see Uyea from Sandvoe is a tough, strenuous and wild walk in itself \u2013 either following the pathless clifftops or the track inland, the circuit of both routes making for a full day's fifteen-and-a-half-kilometre adventure as rugged as any hillwalk. The island is separated from Mainland by a stretch of beautiful tidal sand and reaching this point will be more than enough for most. Actually crossing to Uyea requires timing the walk perfectly with the tides, combined with a hazardous and slippery rock descent to reach the beach. There's a very real chance of becoming stranded.\n\n## Yell\n\nFor many visitors Yell is merely a large stepping stone en route during their pilgrimage to the most northerly inhabited island, Unst. However, if you turn aside from the rather bleak journey along the main road there is plenty to explore here. It's the second largest of all the Shetland Isles after Mainland, with a population just short of a thousand.\n\nThe southern end of the island at Ulsta is linked to Toft on Mainland by a regular vehicle ferry service, while Gutcher at the north end has onward ferries to the islands of Unst and Fetlar. Yell has general stores \u2013 and petrol stations \u2013 at Mid Yell and Aywick; Mid Yell also has a leisure centre and swimming pool. Accommodation is available in bed and breakfasts or in the Windhouse Lodge camping 'b\u00f6ds' \u2013 a form of very basic hostel unique to Shetland.\n\n**Muckle Roe,** North Hams\n\n**Muckle Roe,** the light\n\n**Uyea,** from Mainland\n\n#### See the White Wife of Otterswick\n\nThis striking white structure was originally the figurehead of the German ship _Bohus_ that sank nearby in 1924 during a storm. Four of the thirty-nine crew were drowned, including Cadet Eberth who saved four of his shipmates before losing his own life. The figurehead you see now was washed ashore later that year and was erected by locals within sight of the sinking. It has been restored and was unveiled as an official monument in 1989.\n\n#### Watch an otter\n\nShetland is one of the best places in the world to watch European otters, and out of all the Shetland Isles, Yell is pre-eminent for otter lovers. They can be seen all around the coast, particularly on the eastern side, with regular sightings from Burra Ness to Burravoe, with \u2013 as you might expect \u2013 Otterswick in between being a particular hotspot. Otters have very keen senses so you'll need to be very quiet, avoid standing out on the skyline and approach from downwind, otherwise they'll be gone long before you could spot them. If you get lucky, watching them fishing and coming ashore to eat is an experience you'll never forget.\n\n**Yell,** otter\n\n**Yell,** White Wife of Otterswick\n\n**Yell,** the Gloup memorial\n\n**Yell,** Gloup Voe\n\n#### The Gloup memorial\n\nThis moving memorial commemorates Shetland's greatest fishing tragedy, and takes the form of a fisherwife looking out to sea with her child, scanning the horizon for those who were never coming back. It was built in 1981, a hundred years after the day when fifty-eight fishermen on ten boats were lost in an unexpected storm. These men left behind thirty-four widows and eighty-five now-fatherless children. Most of the boats were open sixareens which were traditional in Shetland. Sixareens rowed far into open sea from a base fishing station or haaf, to fish for two or three days at a time. The disaster decimated the local community and began the decline of the use of sixareens. The memorial is a short stroll from the road end and overlooks the remarkable long, deep channel of Gloup Voe.\n\n#### Sunbathe on the Sands of Breckon\n\nYell isn't commonly associated with fine sandy beaches, but actually it has a couple of real gems. West Sandwick has a fine beach looking out to an islet, but it is the Sands of Breckon in the north that is really quite unmissable. There's parking at Breckon from which the beach is just a short, signposted stroll. The graceful arc of sand is sheltered by the long, narrow peninsula of the Ness of Houlland. If you are looking for a hike then you can follow the rough coastline to the west, heading around Gloup Ness to reach Gloup and its memorial.\n\n#### Burra Voe\n\nThe long inlet of Burra Voe is on the southern coastline, sheltered by the low-lying peninsula of Heoga Ness. A circuit around the latter makes for a fine five-kilometre walk, which can be extended to Ladies Hole for a chance to spot a puffin and other seabirds. Make sure you also explore the Old Haa, a beautiful seventeenth-century house that acts as Yell's museum \u2013 and tearoom.\n\n**Yell,** Sands of Breckon\n\n**Yell,** otter\n\n**Yell,** Burra Voe\n\n**Unst,** gannetry at the Neap, Herma Ness\n\n**Unst,** bonxie \u2013 or great skua\n\n**Unst,** view to Muckle Flugga\n\n**Unst,** Muness castle\n\n**Unst,** Bobby's bus shelter\n\n**Unst,** Edmonston's chickweed\n\n**Unst,** Sandwick beach\n\n## Unst\n\nThe most northerly inhabited island in Britain, Unst is the final outpost before the vast sea stretches away towards the Arctic. The spectacular seabird colonies of Hermaness have brought it fame, but there's actually a wide array of scenery to discover here, along with superb beaches and a distinctive heritage.\n\nUnst is served by regular car ferries linking the pier at Belmont with Gutcher on neighbouring Yell (the same boat also provides a connection to Fetlar). There's a leisure centre with swimming pool at Baltasound, a couple of shops and several accommodation options including a hotel, bed and breakfast and a range of self-catering rentals.\n\n#### See Muckle Flugga from Hermaness\n\nThe cliffs of Hermaness \u2013 the most northerly part of Unst \u2013 are a spectacular National Nature Reserve and one of Shetland's most essential places to experience. It's hard to know where to begin when describing them: there are 50,000 pairs of puffins, one of the most aggressive colonies of bonxies in all the isles, a stunning gannetry at the Neap with vast vertical walls of rock, and the view looks out to the lighthouse on Muckle Flugga \u2013 the most northerly landfall in the UK.\n\nThere's a visitor centre in the lighthouse shore station just below the car park. To reach the cliffs, a well-marked walkway leads north and then west across bleak moorland where the bonxies are much in evidence in season. Little can prepare you for suddenly reaching the rim of the cliffs and their great plunge to the endless ocean. The puffins are all around from here \u2013 a right turn along the cliffs leads to increasingly rough terrain and a closer view of Muckle Flugga, whereas a left turn heads for the gannetry. Either way, it's not a place you'll forget.\n\n#### Find Edmonston's chickweed at the Keen of Hamar\n\nAway from the drama of Hermaness, Unst actually has a second National Nature Reserve. There is a car park at Littlehamar and then signs indicate the route to the reserve, where the landscape is so bare it appears almost lunar. This is caused by the serpentine rocks here, which were formed in the sea before being thrown up by a massive earth movement around 400 million years ago. Serpentinite is rarely found on the surface; it has weathered to a thin soil, but this bare place resembles how much of Northern Europe would have appeared after glaciers retreated at the end of the last Ice Age.\n\nA close inspection reveals that an array of rare vegetation actually grows here. The most celebrated is the white flowers of Edmonston's chickweed, which is also known as 'Shetland mouse-ear' \u2013 a plant that grows only on serpentine on Unst. A twelve-year-old local boy named Thomas Edmondston discovered it; he went on to become a professor of botany and wrote a book on Shetland's flora before being tragically killed on a scientific expedition to South America at the age of twenty.\n\n#### Take a break at Bobby's bus shelter\n\nAt a bend in the A968 road between Baltasound and Haroldswick stands a humble bus shelter that has become famed around the world. On wind-blasted Unst you really need a shelter when waiting for a bus, so when the council removed it in 1996, local boy Bobby Macaulay wrote to the local paper to complain and ask for a new one.\n\nFollowing a petition the new shelter was delivered, and soon afterwards items and furniture began to mysteriously appear in it. Soon there was a sofa, carpet and curtains, and a cult was born. The shelter is now redecorated every few years by local volunteers and has featured a variety of themes. It has even hosted a two-seater film festival screening, attended by Mark Kermode and his mum. If you want to get really off the wall, you could even just sit in it and wait for a bus.\n\n#### Discover the Viking past at Sandwick Beach\n\nThere's a fine beach at Norwick beyond the old RAF base at Saxa Vord, but the best on Unst is undoubtedly Sandwick on a lonely stretch of the east coast. This half-kilometre stretch of sand is a magical place to relax on a fine summer's day, but if the weather is wild it's also a great area to explore.\n\nThe area around the beach has some important archaeological sites. There are the remains of a Norse longhouse, now becoming engulfed by the sands, two Pictish burial sites, and a cemetery containing the ruins of a Viking chapel \u2013 connected with the farmstead of Framgord. The cemetery is still in use \u2013 coffins are now brought in by tractor, but the mourners have to make the walk themselves. It's possible to explore the coastline further north to visit the deserted township of Colvadale.\n\n#### Explore Muness Castle\n\nBritain's most northerly medieval castle is found three kilometres east of Uyeasound. Its grey stone walls still stand strong against the worst storms that batter Unst, with two and a half of its original three storeys relatively intact. The castle is free to enter \u2013 it's either unlocked, or there's a sign letting you know where you can collect the key \u2013 and once inside you can explore the kitchens and cellars downstairs and the now open great hall above.\n\n## Fetlar\n\nDespite being the fourth largest of the Shetland isles, Fetlar is little visited, lying off the usual tourist route north up through Yell to Unst. It is home to around sixty people and is probably best known for its RSPB reserve, though there's a fine beach at the Sand of Tresta and some dramatic coastal cliffs.\n\nThe island is served by the Bluemull vehicle ferry that provides a link to both Unst and Yell, though only a few of the services each day call at Fetlar. There's a heritage centre at Houbie in the south of the island, a bed and breakfast and a self-catering property to rent \u2013 in addition to the basic hostel or b\u00f6d at Aithbank. Note that there is no petrol station on Fetlar.\n\n#### See the red-necked phalarope\n\nFetlar has long been something of a mecca for keen twitchers, with all kinds of unexpected birds turning up; famously it was home to a pair of breeding snowy owls in the 1960s and 1970s. Most birders, however, head here to see another species, the red-necked phalarope, as the island hosts more than half of the UK population. Unusually it's the female rather than the male that has the distinctive bright plumage, and it's the male that does the incubating and chick rearing. There's a hide at the Mires of Funzie, but the Loch of Funzie itself is where you are most likely to get a good look at this lovely wee bird.\n\n#### Cross the arch at the Snap\n\nThe Snap is the name of the headland at the southern end of the Funzie Ness peninsula, the whole of which provides for an excellent wild coastal walk. Head south from the Haa of Funzie; the going is rugged, but the coastal scenery is superb. The highlight is a magnificent rock arch just before reaching the headland \u2013 you can walk out over it, but be careful near the unprotected cliff edge, especially when the winds are up.\n\n**Fetlar,** Stranburgh Head\n\n**Fetlar,** Aithbank b\u00f6d\n\n**Fetlar,** arch at the Snap\n\n#### Visit Strandburgh Ness\n\nA narrow neck of land connects Inner Brough to the rest of Fetlar, with Viking ruins to pass through to reach the furthest point. This was once the site of the largest Norse monastic settlement in Shetland. Incredibly there are further remains on the Outer Brough beyond, which is separated by a cliff-girt channel of the wildest seas.\n\nThe shortest route to the headland is from the croft at Everland, heading past an old ruin and over stiles to reach the coast at the Wick of Gruting. From here you can continue past the remains of some Norse mills to reach Strandburgh Ness. It's possible to make a nine-and-a-half-kilometre circuit by following the east coast to the Haa of Funzie, but this stretch is wild and rough, with some coastal cliffs and arches.\n\n#### Stay at Aithbank b\u00f6d\n\nIn Shetland a b\u00f6d was originally a building that temporarily housed fishermen during the fishing season. The word is now used to describe a basic type of hostel unique to Shetland \u2013 similar in concept to camping barns in England. B\u00f6ds provide low-cost accommodation with few facilities \u2013 some have no electricity or even lighting, though all have at least cold water and toilet facilities. They can be booked through the Shetland Amenity Trust in Lerwick.\n\nThe b\u00f6d at Aithbank is one of the finest, with a shower and cooking facilities. It was once the home to a legendary local storyteller \u2013 Jamsie Laurensen \u2013 and has superb views along the coastline.  \n_**www.camping-bods.com**_\n\n## Whalsay\n\nHome to over a thousand people, Whalsay is a surprisingly well-populated and prosperous island. It's the heart of Shetland's fishing industry, and its fertile hinterland is well-crofted. In the 1930s and 1940s it was the home of Christopher Murray Grieve \u2013 better known as Hugh MacDiarmid, regarded as one of the greatest Scots poets. Active politically, he championed Scottish independence and was one of the founders of the National Party of Scotland, a forerunner of the current Scottish National Party.\n\nWhalsay is served by car ferries from Laxo and Vidlin on the mainland, with the crossing taking around thirty minutes. The capital Symbister has a shop, and the house that Hugh MacDiarmid lived in is now a b\u00f6d providing basic accommodation. The island also boasts the UK's most northerly eighteen-hole golf course.\n\n#### Hear about the Hanseatic League\n\nThe picturesque stone-built pier house at Symbister is now a museum telling the story of a forgotten part of Shetland history. Ships from ports in northern Germany once visited Shetland every summer, bringing a variety of goods which they traded with Shetland fish. The museum building was owned by these German merchants, and today it tells the story of this trade between the island and what was known as the Hanseatic League. The union between Scotland and England in 1707 brought in its wake new import duties that forced a stop to this international trade.\n\n#### Climb the Ward\n\nThe highest point on Whalsay is the Ward of Clett (119 metres), a fairly short and straightforward walk from the ferry pier. A track leads up to the summit \u2013 marked by a trig point and some old military buildings \u2013 which provides a superb outlook over the whole of the island as well as over to Out Skerries, Bressay and Noss.\n\n## Out Skerries\n\nSimply known locally as Da Skerries, Out Skerries consists of three small islands \u2013 Bruray, Housay and Grunay \u2013 and numerously tiny islets and stacks, together forming the easternmost part of Scotland. Bruray and Housay are both inhabited and are linked by a bridge, whereas Grunay is now deserted.\n\nSkerries is connected to Mainland Shetland by ferries from Vidlin (ninety minutes) and, less often, from Lerwick (two and a half hours). There are a few days each week when it is possible to make a day trip to the island, though the crossing is often affected by rough seas. There are also scheduled flights from the Tingwall airstrip near Lerwick. There is a tiny shop on both islands, and bed and breakfast accommodation is available.\n\n#### See the Skerries light from Bruray\n\nThe lighthouse on the rocky islet of Bound Skerry is the tallest in Shetland, an elegant tower rising to thirty metres. The lighthouse keepers lived on neighbouring Grunay and were bombed during the Second World War. Since the light was automated in 1972 Grunay has been uninhabited. Probably the best view of the lighthouse is off the ferry from Vidlin as it heads round the north side of Bruray, and it's a striking sight as it turns into the narrow Northeast Mouth to Skerries' fine natural harbour.\n\n#### Ramble round Housay\n\nIt's possible to walk almost right around the coastline of both Bruray and Housay, crossing the Skerries Bridge that has linked them since 1957. There is no path and the going is rough in places on this twelve-kilometre route, and the south-westernmost extremity, the Ward of Mioness, is cut off from the rest of Housay by a natural chasm at the back of Trolli Geo. It's worth climbing to the top of Bruray Ward to the north of the airstrip; while only fifty-three metres high it gives fine views over the vast ocean \u2013 and to the eastern coast of Mainland Shetland if the weather is clear.\n\n**Whalsay,** view from the Ward\n\n**Out Skerries,** bridge linking Bruray and Housay\n\n**Whalsay,** pierhouse museum\n\n**Out Skerries,** Grunay and the Skerries lighthouse from Bruray\n\n**Fair Isle,** cliffs below Ward Hill\n\n**Fair Isle,** Ward Hill summit\n\n**Fair Isle,** bonxie\n\n## Fair Isle\n\nLying some thirty-nine kilometres south-west from Sumburgh Head on Shetland Mainland, the Fair Isle is the UK's most isolated permanently inhabited island. Set almost midway between Shetland and Orkney, this remote outpost is home to around fifty people. Its name is well known for its woollen knitwear, and for featuring in the BBC Radio 4 shipping forecasts. Amongst keen twitchers it has almost legendary status as a watch point for migrating birds.\n\nGetting to Fair Isle is an adventure in itself. There are scheduled flights on a tiny nine-seater plane from Tingwall outside Lerwick; the flight takes only thirty minutes and can allow for day trips. Three times a week the _Good Shepherd IV_ passenger ferry sails between Fair Isle and Grutness Pier near Sumburgh Head \u2013 this takes two and a half hours. Both flights and ferry are frequently cancelled due to adverse weather, and if you do travel to Fair Isle be aware that you may not be able to leave the island on the day you expected! There is fully catered accommodation at the South Light and a couple of full-board guest houses. The bird observatory, first set up in old naval huts in 1948 and replaced by a new building in 2010, was sadly destroyed by fire in 2019.\n\n#### Climb Ward Hill\n\nA track leads from the north side of the aircraft landing strip to a series of communications masts, and from there a final steeper climb leads to the Fair Isle's highest summit \u2013 Ward Hill (217 metres). The area is littered with the scattered remains of an old RAF radar base, but nothing can distract from the unique views \u2013 a 360-degree sweep of open ocean.\n\nThe whole of the Fair Isle is in view, with Malcolm's Head and the Sheep Rock both prominent, while to the west the slope falls rapidly to reach the brim of the great cliffs of the island's west coast. A rougher return can be made by following these massive clifftops southwards, passing high above gannet colonies, around geos and past high stacks before reaching a massive stone wall that leads back towards the airstrip.\n\n#### See the Sheep Rock\n\nThis massive rocky outcrop \u2013 topped with a small area of grass \u2013 is connected to Fair Isle's eastern coastline and stands out as the island's most distinctive landmark. Incredibly it was used \u2013 as its name suggests \u2013 for grazing sheep in summer until 1977. As it is quite inaccessible, the sheep were hauled up by rope from boats below, with an incredibly precarious and dangerous path up being used by the crofters.\n\nThe rock is in view from most of the island, but to appreciate it up close you can reach it by following the coastline from either the north or south. The northern approach passes some fine arches and plenty of puffins in the breeding season.\n\n#### Become a fully fledged twitcher\n\nFair Isle has long been famed as a great place to spot migrating birds. The first bird observatory was set up here in a complex of old naval huts back in 1948. It was replaced by purpose-built premises in 1969, and again in 2010 by a larger building that offered guest accommodation open to all and a place for birdwatching enthusiasts to meet up and exchange news of sightings. Sadly that building was totally destroyed by fire in 2019, although luckily the birding species logs and other scientific records had been digitised and were saved.\n\nThe work of the observatory, which is run by a charity, will continue and there are plans to rebuild and offer accommodation again as soon as possible. While staying at the observatory is a very special experience, with the opportunity to accompany the wardens on their early morning walks around the bird traps and contribute to the scientific work, exploring the island under your own steam is also very rewarding. Spend a day or more on the island, binoculars and bird book in hand, and you'll be surprised at how quickly you get drawn into the magical world of birding.\n\n#### Get knitted\n\nFair Isle knitting patterns are known throughout the world, but it is only on the Fair Isle itself that the genuine, authentic product \u2013 marked by its trademark star motif \u2013 is produced by a handful of skilled local knitters. The sweaters rose to great popularity when the Prince of Wales (later to be crowned Edward VIII) wore one in 1921. A full hand-knit jumper is a major investment, but you can also get scarfs and hats if you are looking for something more affordable.\n\nMany of the knitters can be visited when you are on the island so that you can purchase their work direct. Enthusiasts should visit Shetland during Wool Week in the autumn when there is an extensive programme of events, exhibitions and open studio days throughout Shetland.\n\n## Foula\n\nThe spectacular \u2013 and spectacularly isolated \u2013 island of Foula lies over twenty kilometres west of Shetland Mainland. A tiny community lives along its eastern half in the straggly settlement of Hametoun, while to the west the land rises to sculpted hills, culminating in great cliffs that are the highest in all Shetland.\n\nReaching Foula is even more chancy than getting to Fair Isle. Again, there are scheduled flights on a tiny nine-seater plane from Tingwall outside Lerwick; these take only fifteen minutes and on certain days each week can allow a day trip. The plane gives amazing views over West Mainland before crossing the sea to Foula. There's also a passenger ferry twice a week from Walls, taking two and a quarter hours and carrying up to twelve people. Both the flights and ferry are frequently cancelled due to adverse weather \u2013 check on the day, and be aware that there's always a chance you'll be stranded on the island. There is no shop on Foula, and only very limited accommodation that must be arranged in advance.\n\n**Foula,** Da Noup\n\n**Foula,** Da Sneck o da Smaalie\n\n#### Discover Da Sneck o da Smaalie\n\nDa Sneck is a spectacular crack formed by a landslip that splits the great western cliffs of Foula. It is an excellent objective for a walk from the airstrip, heading up the wide, flat-bottomed glen of Da Daal that passes between Foula's big hills. The dramatic coastal cliffs are reached suddenly, with Da Sneck forming a long chasm. Do not attempt to descend into it, but you can walk along the grassy top of Da Sneck on either side. Look out for puffins that nest in burrows above the cliff edge nearby. To the south of Da Sneck the land rises to the great craggy summit of Da Noup \u2013 a great extension to the walk if you have the time and energy to make the outing into a hillwalk.\n\n#### Survive da bonxies on Da Sneug\n\nAt 418 metres, Da Sneug is the highest summit on Foula, the culmination of an elegantly sculpted ridge that dominates much of the island. The ridge provides a direct route to the summit from the Baxter Chapel \u2013 which houses a mass of information on the island \u2013 near the airfield. Conditions underfoot are generally good, but there are few places in Britain as exposed to the elements as this. Another hazard are the bonxies or great skuas which attack walkers during nesting season \u2013 at such times it's best to carry a stick to hold above your head to fend them off.\n\nJust before the summit are a group of prehistoric stones known as the Brethren, and the ground then rises to the final trig point and cairn and an unforgettable vista \u2013 a three-hour round trip from the airstrip. If you have the time the ridge continues from here, descending to 316 metres before a final rise to Da Kame \u2013 from where the land falls vertically for 370 metres to the sea. This is the highest sea cliff in Britain outside St Kilda, and is perhaps even more frightening. While it's possible to continue north-east above the coast, there's a very steep descent to make, and the easiest option is instead to retrace your steps.\n\n**Foula,** on Da Sneug\n\n# The Islands: at a glance\n\n#### The Firth of Forth\n\n##### History and culture\n\n**Cramond Island** Make the tidal crossing\n\n**Inchcolm** Climb the abbey bell tower\n\n**Inchcolm** Stand guard over the Forth\n\n**Isle of May** See the high light \u2013 and the low light\n\n###### Nature and natural features\n\n**Bass Rock** Gawp at gannets\n\n**Isle of May** Join the puffarazzi\n\n###### Walk\n\n**Cramond Island** Make the tidal crossing\n\n**Isle of May** See the high light \u2013 and the low light\n\n#### The Firth of Clyde\n\n##### Activity\n\n**Arran** Bike around the island\n\n**Arran** Try the ArranMan Triathlon\n\n**Great Cumbrae** Cycle around Cumbrae\n\n**Great Cumbrae** Enjoy an ice cream at the crocodile rock\n\n###### Beach\n\n**Bute** Relax at Ettrick Bay\n\n###### Food and drink\n\n**Arran** Taste a dram at Lochranza\n\n**Arran** Sample Arran cheese and oatcakes\n\n###### History and culture\n\n**Arran** Feel the ancient past at Machrie Moor\n\n**Arran** Watch for a spider at King's Cave\n\n**Arran** Visit Brodick Castle\n\n**Arran** Pass the twelve apostles at Catacol\n\n**Arran** Arran's music festivals\n\n**Bute** Spend a penny at the Victorian toilets\n\n**Bute** Go Gothic at Mount Stuart\n\n**Bute** Wave at a boat from Canada Hill\n\n**Bute** See St Blane's Church\n\n**Bute** Go to ButeFest\n\n**Davaar Island** Pay your respects at the crucifixion cave\n\n**Great Cumbrae** Discover Cumbrae's wedgie and wee cathedral\n\n###### Nature and natural features\n\n**Ailsa Craig** Cruise around the Craig's backside\n\n**Arran** Hear the rut at Lochranza\n\n**Arran** Find Hutton's Unconformity\n\n**Arran** Watch for a spider at King's Cave\n\n**Arran** Visit the Glenashdale Falls\n\n**Arran** See the seals at Kildonan\n\n###### Walk\n\n**Ailsa Craig** Climb the Craig\n\n**Arran** Climb Goatfell\n\n**Arran** Walk the Arran coast\n\n**Arran** Find Hutton's Unconformity\n\n**Arran** Watch for a spider at King's Cave\n\n**Arran** Visit the Glenashdale Falls\n\n**Arran** See the seals at Kildonan\n\n**Bute** Hike the West Island Way\n\n**Bute** Wave at a boat from Canada Hill\n\n**Great Cumbrae** Power yourself to the island summit\n\n**Holy Isle** Climb to the top of Mullach M\u00f2r\n\n#### Islay, Jura & Colonsay\n\n##### Activity\n\n**Gigha** Raft race\n\n**Islay** Ride of the Falling Rain\n\n**Jura** Experience the Jura Fell Race\n\n**Jura** Ride the Corryvreckan whirlpool\n\n###### Beach\n\n**Colonsay** Kiloran Bay and Traigh Ban\n\n**Gigha** The Twin Beaches\n\n**Islay** Machir Bay and Kilchoman\n\n**Jura** Laze on the sands at Corran\n\n###### Food and drink\n\n**Colonsay** Drink in Colonsay's finest\n\n**Colonsay** Bee happy\n\n**Islay** Discover the water of life\n\n**Islay** Machir Bay and Kilchoman\n\n**Jura** Sample a dram\n\n###### History and culture\n\n**Colonsay** Complete the whale sculpture\n\n**Colonsay** Ce\u00f2l Cholasa\n\n**Colonsay** Book festival\n\n**Gigha** See the gardens at Achamore House\n\n**Gigha** Music festival\n\n**Islay** Pay your respects to the Lords of the Isles\n\n**Islay** Visit Bowmore's round church\n\n**Islay** See Kildalton Cross\n\n**Islay** Mull of Oa\n\n**Islay** F\u00e8is \u00ccle\n\n**Islay** Islay Book Festival\n\n**Islay** Beach rugby tournament\n\n**Jura** Face Room 101 at Barnhill\n\n**Jura** Jura Music Festival\n\n**Oronsay** Oronsay Priory\n\n###### Nature and natural features\n\n**Islay** Get twitching\n\n**Oronsay** Hear the rasp of the corncrake\n\n###### Walk\n\n**Colonsay** Kiloran Bay and Traigh Ban\n\n**Colonsay** See the whale sculpture at its best\n\n**Colonsay** Bag the MacPhies\n\n**Gigha** Climb Creag Bhan\n\n**Gigha** The Twin Beaches\n\n**Islay** Mull of Oa\n\n**Islay** Bag the Beinn\n\n**Jura** Climb the Paps\n\n**Jura** Ride the Corryvreckan whirlpool\n\n**Jura** Face Room 101 at Barnhill\n\n**Jura** Investigate the story of Maclean's Skull with a bothy trip\n\n**Jura** Cross the island on foot\n\n**Oronsay** Oronsay Priory\n\n#### The Firth of Lorn & Loch Linnhe\n\n##### Activity\n\n**Easdale** Take part in the World Stone-Skimming Championships\n\n**Lismore** Bike to Achadun Castle\n\n###### Food and drink\n\n**Eriska** Indulge yourself at a most opulent island retreat\n\n**Kerrera** Complete the classic circuit with castle and cake\n\n###### History and culture\n\n**Easdale** Explore the village\n\n**Eriska** Discover Eriska's sculptures\n\n**Kerrera** Complete the classic circuit with castle and cake\n\n**Kerrera** Uncover CalMac's roots at the Hutcheson monument\n\n**Lismore** Discover Port Ramsay\n\n**Lismore** Breach the defences of Tirefour Broch\n\n**Lismore** Castle Coeffin\n\n**Lismore** Bike to Achadun Castle\n\n**Luing** Catch a Cullipool sunset\n\n**Seil** Cross the 'Bridge over the Atlantic'\n\n**Seil** Discover Ellenabeich\n\n**Seil** See the stained glass at Kilbrandon Church\n\n###### Walk\n\n**Easdale** Climb the wee summit\n\n**Eriska** Discover Eriska's sculptures\n\n**Kerrera** Complete the classic circuit with castle and cake\n\n**Lismore** Discover Port Ramsay\n\n**Lismore** Breach the defences of Tirefour broch\n\n**Lismore** Castle Coeffin\n\n**Luing** Walk the quarry coast\n\n**Seil** Discover Ellenabeich\n\n#### The Isle of Mull Group\n\n##### Activity\n\n**Ulva** Overnight in a private bothy\n\n###### Beach\n\n**Iona** South end beaches and the spouting cave\n\n**Mull** See the white sand of Calgary Bay or dark sand of Traigh na Cille\n\n###### Food and drink\n\n**Iona** Snack at Heritage Garden Cafe\n\n**Mull** Taste a dram at Tobermory\n\n**Mull** Sample Mull's cheese\n\n**Mull** Try a taste of Mull\n\n**Ulva** Dine at the Boathouse\n\n###### History and culture\n\n**Iona** Be a pilgrim for the day at Iona Abbey\n\n**Mull** Experience Art in Nature\n\n**Mull** Stroll to Tobermory's lighthouse\n\n**Mull** Explore Duart Castle\n\n**Mull** See a show at Mull Theatre\n\n###### Nature and natural features\n\n**Iona** South end beaches and the spouting cave\n\n**Lunga and the Treshnish Islands** Puffins on parade\n\n**Lunga and the Treshnish Islands** See Harp Rock stack\n\n**Mull** Adventure to the Fossil Tree\n\n**Mull** Explore Mackinnon's Cave\n\n**Mull** See a sea eagle\n\n**Mull** Visit the Carsaig Arches\n\n**Mull** Round the crater loch\n\n**Staffa** See Fingal's Cave\n\n###### Walk\n\n**Erraid** Send a message to Skerryvore\n\n**Inch Kenneth** Circumnavigate the island on foot\n\n**Iona** Climb Dun I\n\n**Iona** South end beaches and the spouting cave\n\n**Mull** Bag a Munro\n\n**Mull** Adventure to the Fossil Tree\n\n**Mull** Explore Mackinnon's Cave\n\n**Mull** Visit the Carsaig Arches\n\n**Mull** Stroll to Tobermory's lighthouse\n\n**Mull** Round the crater loch\n\n#### Coll, Tiree & the Small Isles\n\n##### Activity\n\n**Coll** Reach far Sorisdale\n\n**Coll** Gaze at the Milky Way\n\n**Coll** Look for basking sharks\n\n**Eigg** Watch the sunset from Laig Bay\n\n**Muck** Stay in a yurt\n\n**Rum** Stay in an island bothy\n\n**Tiree** Get into surf culture at Tiree Wave Classic\n\n###### Beach\n\n**Coll** Traigh Feall and Chrossapol\n\n**Coll** Reach far Sorisdale\n\n**Coll** Hear the call of the corncrake\n\n**Coll** Find your own secret cove on the north-west coast\n\n**Eigg** Watch the sunset from Laig Bay\n\n**Eigg** Make the Singing Sands sing\n\n**Eigg** Discover the Kildonan beaches\n\n**Muck** Cross Muck to Gallanach Bay\n\n**Rum** See the deer at Kilmory Bay\n\n**Sanday** Take time out at Am Mialagan beach\n\n###### Food and drink\n\n**Canna** Eat truly local at Cafe Canna\n\n**Coll** Be a greedy gannet\n\n**Eigg** Dine at Eigg's cafe\n\n**Muck** Indulge yourself at the Muck tea room\n\n**Tiree** Munch a lobster baguette\n\n###### History and culture\n\n**Canna** See Coroghan Castle\n\n**Canna** Discover Gaelic heritage at Canna House\n\n**Canna** Go underground at the souterrains\n\n**Coll** See the Breachacha castles\n\n**Eigg** Explore the Massacre and Cathedral caves\n\n**Eigg** Discover the Kildonan beaches\n\n**Eigg** Dance at the Anniversary Ceilidh\n\n**Rum** Visit Kinloch Castle\n\n**Rum** Hike to the Harris mausoleum\n\n**Tiree** Sound the Ringing Stone\n\n**Tiree** Uncover the story of Skerryvore\n\n**Tiree** Tiree Music Festival\n\n**Tiree** Tiree Agricultural Show\n\n###### Nature and natural features\n\n**Coll** Hear the call of the corncrake\n\n**Coll** Look for basking sharks\n\n**Eigg** Explore the Massacre and Cathedral caves\n\n**Rum** Watch for otters\n\n**Rum** See the deer at Kilmory Bay\n\n**Rum** Hear or see the shearwaters\n\n**Sanday** Peek at the puffins on the stack of Dun Mor\n\n###### Walk\n\n**Canna** Get deflected to Compass Hill\n\n**Coll** Traigh Feall and Chrossapol\n\n**Coll** Reach far Sorisdale\n\n**Coll** Visit the Queen's Stone on Ben Hogh\n\n**Eigg** Climb the Sg\u00f9rr\n\n**Eigg** Explore the Massacre and Cathedral caves\n\n**Eigg** See the Finger of God\n\n**Eigg** Discover the Kildonan beaches\n\n**Muck** Climb Beinn Airein\n\n**Rum** Hike to the Harris mausoleum\n\n**Rum** See the deer at Kilmory Bay\n\n**Rum** Experience the Rum Cuillin\n\n**Sanday** Peek at the puffins on the stack of Dun Mor\n\n**Tiree** Find your way to the Maze\n\n**Tiree** Climb Carnan Mor\n\n**Tiree** Experience the wilds of Ceann a' Mhara\n\n#### Skye & the North-West\n\n##### Activity\n\n**Skye** Watch the sunset from Neist Point\n\n**Skye** Take a boat trip to Loch Coruisk\n\n###### Beach\n\n**Skye** Chill on the coral beaches\n\n###### Food and drink\n\n**Raasay** Raasay distillery\n\n**Skye** Taste a dram of Talisker\n\n**Skye** Dine at the Three Chimneys\n\n###### History and culture\n\n**Eilean Ban** Visit the last home of Gavin Maxwell\n\n**Raasay** Feel the past at Hallaig\n\n**Raasay** Take Calum's Road\n\n**Skye** Visit the cleared village of Boreraig\n\n**Skye** Soak up the atmosphere at Dun Scaith\n\n**Skye** Museum of Island Life\n\n**Skye** Go to the Skye Games\n\n**Summer Isles** Cruise around Tanera Mor\n\n###### Nature and natural features\n\n**Handa** See the Great Stack\n\n**Handa** Get dive-bombed by an arctic skua\n\n**Skye** Watch the sunset from Neist Point\n\n**Skye** Pay your respects to the Old Man\n\n**Skye** Marvel at the Quiraing\n\n**Skye** Watch for whales at Rubha Hunish\n\n**Summer Isles** Enter the Cathedral Cave on Tanera Beag\n\n###### Walk\n\n**Handa** See the Great Stack\n\n**Loch Bracadale islands** Take a hike to Oronsay\n\n**Raasay** Climb Dun Caan\n\n**Raasay** Take Calum's Road\n\n**Skye** Pay your respects to the Old Man\n\n**Skye** Visit the cleared village of Boreraig\n\n**Skye** Marvel at the Quiraing\n\n**Skye** Conquer a Cuillin\n\n**Skye** Climb Ben Tianavaig\n\n**Skye** Chill on the coral beaches\n\n**Skye** Tackle the Skye Trail\n\n**Skye** Watch for whales at Rubha Hunish\n\n#### The Outer Hebrides\n\n##### Activity\n\n**Barra** Complete the Barrathon\n\n**Barra** Cycle the roller-coaster road\n\n**Barra** Make a landing on the cockle strand\n\n**Grimsay** Learn a traditional craft\n\n**Harris** Cycle the golden road\n\n**South Uist** Hang out at Howmore hostel\n\n**South Uist** Play a round on Tom Morris's course at Askernish\n\n**South Uist** Bag a remote bothy at Uisinis\n\n###### Beach\n\n**Barra** Picnic on Barra-dise beach\n\n**Berneray** Visit the great West Beach\n\n**Eriskay** Visit Bonnie Prince Charlie's beach\n\n**Great Bernera** Visit the Bostadh roundhouse\n\n**Harris** Huisinis beach hunt\n\n**Harris** Claim your own stretch of perfection\n\n**Lewis** Dig in at Uig sands\n\n**North Uist** Beachcomb at Clachan Sands\n\n**South Uist** Take in a roundhouse at Cladh Hallan\n\n###### Food and drink\n\n**Barra** Spice up the seafood at Cafe Kisimul\n\n**Benbecula (Beinn na Faoghla)** Know your oats\n\n**Eriskay** Sample Whisky Galore\n\n**Lewis** Shuck a scallop\n\n**North Uist** Try peat-smoked salmon from the Hebridean Smokehouse\n\n**Scalpay** Tickle your taste buds at the North Harbour Bistro and Tearoom\n\n**South Uist** Fish finger food\n\n###### History and culture\n\n**Barra** Look over the shoulder of Our Lady of the Sea\n\n**Barra** Take a boat to the castle\n\n**Berneray** Stay in a blackhouse\n\n**Eilean Chalium Cille** Discover the ruins of St Columba's Church\n\n**Eriskay** Sample Whisky Galore\n\n**Great Bernera** Visit the Bostadh roundhouse\n\n**Grimsay** Learn a traditional craft\n\n**Harris** Look out for the Orb\n\n**Harris** Gawp at the Sheela-na-gig at Rodel church\n\n**Lewis** See the Butt\n\n**Lewis** Take the peat road\n\n**Lewis** Stand amidst the stones at Callanish\n\n**Lewis** Cross the Bridge to Nowhere\n\n**Lewis** Retreat to Dun Carloway broch\n\n**Lewis** Na Gearrannan blackhouse village and the west side\n\n**Lewis** Enjoy a well-earned strupag\n\n**Lewis** Dig in at Uig sands\n\n**Lewis** Explore a cleared village\n\n**Lewis** Attend a Gaelic psalm service\n\n**North Uist** Meet Finn's people at North Uist's ancient sites\n\n**North Uist** The Uist Sculpture Trail\n\n**South Uist** Hang out at Howmore hostel\n\n**South Uist** Raise the Saltire at Flora MacDonald's house\n\n**South Uist** Play a round on Tom Morris's course at Askernish\n\n**South Uist** Take in a roundhouse at Cladh Hallan\n\n**South Uist** Catch a mobile movie at the Screen Machine\n\n**St Kilda archipelago** Join the St Kilda parliament\n\n**Vatersay** Discover the Vatersay Raiders\n\n**Vatersay** Beware the Vatersay Boys\n\n###### Nature and natural features\n\n**Berneray** Watch for otters from the causeway\n\n**Flodaigh (Fladda)** Sing with the seals\n\n**Lewis** See the Butt\n\n**Lewis** Na Gearrannan blackhouse village and the west side\n\n**North** Uist Listen for the corncrake's rasp at Balranald\n\n**South Uist** Walk on water at Loch Druidibeg\n\n**St Kilda archipelago** Top out on Hirta\n\n**St Kilda archipelago** Spot the St Kilda wren\n\n**St Kilda archipelago** See the great stacks of Boreray\n\n**Vallay (Bh\u00e0laigh)** Cross the tidal sands to the island (Bh\u00e0laigh)\n\n###### Walk\n\n**Barra** Look over the shoulder of Our Lady of the Sea\n\n**Benbecula (Beinn na Faoghla)** Reveal the whole island from Rueval (Ruabhal)\n\n**Berneray** Climb Beinn Shleibhe\n\n**Eilean Chalium Cille** Discover the ruins of St Columba's Church\n\n**Eriskay** Climb to the highest point for 360-degree views\n\n**Flodaigh (Fladda)** Sing with the seals\n\n**Harris** Climb An Cliseam\n\n**Harris** Huisinis beach hunt\n\n**Lewis** See the Butt\n\n**Lewis** Cross the Bridge to Nowhere\n\n**Lewis** Retreat to Dun Carloway broch\n\n**Lewis** Na Gearrannan blackhouse village and the west side\n\n**Lewis** Explore a cleared village\n\n**Lewis** Climb Mealaisbhal\n\n**North Uist** See no Eaval\n\n**North Uist** Listen for the corncrake's rasp at Balranald\n\n**Scalpay** Visit the first lighthouse in these isles\n\n**South Uist** Climb Beinn Mhor\n\n**South Uist** Walk on water at Loch Druidibeg\n\n**South Uist** Bag a remote bothy at Uisinis\n\n**St Kilda archipelago** Top out on Hirta\n\n**Vallay (Bh\u00e0laigh)** Cross the tidal sands to the island (Bh\u00e0laigh)\n\n**Vatersay** Discover the Vatersay Raiders\n\n#### Orkney\n\n##### Activity\n\n**Mainland** Dive into Scapa Flow\n\n**Mainland** Step out to an Orcadian Strip the Willow\n\n**Rousay** Take a Rousay Lap\n\n###### Beach\n\n**Graemsay** Highlights and low lights\n\n**Sanday** Beachcomb at Whitemill Bay\n\n**Westray** Discover the nousts at Mae Sand\n\n###### Food and drink\n\n**Mainland** Try a beremeal bannock\n\n**Mainland** Dive into Scapa Flow\n\n**Westray** Nibble on Westray Wife\n\n###### History and culture\n\n**Brough of Birsay** Cross to the Brough\n\n**Burray** Cross the Churchill Barriers\n\n**Eday** Journey through time\n\n**Egilsay** Watch your head at St Magnus Church\n\n**Hoy** Squeeze inside the Dwarfie Stane\n\n**Hoy** Search for the searchlights at Scad Head\n\n**Lamb Holm** Marvel at the Italian Chapel\n\n**Mainland** Descend into Wideford Hill cairn\n\n**Mainland** Take the tour at St Magnus Cathedral\n\n**Mainland** Witness the Ba'\n\n**Mainland** Experience the Ring of Brodgar\n\n**Mainland** Check out the fitted furniture at the 5,000-year-old houses at Skara Brae\n\n**Mainland** Decipher the Viking graffiti at Maeshowe\n\n**Mainland** Follow the ancient path on to the Brough of Deerness\n\n**Mainland** Step out to an Orcadian Strip the Willow\n\n**North Ronaldsay** Walk the wall\n\n**North Ronaldsay** Visit the light\n\n**Papa Westray** Walk the island circuit\n\n**Rousay** Dig in to Rousay's deep past\n\n**Sanday** Dodge the tides to reach Start Point\n\n**Sanday** Crawl into Quoyness cairn\n\n**Sanday** Sample crofting life\n\n**Shapinsay** Check out the Shapinsay shower\n\n**South Ronaldsay** Get off your trolley in the Tomb of the Eagles\n\n**South Ronaldsay** Clear your head at Hoxa\n\n**South Walls** Climb the Martello Tower at Hackness\n\n**South Walls** Light your candle on the amazing south coast\n\n**Westray** Discover the nousts at Mae Sand\n\n**Westray** Nibble on Westray Wife\n\n**Wyre** Check out Cubbie Roo's Castle\n\n###### Nature and natural features\n\n**Brough of Birsay** Cross to the Brough\n\n**Eday** Journey through time\n\n**Eday** Hang out with the seals\n\n**Flotta** See the sea stacks\n\n**Hoy** Visit the Old Man of Hoy\n\n**Hoy** Experience a bonxie bombing\n\n**Hoy** Discover Orkney's native woodland\n\n**Hunda** Cross the causeway to Hunda\n\n**Mainland** Walk the west side\n\n**North Ronaldsay** Walk the wall\n\n**North Ronaldsay** Visit the bird observatory\n\n**Papa Westray** Walk the island circuit\n\n**Papa Westray** Find the last great auk\n\n**Rousay** Top out on Blotchnie Fiold\n\n**Sanday** Dodge the tides to reach Start Point\n\n**South Walls** Light your candle on the amazing south coast\n\n**Stronsay** Check out the Vat of Kirbister\n\n**Stronsay** Search for mermaids at the Sands of Rothiesholm\n\n**Westray** Pootle with the puffins at Castle o'Burrian\n\n**Westray** Get a head for heights at Noup Head\n\n###### Walk\n\n**Brough of Birsay** Cross to the Brough\n\n**Eday** Journey through time\n\n**Egilsay** Watch your head at St Magnus Church\n\n**Flotta** See the sea stacks\n\n**Graemsay** Highlights and low lights\n\n**Hoy** Visit the Old Man of Hoy\n\n**Hoy** Discover Orkney's native woodland\n\n**Hoy** Survey all Orkney from Ward Hill\n\n**Hunda** Cross the causeway to Hunda\n\n**Mainland** Descend into Wideford Hill cairn\n\n**Mainland** Walk the west side\n\n**Mainland** Follow the ancient path on to the Brough of Deerness\n\n**North Ronaldsay** Walk the wall\n\n**Papa Westray** Walk the island circuit\n\n**Papa Westray** Find the last great auk\n\n**Rousay** Dig in to Rousay's deep past\n\n**Rousay** Top out on Blotchnie Fiold\n\n**Sanday** Dodge the tides to reach Start Point\n\n**Sanday** Beachcomb at Whitemill Bay\n\n**South Ronaldsay** Clear your head at Hoxa\n\n**South Ronaldsay** Hike the east coast\n\n**South Walls** Light your candle on the amazing south coast\n\n**Stronsay** Check out the Vat of Kirbister\n\n**Stronsay** Search for mermaids at the Sands of Rothiesholm\n\n**Westray** Get a head for heights at Noup Head\n\n**Westray** Discover the nousts at Mae Sand\n\n**Wyre** Check out Cubbie Roo's Castle\n\n#### Shetland\n\n##### Activity\n\n**Fair Isle** Become a fully fledged twitcher\n\n###### Beach\n\n**Mainland** Cross the tombolo to St Ninian's Isle\n\n**Papa Stour** Visit the kirk and beach\n\n**Unst** Discover the Viking past at Sandwick Beach\n\n**Uyea** An Uyea adventure\n\n**West Burra** Visit Meal beach\n\n**West Burra** Cross Banna Min\n\n**Yell** Sunbathe on the Sands of Breckon\n\n###### Food and drink\n\n**Mainland** Sample the very best fish and chips at Frankie's\n\n###### History and culture\n\n**Bressay** See the arch under Kirkabister Ness\n\n**Fair Isle** Get knitted\n\n**Fetlar** Visit Strandburgh Ness\n\n**Fetlar** Stay at Aithbank b\u00f6d\n\n**Mainland** Catch some jigs and reels\n\n**Mainland** Discover the Dark Side at Scalloway Castle\n\n**Mainland** Cross the tombolo to St Ninian's Isle\n\n**Mainland** Get up close with a puffin at Sumburgh Head\n\n**Mainland** Uncover the many layers of the past at Jarlshof\n\n**Mainland** Visit the haunting ruins of Fethaland\n\n**Mainland** Attend an Up Helly Aa\n\n**Mousa** Stand atop the greatest of brochs\n\n**Muckle** **Roe** Visit the Hams\n\n**Out Skerries** See the Skerries light from Bruray\n\n**Papa Stour** Visit the kirk and beach\n\n**Trondra** Experience a slice of Shetland croft life\n\n**Unst** Take a break at Bobby's bus shelter\n\n**Unst** Discover the Viking past at Sandwick Beach\n\n**Unst** Explore Muness Castle\n\n**Whalsay** Hear about the Hanseatic League\n\n**Yell** See the White Wife of Otterswick\n\n**Yell** The Gloup memorial\n\n**Yell** Burra Voe\n\n###### Nature and natural features\n\n**Bressay** See the arch under Kirkabister Ness\n\n**Fair Isle** Climb Ward Hill\n\n**Fair Isle** See the Sheep Rock\n\n**Fair Isle** Become a fully fledged twitcher\n\n**Fetlar** See the red-necked phalarope\n\n**Fetlar** Cross the arch at the Snap\n\n**Foula** Discover Da Sneck o da Smaalie\n\n**Foula** Survive da bonxies on Da Sneug\n\n**Mainland** Get up close with a puffin at Sumburgh Head\n\n**Mainland** Get wind-blasted at Esha Ness\n\n**Mainland** Visit the great stacks of Silwick and Westerwick\n\n**Mousa** Witness the return of the storm petrels\n\n**Muckle Roe** Hike to the light\n\n**Noss** Blow your mind at Noss Head\n\n**Papa Stour** Cross the arch at Aesha Head\n\n**Unst** See Muckle Flugga from Hermaness\n\n**Unst** Find Edmonston's chickweed at the Keen of Hamar\n\n**Uyea** An Uyea adventure\n\n**Yell** Watch an otter\n\n**Yell** Burra Voe\n\n###### Walk\n\n**Bressay** Climb the Ward\n\n**East Burra** Ascend the Ward of Symbister\n\n**Fair Isle** Climb Ward Hill\n\n**Fair Isle** See the Sheep Rock\n\n**Fetlar** Cross the arch at the Snap\n\n**Fetlar** Visit Strandburgh Ness\n\n**Foula** Discover Da Sneck o da Smaalie\n\n**Foula** Survive da bonxies on Da Sneug\n\n**Mainland** Cross the tombolo to St Ninian's Isle\n\n**Mainland** Get wind-blasted at Esha Ness\n\n**Mainland** Visit the haunting ruins of Fethaland\n\n**Mainland** Climb Ronas Hill\n\n**Mainland** Visit the great stacks of Silwick and Westerwick\n\n**Muckle Roe** Hike to the light\n\n**Muckle Roe** Visit the Hams\n\n**Noss** Blow your mind at Noss Head\n\n**Out Skerries** Ramble round Housay\n\n**Papa Stour** Cross the arch at Aesha Head\n\n**Unst** See Muckle Flugga from Hermaness\n\n**Uyea** An Uyea adventure\n\n**West Burra** Visit Meal beach\n\n**West Burra** Cross Banna Min\n\n**Whalsay** Climb the Ward\n\n**Yell** Sunbathe on the Sands of Breckon\n\n**Yell** Burra Voe\n\n**Lewis,** cleared village of Stiomrabhaigh\nScottish Island Bagging: The Walkhighlands Guide to the Islands of Scotland  \nHelen and Paul Webster\n\nFirst published in 2019 by Vertebrate Publishing.  \nThis digital edition first published in 2019 by Vertebrate Digital, an imprint of Vertebrate Publishing.\n\nVertebrate Publishing  \nOmega Court, 352 Cemetery Road, Sheffield, S11 8FT, United Kingdom.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Helen and Paul Webster 2019.\n\nMaps produced by Don Williams of Bute Cartographics.  \nContains Ordnance Survey data \u00a9 Crown copyright and database right 2019.  \nDesign and production by Jane Beagley, Vertebrate Publishing.\n\nFront cover: Ben Tianavaig (Isle of Skye) Back cover: L\u2013R: Ring of Brodgar (Mainland Orkney), Puffin (Lunga); Goatfell (Arran), Hallival (Rum); Sands of Breckon (Yell), Up Helly Aa (Mainland Shetland); Otter, CalMac Ferry arriving at Arran. Photography by Paul and Helen Webster except where otherwise credited.\n\nHelen and Paul Webster have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.\n\nThis book is a work of non-fiction. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in minor respects not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of the book are true.\n\nA CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.\n\nISBN 978\u20131\u2013912560\u201330\u20131 (Paperback)  \nISBN 978\u20131\u2013912560\u201331\u20138 (Ebook)\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means \u2013 graphic, electronic, or mechanised, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems \u2013 without the written permission of the publisher.\n\nEvery effort has been made to achieve accuracy of the information in this guidebook. The authors, publishers and copyright owners can take no responsibility for: loss or injury (including fatal) to persons; loss or damage to property or equipment; trespass, irresponsible behaviour or any other mishap that may be suffered as a result of following the advice offered in this guidebook.\n\nProduced by Vertebrate Publishing.\n\nwww.v-publishing.co.uk\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \n# Out of the Frying Pan\n\nScenes from My Life\n\n### Keith Floyd\n\n# Copyright\n\nHarperCollinsPublishers  \n77\u201385 Fulham Palace Road,  \nHammersmith, London W6 8JB\n\nwww.harpercollins.co.uk\n\nFirst published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2001\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Keith Floyd 2000\n\nThe Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work\n\nA catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library\n\nAll rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non\u2013exclusive, non\u2013transferable right to access and read the text of this e\u2013book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e\u2013books.\n\nHarperCollins _Publishers_ has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.\n\nSource ISBN: 9780007122813  \nEbook Edition \u00a9 APRIL 2010 ISBN: 9780007375295  \nVersion: 2014\u201308\u201329\nFOR POPPY AND PATRICK\n\nI hope you'll understand some of this and therefore understand a bit of me\n\n# Table of Contents\n\nCover Page\n\nTitle Page\n\nCopyright\n\nDedication\n\nFerrets, Faggots and Fishing\n\nTypewriters and Burgundy\n\nFloyd on Parade \u2013 Almost\n\nStrawberry Fields and Penny Lane\n\nBistros, Boots and Bentleys\n\nHalcyon Days\n\nFlirty and Freedom\n\nAfloat on the Med.\n\nAttention all Shipping\n\nDraw Sword and Charge\n\nCameras, Fish and a Walk in the Garden\n\nFood, Frying Pans and Fame\n\nThe Irish Period\n\nThe Leap Out of the Frying Pan\n\nKeep Reading\n\nAbout the Author\n\nAbout the Publisher\n\n# Ferrets, Faggots and Fishing\n\nThe outside lavatory at 16 Silver Street smelt of urine and Harpic, dampness and earwigs. The green, gold, blue and red transfers which were meant to simulate stained glass were peeling. A rusty chain with a much-handled wooden handle hung from the hissing and leaking cistern. The copper pipe of the water supply was mildewed green. The shiny hardwood lavatory seat slid to one side if you sat on it and both it and the wooden cover on its old hinges would fall down when you tried to pee in it. From the outside lavatory were six steps that led into a small, walled yard. At the end of the yard, beyond the red sandstone wall with its purple and red weeds burgeoning defiantly from the simple mortar between the stones, beyond the smell of wet privet hedges dank with the slime of snails, and before a fertile garden of voluptuous plum trees, bleeding raspberry canes, blackcurrant bushes and runner beans, was my grandfather's workshop.\n\nMy grandfather had a tin leg. Strapped across his shoulders by broad braces, over this thick brown trousers he wore a wide leather belt, and at precisely ten to one you would hear his huff, hiss, puff and his stomp as he clunk-clacked down the yard and down the six steps to the outside lavatory, the one o'clock news (previously, anxiously and obediently tuned in on the big, mahogany wireless that sat on a big brown sideboard by my grandmother) and his lunch.\n\nHe stomped down the steps and clumsily crashed into the kitchen, with its grey and white speckled gas range the colour of a heron and its brightly burning cast-iron burners. The kitchen units were cream-enamelled with red piping, a large copper boiler with a massive gas burner fed by a rubber tube issued the odours of washday. The steam from the boiling sheets billowed and entwined with the little jets of aromatic steam from the big aluminium pot which contained the beef stew and dumplings.\n\nIn the living room a Victorian mahogany table was laid with embroidered table mats and set with bone-handled knives and forks. Some of the little metal bands between the bone and the blade were loose. There was a large and softly chipped cut-glass salt cellar. There was a freshly cut loaf of burnt, crusty white bread from the Golden Hill Bakery. There was a weeping, golden yellow brick of salty farmhouse butter. There was a small, ten-year-old boy in a white shirt, tie, grey serge short trousers with a yellow and purple snake belt and sandals sitting, elbows off the table, waiting for his lunch which would have to be served and eaten in silence while his grandfather grumpily slurped his stew, as the announcer said, 'This is the BBC Home Service...here is the one o'clock news.'\n\nSometimes my grandfather, noisily sucking Rennies, and smoking strong cigarettes always with a long drooping piece of ash on the end, which to my grandmother's fury he would flick casually onto the carpet, would tell me stories of the First World War. He had lied about his age in order to join up, but he never communicated to me the horror of it, rather more the lighter moments like playing football with the Germans one Christmas, drinking wine on leave in France, which made them tiddly. Sometimes there were subtle allusions to farm girls. He said he knew nothing of the shell that blew off his leg until he woke up in a field hospital and wondered why he could feel a pain in a limb that was no longer there. He had given me a sort of illustrated boys' Bumper Book of the First World War, which of course showed war in its glory and not in its shame and 1 could sometimes sit with him for hours as he explained the trench systems to me, how the artillery was placed and such like. Only once did he ever refer to his officers and generals in a mildly angry way when he quoted the title of Henry Williamson's book (also author of _Salar the Salmon_ and _Tarka the Otter), Lions Led by Donkeys._\n\nWe, my Uncle Ken, my grandmother, grandfather and I, eat the delicious stew as the grim events of the Korean War are placidly announced on the news. It is the first day of the summer holidays. My mother is at work in Fox's Woollen Mills, my father is an electrician employed by the Electricity Board. My sister, Brenda, three years my senior, is washing up at the White Hart Hotel to earn money to buy a bicycle and a tennis racquet. At this time she is going through a period of religious fervour and attends Bible classes and frenetic Christian rallies organised by a trendy young doctor of medicine, who encouraged us to come to his Sunday Bible classes by offering lavish cream teas and lemonade. Later, his religion got the better of him and, in a moment of terminal madness, he blew out his brains with a twelve-bore shotgun.\n\nBut during the short time that my sister was obsessed by all things religious, she made my life hell by continually correcting or criticising any act or utterance that 1 made which, in her view, were ungodlike. She also made me clean her shoes. And when I dallied over the drying up, a compulsory Sunday lunchtime task, she would often put dried plates back in the water again so I had to dry them again. But because she was old enough to have a holiday job and was a member of the tennis club, with its attendant social life, I largely saw little of her and I was blissfully free to go up to the Wiveliscombe Reservoir and fish for trout. My Uncle Ken, the youngest of my uncles and very much the roguish black sheep of the family, helped my grandfather in his shoe repairing business. He played both rugby and cricket for Wiveliscombe, drank too much and was having an affair with an older, married woman. This caused the rest of the family, an extremely conservative bunch, a great deal of distress; to be 'carrying on' in that way in the 1950s was not acceptable. I, of course, at the time, was unaware of all this and Uncle Ken, who was probably only twenty-eight or so at the time, was the person who came closest to being a hero to me. He kept ferrets, and on snow-covered winter days we would tramp across fields with nets, a canvas bag with a Thermos flask and cheese sandwiches, and drive demented rabbits from their holes. With fingers blue with cold and numbed feet we would paunch the rabbits, make a slit in one of the rear legs and hang them, sometimes quite frozen, from the crossbar of our bicycles. Sometimes, on summer days, we would steal worn-out 78s from my grandfather's ancient collection of dance music, and to the annoyance of everybody (but no one could control Uncle Ken), we would spin the records in the air like Frisbees and blast them to bits with Ken's shotgun.\n\nSome days I would sit on the edge of my grandfather's workbench playing spaceships with the screw-down wheels of a red shoe-press while he, with a mouthful of nails, rhythmically resoled farmers' boots. Outside in the yard was a rainwater butt and every so often the traveller from the tannery in Bristol would arrive with several large sheets of leather. This leather was cut into rectangles and left to soak in the rain butt. Every night, when my parents came home from work, we would have a cooked tea. Sometimes rissoles made from the remains of Sunday's roast, sometimes fish and chips, sometimes a baked, soused herring. But very often it would be a lentil and ham soup with thick chunks of carrot and swede, or a green pea soup enriched with a pig's trotter. Sometimes it was brawn and bread and pickled onions. Wednesday was always a make-do meal because groceries were only delivered once a week on Thursday, and often on Wednesday night my sister or I would be dispatched to the newsagent's shop after it had shut with instructions to knock on the back door and borrow half a pound of butter until tomorrow.\n\nSometimes I would wait by Arnold and Hancock's Brewery and look across the field to the wool factory and wait for my mother to walk the half-mile-long lane and ask her for a shilling so that I could go to the pictures. Sometimes she didn't have a shilling to give me.\n\nWe lived in a tumbledown cottage which adjoined my grandparents' house. My father spent every spare moment renovating the house. Floorboards in the bedroom were tortured and twisted and sloped alarmingly. He painstakingly lifted all the floorboards and carefully placed wooden wedges on the old joists to level the floor. He built a bathroom and a kitchen and knocked windows into walls three feet thick.\n\nMy mother was able to buy remnants of pure wool cloth from the mill, and on her Singer sewing machine she would make school trousers for me and dresses for my sister. When I came home with my first fish none of us knew its species and I used my pocket money, earned by washing up and weeding the garden, to buy _The Observer's Book of Fishes._ It was a firm fleshed, brilliantly coloured trout, which, because we knew no better, we filleted and deep fried in batter and ate with chips.\n\nMy father was a very mild, patient and precise, modest man, who awakened my interest in literature at a very early age by reading to me such classics as _Treasure Island, A Tale of Two Cities_ and _Robinson Crusoe._ He had been a lay preacher in Birmingham and was studying what was called an HND in Electrical Engineering when the war put an end to that. He met my mother in Wiveliscombe whilst on a cycling holiday and thereafter he regularly cycled from Birmingham to Somerset to court her. He was incredibly capable. He could lay a concrete path, repair a clock or, as he did, build me a crystal radio, which I would listen to in my bedroom at nights, although in fact I didn't have a bedroom. I slept, screened off by a heavy curtain, on the landing between my sister's and my parents' bedrooms.\n\nIn winter, once a week, my mother made faggots and peas. These are delicious balls of minced liver, lights and heart, flavoured with onion and sage, wrapped in fatty pigs' caul and roasted in the oven. They are served with a rich gravy made from the stock in which the ingredients have been previously poached, and served with a mound of mushy peas. I have never forgotten when, some years later, I came home very late after a school rugby away game, one which we won, and elated, battered and starving, I was anticipating my steaming plate of faggots. Alas, Uncle Ken had unexpectedly turned up and was given my dinner and I had to make do with bacon sandwiches made from the offcuts of bacon that Murdoch's the butchers sold for pennies a pound, mostly fat with thick rind. In fact, they were quite delicious, but they in no way compensated for the loss of my faggots! My parents' philosophy was based on simple generosity and hospitality and visitors always came first, and although in those days the grocery order would only contain one pound of butter, it would be spread thick until it was gone and we would make do with dripping towards the end of the week rather than spread it thinly and meanly. (In 1993 my mother made me fifty portions of faggots and peas for my fiftieth birthday and I said, 'Uncle Ken is not getting any of these!')\n\nUntil I was ten I attended Wiveliscombe Primary School, where country dancing, singing and maypole dancing made up a strong part of the curriculum. I was a spotty, skinny kid and hated every second of those activities. I seemed to spend an awful lot of time fighting in the playground with a pair of really rough, tough kids who, because I didn't have a strong Somerset accent, thought I was a bit of a snob and needed teaching a lesson. Luckily, I was a tough little bugger and seldom lost my fights. And apart from being ridiculed by the Headmaster for not knowing how long a jet liner took to travel to America the only other outstanding memory I have of my time at Wiwy School was when, in the milk break one autumn day, I placed a dozen shiny brown chestnuts on the potbellied stove in the corner of the classroom. I had spent the previous Sunday knocking them out of the trees by the reservoir with a stick with the intention of roasting them and eating them before class started again. Unfortunately I forgot, and halfway through a writing exercise, where only the scratching of nibs on paper disturbed the heavy silence, the chestnuts suddenly exploded like a burst of machine-gun fire. The teacher was panic-stricken. After she regained her composure and restored order after the pandemonium that my intended snack had caused, I, of course, spent the rest of the lesson with my hands on my head, standing in the corner. She was, of course, convinced that I had done it deliberately.\n\nBut on the whole, with the exception of a very slight incident when a couple of other lads and I somehow got caught shoplifting, nicking Mars bars from Mrs Vickery's corner store, which resulted in a sound thrashing, a suspension of pocket money and no play for a week, I had a happy and trouble-free time.\n\nIn their wisdom, my parents took a dramatic decision on my higher education. A decision which later I was, unjustly as it turned out, to criticise and complain bitterly about.\n\nMy sister Brenda was a very bright child and passed her eleven-plus with ease and gained a scholarship to Bishop Fox's Grammar School in Taunton. However, for some months before I was due to sit my eleven-plus, I had been very ill with some mysterious stomach upset, and for weeks the only food I was allowed to eat, something which I love now but hated then, was natural Bulgarian yoghurt. My parents thought my chances of passing the eleven-plus were slim, if not nonexistent, so they arranged for me to sit the Common Entrance exam at Wellington School, a small, independent, public school. Happily, I passed and was given an assisted place, although this did mean my mother and father both taking on part-time jobs over and above their regular employment to earn enough money to pay the fees.\n\nHitherto, I had been fairly popular with my peer group, but from the first day when I stood at the bus stop in my thick, short-trousered grey suit, grey socks, black shoes, pale blue cap, school tie and satchel, my standing with the lads changed dramatically and terminally. My first day at school was a nightmare of mixed emotions. I had not previously encountered middle-class boys, I had no understanding of the difference between day boys and boarders, but above all, the fact that I had to wear chunky, moulded-soled Tuff shoes, whereas the other lads all had highly polished Oxford shoes, made an impression upon me which influences me to this day. I have to have the best shoes I can possibly afford.\n\nI can recall nothing of the first couple of terms. The pressure of education and the variety of subjects, especially Chemistry, Physics, Maths and Latin, left me hopelessly bewildered. But then I settled down and I can say, with my hand on my heart, that I proceeded to enjoy the next five and a half years. For me, schooldays truly were the happiest time of my life. The Reverend Lancaster, known behind his back as Burt, quickly realised that Form 4b in general and Floyd, K., in particular had absolutely no interest in or intention of learning Latin. I was gazing thoughtfully out of the window across the cricket square, dreaming about the weekend when I could go fishing again, when suddenly a metre ruler slapped onto my desk in front of me with a resounding 'thwack'. I jumped, startled from my reverie. 'Floyd,' he said, 'I'd have more success teaching the school cricket roller.' However, he was a kind and humorous man, and our Latin lessons became quite good fun because he did the decent thing and gave up teaching us Latin and turned our lessons into mock trials, public debates or a general knowledge quiz.\n\nMy favourite subjects by far and away were English, taught to us by a brilliant man called Joe Storre, who we thought was great as he had suede chukka boots and a suede waistcoat, and History under the direction of 'the Don'. Both these teachers could impart information with an ease which was genuinely pleasurable. In these subjects, along with French and Art, I excelled, but for the rest I was a total dunce.\n\nI joined the CCF and thoroughly enjoyed playing soldiers once a week, hated cricket and liked going to daily chapel. But the winter term was best because we played rugby twice a week, and although I never achieved any great success, I have a passion for the game to this day, and from the comfort of my armchair in front of the television set I am an expert on selection, tactics, and everything there is to know about rugby.\n\nIn six school Somerset summer holidays, it never rained and for six years the eight or nine weeks of freedom were positively magic.\n\nThe key to the joy of the long holidays was financial independence because my father insisted that once I was fourteen I should take on a holiday job. Although I had to contribute \u00a33 10s a week to the family fund, it still left me the amazing sum of just over four pounds a week to spend on fishing tackle, an alloy-framed racing bike and the essential just-released rock and roll records.\n\nIt was easy to get a summer holiday job: our family was well thought of in the village. Before she married my grandfather, my grandmother had been in service with the local gentry and because of our parents' insistence upon politeness, helpfulness and sense of duty, we had no problem finding ourselves work of various sorts.\n\nOne summer I had three jobs. At half past six in the morning I would sweep the pavement in front of the newsagent's shop, put out the placards, unpack boxes and clean the shop until half past eight. Then I would walk the few yards home for breakfast before going round to the Bear Inn for another hour and a half to sweep the cellar, clean ashtrays and bottle up. Then, as the pub opened I was, of course, being underage, obliged to leave. I would walk across the square to the Red Lion Hotel where, during mornings and at lunchtime, I prepared vegetables or washed lettuces, scrubbed pots and plucked chickens and ducks. In the afternoons I weeded the vegetable garden, mowed lawns and generally tidied up.\n\nAfter tea I would be on my bike with a Thermos flask and some sandwiches to the reservoir or river to fish until dusk. I didn't work on Sundays, but there were family chores to do \u2013 depending on the time of year, picking watercress from the stream for Sunday sandwiches or getting up at dawn in the soft autumn mists to gather mushrooms or spend prickly hours picking blackberries for my mother's jam or elderberries for my father's homemade drinks, highly alcoholic and quite lethal. These were drunk only at Christmas.\n\nDuring the harvest I would join my Uncle Ken, who in exchange for shooting and hunting rights, was obliged to help out a farmer friend every autumn. We would stook corn as the tractor, towing its binder, inexorably moved into the final square of corn in the centre of the field. When that square was no more than twenty yards across the fun began. We would stand back in a circle, clutching sticks, around the square like slips round an anxious batsman. Then we boys were sent in to drive out the rabbits and hares that had taken refuge there.\n\nSome days I might get one or two, possibly three rabbits, one of which would go into one of my mother's great rabbit stews; the other two Ken would sell to the butcher for five shillings and give me one and six. Happy days! Another bonus of working on the farm was that I was occasionally allowed to drive the Ferguson T20 tractor, with the corn from the harvest on board. Sadly, one day, disaster struck when I misjudged both the gradient and the angle of turn on the ramp to the granary and capsized six tons of corn, twisted the towing hitch and narrowly escaped serious injury. Anticipating a massive bollocking, I waited for help from the farmer, Mr Hawkins. All he said was: 'Not drive tractor again, Keith!'\n\nI didn't enjoy milking time too much either. One cow, called Bessie, regularly kicked me from the milking pen into the cow shit draining trench that ran along the edge of the milking parlour. However, there were sublime rewards when, every time Mrs Hawkins made thick, crusty clotted cream, she gave me a jam jar full to take home. Oh yes, there was one other appalling incident when I misunderstood my instructions to weed the border in front of the verandaed farmhouse and destroyed climbing plants that had been there for decades. Amazing I wasn't sacked, merely given the job of de-beaking hundreds of wretched battery chickens with a pair of electric shears. I didn't encounter such an unpleasant scene until years later I watched Hong Kong market traders plucking live hens.\n\nAt the time I thought all these activities, the mushroom gathering, the odd jobs and so on, were great fun and all part of a country childhood, but of course, there was in fact a genuine financial necessity for such produce as could be gathered for free, and such cash as you earned odd jobbing went into the family purse. Once a year there was great money to be earned, from a week's potato picking, ten or twelve of us in line behind the tractors; more important to my parents, though, was the bonus of a hundredweight of spuds.\n\nMy great boyhood chum was a farmer's son called Linn Ransey. He too worked on the farm during the holidays, but all of our free time was spent at the riverbank. As farmers they were comfortably off and it was always a great moment when I was invited to stay for lunch or tea in the big farmhouse kitchen with the big scrubbed kitchen table. Stuffed fish, caught by Mr Ransey, an expert angler who also made our fishing rods for us, were hung on the walls. If I was asked to stay for tea, we would invariably have a game of cricket or rounders, and I did everything I could to delay the four-mile journey home, and for fear of being scolded for being late, I used to pick bunches of wild flowers, hoping to appease my anxious mother on my return.\n\nIt was about now that I became aware that my new life at Wellington School was hugely different from my life at home, and I am ashamed to say, I went through a phase of being embarrassed by my parents' modest means and lifestyle. Now well and truly into long trousers, other boys were sporting worsted blazers and finely woven flannels while I was having to make do with the standard serge blazer and thick grey trousers. Also I was growing dissatisfied, not to say resentful, that I never quite managed any of the school trips abroad. This growing resentment came to a head in my last term at school (I was to leave at sixteen, to my great disappointment \u2013 I wasn't considered bright enough to justify the continuation of increasing school fees) when, without consulting my father, I ordered a fine double-breasted blazer, a fine pair of flannels and some Oxford-toed shoes from the school shop.\n\nI think my parents were a little disheartened when they read my final school report and analysed my four meagre O levels, but they were both furious and frightened when they opened the final school bill. My sartorial shopping expedition put the family finances under extreme pressure. I had, it turned out, as my ashen-faced father told me, spent more money on clothes in one hour than he earned in over a month. Not a happy start for an unemployed school leaver about to foray into grown-up life.\n\nNearly forty years later I still have the same problem with tailors, shoemakers and shirt shops! I can't resist shopping.\n\nDuring my last couple of terms at Wellington my father was made redundant in Taunton and was offered relocation to either Newton Abbot in Devon or Bristol. Although I think they would have preferred to stay in Somerset they elected to go to Bristol, where they thought both Brenda and I would have much better career prospects. Thanks to my father's industriousness and careful management he was able to obtain a mortgage to buy a council house in Sea Mills from the Bristol Corporation. It was a great leap forward for my parents to own their own house. I, unfortunately, was devastated, for the most appallingly wrong reasons of social status. Despite their best efforts to be fair and tolerant my relationship with my parents deteriorated for the next three or four years and were amongst the worst in my life.\n\nI was angry and frustrated because the aspirations instilled in me at Wellington were at loggerheads with post-school reality. I needed a job quickly as I had to repay the money for the dreaded blazer. My parents, ever cautious, tried to persuade me to take a clerk's job with the Bristol Corporation or the Electricity Board or the GPO, the sort of dull, meaningless job from which you could never be sacked, and end up with a silver watch and a modest pension. I spent two desperately unhappy months filing plans in the Bristol Corporation's Department of Architecture for the princely sum of \u00a34 7s 8d per week.\n\nAt the same time, at just sixteen, I discovered the alluring demimonde of a Clifton coffee bar \u2013 at that time in Bristol there were one or two very basic Indian restaurants, one or two appallingly basic Chinese restaurants, the aforementioned coffee bars and omelette bars. For the grown up and affluent there were restaurants just emerging such as the steak bars, started by the Berni Brothers. Bistros, brasseries, wine bars and so forth were still nonexistent, and as for pubs, which I as a spotty, skinny youth of sixteen was unable to enter, they served no food beyond crisps, pickled eggs and a pork pie. So my evenings were spent sipping a cold glass cup of frothy coffee whilst listening to the jazz and blues played on a record player, marvelling at the sophisticated university students and what I took to be painters, writers and artists discussing continental films that were shown at the Tatler Cinema, as they puffed on Gauloises and Gitanes. I was so young and they seemed so old. I could not see a way to cross the bridge that seemed to span the wide gap between me and them.\n\nI had somehow acquired a Vespa motor scooter and for some odd reason I had been persuaded to join a youth club favoured by the middle-class kids from the houses on the private estates that ringed my council estate. These kids all had driving licences and borrowed their fathers' cars on Saturday nights. I was a fish out of water both socially and intellectually (I regarded myself as intellectually superior and socially inferior) so I left.\n\nLooking back on my life, I think I have been really quite a loner, and although the tabloid press has almost convinced even me that I am some kind of hell-raising party animal, or the hail-fellow-well-met in the bar, I have a fear of crowds and even now, at the age of well over fifty, am sometimes too shy to walk alone into a public place.\n\nThere was an awful time when I was fourteen or so, back in Wiveliscombe, and I was invited to a fancy dress party to celebrate some boy's birthday. I was mortified when I discovered that I was the only one in fancy dress. I left the party in tears of embarrassment, roundly ridiculed by the others, and have had difficulty attending parties ever since. And the youth club experience had a profound effect on me too, with the result that I have a completely prejudiced and irrational scorn for golf clubs, darts teams, yacht clubs, Rotary clubs or committees; and even though I thoroughly enjoyed occasionally playing club rugby in Bristol \u2013 and we would always rush down after our game to the memorial ground to catch the last fifteen minutes of another Bristol victory \u2013 and, sure the few pints in the clubhouse were great, once the singing started I lived in fear of being called upon to perform. Worse still was the appalling way we behaved in the Indian restaurant later. The lads would go to the lavatory and escape through the window without paying, leaving the more timid of us protesting our innocence and insisting on paying only our own share.\n\nAfter a while I washed up a couple of evenings a week in the coffee bar for ten bob a night and later I spent another two nights serving coffee and cleaning tables. In a few months I was hanging out with the students and the gap between my aspirations and my home life was further exaggerated. I wasn't old enough to have the house key and after several nights of my parents waiting up for me, they had, as my father said, 'to draw a line'. If I wasn't home before they locked the door, I would have to sleep in the garden shed.\n\nMy sister was also living at home. I think she had a job demonstrating cooking appliances in an Electricity Board showroom. I seldom saw her. She, as in Wiveliscombe, had joined tennis clubs and other worthy associations and to my mind was appallingly middle class. Our paths very, very seldom crossed. Handsome young men with MGs or souped-up Minis vied to take her to dances and balls. I think she thoroughly enjoyed this time, I was desperate to leave home.\n\nSometimes I was ashamed at the anxiety I was causing my parents and my father, who was such a fair and balanced man, doing everything in his power to discuss my adolescent problems, but I found I was unable to communicate with him. Later, when we became the closest of friends, he explained the hurt I had caused them and reminded me that while perhaps I didn't know what I was doing, neither did he. 'When you were sixteen,' he said, 'it was the first time I had been father to a sixteen-year-old boy, and I had no experience to draw on.'\n\nAlthough my Bristol life in the coffee bars and folk clubs was good and the conversation was of Jack Kerouac and Woody Guthrie, I strangely still had a hankering for my boyhood time in Wiveliscombe, playing French cricket in the back yard with my handicapped Aunt Eva, or sitting with my grandfather, turning over the pages of a book called _The Great War in Pictures_ while he, to the fury of my grandmother, flicked the ash from his chainsmoked cigarettes straight onto the lino, or eating boiled pigs' trotters with salt and vinegar in front of the fire on winter Saturday nights.\n\nSometimes my grandfather, a rather clumsy man, would take a sudden interest in cooking and he spent days bubbling vast cauldrons of tomato sauce. At other times he would gather snails from the privet hedge in the dank back garden and roast them on a shovel in the fire. I suppose he must have known how to clean them because we never suffered from any ill effects.\n\nI missed fishing, and I missed my Auntie Joyce, who once saved me from bleeding to death when I, running and sliding down the highly polished passage that led from our kitchen to the front door, put my arm through the window in the door, gashing my upper arm wide open. She heard my cries of panic, picked me up, and in bare feet ran down the street and frantically hammered on the doctor's door. She, like my Uncle Ken, was young compared to my mother and my other uncles and so on Sunday afternoon walks she would sing folk songs, with a slightly risque rearrangement of the words.\n\nSome years later she was found dead in a snowdrift on a hill where once she had taken me tobogganing. It was her only exit from a private hell that, until too late, no one had been aware of.\n\nThen there was my one and only thespian performance, when somehow, after the nightmare of the fancy dress party, I agreed to be Mowgli in the Scout and Cub group's annual jamboree in the Town Hall. My mother sewed me a loincloth of rabbit skin and my father improvised me a dagger from one of my grandfather's leather-cutting knives. Painted from head to toe in cocoa and water I stood on the stage and said, defiantly, 'I am Mowgli.' To this day I cannot remember if I completed the performance or ran backstage.\n\nI missed my friends the Ranseys, not least Mrs Ransey, who, like my own mother, was one of nature's intuitive cooks with a real, fundamental knowledge, love and respect for food.\n\nSometimes, on my Vespa 125, I whizzed down the A3 8 like a mad wasp, flat out at 45 miles an hour, to Wiveliscombe for the day, but it wasn't the same. Then I thought it had changed; now I know that I had. I was staying out later and later listening to blues, folk songs, monologues and poetry readings. The rows at home, no longer squalls, were now developing storm status and one day, with just a small duffel bag, I set off for work as normal, and instead of taking the bus to College Green, my place of employment, I caught another to the A4 and hitchhiked to London. I survived, somehow, in late-night coffee bars, railway stations and parks for three days and three awful nights before I was arrested for loitering, or possibly vagrancy, at four o'clock one morning somewhere close to Bow Street Police Station. I was tired, hungry and, worse still, I had failed. Contact was made with my parents, who assured me my safe return was more important than anything and there would be no retribution. As bad as this was, it proved to be a watershed in our relationship.\n\nI had decided I wanted to be a newspaper reporter and my parents, in a complete reversal of their crushingly modest ambitions for me, agreed I could have a go at it. I had no idea how you set about being a journalist but I had read a book called _Headlines All My Life_ by a Fleet Street editor called Arthur Christiansen. He was, as Editor of the _Daily Express,_ probably one of the greatest editors of this century. (He had also had a bit part in the film _The Day the Earth Caught Fire.)_ I did not know that the accepted route into journalism was by joining a weekly newspaper as a copy boy. I, with a head full of Evelyn Waugh, Hemingway, James Thurber, Simon Raven, Somerset Maugham, Scott Fitzgerald, Robert Graves and Jack Kerouac, boldly wrote to the Editor of the _Bristol Evening Post_ and asked for a job. Despite my parents' new attitude, they warned me not to be disappointed after aiming so high. I knew from films and novels that reporters wore bow ties, trench coats and trilby hats, so scraping together all my available resources, selling my fishing tackle and even my Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley LPs, I went to the nearest gentlemen's outfitters and bought the aforementioned clothes for my interview with the Editor of the _Bristol Evening Post._\n\nCan you imagine it? A seventeen-year-old with a shiny, acned face, dressed in such a way. I sat in the outer office while the secretary announced my presence. She returned after a few seconds and said, 'When the green light flashes, knock and go in.' A big, round-faced, smiling man with short cropped hair sat behind the desk, his fingers propped together forming a pyramid between his elbows and his chin. On his neat desk there was a Penguin edition of _The Trial of Lady Chatterley._ He wore a dark, well-cut suit, a white shirt and a bow tie. A bow tie! So they did wear bow ties. I was wearing a bow tie. He looked at me askance, not patronisingly, but he seemed to stare right through me. 'Do sit down,' he said. He rearranged his fingers to clutch the lapels of his jacket and leant back in his chair. 'Well?' he said. 'I've brought you some essays I wrote at school,' I said. 'We don't write essays on newspapers,' he said, reaching to take them from my trembling hand. I told him about my school days. I told him of my dissatisfaction of being a filing clerk in the Architects' Department. I told him about the books I had read and lied, successfully, about one or two I hadn't. All of a sudden, the interview, or perhaps the confessional, was over.\n\nHe ushered me into the outer office and I realised for the first time how tall he was. There was no conclusion, and I stood, awkwardly, wondering how to leave. I suddenly decided to say, 'Well, will you give me a job or not?' He looked down at me, and his breath smelt strange. Later I was to know it was garlic. 'Yes,' he said, 'as a matter of fact I will. My secretary will take the necessary details and you will report to the News Editor a week on Monday at 8.30 a.m. His name is Farnsworth: he will probably eat you alive, but don't worry.' Before I could utter a word he disappeared into his office. It was going to turn out to be the single most important day of my life. Not that I would know that for another twenty-four years.\n\n# Typewriters and Burgundy\n\nNow I shall tell you about my job at the _Bristol Evening Post._ This will be a short chapter because I wasn't there very long! Joining the paper was a really exciting event. It was an unusual one because in those days the only way you could become a journalist was to do an apprenticeship on a weekly newspaper like the _Somerset County Gazette._ There you learnt to type, to do shorthand (it was compulsory) and you wrote the Births, Marriages and Deaths column or the Townsmen's Guild column, or listed the results of the Agricultural Show, and you had to do that for about two or three years before you had a chance to get onto a daily newspaper. But I was a precocious little sod and without having done any of these I managed to get my job on the _Bristol Evening Post_ which, curiously enough, was located in the centre of Bristol in Silver Street: I was brought up in Silver Street in Wiveliscombe, which I took to be a good omen. In the sixties the typesetting for all newspapers was done with lead and there was a massive sense of excitement as the editions came out, with the compositors working desperately against the clock to bring out each edition, the smell of ink and hot metal and a wonderful hum of huge drums with paper whirling round and all the vans queued up outside, loading up really fast. At that time Bristol had another daily evening newspaper called the _Bristol Evening World_ and they were in serious rivalry to be first with the best stories, to get the exclusives and to beat the other in the race to be out onto the streets.\n\nMy first day, I turned up, and I really can't describe the atmosphere of the newsroom. I suppose there were thirty or forty people all sitting at desks with an amazing racket of manual typewriters being tapped so fast (usually with only two or three fingers) and copy boys (those were the boys who, when the journalist had finished typing his piece and shouted 'Boy!' would run over and take the sheet of paper downstairs to where the subeditors were) rushing around. The News Editor was a huge man called Gordon Farnsworth, a North Country man, shouting out instructions and demanding stories. The atmosphere was electric, absolutely electric. I just sat there, bemused, all day, because nobody spoke to you on your first day. Although Gordon Farnsworth did speak to me. He said, 'So you're another bloody student...I'm fed up with students, why can't I have some journalists?' I said, 'I don't know what you mean, what are you talking about?' He said, 'Well the Editor keeps taking on these bloody students,' and it was true because that day three other people of my age had joined the paper with no journalistic experience whatsoever. But the difference between them and me was that they had got temporary jobs because they were going to university and Gordon thought I was the same sort. I said, 'No, I'm here to learn to be a journalist, that's what I want to be.' 'Huh, we'll see,' he said. Terrifying, the first day was absolutely terrifying.\n\nThey gave me my own desk and typewriter, an Olivetti Letra 22, and after a couple of days of being shy in the canteen and not knowing what to do I was sent out on my first story. I was absolutely petrified! I had to go to cover an inquest of a man who had drowned in the docks. I thought, 'Oh, good, thank you. What do I do?' So I asked another journalist what I should do. 'Inquests are very simple,' he said. 'I'll write it for you.' He wrote the outline, leaving only the gaps to be filled in with the facts. He said, 'You write: \"Today at Yate Coroner's Court a verdict of...was returned on...\" and you either fill in death by suicide or death by misadventure or whatever and so on.' So off I toddled and filled in the gaps. I was quite proud and I couldn't wait to see the paper...of course it didn't say 'by Keith Floyd' but I took it home to my mum and said, 'I wrote that!'\n\nAfter a couple of weeks of really just hanging around and not doing very much at all I was put onto what they called the Duty Desk. You were given a list of numbers of the Police, the Ambulance Service, the hospitals, all of whom had a press helpline. You would ring them up every hour and say, 'Hello, this is the _Evening Post,_ has anything happened?' and they would say, 'Well, there was a crash at Cribbs Causeway,' or, A woman was found floating in the docks, apparently having committed suicide,' or 'There's been a murder on Bristol Downs,' or something like that. With that information I would go to the News Editor and if it was an insignificant story he might give it to me to write, or if it was an important story he could give it to a senior reporter to write.\n\nSometimes I would be allowed to go with the senior reporter to see what he did and how he did it, which was really exciting. I remember from one of the helplines I discovered that the steelworks were on strike. The Editor told me to ring up and find out what was going on, so I phoned up the union representative and said, This is the _Evening Post,_ can you tell me what is going on?' and he said, 'Well because we haven't been paid properly we're going on strike and this will disrupt things for as long as it takes.' I reported this verbally to the News Editor, who said, 'Well that's OK, you can write that story.' All these stories start with the word 'today'. Today 600 steelworkers went on strike for better working conditions. A spokesman said...' (you always have a spokesman and never a name and if you haven't got a spokesman you invent one).\n\nDigressing a bit, I remember one occasion I was sent out to the scene of a stabbing. I didn't know what you had to do at the scene of a stabbing, there was nothing there. So I went back to my News Editor and said, 'Well I went there but what do I do now?' He said, 'Well, who did you speak to?' I said, 'Nobody.' He said, 'Yes you did, you spoke to a passer by.' I said, 'No I didn't.' He said, 'Yes you did, I'm telling you, you spoke to a passer by who said...'\n\nAnyway, I'm typing out my story about the steel strike slowly and painfully, although I have already improved quite a lot at the old two-finger typing over six or seven weeks, when I'm aware that the words I'm typing are being spoken by somebody. I look up and there is a senior reporter behind me reading out exactly what I'm typing, down a phone. This was one of Bristol's celebrated journalist characters called Joe Gallagher and he was the Chief Crime Writer for the _Bristol Evening Post_ and also what's called a 'stringer' or a correspondent for the London _Evening Standard_ or the _Daily Express,_ so whatever stories he sold to them he got a fee from them. He was dictating my story and was going to get paid for it. 'What are you doing?' I asked. 'I've sold it to the _Standard,_ dear boy, you ought to get into that.' 'Well how do I do that?' I asked. 'You speak to me because I handle these things.'\n\nSo Joe and I became quite good friends. He was a small, bespectacled, pugnacious, slightly balding Irishman who always wore flamboyant waistcoats and a trilby hat. I have no idea how old he would have been because I was seventeen and everybody was very old to me. Over time I also got to know his great buddy, a Yorkshireman who was the Sports Editor, Bob Cooper. Joe and Bob were inseparable and were up to all sorts of scams, really dyed-in-the-wool ex-Fleet Street professionals of the old school. They made themselves an absolute fortune on the paper because they invented a game called 'Spot the Ball'. This shows a photograph of a man kicking a football and you have to mark with a cross on the picture where you think the thing was. People had to send in, I can't remember, two shillings or something like that to have a go and win fifty or a hundred pounds. This thing really took off and the management of the paper was totally unconcerned and hadn't seen it as anything more than a bit of fun, completely unaware that Joe and Bob were making an absolute fortune. They were doing nothing illegal or wrong, it's just that it was their business and the paper let them print it because they thought it was good for the readers. They didn't realise that these blokes suddenly became very, very rich. Once the paper saw how rich they had become they thought, 'Hold on a minute, we want to be having some of this.' As far as I know they were obliged to buy out Joe and Bob, who both promptly retired. Joe, with all this money, went off to Portugal to buy a restaurant. But that's another story.\n\nBy now I was quite well integrated in the paper and even Farnsworth was taking me a bit more seriously and giving me more jobs. I was enjoying it very much. I soon realised we also had a morning paper called the _Western Daily Press._ When I joined the _Evening Post,_ the _Western Daily Press_ still had advertisements on the front page like _The Times._ Suddenly like a whirlwind a former _Daily Express_ man came down to take over the paper and revolutionise it (it was a broadsheet paper in those days) and turn it into a campaigning, go-getting, sleaze-busting, hot, bright, brand-new newspaper. This, of course, shocked all the old hands who had been working on it for years because it really was a genteel paper that never looked for trouble and simply reported nice news. This was exciting to me because Eric Price, who had come to take over the _Western Daily Press,_ had actually worked under the great editor Arthur Christiansen, so to me he was a hero. But he was like a film star newspaper editor: he didn't actually have an eyeshield but I swear to God he had one really. He would march up and down with his waistcoat undone, shouting, 'What the hell's going on! Where's my story, I need this now! Get off your arses!' He was like a god to me and I contrived to meet him in the pub that we used to go to across the road in between editions (called the White Hart, I think). 'Who are you, lad?' he asked. 'I'm Floyd, sir.' I plucked up courage and asked, 'Would it be OK if I came in and worked at night?' because all the morning papers worked in the night. He said, 'Yes you can.' There was a lovely old-fashioned News Editor then on the _Western Daily Press_ called Norman Rich, a gentle old man who was approaching retirement. He was such a gentleman that he wouldn't say he hated Eric Price and the new paper. He would say he was 'disappointed by the change and was looking forward to retiring' because this wasn't his style of journalism at all. So after I finished at 5.30, when the last edition of the _Evening Post_ went out, I would go to the pub for a couple of hours and then come back and hang around the reporters' room, unpaid because I enjoyed it so much, at night. In between I would talk to Norman when there wasn't much to do and he would tell me tales of the old days of journalism. I learnt a huge amount from this kindly man and also from the Country Editor of the _Western Daily Press,_ whose name, sadly, I forget. He too was on the verge of retirement and hated the way things were going. But seeing that I was excited about the way the paper was headed, clearly getting on very well with Eric Price, who was an authoritarian, albeit gifted, editor, known to hire and fire at the drop of a hat, he said, 'I can see you're doing very well here, lad, but I want to tell you something. As you climb up the ladder be careful who you tread on because you never know who you may meet on the way down.' I have never forgotten that.\n\nAnyway, after a while on the daytime paper covering little stories such as charily fund-raising events or the presentation of a wheelchair or a guide dog, the evenings were eminently more exciting. One night Eric said, 'Right, there are prostitutes living in normal houses down in St Paul's. Go down and see how many you can find and then we'll expose them.' I would go on vice patrol and all sorts of exciting things like that. It was often after midnight before I finished on the paper and I would go to this eccentric coffee bar which was full of strange, bearded, artistic, intellectual beatniks and hang out in there until about two in the morning. Then from virtually the city centre of Bristol I would walk five miles home every night because I never had enough money for a taxi. My pay at the time was \u00a34 7s 6d a week. I spent most of it on beer in the interludes between press running and on bus fares in the mornings and I gave my mother a pound a week for my lodging, paid for my lunches and went out one night a week for a bowl of spaghetti bolognese and six half pints of lager and ten Nelson cigarettes, and walked home again! But what I was doing, of course, although I didn't realise it at the time, was burning the candle at both ends. It wasn't doing me a lot of good and I was extremely tired. I was unaware of my tiredness, I was on a roll and thought the whole thing extremely exciting.\n\nLittle by little I go to know some of the other journalists and quite a lot of them took me under their wing. They were all a bloody nice bunch but there were a couple that I just stood in awe of. One of these sat at the back of the reporters' room in a black leather jacket, black shirt and dark glasses and smoked Gauloises. Farnsworth hated him. This bloke didn't write any news at all. The Editor had decreed that the _Western Daily Press_ would have an arts page. This of course was anathema to Gordon, who thought newspapers should be full of news, not art; and not only that, it wasn't even his paper \u2013 it was the _Western Daily Press_ so this bloke was responsible to Eric Price, but much to Gordon Farnsworth's annoyance he would work in the office during the _Evening Post's_ hours (it was the same newsroom for both papers). He and a man called Anthony Smith used to write a brilliantly funny column in the _Western Daily Press_ called 'Brennus and Berlinus'. The _Western Daily Press_ was the most unlikely venue for this incredibly funny, witty, highly intelligent comedy piece (they would also cover what was on at the theatre etc.). 'Brennus and Berlinus' had to be, as far as I am concerned, the forerunner or the seeds of a very famous play called _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_ because this man with whom I played cricket, with his long black hair, hooked nose, scraggy face, black jacket, dark glasses and Gauloises was none other than Tom Stoppard!\n\nIn, I think, the typesetting department was someone else who became outrageously famous. He was called Charles Wood and he wrote _The Charge of the Light Brigade._ There was another man on the paper lurking around there called Derek Robinson who wrote, amongst other things, _The C'rec' Way to Speak Bris'l,_ which was a parody on the way they speak in Bristol, and _The Goshawk Squadron,_ and other wonderful books about the First World War. Then there was a man who wrote _A Day in the Life of Joe Egg,_ a play about a paraplegic boy. The whole place was swarming with these people who were already brilliant but we didn't know they were going to be as famous as they became.\n\nThe best piece I ever wrote was under the guidance of the Assistant News Editor, Jack Powell, a lovely, gentle chap and a very experienced journalist. They sent me off to do a story on Cyril Fletcher opening the new gas showroom in Queen's Road in Bristol. I came back and I said, Today[!] comedian Cyril Fletcher, sporting a carnation and a red bow tie, opened the new Gas Board showroom in [wherever it was]'. Jack said, 'No he didn't. I tell you what he did: \"Today comedian Cyril Fletcher, dashingly dressed in a red bow tie and sporting a carnation, quipping merrily, opened Mr Therm's new home in Queen's Road, Clifton, Bristol.\" It's the way of putting it. Mr Therm's new home, not the gas showroom.' Gordon Farnsworth said, 'That's jolly well done,' but I didn't tell him that it was actually Jack who told me how to write it. Through that I learnt to look at words in a different way but still get the same information from them.\n\nSo I was on a crest but I felt that Gordon Farnsworth was waiting for me to fall in some way. I don't think he approved of the fact that I went to the pub quite so frequently. I don't think he approved of the idea that I hung out with the older, experienced senior reporters and I think he was suspicious of my relationship with the Editor. And the fall did come. One of the important things to remember about the _Bristol Evening Post_ was that Gordon Farnsworth was forever saying, This is a family newspaper,' and every bit of local news had to be included. In fact, when the paper was founded it was created by the citizens of Bristol. Under the banner of the _Bristol Evening Post_ it said: The paper that all Bristol asked for and helped to create'. They recognised that the citizens of Bristol felt they had a stake in the paper. Absolutely anything that went on in Bristol, the paper had to be there.\n\nAnyhow, I was sent one day to a hotel to cover a reception at which the Rotary Club were to present a load of wheelchairs from money they had raised for disabled people. Apparently there was to be a lunch as well, and all I had to do was list the names of the important people who had made donations and who the recipients were, and go back and write a very simple story. Once again the story would start 'Today...' as all stories did: Today, Mrs George McWhatters, wife of the chairman of Harvey's Wine Merchants, presented three wheelchairs to so and so.' I went back, filed my story and thought no more about it, until a couple of days later Gordon Farnsworth came up to me, screaming with rage. 'You're a disgrace, an absolute bloody disgrace. I've had Mrs McWhatters on the phone. They said you went to the reception, you had lunch and you had their wine and you didn't even bother to write the story.' I said, 'I didn't have lunch, I didn't know I could have lunch, and I did write the story.' 'No you didn't! You are fired?' And he went off to see the Editor to complain about me and that was it!\n\nI thought, 'No, this isn't fair and it isn't actually the case at all. I did write the story but where it's gone I don't know.' So I went down to the sub-editors' department and spoke to Ernie Avery. He said yes, he'd seen the story but he'd spiked it because he didn't feel it was very interesting and he didn't have room for it. So I went to the Editor and said, 'Look, this is the case, I didn't not write the story, I've been incorrectly dismissed and this isn't at all fair.' So anyway Gordon, a big, brash Yorkshireman who always found it very hard to be criticised or to be wrong, actually did a very kind thing and took me out for fish and chips and a pot of tea! He said, 'I'm sorry about that, lad,' in his lovely Yorkshire accent. 'Sorry about that, but you know, you've got to take it a bit easier. You're working in the day and at night, and quite frankly I think you're overdoing it.' I didn't think I was overdoing it at all. I was in a trance, I so loved working there that I was drugged by the whole thing \u2013 by the noise of the presses, by the smell of the ink and the hot metal, by the clatter of the typewriters, by the shouting of the reporters, by the ringing of the telephones, by the hustle and the bustle and the whole thing.\n\nTwo weeks after the first complaint Gordon said I could go to the Bath and West Show, a big agricultural show in the West Country, which in those days was held in a place called Ashton Park, within Bristol itself. I believe it now has a permanent home somewhere near Shepton Mallet. My job was simply to collect the results of best heifer, best flower arrangement, and all that sort of thing \u2013 a pretty easy job \u2013 and then phone the results back to the office. There was a press tent, which was great fun, and it was there that I discovered Tuborg lager. I evidently must have had quite a few, because I recall being woken up by the huge size twelve boot of Gordon Farnsworth, who had made just one concession to the hot weather. He had taken off his jacket but was still wearing his tightly buttoned waistcoat, collar and tie. He sat down beside me and said, 'Come on, lad, you can't be falling asleep on duty.' We got chatting and he asked me what my hobbies were. I explained to him that I was in the process of restoring a 1934 or 1935 Austin 7 Saloon which I had bought for \u00a35. Every Sunday, on my day off, I would fiddle with it in some way or another. I would regrind the valves or put in new bushes in the steering department (I can't remember any of the technicalities of it now, it was nearly forty years ago). I was quite obsessed by this car, and there I was sitting on the grass at Ashton Park, telling Gordon this story.\n\nA few days later, back in the office, he said to me, 'How would you like to write a feature about your hobby?' I was so excited and I wrote all about it, and at the age of seventeen I had a full-page feature with a byline 'by Keith Floyd' in the _Bristol Evening Post._ Things got better and better and I was then given a commission, a job to go to Stratford-upon-Avon, where a group of enthusiasts and volunteers were cleaning out and restoring the Stratford-upon-Avon canal. I started, again, inventing lines, things like 'Mr Smith, the Director of Operations, said, \"We'll get this canal open or we'll die in the attempt,\" ' which of course, he didn't say at all, but it sounded better than what he had really said. I thought it was quite good journalism but they phoned to complain. I couldn't understand that. All I was trying to do was convey their enthusiasm, but there I was, in trouble yet again! The paper did print the story, however, and it was my second byline in a month. People began to look at me rather suspiciously, wondering how I was apparently succeeding so well against the odds. Certainly the other young, temporary reporters who were just waiting to go to university were not getting anything like the breaks I was getting but that was really because, I think, although Gordon was a gruff old fucker, he really was on my side, and he wouldn't give these boys jobs because he didn't feel that they were at all serious. He felt that they were just killing time before university, which was something he did not approve of. I wasn't paid any extra for these stories \u2013 they all came within my weekly salary.\n\nThen I was given, for reasons I can't understand, a weekly column called Youth Notes, and I was bylined for it. It was really a resume of what the various youth clubs were doing in Bristol \u2013 for example who had won the National Speaking Championships. It was a kind of diary page, and for me at the age of seventeen it was incredibly prestigious. It's important to remember, while I'm crowing about being so famous at the age of seventeen, that this was around 1962, when teenagers had no roles. People in positions of power were older \u2013 much older than they would be today. Today, in the year 2000, yes it's quite normal for young people to be at the top of the tree, but it absolutely wasn't the case then, so in many ways I was exceptional.\n\nBut as I've tried to indicate, I was in a complete trance. At night after work I was going to a coffee bar with university students and other people older than myself and I was talking to them about Jean Genet, Jean-Paul Sartre, Edith Piaf, Maria Callas, and it was a completely bizarre and unreal situation. I wasn't, and I didn't even know about it, but many of them were smoking pot. At the time I was blissfully naive about all of that, I was just drinking my coffee and sitting on the edge, enthralled by the way these people spoke, the books and the music they discussed.\n\nIn fact I was in such a trance, it was only when, something like thirty years later, to my amazement I was accosted in Dublin by Michael Aspel and kidnapped onto 'This Is Your Life' that I discovered anything about these people. Before the guests come on to This Is Your Life' you hear their voices and they say something which is designed to jog your memory of some past event. I heard this voice saying, 'Floydsie, you still owe me for a suit!' I sat there like a stoat under a snake, or vice versa. Who the fuck was that? Then I remembered. It was Jeremy Bryan, a brilliant reporter from the _Bristol Evening Post,_ with whom one night I had set off to cover a fire or a plane crash or some disaster. In fact, it wasn't even that. We were all in the pub, the White Hart, and as far as we were concerned, work was over and we had probably had a few too many. The phone rang in the pub and the landlord called Jeremy over and said, 'You've had a phone call and you've got to go.' 'I want to come too!' I shouted. 'In fact, I'll take you there, because I've got a motor scooter.' Well, we crashed. Wrecked Jeremy's suit, never did get to the disaster, and spent the whole night in the Bristol Royal Infirmary, not seriously wounded in any way, just with scratches and bruises.\n\nAnother great This Is Your Life' surprise that night involved a wonderful _Evening Post_ journalist called Roger Bennett, who, a little bit like the Country Editor of the _Western Daily Press,_ had always impressed upon me the importance of acknowledging people as you travel through life. Indeed many years after the time we are talking about now, Roger Bennett went on to become a very successful broadcaster at the BBC. Whenever I was in town he would always ring me up and ask me to go onto his programme and I always would. He said to me one day, There are some people we both know who are now very famous (much more famous than me) who don't have the time to come onto the programme.' Apart from being a brilliant journalist and broadcaster he was also a superb jazz musician. When I was first on the paper at the age of sixteen, I spent many nights listening to Roger playing with the Blue Notes Jazz Band down at the Old Duke or wherever they were performing in Bristol (a great jazz city). I didn't know this at the time, but later I was to work for Acker Bilk and get to know all the jazz musicians, and I used to babysit for Roger. In fact, as I write this book roughly in 1999 (it might be the year 2000 when I finish, I'm not too sure) it was only a couple of years ago that Roger retired from broadcasting, and I was very pleased to be invited on to a special programme for him to pay a tribute.\n\nSo many people like this came from _Evening Post_ days, because \u2013 yes \u2013 it was a family paper but it was also a family in its own right. The people were very concerned and caring people and I owe that paper so much.\n\nAnother crisis took place shortly after this. It was decided that I was overdoing things and I was called into the Editor's office and told that it would be better if I worked on one of their weekly newspapers, in this case the _Bristol Observer._ I was gutted by that, but it's what I should have done at the very beginning really. I had gone in too fast, too high and too quick, and, as they told me, I was only there half the time (although I was there all the time). I was actually working from eight in the morning to one the next morning, nearly every day of the week. I thought I was physically and mentally there, but I was only seventeen years old and I suppose I was dropping a few clangers from time to time.\n\nSo they put me onto the weekly paper. I still had my weekly Youth Notes column. I had to go round to Alverston and I think somewhere called Pucklechurch and all the suburbs and villages of the surrounding area of Bristol to see the vicar to find out what had happened that week, and to the Townsmen's Guild and the local planning committee. I was bored out of my brains. I really felt totally put down, although in retrospect it was a good thing. It enabled me to learn how to put a story together, under less pressure than I had been before. But I felt thoroughly pissed off. I was attached to a really worthy senior reporter who never came up with anything sensational but had his ear to the community all the time and understood what was going on. He taught me how to get responses from people because he was gentle and casual about what he said and personable in the way that he did it. He had the confidence of people and got all the stories. But I \u2013 and bearing in mind that at one or two o'clock in the morning I'm with all these intellectuals \u2013 am feeling very unworthy as a cub reporter on a weekly newspaper and I've got a really split personality and a fair degree of resentment.\n\nSo I went to see the Editor, Richard Hawkins, to express my dissatisfaction and unhappiness with this position. He said, 'Well you've only got yourself to blame really, I mean you burnt yourself out by doing too much and anyway it's where you should have been in the beginning, it's where you should have started. But,' he said, 'If you don't really like that, and I do know you have some good points [he was a very sarcastic man, Richard Hawkins], I need a personal assistant and you can be that personal assistant if you want.' He had a secretary anyway and I didn't really know what it meant being a personal assistant. But he did also say that he would put my salary up to \u00a37 a week. That was a hike from \u00a34 7s 6d up to \u00a37 \u2013 absolutely massive! But then, as now, I was a shopaholic, a spendthrift and never able to hold onto money, ever! So what seemed to be almost a hundred per cent increase in salary did not result in there being any more pennies in my pocket on Monday morning than there were at the previous salary. Then, as now, I was obsessed with good shoes, silk ties, proper clothes (old fashioned they may be, old fashioned I am). In the sixties, in the week you wore a suit and on Saturday mornings a sports jacket \u2013 that was _de rigueur._ I always felt it was important to have a good tie, good shoes and a well-cut jacket. Even then, although I couldn't afford it, I used to have my suits handmade. This was my mother's fault because when she worked at a cloth factory, as I've already told you, she would bring home these bolts of cloth, these remnants that had a flaw in them, and she was able to get the finest West of England worsted and wool fabric for very little money. In Wiveliscombe there was a man called Mr Berry, who used to sit cross-legged on a wooden stage in the window of his house, hand-sewing suits, and even as a schoolboy I had handmade suits, because they were cheaper for my mother than anything at Weaver to Wearer, John Collier, Burton or something like that. So I had been cursed, and with my grandfather being a boot and shoe maker and repairer, I have this ridiculous fetish for handmade clothes and handmade shoes, and nothing will stop me from buying them.\n\nHowever, I am now the Editor's personal assistant. In reality I am the Editor's servant. In board meetings, on directors' days my job was to go to Avery's the wine merchants, to the actual cellars, and collect the exquisite wines they wanted. I was to bring up the Beefeater gin, not Gordon's, and the particular sherries they liked and be on hand to take notes at the whim or requirement of my Editor. This put me in a curious position, because I was only seventeen but people like Eric Price and Joe Gallagher and all the senior people reckoned I had the Editor's ear and they would ply me with questions to find out what was going to be happening within the company or what was going to be Editor's policy, of which I knew nothing at all. I used to say, 'I don't know, all I do is fetch and carry, I'm just a servant.' They thought otherwise. So my position was bizarre. I was intellectually crucified by the brilliance of my Editor, who _inter alia_ would ask me, 'By the way, have you read _Brideshead Revisited_ or _Lady Chatterley's Lover?'_ I would say no, but promptly go out and buy those books or whichever he suggested. As a consequence I was able to educate myself quite well.\n\nBut equally importantly, Richard Hawkins was a gourmet: he lived for food. He would often have to have meetings with terribly famous people and I remember once having to go to London with him on what I thought was a business trip but it was to meet Peter O'Toole, who was a friend of Richard's in those days. Although I can only say this is a rumoured story which I will go on with in a moment, I do remember when I met Peter O'Toole \u2013 and to this day he wouldn't know who I was \u2013 whom I admire enormously but have not seen again from that day to this, in a pub in Chelsea or Kensington, he said, 'Have you ever seen the head of a Guinness? It looks like the face of the man on the moon.' He took a pen from his pocket and drew a face on the head of a pint of Guinness. Of course, Peter O'Toole at that time was very famous in Bristol at the Old Vic and he was also, by all accounts, a monstrous tearaway. I mean, he was Jack of all the lads! I do have an apocryphal story about him: I claim that I think, that I might possibly know, a probably totally untrue story \u2013 on the day that Peter O'Toole was appearing in Bristol Magistrates Court, alleged to have possibly been arrested for being drunk and disorderly, I happened to be in court. I didn't think it was worth reporting so the story didn't go any further. Just as well in view of the strict contractural obligations insisted on by the producers of his next film, _Lawrence of Arabia._\n\nWorking for the Editor really was bizarre. I was attending lunches or going to the then amazingly prestigious Thornbury Castle or Hole in the Wall restaurant in Bath. You have to remember, dear reader, I am seventeen years old and it's 1961 and the world is very, very different from today. My position was an uncomfortable one: I would scribble notes down while the Editor talked to an MP or someone and I was told to go and collect things from the car and fetch and carry. I was a fag, if you like, in the public school sense, to the head prefect. I remember my first meal at the Hole in the Wall as if it were yesterday. It was partridge stewed in white wine with cabbage and juniper berries. There was a bottle of splendid Gevrey-Chambertin and the pudding was called Chocolat St Emilion. It was mouthwatering, it was breathtaking, and it was nothing to do with the Saturday nights I spent out with my ten shillings! The fact was that we were so ignorant about cooking at that time. We never knew how to cook spaghetti. How did you get it into the saucepan? It was hard and came wrapped in blue waxed paper. We soaked it in water to make it soft, we broke it up in bits. It was a long time before I learnt that you just pushed it gently down into the boiling water so that it curled around the pan. That's how little I knew about food at that time.\n\nI went out probably two or three times a week with Hawkins \u2013 Mr Hawkins to me, of course, and Sir \u2013 to the White Tower in London and the Dorchester Hotel. At the age of seventeen I was eating beyond my means. Nothing has changed! Today I am eating beyond my means. It was an unholy relationship. I was too independent, too self-opinionated, too unformed, uninformed, unmoulded, but I knew that I was not somebody's lackey. That isn't where I was meant to be.\n\nSo, kicking my heels one night, I bought a ticket for the cinema and sat spellbound in front of the great Stanley Baker and Michael Caine movie _Zulu._ The following day, without a thought, with what must have been irritating self-confidence, I bounced into the recruiting office in Colston Avenue, Bristol, and volunteered myself for a short-service commission in Her Majesty's Land Forces.\n\n# Floyd on Parade \u2013 Almost\n\nHad I got off at the correct station, I could have taken advantage of a ride in a three-ton truck to Catterick Camp, which the Army had thoughtfully provided to pick up the recruits. Unfortunately, after an awful ten-hour overnight journey from the West Country, just before my correct destination I fell asleep and, as a consequence, had to hitchhike with two heavy suitcases back from York to Richmond and then walk the last four miles to the camp itself. I reported to the guard room in a state of sweating and trembling anxiety, several hours late. The duty corporal noted my arrival in a ledger and courteously enough showed me to my room in the barracks. It had eight or ten tubular steel unmade beds, each with a plain wooden wardrobe and a bedside locker. Down the corridor there was a sort of common room, with Formica tables and chairs, a battered TV and a few dog-eared magazines and paperback novels. There was no one else there. It was Sunday, and I mooched around nervously for several hours, uncertain of what to do. Eventually a soldier turned up and took me to the store to collect some bedding, and then showed me to the cookhouse, where I devoured a mountainous plate of food, my first meal for almost twenty-four hours. When I returned to the dormitory, I found another five or six scruffy-looking lads who, with their duffel bags and suitcases dumped on the floor, were hesitantly introducing themselves to one another. I felt out of place in my suit. They were all wearing jeans and anoraks. None of us knew what to do; were we allowed out, should we stay in? Would someone tell us what to do? I elected to go to the guard room to clarify the situation. I reported back to the lads that we were free to go to the NAAFI and nothing would happen until we were woken the following morning, which was Monday.\n\nThe next morning dawned like Pearl Harbor. The day exploded into a frenzy of form-filling, kit-collecting, hair-cutting, medicals, quick-fire instructions which left us, at seven o'clock that night, exhausted and bewildered. No longer civilians, yet absolutely not soldiers, we were in some kind of institutionalised limbo. I had difficulty sleeping, worried that I would sleepwalk or talk in my sleep, worried that I would make a complete idiot of myself in front of my roommates. After a couple of days we had more or less got to know each other and settled into a frenzied routine of basic training. This involved endless marching, parades, weapons training, bulling kit, spit-and-polishing the toecaps of your boots, cross-country runs, all the while and at the double desperately trying to avoid any kind of mistake. Only at the end of the eight-week training period would we know if the Army would keep us or not. I had the incentive to work really hard: not only did I have to pass my basic training, I had to excel in order to be selected for the Potential Officer troop which would ultimately lead me to Officer Cadet School and a commission. Should I fail, I would be condemned to a minimum of three years as a squaddie, something which was unacceptable to me.\n\nThe eight weeks sped by like a hurricane. All the instructors knew I was headed for the PO troop, and consequently were tougher on me than on the others. That was no bad thing though. The challenge was essential and I took it head on and progressed without a hiccup into the PO troop, where I was assured I would find life very different. After our passing out parade, we had a farewell beer with our instructor, who assured us 'we didn't know nothing yet' and now the real business of becoming a soldier would begin. 'Except for Floyd, of course,' he said, 'who is leaving us to join the troop of potential gentlemen.'\n\nOur main instructor was a man called Sergeant Linneker (RTR). He was an immensely fit thirty-year-old, always immaculate in his black denim tank suit, and had actually given us a fairly decent time, especially on the drill square because Tankies' look upon the infantry with a certain scorn and don't regard square-bashing as being of paramount importance. Also, in common with many other members of the 3rd Royal Tank Regiment, he was a West Countryman and consequently very slightly laid back. I had got on with him quite well, which, as it turned out, was quite fortuitous because I ultimately joined the 3rd RTR only to find he was my troop sergeant. But in these early days, still with the romanticism of Rourke's Drift in my mind, I had requested to join the 11th Hussars, a cavalry regiment known as 'the Cherry Pickers' (during the Napoleonic wars they were attacked whilst bivouacked in a cherry orchard. One minute they were languidly munching cherries, the next they won a significant battle against all odds). Also, all ranks wore elegantly tailored maroon trousers, a dashing cut above the norm.\n\nSo, feeling fit, accomplished and proud of my Cherry Pickers trousers, I packed my kit and marched to the far side of the camp to my new 'home'. I had thoroughly enjoyed the previous eight weeks and I was bursting with confidence and optimism. The PO troop was going to be great fun! Or so I thought. I had not yet met Lieutenant William Bale or Corporal Maclver Jones or Corporal of Horse Higgins, a six-foot-three, moustachioed psychopath from the Royal Horse Guards.\n\nAfter weeks of sharing a dormitory with my motley mates, it was brilliant to have a room to myself. It was certainly a privilege, but a privilege that you had to work very hard to maintain. As instructed, I knocked on Corporal Maclver Jones's office door and was summoned in for a quick lecture on the dos and don'ts of the PO troop. Looking back on it, although he was not, of course, so old, Maclver Jones was uncannily like Sergeant Wilson from 'Dad's Army'. He seemed to be too refined and well spoken for an NCO. He took me along to the common room to introduce me to the other members of the troop. The contrast from the previous eight weeks was staggering. There was Clive Smalldene de Rougement, Durant Hougham, Jamie Douglas-Home, Fergus Slattery, Heathcote Amory, and others I can no longer remember, all from Eton, Harrow, Stowe and Clifton; myself, from my minor public school, and two grammar school boys called Kirkham and Weir, who was rather cruelly known as 'Weird', and a larger-than-life character 'Kim' Fraser (AKA the Honourable, son of Lord Lovat). For a moment I felt a bit awkward, and very conscious of the differences in our backgrounds. But gentlemen are not snobs, and these guys were certainly gentlemen.\n\nThe PO block had not been occupied for some time and our first task was to bring it up to standard. This involved hours on your hands and knees, scraping years of urine sediment off the porcelain troughs with razor blades. Hours spent bulling the copper fittings and kit in our bedrooms. The tiled floors had to sparkle and especially the oxidised brass window fittings, which had to shine like highly polished gold. Our personal kit, which we had spent hours preparing for our squaddie passing out parade, was not good enough for Lieutenant Bale. The whole, not just the toecaps of our boots, had to be bulled until they resembled patent leather. Rooms were inspected every morning and there was always something at fault. Once a week Lieutenant Bale would come for a grand inspection and you learned very quickly that there was nowhere to hide. You thought you had everything right, and then he would demand to see your comb. Woe betide you if it had any hair between the teeth!\n\nThe day usually started with a three- or four-mile run, followed by gruelling sessions on the drill square, orchestrated by the good corporal of horse, who stood like a ramrod, the peak of his cap flat against his nose, barking high-pitched, clipped commands. Mistakes and errors would be rewarded with 'That man there! Round the square, GO!' and round the perimeter of the square you ran, your rifle held agonisingly above your head, until he saw fit to let you stop and rejoin the rest of your troop. There were lectures on tactics, military law, hygiene, current affairs, first aid, endless small-arms training and so on.\n\nEverything was conducted at the double, you never walked between classes. Lieutenant Bale was the archetypal officer. Blond, blue-eyed, elegant, detached and hard as nails. He was an army pentathlon champion, a consummate horseman and had, at some stage, been attached to the SAS. As a consequence, our physical training was tough. Fully clad in combat kit, we would be divided into teams of four. We would then carry a telegraph pole between the four of us. You would have to race upstream in a little river that flowed at the edge of the camp which, of course, was booby-trapped. The only way you could win, and win you must, was to be the first team to reach a 30-foot-long concrete tube. You couldn't stand up in this tube and the water flowed fiercely through it. There was usually a tripwire that you floundered into that detonated smoke bombs. Sometimes you might race three or four times, sometimes, soaking wet and exhausted, you would be sent straight onto the assault course, or perhaps, instead of a coffee break at the end of your 'physical' period, Mr Bale would demand that you paraded, within five minutes, in your number one kit. Of course, you were never anticipating that, therefore your kit was never up to scratch, so you paraded in full battle dress instead, not the ones you were wearing, however. If someone failed to meet standards in the second dress parade, you would have a third. Sometimes, after work we were cleaning our kit after a hard, wet day and he would announce that there would be a troop run. A cool seven miles before supper. And as Sergeant Linneker said, 'If this is life, roll on death and let's have a crack at the angels.'\n\nBut there were glorious moments too. Map-reading or escape-and-evasion programmes on the beautiful Yorkshire moors. We would often spend three or four days in two-man teams, sleeping in bivouacs at night, trying to snare rabbits or shoot partridge, or tickling trout in fast-flowing becks to augment our compo rations. I had no thoughts of the outside world and was totally engrossed in this frantically physical life of the PO troop. At weekends we would go into Richmond and have a drink in each pub in the square. This rendered you completely legless by the end of the evening. A few of us formed a dining club, and once a month we would dress up in our finest civilian clothes and eat pompously at some country club or nearby hotel. We must have appeared a self-satisfied bunch, eating, smoking cigars and behaving loudly, but boy, did we have fun.\n\nThe three-month course flew by and now it was time for us to be assessed to see if we were fit to attend the regular commissions board in Wiltshire. This was a three-day 'trial' where you were tested and scrutinised mentally and physically to see if you had that essential, magical quality of 'leadership'. The only test I can still remember was the old chestnut of a ditch 20 feet wide filled with shark-infested water, which you had to cross with the aid of a 6-foot plank, a broom, a dustbin and a stepladder. Good lateral-thinking stuff. I completed my three days and returned to Bristol for two weeks' leave, my first in six months, to await the verdict of the colonels and generals of Warminster. The crisp envelope from the Ministry of Defence popped onto the doormat. I could hardly bear to open it. The brief text curtly announced that I had won a place at Mons Officer Cadet School at Aldershot. I wondered how my fellow POs had fared. I hoped that they would be there too.\n\nAfter a few days at Mons, I realised that my time in the PO troop at Catterick with the 3rd Royal Tank Regiment had been a brief military honeymoon. The honeymoon was over. The pressure on us now was three or four times greater. Gone were the soft-spoken West Country instructors. They were replaced by fierce, shiny-red-faced, immaculate NCOs and staff sergeants from the Brigade of Guards and top cavalry regiments. Happily, in this large intake of unknown cadets, some familiar faces had made it through \u2013 Fraser, Douglas-Home, De Rougement and one or two of the others. The vast majority, however, had come straight from school or university, with the exception of a few young NCOs who had successfully passed the RCB.\n\nSo it was back to basics and back to the drill square, where I met a man I shall never forget. He was slightly bow-legged, only 5 foot 9 inches tall, with a voice that could strike you rigid at 400 yards, and he clenched a highly polished pace stick. 'Gentlemen,' he said, in his magnificent cockney accent, 'my name is Corporal of Horse Clark. You will address me as Staff. I will address you as sir, simply because that is the tradition of the British Army, not because I have any respect for any one of you. Gentlemen, nobody calls me Nobby to my face or behind my back. I am known as the \"Black Mamba\" because I strike so fast. There is no room on this course for slackness, laziness or scruffiness.' With that he sprang from his position and poked his pace stick into the chest of a tall, blond cadet, with his nose pushed into his face, and said, 'You, sir, are already a scruffy disgrace! Report to the company barber immediately after this parade.' He almost goose-stepped backwards and continued. There is no room on this course for mummies' boys, because you are in the Army now and I am your mother.' He paused and drew himself up to his full height and screamed out, 'Is that perfectly clear, gentlemen?' We all gazed steadfastly ahead as if hypnotised by the real Black Mamba. 'I don't hear you, gentlemen!' he said. 'Is that perfectly clear?' Yes, Staff!' we shouted in unison.\n\nDrill parades, kit inspections, lectures and weapons training filled our days. Our nights were filled with study and kit cleaning. The pace was relentless. We were dragged out of bed with no notice at midnight and sent crawling across the muddy training grounds of Aldershot. You never knew how long anything would last. After one long night in the pouring rain we were eventually sent, wet and weary, back to the barracks in three-ton trucks. Exhausted, we crashed into bed. An hour later our instructor burst into the 'Spider', immaculate in his drill instructor's uniform, and announced a rifle inspection. Needless to say, no one had cleaned his weapon before going to bed. We had all assumed we would have time to do that before Reveille in the morning. The whole room was given an extra drill parade as a consequence, and I, considering myself one step ahead of the pack, thought long and hard how to prevent this catch-22 situation from happening again. The thing was, every time they made you fall flat in the sand and the mud, the breech of your SLR got filled with the same. So I acquired a pair of ladies' tights and cut out a tube which would cover the breech and with the appropriate slits to clip the magazine in. Prior to a scheduled, impending night exercise (which would surely be followed by an unscheduled, out-of-hours weapons inspection), we were issued with two magazines, one containing rounds of blanks and one empty. Unfortunately for me, the platoon sergeant was a wretched little man from an ordinary infantry regiment who carried a huge chip on his shoulder because, unlike the rest of the instructors, i.e. the Black Mamba and others, he was not a Guardsman. He also resented the privileges that we officer cadets would eventually enjoy.\n\nIn order to test the efficacy of my anti-sand-and-mud device, aiming my rifle at my bed, I clipped what I thought was the empty magazine onto my weapon, cocked it and pulled the trigger. The consequent explosion of a .76 shell in the confined space of our Spider was shattering. I had also blown a hole an inch wide straight through the blanks on my bed and my mattress! Sergeant Gibbon came roaring in. 'You, that man there, Floyd, you are on a charge, you moron! Company commander's orders, tomorrow morning at 0830 hours!' Until that moment, I know I had irritated the good sergeant of infantry because I had been succeeding at everything that was asked of me and he was delighted that I had fallen so heavily and so disastrously from grace. He turned on his heels and strutted, like a crowing cockerel, from the room.\n\nThe following morning, in best kit, I was marched at the double for the awful confrontation with our company commander, a blotchy-faced Major Edwards of the elite 22nd Cheshire Regiment. I was made to mark time on the spot in front of his desk while he languidly regarded me with cold, narrow eyes filled with contempt, disgust and loathing. The charge I was guilty of was read out before him, and he said, 'And you hope to become an officer and lead men, yet you appear to have the brains of a child and the intelligence of a baboon!' Corporal of Horse Clark flanked me on one side and our platoon sergeant on the other. Although I could not look left or right because I was at rigid attention, I know he smirked when I was awarded twenty-eight days' restriction of privileges.\n\nRestriction of privileges meant, amongst other things, punishment drill parades before and after the normal working day, regular reporting to the guard room in whatever uniform they elected you should wear, and, of course, you were confined to camp twenty-four hours a day for twenty-eight days, plus you had, as the Army euphemistically put it, 'lost your name'. This was a severe blow: not only might it jeopardise my chances of being commissioned, it also scotched my weekly dining club meetings and the odd late night and illicit trip to London to attend the Embassy parties and nightclubs that Fraser, De Rougement and Douglas-Home had open access to.\n\nAs a penniless kid in Somerset, I used to make Christmas gifts because I could not afford to buy them. With rubber moulds I would make sets of three flying ducks from plaster of Paris, paint and varnish them, or, using the inner tray of a box of household matches, I would, with watercolours, lichen from the apple tree and balsa wood, create miniature glass cases of stuffed fish with cellophane for the glass held to the tray by black passe-partout. These I would glue onto a card upon which I had written with a copperplate nib the Angler's Prayer, which was \u2013 indeed is:\n\n> O Lord, give me grace to catch a fish so large that even I, when talking of it afterwards, may never need to lie.\n\nI now decided to do a similar thing with a matchbox tray and, using little corners of serge blankets and sheets from my bed, I mounted a miniature bed inside a miniature glass case and stuck it on a piece of card cut into the form of a shield such as you see bearing studded heads over the fireplaces of regal halls, and inscribed briefly on the card shield: 'A rare bed, shot by Officer Cadet Floyd, Kohima Company, Mons O.C.S., Friday 13th June 196\u2014' and hung it over the head of my bed.\n\nAt the following morning's inspection, the Black Mamba, crablike, marched in front of us, tweaking berets, straightening ties and belts. Every day at our platoon morning parade, there would always be one cadet who failed to meet the approval of Staff. It was usually a tall, lanky aristocrat called De Villiers. Day after day he was bawled out for dirty brasses, a crooked tie or an incorrectly placed cap or beret. On this particular morning I think the good corporal of horse was suffering from a mighty hangover and was not in a good mood. He snapped to attention in front of De Villiers and looked at him from toe to head, stared into his eyes and thrust his pace stick into De Villiers, who, unbelievably after all this time, had his belt on upside down.\n\n'Mr De Villiers,' he snapped, 'there is a cunt at the end of this stick,' and before he could amplify his feelings of utter contempt for De Villiers, the cadet replied, 'Not at this end, Staff!' Unfortunately, apart from Corporal of Horse Clark, I was the only person who heard him say it. I dropped my rifle and collapsed into hysterical, uncontrollable laughter. I was rewarded with ten laps round the square with the rifle held high over the head, and while the corporal continued to drill the remainder of the platoon, like the Duke of York marching them up the top of the hill and down again, my forage cap fell off my head. Without his instructions I could not stop running, so I had to leave it where it was, right in the path of the advancing platoon, who trampled it flat! After my ten laps I rejoined the platoon, hatless, and took my place at attention, waiting for the command 'Platoon dismissed!' Nobby Clark stood before us, took a deep breath and screamed, 'With the exception of Mr Floyyyddd...who is improperly dressed on parade, Platooooon! Platooooon! Dismiss!'\n\nThe rest of the platoon ran off to the morning's first lecture while I stood to attention, anticipating yet another charge. Clark marched up to me and said, 'I saw your trophy above your bed, you'll be all right, sir.' Then he raised his voice and shouted, 'Now, dismiss and rejoin the platoon at the double!'\n\nOne cold and wet morning after breakfast, we were back at the Spider collecting notebooks and textbooks for the scheduled morning's lecture when Sergeant Gibbon strutted in unexpectedly, dressed in fatigues and rubber-soled boots. 'Change of plan, gentlemen,' he said. 'In fifteen minutes you will be embussing for a map-reading exercise on the Aldershot plains. So all you will need are your denims and pouches, a picnic lunch will be provided and we shall return at fifteen hundred hours.' I didn't like the man. I didn't trust the man and something told me he had given us too much unnecessary information. Something made me smell a rat. When he had left the room I pulled the trunk I had kept from under my bed, which contained my secret food supply \u2013 Mars bars, apples, biscuits, other objects including a sheath knife, torch, Zippo lighter, blocks of paraffin fire-lighters, hip flask containing brandy and a small but immensely powerful collapsible Primus stove. All of this, along with shaving kit, handkerchiefs, toothbrush and paste, I packed into the pouches and pockets of my kit, along with sixty Piccadilly filter cigarettes! No one saw what I was doing and if we did end up on a routine run or a map-reading exercise for an hour or two, what the hell! The excess weight wouldn't worry me. I was fit!\n\nI knew I was right the second we got into the three-tonners. Instead of turning left to the training areas, it turned right and headed for Aldershot station, where we were rapidly marched onto a waiting train. Everyone was confused and desperate to know what was going on. The train pulled out of the station and neither the officers nor the NCOs who were with us would tell us anything. After a couple of hours we were issued with ration packs. A pork pie, a Scotch egg, an apple, a chocolate bar and a packet of crisps. Only then did Sergeant Gibbon gleefully announce that we were headed for Dartmoor. Most of the lads only had briefs and T-shirts under their denims; no one had any cigarettes or anything. (I have to say that this is a totally true story that I am about to recount, but it did take place over thirty years ago, and to be honest, I am not entirely sure if the ultimate destination was Dartmoor or the Brecon Beacons.) One thing I do know was that when we arrived in what I think was Tavistock in the late afternoon, we route-marched for several miles to a desolate army camp on the moors, where we were divided into teams of three or four, given maps, a radio, a machine gun, a roll of barbed wire, compass and Chinagraph pencils and told to rendezvous at a grid reference as soon as we could make it. By now it was dark. I can remember two members of my team. One was a hugely overweight, terribly jolly fellow called Brooking-Thomas and the other a tall, crinkly-haired blond fellow called Simon Hicks, who was hoping to get into the 21st Lancers.\n\nI don't know how long the hike was. It might have been twenty-four miles, it might have been eight. But after a briefing and a big mug of vegetable soup laced with rum, we were dispatched on our 'mission'. The radio didn't work, the machine gun had no ammunition and the barbed wire served no purpose except to encumber us with unwieldy burdens. I know it was winter or late autumn. What started as a clear, starlit night ended in an icy downpour. Brooking-Thomas, who was fleet of foot on the dance floors of certain London nightclubs (Les Ambassadeurs springs to mind) and who kept bottles of whisky and port with his name on them at Danny La Rue's club, was having great difficulty with his feet and soon developed blisters. But, although he was in terrific pain, he was resolutely cheerful throughout this appalling escapade. Hicks and I took it in turns to carry his radio, because we reckoned that the faster we could press on the sooner we would be in some kind of bed. We arrived at our destination around seven o'clock in the morning to be greeted by an immaculate, well-rested and sadistically cheerful Major Edwards of the 22nd Cheshire Regiment and our own platoon officer, Captain Kitchen. To our delight, we were the first group home. No one said 'Well done' and, bidding us 'Wait here until the arrival of the others' when the ration truck would bring us breakfast, the officers jumped into a staff car and sped off.\n\nOver the next two or three hours the other teams straggled in, tired, cold, hungry and seriously pissed off. The euphoria that my team experienced at arriving first was heightened by the fact that we were enjoying brandy, Mars bars and Piccadilly No. 1 cigarettes. Everyone was, to use army parlance, 'ticking like meters'. But they all cheered up when someone spotted a three-tonner grinding across the heather. Captain Kitchen had returned. The three-tonner stopped and left us with an issue of rashers, sausages, and, I think, eggs and bread, and departed to its next drop-off zone. When we had unpacked the rations we realised that we had been left no means of cooking them! It's like the old Ancient Mariner \u2013 'Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink!' Even Captain Kitchen was clearly crestfallen.\n\nI don't how to explain my feelings at that moment, but I would like you to know, I in no way gloated or crowed or enjoyed, in any shape or form, the position I knew I was in. The bloody little Primus stove and its little frying pan had rubbed my thighs sore on the marathon across the moors, but I did manage, in a six- or eight-inch frying pan, to cook breakfast for sixteen desperately hungry men. Later that day, we were issued with picks and spades and told to 'dig in'. We were to spend the next two or three days playing war games, and although I was still under restriction of privileges, I was made company commander for the day and ordered to attack and take an 'enemy' position. We had not been prepared for this exercise, nor for the presence of the camp commandant and his staff. In the hurly-burly of the mock battle, I can remember Kim Fraser leading the attack and playing his bagpipes as we advanced up the hill, and I can also remember pushing a very senior member of the observing staff out of the way of a misfired mortar which was otherwise certain to have landed on him.\n\nAs usual there was no indication of how well you had done, but some days later when we had returned to Aldershot, Fraser and I were invited to have dinner with the General! Once this became known, rumours were running rife that he and I were certainly in the running for the Sword of Honour, or at least Junior Under Officer for the last few weeks before our passing out parade! Heady stuff! But I knew in my heart of hearts that Kim and I had been both too good and too bad to be awarded that honour. As it was, the great event of the dinner took place. During the grand and pompous evening of generals, colonels, brigadiers, resplendent in their mess kit, with their elegant wives, both Fraser and I were too shy to start a conversation and too insignificant to be included in one. But we were at the same table and after the dinner and the toast to the Queen, after the port and cigars we adjourned to the anteroom where white-coated mess staff were rolling out a narrow green baize strip some 25 feet long on the floor. The strip was divided and numbered into segments from one to twenty-five, and like an indoor race track, it had plywood cutout fences and jumps. Six brightly painted plywood cutout horses were placed at one end of the carpet. The officers and their wives threw dice and if, for example, you threw a six, your horse could be advanced six places towards the winning post. Fraser and I, in our best mess kit, knelt on either side of the course and moved the wooden horses along the track. That was our reward!\n\nI am someone who has never kept a diary, made notes, collected press cuttings or retained photographs, so it is likely that I will get many of the events in this chronicle out of sync. But fresh in my mind on this blustery, Irish, December day in 1996 is the recent visit which my wife Tess and I made to Bosnia, as guests of the British Army and the 26th Regiment, Royal Artillery, where, in a bombed-out abattoir, we were invited to throw the dice for the selfsame horse-racing game and to back a horse called 'Floyd's Fancy', which romped home after several successful throws of the dice, at 30 to 1, and won us enough money to buy drinks for the entire team. At that moment of the evening, after a week in Bosnia with IFOR, having seen the good and dangerous work that they were doing in the most appalling conditions, I experienced a frisson of _d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu,_ and I realised that in both instances I was, and had been, quite privileged.\n\nAfter the excitement of that evening, which, even though Fraser and I had been mere jockeys, was and still is a special time of my life, we came back to reality with a bump. The course was coming rapidly to a close and shortly we would take the final tests and examinations for our commissions. The pace was hotting up. We were at the stage of being interviewed for our suitability for our chosen regiments. I was still 'badged' for the 11th Hussars and I was summoned to an interview with Colonel Turnbull and asked to explain my reasons for choosing the Cherry Pickers.\n\nI told him that I had studied military history from the Hundred Years War right through to the Great War of 1914. I had read Robert Graves's _Goodbye to All That,_ every word of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen; I had read _All Quiet on the Western Front,_ I had read _Lions Led by Donkeys,_ Tennyson's _Charge of the Light Brigade_ and seen _Zulu_ and much, much more. But, through my association with Fraser, De Rougement and many other fellow cadets, whose names I can sadly no longer remember, I realised that I did not have what was required for the 11th Hussars, to wit the ability to ride, to play polo or, indeed, cover my mess bills. The Cherry Pickers were an elite regiment. Amongst others, Prince Michael of Kent was a serving officer at that time. It was implied to me that the regiment had a fund available to assist desirable young officers of limited means but, despite the blind romanticism that drove me on at this time of my life, I realised that I would be more comfortable in an ultra-professional, modern-day regiment; one which was steeped in history and glory, albeit only since 1916; a regiment which eschewed the values of the historic cavalry but was not encumbered by its tradition. I elected to join the 3rd Royal Tank Regiment and serve with the likes of Lieutenant Bale and Corporal Maclver Jones.\n\nShortly before our commissioning parade, for some reason a few of us, including Douglas-Home, grandson of the former Prime Minister, found ourselves near Bristol and I took them all home to 50 Coombe Dale, where my mother cooked them homebaked bread, faggots and peas.\n\nYears later, when I was running a bistro in Bristol, I had the uncanny feeling that Douglas-Home had left the Army and attended Bristol University and, as a student there, was a customer at the bistro. Or if that wasn't the case, he had gone into horse-training and had just turned up one day.\n\nAlso at this time, on one of the final parade rehearsals, Major Edwards made a rare visit to the drill square. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'remove your hats. Last night, the greatest leader died. Winston Churchill is dead. It is possible that some of you will be selected to attend the state funeral.' I know for certain that if I hadn't shot my goddamned bed, not only would I have at least been a Junior Under Officer, I would have lined that funeral route. But curiously, there does exist a 35mm film that shows both Winston Churchill's funeral and my commissioning parade. It was taken by David and Hillary Taft, who attended both ceremonies along with my mother and father, who once again caused me a wince of embarrassment when he, in his modest and courteous way, addressed my platoon officer, Captain Kitchen, as 'sir'. That night, as blood brothers, my course comrades and I, at a celebratory dinner in the Hen and Chicken Inn (where we ate what we thought was a splendid dinner of corn on the cub, potted shrimp and roast duck with orange sauce, Stilton and port) ripped in half and signed pound notes which we swore, one day, we would match and commemorate this occasion. It never happened.\n\nWe were all granted commissioning leave prior to joining our regiments. I took the Dover to Calais ferry and hitchhiked down to the Loire valley. One evening as dusk was falling, a battered, grey _deux cent trois_ Peugeot pickup truck stopped to give me a lift. A man of about forty, gnarled, tanned, with black wiry hair, wearing blue denim overalls, was in the car. He was drunk and had a raffia-covered _bidon_ of coarse, red wine on the floor of the cab which he offered me, and I slurped it gratefully. After several stops at ill-lit, scruffy caf\u00e9s, I was also drunk. I had no bed for the night and didn't know where I was. His driving became more terrifying, but eventually we bounced into the drive of a small cottage surrounded by an unkempt garden full of manky dogs, squawking chickens, derelict farm vehicles and dirty, snotty-nosed children. He indicated to me that I could stay here for the night and ordered his fat, black-clad wife to throw the already sleeping young children off their urine-stained bed onto a tattered couch, to heat up some food in a chipped pale blue enamelled pot and remake the bed for me to sleep on after I had eaten a bowl of _saucisson_ and lentils. When I awoke the following morning, he had gone. His dishevelled wife gave me some bread and apricot jam and a mug of bitter, grainy coffee. I washed under a pump outside _the_ house, murmured my embarrassed goodbyes and set off down the road towards Blois, where, in an early-morning caf\u00e9, I breakfasted again on grilled river perch and a glass of red wine. I was twenty-one or twenty-two, I think, I held the Queen's Commission and in four days I had to report to my regiment at Fallingbostel, the current headquarters of the 3RTR in between Hamburg and Hanover. I was brimming with confidence, feeling fit and full of pride, but, as they say, pride comes before a fall...\n\nAware that freshly commissioned second lieutenants are bumptious and full of themselves when they arrive at their regiment, a series of elaborate practical jokes is played on the unwitting victim; also nobody speaks to you unless it is absolutely essential for at least two or three weeks. I arrived just in time for dinner after a five-hour journey by Land Rover from the airport. It was some weeks before I realised the airport was only in fact about forty minutes away and that that had been the first of many practical jokes. I ate my dinner in silence because that evening the other six or seven subalterns at the long, highly polished table spent the entire meal reading books or doing the _Telegraph_ crossword. This was practical joke number two. The next couple of days consisted of interviews with the Adjutant, the RSM and the Colonel and guided tours of the camp. Apart from that I was left much to my own devices, collecting odd bits of kit and moving into my rather splendid room in the Kommandantur. I was then introduced to my troop and my three tanks. To my absolute delight my troop sergeant turned out to be no less than Sergeant Linneker, which was doubly good because, as yet, I hadn't even sat in a tank, never mind knowing anything about them. As things stood I was an infantry officer and had not attended the complex technical course at Bovington in Dorset which was scheduled to take place in two or three months' time. In the meantime I attended morning parade, inspected 'my' men and wandered off back to the mess for coffee break. I would return to the tank park and chew the fat with Sergeant Linneker until lunchtime. After lunch we might play five a side football, go for a run, or, on Sergeant Linneker's suggestion and using his notes, give the lads a lecture on the art of tank warfare, something which I knew absolutely nothing about. And, except for dinner, I spent most evenings in my room listening to Bob Dylan and the Beatles and reading _The Great Gatsby_ while I sipped chilled white German wine.\n\nOccasionally the Colonel would decide to dine in, to entertain some high-ranking visitor. On these occasions we were required to wear mess kit as it was a very formal occasion. I took my place at the table and after Grace the mess stewards served dinner. It was, I recall, mulligatawny soup followed by poached grey fillet of fish in a lumpy parsley sauce followed by roast stuffed chicken, vegetables and roast potatoes. Not quite as disgusting as it might sound except that my own meal was served to me partly frozen! Practical joke number three. I had no choice but to eat it. The whole table was in on the blague and I reckoned any protest from me would result in some heinous retribution. After dinner the Colonel withdrew to the corner of the mess to play cards with his guests whilst the subalterns got drunk and played mess games. Well, actually I didn't play any mess games, I _was_ the mess game.\n\nFirst of all they played 'canoes'. This involved me sitting in a cut-down tea chest with two poles running through it, rather like a sedan chair, whilst the other officers ran the canoe and me around the mess in some kind of grotesque relay race. The object being to tip me out as many times as possible, and of course each time I fell out, I had to pay a penalty, which was to drink some disgusting cocktail devised by my boisterous 'chums'. When they tired of this, it was decided to play 'aeroplanes'. This involved piling up the leather cushions from the sofas some feet away from the highly polished mess table, which had now become the deck of an aircraft carrier. The object of this jolly jape was for me to be held spread-eagled by half a dozen of the pranksters and swung backwards and forwards until I had gathered sufficient momentum to be launched from the table and hopefully land on the cushions. The senior officers, engrossed in conversation, chess and cards, paid not the slightest attention.\n\nEventually the evening calmed down. Someone played the piano and sang, others played in a billiards tournament or a card school, none of which I was invited to join. By about midnight I was bored and not a little embarrassed at being so completely ignored so I decided to slide out of the mess and go to bed. Within seconds I was asleep. Suddenly I was woken by a heavy hammering on my bedroom door and the shouts of five or six subalterns demanding that I open the door, which I did. I was swiftly grabbed and dragged onto the mess lawn, where I was eventually overpowered and croquet-hooped to the lawn. The Adjutant, a captain, explained to me that officers never left the mess before the Colonel. After about half an hour I managed to struggle free and thoroughly angry, pissed off and furious at what I thought was their pathetic behaviour, I returned to bed. After the morning parade I was summoned to see the Adjutant, who with no reference to his own presence at the previous night's fight on the lawn said, 'I have been informed that you were on the mess lawn drunk and improperly dressed last night. This is unacceptable behaviour and you will do seven extra orderly officers.' I saluted and left his office burning with a sense of outrageous injustice. Everybody took it in turns to be orderly officer: rather like a hotel duty manager, you inspected the camp guard throughout the night, visited any prisoners in the camp clink, did the fire rounds and toured the troopers' mess at each mealtime. Seven on the trot is bloody miserable. The one consolation from the first few weeks of misery was that my fighting exploits had thoroughly impressed my troopers who, I discovered, had nicknamed me 'Bomber'.\n\nAfter my extra stint of orderly officer there was a marked change of attitude and the other officers started to include me 'in' and life became rather good fun. Sometimes we would go clubbing in Hamburg; other times we would go on gastronomic safaris in Hanover. A starter in one restaurant, a main course in another, dessert in a third and so on. The summer passed away happily enough on the shooting ranges or on tank manoeuvres, although there were few of these owing to defence cuts which resulted in a shortage of fuel and ammunition. I was given all sorts of responsibilities like being appointed the religious officer, basketball officer \u2013 duties which held no interest for me whatsoever. In reality I was bored and I found some aspects of the training quite absurd. Once on exercise on the vast expanse of the Liineburg Heath, we came under imaginary nuclear attack, which meant that you had to batten down all hatches and proceed as normal. The tiny glass observation prisms in the turret quickly became obscured with dust and there was no visibility. Much to the amusement of my troop but to the fury of our squadron leader, I managed to ram his tank broadside on, putting us both out of the exercise.\n\nAfter a full season of training under the helpful guidance of Sergeant Linneker, I was finally sent to Bovington to attend my tank commanders' course, which was quite absurd because I now knew all there was to know and consequently found the classroom instruction rather juvenile. I skipped as many of the lectures as I could and spent as much available time as possible in the casino and night club in Bournemouth. I returned to my regiment with an unflattering report. Phrases like 'arrogant know-all' and 'too smart for his own good' peppered the pages. Also they didn't like me wearing bow ties with my civilian clothes and indeed my Colonel forbade me to wear them in the mess. Because of my interest in food and wine and also because I was the newest subaltern I was given the job of 'messing member'. This meant I had to arrange the menus and functions for the officers' mess with the assistance of the stewards and catering staff. For most officers it was the most unpopular chore; to me it was a godsend. My enthusiasm for hurtling around the L\u00fcneburg Heath in noisy, uncomfortable and cramped Centurion tanks was waning fast and I threw myself into my new role with ostentatious vigour. With the aid of our mess cook Corporal Feast and Elizabeth David's _French Provincial Cooking_ and by making friends with the supply sergeant, I transformed our dull fare into a delight of coq au vins, jugged hares, French onion soups and chicken liver terrines. I was spending more time in the mess kitchens than I was on the tank park and at the same time I was tiring of the restrictions of Army life. I asked for a transfer to the Parachute Regiment (or indeed anywhere because the boredom of the German winter was seriously depressing me). This was refused. Also I found, because I was reading so much \u2013 Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene, Hemingway, Simon Raven, in fact anything that I could get my hands on, such as Zola and Guy de Maupassant, Sartre and Jean Genet \u2013 I was becoming intellectually frustrated and wanted a more 'arty' lifestyle. It was sad as I had worked so hard to get my commission and yet found regimental life just too dull. Now I think I only joined the Army for that initial challenge, although in many ways, on slightly mature reflection, it did a great deal for me as an individual and I met some extremely good people, some of whom remain my close friends to this day.\n\nTo cut a very long story short, I had something of a nervous breakdown, brought on not only by frustration and boredom, but also by acute financial pressures: then, as now, I lived beyond my means. In many ways the lifestyle was just too good: every time the visiting tailor turned up I always needed to go along and my fondness of fine wine was sending my mess bills orbiting out of sight. I consequently spent several months in hospital with real lunatics! Burnt-out fighter pilots, psychopathic squaddies trying to swing the lead to get a free discharge, alcoholics and other misfits. At the end of my treatment it was mutually agreed between the War Department and myself that I was in fact temperamentally unsuitable for military life. They did, however, very kindly give me the option of joining the Royal Army Catering Corps. This I declined, handed in my pistol, compass and watch, took the \u00a3500 bounty they gave you in those days at the end of your service, packed my belongings into my left-hand drive Fiat 600 and headed for home with a taste for the good life, courtesy of the Army, but with absolutely no idea how I could maintain this in a civilian life.\n\n# Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane\n\nI can't remember the year I left the Army, but 'Strawberry Fields' and 'Penny Lane' were on jukeboxes, fruit-flavoured yoghurt had become fashionable and trattorias with hooped-jerseyed, singing Italian waiters were replacing the omelette and coffee bars. I rented a poky basement bedsitter with a gas boiler, a mildewed bathroom and a Valor paraffin stove to fight back the damp, in an elegant Georgian house in Clifton. There were three excellent pubs nearby. The Portcullis, which was the exclusive preserve of wealthy businessmen, was run with a rod of old-fashioned iron from behind her highly polished mahogany bar by Barbara Hance, whose only concession to food service was to offer the finest rare roast beef sandwiches with mustard or horseradish sauce. Fashionable young women would be chastised for perching their sunglasses over their headscarves and a request for crisps or nuts would result in immediate expulsion. The Coronation Tap, with its hard, highly patinaed bench seating, stuffed pike and stone-flagged floor, was a cider only pub. It too was run with a rod of iron by the legendary, moustachioed Dick Bradshaw. He provided magnificent cheese and onion rolls. Misdemeanours like combing your hair in the bar or holding hands with a girl resulted in your being invited to finish your drink and leave. Women were not permitted to drink pints and any sign of drunkenness or disorderly behaviour resulted in a lifetime ban. Professional cider drinkers had limited opportunities to indulge in their passion; as a consequence the place was truly shipshape and Bristol fashion. The clientele here was largely drawn from the long-standing local residents of Clifton. Red-faced men in loud checked sports jackets with highly polished brogues, or painters and electricians in their neat, white boiler suits. The third pub of significance was the Greyhound. This is where the demimonde, the would-be glitterati, jewellers, poets, painters, piss artists and beatniks whiled away their girlfriends' or wives' money and their own dreams. The front bar, the locals' part, a linoleum-floored room for hard, silent drinkers, was run by a Pole named Henry, and the back bar, with its Spanish bullfight posters, was presided over by Henry's wife, Barbara, who, with her bright silk dresses, jewellery and coils of shiny black hair piled mountainously and precariously on her head, looked like a middle-aged Spanish opera star. She and the tall, thin, moustachioed and aristocratic Henry did not speak to each other. If you were a 'back bar' customer at the Greyhound you were not welcome in the front bar, and vice versa.\n\nI think the Greyhound was the first pub I came across that served really interesting bar food \u2013 osso buco, hake in tomato sauce, grilled sardines. I think it was the first pub to sell lager. It was cliquey, fashionable, mysterious. Bearded students strummed classical guitars or belted out flamenco. I liked the bar very much, but since I was freshly out of the Army, I was still wearing tailored three-piece suits, elastic-sided Chelsea boots and bow ties, and I think I was regarded as too straight to be of any interest to the rollneck-sweatered, leather-jacketed, blue jeans brigade. I had no job and knew no one. David Taft had gone to Canada, Hillary had married and was living in Germany and I had outgrown other old acquaintances from my Sea Mills days.\n\nThere was an excellent junk shop around the corner from my flat called the Treasure Trove. It was run by a splendid, elegant, blonde, middle-aged woman called Betty Letts. I would spend hours browsing in her store, looking for knick-knacks for my humble bedsitter, and we struck up an unusual friendship. The result of this friendship was that she arranged for her husband to get me a sales job with IBM. IBM at the time was a very, very desirable company to work for and it was extremely difficult to get a job. But Betty's husband, Norman, pulled all the right strings and I was offered a job at well over \u00a31,000 a year, double what I had earned as a second lieutenant in the Army. After attending several rigorous interviews I was to be sent on a residential training course for two months. I was issued with an identity card and welcomed into the 'family' of this 'big brother' company. The day before I was due to attend the course, alarm bells began to ring in my head. Had I not just failed spectacularly in one institution? And yet here I was, on the point of joining another, even more sinister for being American. Well, I am sorry to say that I just didn't turn up, and I don't think either Betty or Norman ever forgave me for letting them down.\n\nThe weeks passed and my army gratuity, surprise, surprise, was evaporating rapidly and my lifestyle, although not exactly dissolute, was clearly unsatisfactory, if not, in fact, downright idle. I spent most of my days playing backgammon in a sandwich bar called Apple and Charlotte. This was a seriously stylish establishment run by Mark Benson and his wife, Joy. Mark was a minor aristocrat, a former mink farmer, an ex-Canadian Air Force pilot and a reluctant architect who preferred backgammon, plaincoloured shirts with stiff white collars (which he bought from Woolworths) and flowered ties to the stuffy rigours of an architect's office. Joy was the archetypal young woman of the sixties who shopped at Biba and Top Gear and ate in the King's Road and at the fashionable Odins Restaurant (started originally by Mark's brother), which later grew into the highly successful Langan's Brasserie. Just as Odins was becoming successful, Mark's brother was killed in a hit-and-run car accident and Peter Langan stepped into his shoes and carried on the business. I became very close friends with Mark and indeed with Joy \u2013 I think probably because in some way I filled the gap that his brother's death had left in Mark's life. In between playing backgammon he talked endlessly about food and increasingly I became aware that my true vocation lay in this direction.\n\nAn interest that was clearly borne out by the stubs in my rapidly thinning cheque book. Guido's Swiss Gourmet, the Ox on the Roof (two restaurants ahead of their time), and the outstanding Hole in the Wall at Bath featured regularly on my bank statements at the expense of increasingly hostile letters from the Savile Row tailor to whom I still owed money from my army days, and there was many a dash to the Electricity Board offices to plead for reconnection. George Perry-Smith, the _chef patron_ of the Hole in the Wall, was a tall, bearded man who sported open-toed sandals and was an ardent disciple of Elizabeth David. There was a table of hors d'oeuvres with champignons \u00e0 la grecque, grilled aubergines, taramasalata, crudites, chicken and goose liver pates, terrines of coarse pork pate, bowls of rillettes, ratatouille, and much more. There was coq au vin, perdrix aux choux, there were pigs' trotters grilled with garlic butter, steaming bowls of shiny black moules \u00e0 la marini\u00e8re: in short it was a testament to the finest of French provincial cooking seen through the eyes of Mrs David and executed by this mild-mannered, passionate cook who trained the waitresses to take orders from memory. Rich, simple puddings, fine cheeses and an outstanding wine list from Avery's in Bristol provided you with a unique eating experience.\n\nAt that time, undoubtedly, the Hole in the Wall was European, if not world class. I admired it then, and now, over thirty years later \u2013 thirty years of eating, cooking and drinking around the world \u2013 I remember it not only with great affection but also with great respect. But, these heady days of Nuits-Saint-Georges and Gevrey-Chambertin had to end. I was sliding out of control and with no visible means of support down the razor blade of life. I had to have a job and for me it had to be in what was then called the catering business. I had considerable experience of eating so I knew what things should taste like. I had gleaned some rudimentary skills from the good Corporal Feast and I had read every word that Auguste Escoffier, Brillat-Savarin and Elizabeth David had written.\n\nEarly one chill autumn morning, wearing what I thought was a rather natty, well-cut, three-piece hound's-tooth suit and my double-breasted, leather-buttoned army officer's British Warm, I walked in my suede chukka boots from my bedsitter in Clifton, along Queen's Road, down Park Street (the car had become a casualty of my impecuniosity), entered the imposing foyer of an hotel and asked to see the manager. His jaw visibly dropped when I told him I wanted a job as a cook. Surely, he said, you would be more interested in management? Sadly, at that time, cooking was not considered a career, it was a job you took if you failed the bricklayers' course. But I managed to convince him and after a brief phone call he led me past the marble statues and the crystal chandeliers and down some concrete steps between narrow walls, tiled, urinal-like, to the smouldering, steaming mayhem of the kitchen, where skinny apprentices, puffy bakers with soft, pudgy fingers cursed and swore whilst fierce, ruddy-faced men sweated over a huge coal-fired cooking range, chipping and stirring as the perspiration ran down their beery faces. I was taken into the chef's office, a Victorian glass cubicle, the sort of place that Bob Cratchit probably worked in, to meet the chef himself. He was, at first glance, more terrifying and larger and more immaculate in his starched whites than any drill sergeant I have ever met. While he listened with considerable surprise, I repeated my story. I told him about my love of food and as many lies as I could think of to get a job.\n\nHe undertook to give me a week's trial as an assistant vegetable cook under the charge and instruction of a spotty, callow youth with what today would be called 'an attitude problem', who was some five years my junior. I had no chef's whites and indeed could not afford even an apron. I was loaned a damp, greasy, heavy-duty blue cotton apron. Smithy, as he was known, pointed to a huge cauldron and a sack of beetroot and with great glee, and ill-disguised contempt, told me to 'Go and cook that fucking lot.' I realised I was back to being tested again, of having to prove myself with no recourse to anyone for help or advice. But for me it was a stroke of good fortune. I knew from my mother's annual beetroot-pickling sessions that you did not peel a beetroot before you cooked it. I also knew that once cooked you ran them under cold water and then, and only then, did you scrape the peel away. First round to me!\n\nFor a week or so I battled away with mountains of vegetables of gargantuan proportions and little by little the working pattern of the huge, dingy kitchen with its condensing overhead pipes, its steam and intense heat, became clear. I was now confident enough to leave my corner and start to see what the others were doing. There was a fish chef, a grill chef, a roast chef, a sauce chef, the baker and many others, all with two or three assistants. At eleven o'clock every morning we stopped for mugs of hot, sweet tea and fat, greasy bacon sandwiches. I sought and obtained the chef's permission to move to different corners, even if only for a day a week which, in between fetching and carrying, enabled me to see how dishes were prepared and assembled.\n\nOne Monday morning the chef called me into his office and said I would now be on soups. I was both excited and concerned because on the menu there was minestrone soup, cream of tomato soup, the ubiquitous soup of the day, lobster bisque, consomme with sherry and cheese straws, turtle soup, cream of mushroom soup, oxtail soup, mulligatawny soup (please note soups like apple and Stilton, carrot and coriander, tomato and basil were still waiting to be invented by the cookery card writers of the yet-to-be-born colour supplements) and, of course, cream of chicken soup. At night I searched frantically through my collection of cookbooks for guidance, inspiration and courage and the next day arrived at work extra early to come clean with the chef and ask for help. The minestrone was made every three or four days in a huge vat and I could cope with that. The 'soupe du jour' was determined by a couple of aluminium trays of ingredients that the sous chef banged down in front of you, saying, 'Turn that into a soup.' As for the other soups, to my amazement, relief and disappointment, they were all tinned.\n\nAs my eyes opened, day by day, I realised the mushroom sauce that went with the supreme of chicken and the white wine sauce that went with the sole bonne femme were one and the same, as was the cheese sauce that went with the cauliflower au gratin. It was, of course, the abused and misunderstood bechamel. Similarly, the sauce for the poulet chasseur and the tournedos Rossini both came from the same encrusted, bubbling tub of the mighty sauce espagnol, another abused, flour-based sauce. But in those days to be able to make a roux and the resulting three sauces, the sauce espagnol, demi-glace and bechamel, were the ultimate holy trinity of the British kitchen. It starkly revealed the brilliance of the likes of George Perry-Smith. But, I had now progressed to roasts, like half a sheep, half a pig and half a cow, all thrown into the cavernous oven at the same temperature at the same time and cooked to buggery until they were taken away by the slightly seedy, dinner-jacketed waiters on Sheffield plate trolleys to be wheeled pompously around the elegant dining room.\n\nI reckoned it was high time to move on. I had heard that bistros were opening up in London like daffodils bursting through the ground at the first fluttering of spring, and I had just read a sensational book called _Paris Bistro Cookery,_ which painted gastronomic pictures of a mouthwatering brilliance. So, I went to see the chef, who was the very image of Mervin Peake's Chef Swelter who ruled the gothic kitchens of Gormenghast, thanked him for his kindness and help, and with \u00a350, a holdall and a few clothes, Elizabeth David's _French Country Cooking, Paris Bistro Cookery,_ George Orwell's _Down and Out in Paris and London_ and _Le R\u00e9pertoire,_ and the collar of my British Warm turned up around my ears, I hitchhiked to London.\n\nI spent my first night in London on Paddington Station pretending to myself, in some vain attempt to stave off the drunks, the pimps and the beggars, that I had merely missed my train and was waiting to catch the first one out in the morning. But in those desolate situations it is impossible not to catch the eyes of people you are trying to avoid and I passed a sleepless, cold and anxious night. In those circumstances, morning might come at five a.m. but you still have hours to kill before you can get going. I knew nothing of London except that Soho was full of restaurants. For three days I tried to get a job. For three nights I hung out in seedy all-night coffee bars or clubs. I washed and shaved each morning in public lavatories. I couldn't afford taxis and didn't understand the buses or the tubes and I couldn't find any bistros. I had grit between my toes, my socks were greasy and sweaty, I had run out of my Woolworths cardboard collars and was having to reverse them to maintain some personal pride, and to cap it all, desperate for sleep on a sofa if not a bed, in a jazz club somewhere near Wardour Street I gave my last \u00a310 to a woman who said if I met her outside in ten minutes she could give me a bed for the night. Needless to say, she did not keep the rendezvous. The club closed and I was on the streets again with a packet of five cigarettes, my holdall and twelve and sixpence. Somehow I made it through the night and sat shivering in Soho Square trying to take stock of the mess I had got myself into. I had left Bristol without paying the rent \u2013 indeed without giving notice of my departure. Miserable, wet, cold nights on the L\u00fcneburger Heide or tramping across Dartmoor with a roll of barbed wire had nothing on wandering the streets of London, penniless.\n\nI breakfasted on a glass cup of milky coffee, bought a newspaper and read the advertisements in the newsagents' windows. I was not feeling good and despite my best efforts, I was probably looking pretty grim. I found myself staring at the cards in the window of a catering employment agency \u2013 something, for some curious reason, I hadn't thought to do before. I sensed someone standing next to me. I looked round and to my amazement, in an immaculate pinstriped suit and Brigade of Guards tie, was one of my fellow cadets from Mons Officer Cadet School.\n\nEven when I started writing this book I couldn't remember what he was called, although we had been great mates. Now months later and describing this encounter, I still can't recall his name.\n\nHe greeted me warmly and asked how regimental life was. I said it wasn't. Would I like to join him for lunch? he said. I searched for a lie or an excuse, but couldn't bring myself to utter it. He said, 'You're in trouble, aren't you?' I said, 'No, not trouble, just trying to find a job as a cook. It's just that I haven't achieved that yet.' He looked at me harder now. 'Are you all right for spondulick?' What do you say when you want to say yes but have to say no? My grandmother always said if ever you were offered a gift, refuse it three times, but I was desperately torn between principles and necessity. 'No, old man,' I said, 'I am not.' He drew out a wallet and gave me five \u00a35 notes, shook hands and left. I was saved but I felt like one of the cheaper characters in a Simon Raven novel. He had put his card in between the notes. I regret to say, I lost it.\n\nWith \u00a325 I could return to Bristol and face the comfort of my father's immaculate council house, my mother's fresh and fine cooking and the undoubted disapproval, not to mention possible scorn, of my sister and my brother-in-law. Instead, I walked into the employment agency and got a live-in job as assistant breakfast cook, errand boy, taxi hailer and cleaner in a private hotel in the Bayswater Road. The breakfast for the businessman staying in London on the cheap was _minable._ The owner treated me with suspicion and I hated hailing taxis. Such staff as there were were middle-aged, fat, bow-legged Spanish women. The head breakfast cook, Dolores, also cooked lunch on a budget for the staff. She taught me to make risotto and paella and bright, smiling dishes of saut\u00e9ed rabbit, peppers, tomato and garlic.\n\nBut London was not for me. On a chance phone call to my friends Mark and Joy, whom I had met in the sandwich bar in early Bristol days, I learnt they were holiday in Cornwall and they said, 'If you happen to be around, do drop in for dinner.' So I dropped everything and went.\n\nThe sea was ultramarine and crisp white horses were dancing in the blustery April wind. Cartoon clouds sped across a clear blue sky. I stood on the horseshoe-shaped beach and sucked in the freshness of the pure Atlantic air. Whitewashed cottages rose steeply from the rocks that formed the natural harbour of Port Isaac. Four or five open lobster boats bobbed at their moorings. I could not be further from the brash, noisy, smoke-filled London pub where I had spent the last three months pulling pints after I had left the private hotel. I had taken the train to Bodmin Road, hitched to Wadebridge and walked the six or seven remaining miles.\n\nAfter many pints in the Golden Lion we feasted on a massive bowl of sweet, fat-fleshed orange mussels that Mark had gathered from the rocks that morning and after coffee and brandy I fell asleep, exhausted, happy and released, on their sofa. The charm of Port Isaac was, and I hope still is, that it had none of the garish trappings of a seaside resort. It was a simple fishing port with a splendid pub, a small fish market, a butcher's and a post office; even the souvenir shop was really quite tasteful. It boasted one restaurant called the Wheel House, furnished with reproduction wheel-backed chairs, varnished brown tables with place mats with a nautical motif, chintz curtains, burnished copper and various nautical artefacts \u2013 a polished propeller, a varnished pair of oars, etc., etc. The proprietor, a huge, fat, ill-tempered man, famous for his remark in the post office one day when a lady tested at his rudeness and his drinking had the temerity to tell him that his gut was so fat, he should drink no more beer. Pointing to his penis he said, 'Madam, I have a very large tap to let it out.' As was normal for such a place in those days, breakfast and morning coffee were served until noon, then breaded plaice and tartare sauce, gammon and pineapple, chicken Maryland and the dish of the day were offered for lunch. In the afternoon the decks were cleared and afternoon tea was available \u2013 toast, fruit cake, scones and clotted cream. In the evenings candles in raffia-covered bottles were lit and placed on the tables and the \u00e0 la carte menu, boasting steaks cooked five different ways including, of course, a 20-ounce T-bone, with chips, onion rings, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms garnished with mustard and cress, was the order of the night. I got a job there as a cook-cum-washer-up and every spare moment was spent polishing the saucepans and removing gas burns from their bases. The proprietor barked any instructions he needed to give, never said please or thank you and was often known to wipe his huge hand across the head of any member of staff who displeased him. Waitresses, in their black and white uniforms, lived in fear of him and were frequently in tears. The work was hard but I had a bunk in a small room attached to the pub and about ten quid a week and on my days off I was able to go lobster fishing with the Roberts brothers, two tall, silent, hard men who would spend hours pulling pots without exchanging a word, and I was perfectly happy.\n\nEvery now and again there was a dance in the town hall in Wadebridge and one night I accepted an invitation from three of the waitresses to go to the dance with them. The whole of Port Isaac was going, not to enjoy themselves at the dance, it turned out, but to provoke and maintain the bitter feud that existed between the Port Isaac boys and the Wadebridge boys. Neither did I know that one of the waitresses had recently stopped 'going out' with one Denzil Hawkins, the uncrowned king of the Wadebridge gang. The first indication I had of this state of affairs was when, as we approached the front door of the dance venue, one of the girls blanched and said, 'Oh, my God, there's Denzil!' Denzil, who I remember as being about eleven foot tall with long, blond hair, dressed in cowboy boots, leather jacket and a heavily studded leather belt, and with 'love', 'hate' and 'mother', etc. tattooed all over him, was standing defiantly at the top of the steps, flanked by his henchmen. I was not 'going out' with any of the three girls, I was merely escorting them, but Denzil didn't see it that way. He decided that I was the cause of his broken love affair and knocked me straight back down the steps with a massive right hook, jumped down after me and kicked me until I could roll over, scramble to my feet and bravely run away. In an instant total war broke out. Girls were screaming and Port Isaac and Wadebridge were locked in deadly combat. I had noticed a policeman, upon seeing the outbreak of the fracas, increase his gait to a fast walk in the opposite direction. I took refuge in a pub with the three girls while we wondered what to do next. We had booked a taxi to take us back to the Wheelhouse at one o'clock and it was only a quarter past ten.\n\nI had a black eye, a cut face and a terrible pain in my ribs. I certainly wasn't going back to the dance. The girls were drinking Babychams and I was forcing pints down my sadly battered face when Bill Roberts's (my lobster fishing friend) son came into the bar. 'What's the matter, boy?' he said. 'Who done that?'\n\n'I don't know,' I said (I only learnt who the participants of the evening's entertainment were at the post mortem the following day).\n\nOne of the girls said, 'It was Denzil Hawkins.'\n\n'Right, boy,' he said, 'you come with me.'\n\n'Oh, fuck,' I thought, 'I don't want to go anywhere.' But although I might be a fool, I am not a coward, and I accompanied him back to the dance hall, where Denzil was leaning against the door with a pint in his hand, the Wadebridge boys having got the better of Port Isaac and retaken control.\n\nBoy Roberts said, 'Is that the one?'\n\n'Yeah,' I said, 'that's the one.'\n\n'Leave it to me,' he said. He shouted, \"Ere, Denzil, I wanna word with you, boy. You and me have got some talking to do. All right, Keith,' he said to me, 'you go back to the pub, I'll join you later.'\n\nNow, Denzil Hawkins was accepted as Wadebridge's 'hard man', a brawny farmer of strength, but lobster fishermen are harder yet. Boy Roberts apparently announced to Denzil that he had made a big mistake in attacking me the way he had and to teach him a lesson beat the living shit out of him, which resulted in Denzil obtaining a broken arm. The town, still electric with suppressed violence, made me decide to hoof it back to Port Isaac on foot, and for self-protection I armed myself with a length of four-by-two that I found at the back of the pub. A car approached. I thumbed it down with my free hand hoping for a lift back. It was the local squad car. They stopped me and I was arrested and charged with carrying an offensive weapon.\n\nSome days later I received a summons to appear at Saint Columb Magistrates Court. Judging from the local gossip, it was going to be a busy session. Everybody involved in the fracas was going to be there. Up till now I had got on well with 'Wheelhouse Willy' but one night after work, he asked me to stay behind and have a drink with him. It started off amicably enough, it moved on to an outpouring of his resentment of the local community, it swelled into a tirade of abuse against anybody Cornish, lapsed into a melancholic confession about his unhappy marriage (from what he said, his wife was clearly miserable) and terminated in him screaming, 'And you're just like all the fucking rest!' In his rage he attacked me with a saucepan. I was getting really tired of being shouted at for no reason; however, I didn't react to his provocation and moments later he had collapsed into an unconscious stupor. I fled to my room smartly, in case he woke up and continued.\n\nThe following morning I was, as they say, on the horns of a dilemma. This had never happened before and it was therefore quite beyond my comprehension. However, it meant I couldn't work for the man any more. Yet I had nowhere to go, nowhere to sleep. It brought back too many unhappy memories of my brief sojourn in London. Luckily, once again, the good Sprys came to my rescue and made me up a makeshift camp bed in their lobster-pot store and three days later I got a job and a caravan at the Eirenekon Hotel and Motel at Tintagel. I had loved Port Isaac and was sad to leave it, but years later I was to return there every week in summer to collect sole, turbot, monkfish and lobsters for one of my Bristol restaurants. But in the meantime, it was the Eirenekon Hotel and Motel and the impending court case.\n\nThe hotel was a splendid, vast old bungalow, set in several acres of grassland. It was run by a Frenchman called Marcel and his cockney sparrow of a wife called Mummy. It had a light, pleasant dining room with a hideously ornate cocktail bar in the corner and there was a separate motel block of bedrooms. Testimonies to Marcel's long and varied career in France, at the Connaught and the Savoy, hung proudly on the walls. In contrast to his bubbly and energetic and extremely hard-working wife, who did the cooking, Marcel was taciturn with a heavy-jowled Gallic face and somewhat morose manner. Each night, in his immaculate dinner jacket and bow tie, he would proceed, crablike, around the room taking orders from the diners. For the time, the food was really quite good and it certainly was fresh. Good scallops and lobsters, excellent steaks, fine Dover sole meuni\u00e8re or bonne femme. Marcel was a patron of the old school who took great pride in decanting wines, flaming cr\u00eapes suzettes over a highly polished lamp and was consummately skilful at silver service.\n\nMy day started at about seven or half past helping Mummy prepare the breakfasts. I would then wash up mounds of eggy plates and coffee cups before starting to prepare lunch. This often included making sumptuous picnics for guests who wished to tour the beautiful Cornish coasts. Occasionally in the afternoons I might have to do some cleaning, maintenance or gardening. Then, depending on how busy the restaurant was, I would work either as Marcel's commis waiter or as Mummy's commis chef. We were always under pressure because only Marcel was allowed to take the orders and this sometimes created a severe backlog in the kitchen. It was also very hard work because we were always, I think by design or perhaps through financial necessity, shortstaffed. There was one occasion when I asked Mummy why Marcel was so bad-tempered. She explained that he had serious abscesses on his gums which required an overnight stay in hospital but he wouldn't take time off work until the end of the season. Oh, the joys of running a business, as I would find out later. We wished he would: we would have managed for a couple of days and his constant grouching made life harder.\n\nDespite the relentlessly strange and varied mixture of work and the long hours, I was happy enough. I was learning lots, had a pleasant caravan to live in behind the hotel and every day after work I would walk two or three miles to the Napoleon Inn at Boscastle, an excellent, flagstone-floored hostelry which served melt-in-the-mouth short pastry pasties, mature Cheddar cheese, well-kept Stilton, homemade chutney and homemade pickled onions that were almost as good as my own mother made. The pub was run and owned by John and Ba Doubleday. John was a corpulent gentleman who favoured neat blue and white check shirts and a college or regimental tie and spoke in a slightly theatrical, fruity but highly pleasing and amusing manner. Ba, who had pure white hair and the grace of a duchess, would, once a week, arrive in state in their gleaming Alvis for dinner at the Eirenekon. They had one son, Tim, whom I had not met, but the locals all said I could have been his brother. Perhaps this accounted to some degree for the way I was looked on by John and Ba.\n\nApparently, Tim and I looked alike, spoke alike and shared a fondness for Bass. I was grateful for this because during the months I was at the hotel, John and Ba became very close friends indeed and I didn't really have many friends in this strange, out-of-the-way place I had chosen to live and work in. However, in the strange way that things turn out, although I wasn't to meet Tim for a couple of years, we were to work together eventually in the original Floyd's Bistro.\n\nMeanwhile, the impending court case loomed ever closer. I had never been to court before and was actually entirely innocent of anything. The unfairness of the situation caused me a great deal of worry, which I discussed at length with John and Ba. Recognising my very real concern, and the fact that I was in a place where I had no contacts of my own, John recommended a friend of his, an excellent solicitor, to defend me in court. He explained to the magistrates that I had been the unwitting victim of a locally very well-known bunch of troublemakers. I, on the other hand, had never been in trouble before. He put my case so eloquently that charges against me were dropped and the magistrate apologised on behalf of the town of Wadebridge for my unfortunate experience. All very gratifying really. We did not wait for the other cases to be heard \u2013 there were, after all, some thirty or forty young men involved, and I had had my day in court, so to speak. So, much relieved, I returned to another night of instruction in the art of silver service from the ever grumpy Marcel, who flatly refused to accept my words of gratitude and relief for paying the solicitor's fees.\n\nSadly the season came to an end and with it my job and, more importantly, my accommodation. I didn't want to go back to Bristol, but one of my temporary workmates was returning to Worcester, where, he informed me, there were several large hotels and he could give me the use of his sofa for a limited time until I found a job. So I headed for the Midlands, where I thought I might find it easier than going to London to find a job, and, by telling a few white but perfectly comfortable lies, got a job as a chef tournant in a large five-star hotel. A chef tournant's job in a large kitchen requires enough all round experience to work in any department of the kitchen. Basically, a cooking 'temp' on the staff. When one of the chefs, be it the pastry chef, vegetable chef or whatever, has a day off, you step into his shoes for the day and take his place. This turned out to be an excellent opportunity for me to broaden my experience. The only downside of the job was that you had to cook the staff lunch for about half past eleven each day, this on top of whatever other job also had to be done. It was a thankless task as the head chef utterly despised waiters; indeed, at my interview his last question to me was 'What is the difference between a waiter and a bucket of shit?' I thought hard, though it actually wasn't a hard question. He was delighted when I replied, The bucket.' (Incidentally, not a view I shared then or now. I had, after all, been a waiter at the Eirenekon when they were shortstaffed, but what the hell, I wanted the job.) He gave you the most appalling leftovers to produce something with. For example, a brown stew made with the overcooked remains of Sunday's baron of beef, or shredded roast chicken, sweetcorn and peas rolled into balls in very, very thick b\u00e9chamel, breadcrumbed and deep-fried. These I called UFOs (unidentified frying objects). It seemed appropriate.\n\nAll in all it was a great place to work and I would have happily stayed (although at the time I did rather resent the house rules that prohibited chefs from entering the hotel by the front door or using any of the bars or facilities when off duty. My attitude is, of course, quite different today!); on the advice of the head chef, I even considered taking a day release course at the local catering college to gain some actual qualifications. But I had only been there about three months when I received a totally unexpected telephone call from Bristol from a man called Teddy Cowl whom I had met on a few occasions either in the Greyhound or the Coronation Tap on my infrequent visits home.\n\nHe was a man of many, many parts. A passionate conversationalist and fisherman, he was an architect and property developer. He loved jazz and Spain, was in some kind of association with Acker Bilk and ran a beautifully designed coffee bar called Number Ten in The Mall in Clifton. He was not a tall man; he had a humorous face with happy, twinkling eyes and a neat, clipped, pointed beard like a Spanish pirate. As I say, the telephone call came out of the blue and I was even more stunned when he asked me to return to Bristol and take over Number Ten and turn it into a bistro.\n\nI didn't know what had prompted the call, but it was all too good to be true, so by forfeiting my holiday pay, I was able to leave immediately. The next day, excited beyond belief at the prospect of Bistro Ten, I boarded the train for Bristol.\n\n# Bistros, Boots and Bentleys\n\nIn the late sixties, Clifton, with its fine architecture, excellent shops \u2013 Mr Lodosky's delicatessen, the magnificent wet-fish shop, the good, old-fashioned ironmongers, the Polish bespoke tailors, Hall & Rowan's fine antique shop, Betty Lett's Treasure Trove \u2013 its folk clubs, the caf\u00e9 in Waterloo Street, the Coronation Tap, the Greyhound and the Portcullis, populated by a magical mix of students, painters, writers, jewellers and potters, and Bristol's business and social elite, who each night at six o'clock alighted from their chauffeur-driven Rovers and Bentleys and disappeared through the polished portals of the Clifton Club, was, I am convinced, the most exciting place to be in Britain, and the Greyhound was the focus of it all. The Greyhound was Clifton, and Clifton was the Greyhound. The last few months I had spent in London, Cornwall and the Midlands had taught me a great deal but really it had just been ceaseless, grinding work. There was no time for fun or romance and it was really good to be sitting, sipping wine and eating whitebait in the buzzing back bar of this splendid establishment with Teddy Cowl.\n\nThe Greyhound was a club. It was a club without membership, without rules, without fees. You either fitted in or you didn't. Its regulars were the most amazing characters. There was Hywel Price, an iron-haired Welsh wizard who seduced countless people, me included, into the magical world of yachting. There were the outrageously wealthy Wichens who built racing yachts. There was Mike Boycott, a former officer in the Royal Tank Regiment who ran a building company as if it was a tank squadron. There was Enoch William-Farrington Hunt, sometime lawyer, part-time saxophone player, occasional lecturer in Medieval French Law, gourmand, gentleman and scoundrel. There was the Svengali-like jeweller, Steven Trickie, who was forever surrounded by mini-skirted, Jane Birkin lookalikes. There was David Martin, a cynical, sarcastic, funny, philosophical male chauvinist writer from Birmingham and his Millfield-educated, bubbly wife, Celia. There was Roger Baker, senior lecturer at the Bristol College of Art. There was Michael Coulman, dazzlingly brilliant egocentric lecturer who produced bizarre plays based on the life of the Marquis de Sade. There was the landlady Barbara and the Spanish bartender. There was, of course, Teddy Cowl and his fascinating circle of friends, Nazk, Adge Cutler and Acker Bilk, another playwright, David Martin's partner, Bob Baker, who moonlighted as a property developer with, I think, a little help from his wife's inheritances; sprinkled amongst this lot were many others I cannot even recall, although some turned out eventually to be Jeremy Irons, Paul Eddington, Hugh Cornwall from the Stranglers, and many other famous people. There were henna-haired, blackgarbed, tarot-reading, feminist witches, intense, duffel-coated drama students from the Bristol Old Vic, long-legged, big-breasted beauties with bare midriffs, and sullen, bearded, Spanish classical guitar players; and I, to my intense delight, found myself to be part of the scene.\n\nThe coffee bar, known as Number Ten, that I was to take over, was a long, rectangular room with a kitchen at the far end over which was a mezzanine floor with a wooden balustrade where, for my first few weeks, I slept on a camp bed. As was the vogue, the decor was largely Spanish bullfight posters and Chianti bottles covered in wax with candles in them. The tables were lightly varnished pine with raffia place mats and Denby Ware salt and pepper pots. The menu I inherited was appalling: omelettes with various fillings such as ham and cheese, prawn or tomato; brown Denby bowls filled with tins of ravioli with grated Cheddar cheese on top; toasted sandwiches; tinned soups; an amazing concoction called chicken Maryland which consisted of a piece of deep-fried chicken with a ring of pineapple and a cherry in the hole in the middle, chips and peas; gammon steak with your choice of pineapple or fried egg; steak with tinned mushrooms, chips, peas and a garnish of lettuce and tomato; Denby bowls of chilli con carne, a horrid concoction of minced meat, roughly chopped tinned tomatoes and tinned kidney beans which was made by the incumbent chef, when I took over, by simply pouring the contents of the tins of tomatoes and kidney beans, juice and all, over a mound of minced beef in a saucepan and boiling it up with two little cardboard tubes of something like Co-op cayenne pepper. The only wine available was a mind-altering, fight-inducing, foul blend from Spain called Rocamar.\n\nAt night the customers were the long-haired and lost, the flared and fashionable who piled in after the pubs had shut to buy one bowl of chilli con carne and four bottles of Rocamar between six; to talk intently of art centres, folk clubs, strange Spanish black and white films at the Bristol Continental Cinema and to plan mythical journeys to the Greek islands and Ibiza. In contrast, by day, the Clifton ladies congregated in their hats, clutching their shopping bags, for coffee and Danish pastries, to be succeeded at lunchtime by elderly retired gentlemen and the occasional estate agent or property developer for a businessman's lunch priced 4s 6d for four courses. I held all three types of customers in utter contempt. The old ladies for their pompous meanness, the businessmen for their ignorant arrogance and again their meanness, and the evening crowd, just because. Although I hated even more the Spanish booted loon, with long curly hair and long, pointed, Don Juan beard who played Spanish and classical guitar under the misguided impression that he was the natural successor to Julian Bream and Segovia.\n\nOne day, in the pub, I said to Ted, This has all got to change.' 'Aye, lad,' he said in his Lancastrian accent. Turn it into a French bistro, they're doing a bomb in London!' So out went the Spanish bullfight posters, in came the Toulouse-Lautrec. Out went the filthy dirty candle-wax-dripped bottles, in came the brightly coloured, enamelled, Wee Willie Winkie candlesticks. Out went the Denby cruets, in came the peppermills and little plastic boxes of French sel de mer. Out went the ketchup-stained raffia place mats, in came the checked red and white gingham tablecloths. Out went the hand-thrown pottery ashtrays from the hippy in the garage down the road and in came Ricard and Pernod ashtrays. Out went the Denbyware bowls and in came the Le Creuset. Out went the uneven hand-thrown plates, in came large white gleaming discs of porcelain. Out went the Duralex tumblers and in came the Paris goblets and, to the consternation of the ladies who drank coffee and the businessmen, who sometimes conned me into giving them a free meal by bringing a slug or caterpillar in a matchbox and popping it into their salads, bitterly complaining, out went the Danish pastries and the businessmen's lunch. Out went the Rocamar, in came the starred litre bottles of _vin ordinaire._ In came in le menu du jour at 9s 6d, French onion soup or p\u00e2t\u00e9 maison or crudit\u00e9s, boeuf bourgignon, moussaka or coq au vin, fresh fruit or cheese or chocolate mousse. Out went the evening guitarist, in came Edith Piaf, Jacques Brel, Fran\u00e7oise Hardy and so on.\n\nI fired the chef (a word which I use loosely) and took over his job. In came the \u00e0 la carte menu (do remember this was the sixties!) \u2013 snails in garlic butter, salade ni\u00e7oise, deep-fried whitebait, ratatouille, etc. etc. \u2013 and when I refused to do chips and steaks, I felt Ted's confidence was wavering a little. Within four weeks I had alienated the entire previous clientele with my bizarre menu of stuffed peppers, sweetbreads in black butter, authentic soupe \u00e0 l'oignon gratin\u00e9e, scampi Newburg and all the other semi-French dishes I had learnt second hand over the last couple of years. But, after a couple of months, everybody got the message and the place took off. Now, instead of hippies we had architecture students with flowered ties with their girlfriends who bought their clothes from Top Gear. Even some of the younger members of the prestigious Clifton Club with their striped shirts, stiff white collars and club ties would occasionally venture in to patronise the establishment.\n\nAnd so began the carousel of my restaurant career, which started turning slowly at first, gathering momentum until it was spinning like a top. So began my confrontations with waiters who would fall over drunk into the lap of outraged customers. So began the endless quest to find people to work in the kitchen who knew something about food. And so dawned the awareness that there was a lot more to running a restaurant than being a good cook. But for the moment, life was absolutely joyous.\n\nClifton was on a huge surge of excited optimism. I had a job and a role I relished, a white frog-eyed Sprite, a smart studio apartment, Levi cord trousers and crepe-soled, suede desert boots. And because, for the first time, I even had a few quid, it was possible to have the occasional girlfriend. But the best bits of all were after work, when the restaurant was shut and we would sit and plan chains of restaurants and jazz clubs; as Teddy said, 'If we keep this up, my son, we will be soon placing an order for the works Bentley.' Through my friendship with the likes of David and Celia and others and through the sheer atmosphere of the Clifton sixties; through the music of the Beatles \u2013 I think it was about this time that 'Hey, Jude' was released \u2013 and through the poems of Bob Dylan, and through bizarre excursions to the West Indian quarter of Bristol with David, Bob and others, where we were drinking in black clubs and eating curried goat in the afternoons, and where, in the aptly named Moon Glow Club one day, David and I watched the launch of the successful Apollo moon shot; because of all these things, for the first time, I felt I belonged in a place; I felt I had a purpose.\n\nSomewhere in the middle of this mad merry-go-round, I met and married Jesmond. She worked in television for TWW by day and occasionally pulled pints by night behind the bar of the Greyhound, which is where I met her. Apart from being physically attractive, she had a great sense of humour, underlined by a sidesplitting sense of sarcasm. We got married in a registry office about two weeks after we met, both of us omitting to tell our parents until after the event. My parents wished us every success, glad to see their wayward son eventually settling down into some form of normality; Jesmond's Irish stepfather, however, after several bottles of Gevrey-Chambertin at a lunch at the Hole in the Wall in Bath to celebrate the tryst, said, 'If you do anything to hurt or upset my daughter, I will have your legs broken.' You could say the whole happy affair got off to a flying start.\n\nThe Bistro was going well and Teddy had bought the building directly behind the existing property, which enabled me to extend the kitchen of Bistro Ten and also to open a little caf\u00e9, which, because it was in Waterloo Street, we decided to call the Wellington Boot. Meanwhile, Teddy and David Bilk, Acker's brother, had acquired a magnificent, derelict, Victorian warehouse in Bristol Docks, in which under the auspices of their company, the Bilk Marketing Board (well, they were West Country chaps after all!), they were proposing to set up the biggest jazz club in Europe.\n\nOne night, during one of our midnight alcoholic seminars, Dave Bilk and Teddy told me I was to take over the design and creation of the proposed 150-seat restaurant in the jazz club, as well, of course, as continuing to run Bistro Ten. I threw myself into both projects with maniacal enthusiasm, blissfully unaware of the flimsy financial fabric upon which the whole grandiose scheme was based (come to think of it, looking back, it seems I have always been blissfully unaware of the flimsy financial fabric). But hell, I was only about twenty-four and I was on a roll. For reasons unexplained to me, sometimes we would go to London and spend all night in the company of the world's leading jazz musicians in Dave Bilk's drinking club in Soho. I sat, sipping my way to a hangover, while they held animated conversations in gloomy corners of the club.\n\nThe following months were a frenzy of activity. It was decided that for this type of operation we would attempt to follow the format of the new and highly successful Berni Inns, now popping up all over the country. Bistro food was fine for a small and intimate style of restaurant, but surely, for this new operation we would need to Americanise the whole theme. Steaks, chops, large steaming bowls of goulash, chilli con carne, food that could be prepared simply and quickly on the grill or in huge pots, ready and waiting to be ladled out. All of this to be whizzed off in minutes to the tables by young and enthusiastic waiters and waitresses with no previous skills in the restaurant trade, to hungry, hyped-up customers revelling in the jazz scene. It all sounded very plausible. Grill chefs were headhunted and installed. Students and youngsters starting out in first jobs were employed in large numbers as waiting and washing-up staff. Unfortunately, none of us had the financial and management skills to run this kind of operation. We just thought we did.\n\nFinally the night came, when, to a packed house, the Old Granary, as it was known, newly renovated at vast expense and in great style, roared into life with a galaxy of jazz stars. The gig was hugely successful, the floor was packed with cheering, dancing jazz aficionados. The restaurant overlooking the stage, brilliantly designed by Teddy, was jumping, and the customers were happy. The excitement and the tension leading to the opening night were positively gargantuan, and the success of the night was orgasmic and we stayed up late into the night, surfing on a crest of drunken self-congratulation. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to tell my pregnant wife that I would be home late, and as I stumbled unsteadily into our flat at four o'clock in the morning, she was standing beside the dining-room table with a pile of congealed meatloaf and carrots, waiting for me (I was to have come home at nine o'clock for my supper and then returned to the jazz club). But right now, at four o'clock in the morning, there was no way I could face any food. 'Eat it, you bastard!' she said. I said, 'Sorry, there is no way I can eat that,' and, fully clothed, I crashed out onto the bed. I was rudely awoken from my slumbers by a pint glass bottle of milk being poured over my head. After that, and an appalling misunderstanding when I phoned the maternity hospital some days later to ask about my wife's health and condition, our marriage was never to be the same.\n\nDavid Martin, Bob Baker and myself in particular, and anybody else who was around, celebrated the birth of my son, Patrick, with an orgy of drink, oysters, Chinese meals and saki, which lasted three days. It is still spoken about by survivors of the event to this day.\n\nDespite the pride and thrill both my wife and I shared at the healthy deliverance of a wonderful son, our relationship was irrevocably damaged. To make matters much worse, a few weeks later Teddy Cowl said that the Bistro was in financial difficulties and unless we could raise finance for it, my job and our company home were out of the window. I don't really know what went wrong in what had been a highly successful business. Perhaps a case of one business being used to support the other. I never really found out; however, some months later Teddy visited Jesmond, who was in hospital having an operation, and told her that unless we put money into the company, I would lose my job and our home. I don't know how she raised the money but she did. When, some weeks later, the money wasn't repaid and my job was gone, I went down to the Granary, which was just still stumbling along, and to my shame now, but then for totally justifiable reasons, I beat the living shit out of Teddy because he would not, in fact he could not, repay the money. Of course, I thought I was being the macho, protective husband, trying to retrieve my wife's money. Needless to say, she thought my behaviour utterly appalling.\n\nLooking back on it, although Teddy had a highly innovative and creative brain and boundless energy for instigating new projects, I don't think he was a financial wizard, and perhaps didn't get the support at this level that was required to manage and run a burgeoning business on this scale. Not only that, there was so much money pouring in and so little hard-nosed control over these vast sums, remembering it was the sixties and everybody trusted everybody else, I feel that Teddy's trusting nature was ruthlessly exploited by mysterious figures skulking in the business shadows.\n\nYeah. It was a shame it all came to an end; more importantly, I was out of work with a young baby and new wife to try to support.\n\nAs a finger-in-the-dyke operation, I managed to get a job with the Bristol Corporation as part of a gang refurbishing pavements on housing estates and by night I pulled pints in the Portcullis in Clifton and it was there, one evening, that I met a former colleague from the _Evening Post_ who offered me an altogether more exciting proposition which he would unveil to me over lunch in a couple of days' time. This was Joe Gallagher, the ex-Chief Crime Reporter. After amassing what I imagine was a small fortune with their Spot the Ball venture, he and his great pal, Bob Cooper, quit the paper \u2013 Bob to live in luxury and play golf in North Somerset and Joe to fulfil a burning ambition to open a restaurant near his favourite golf club in Portugal. Joe had a big noisy family and he wanted them to profit from his good fortune and have fun in the sun \u2013 the eternal and largely unfulfilled dream of most British and Irish people who suddenly find themselves footloose and fancy-free with a few grand in the bank. Joe had been a customer at Bistro Ten and had liked both my cooking and my style. He convinced me that he had already bought the most wonderful beach restaurant near Faro (ironically a destination I was to visit later in the yacht _Flirty);_ would I come, he asked, for three months to help him set it up and generally kick the place into shape so that he and his family, with the help of local staff, could take it on and run with it when I left; he would not, he said, be ungenerous. Indeed, there was also the possibility that if it took off really well and I wanted to stay after three months, I could bring my family out and we could all be there. After long discussions with Jesmond, we both agreed that this was possibly a golden opportunity for me to establish us once and for all with a new life in a new country and a proper, steady income, which we badly needed. It would be difficult for both of us to endure a relatively long separation, and of course Jesmond would have to cope with Patrick more or less single-handed. It was a huge risk, but one we were prepared to take.\n\nSo, with trepidation, but a feeling of great excitement, we took the long ferry route to Bilbao, me in my Austin van, laden with Joe's kids, sleeping bags and personal effects, Joe, his wife and others in an outrageously flash but tasteless Japanese car \u2013 one of the first to be imported into the UK \u2013 and we drove for what seemed like ages over unmade roads, through humble villages, over mountain passes, until some days later, after sleeping in great discomfort in uncomfortable Spanish and Portuguese hostels, we arrived in Faro, where Joe had two apartments in a nearly completed block.\n\nWe arrived to the welcome of a spectacular electric storm and a mini-earthquake which put quite serious cracks into Joe's apartments. After the brouhaha of the storm and after endless drinks and discussions in a beautiful square adorned with lemon and orange trees, I was taken to see the restaurant, a breezeblock shack on a piece of scrubland by the ocean at least, as I recall, one or two kilometres from the town; it was approached by a track which was frequently flooded at high tide. There was no water or electricity and Joe, I knew then, as I know now \u2013 it still happens in these wonderful places like Spain, like Greece and like Portugal \u2013 had bought a pig in a poke. Just to get the electricity there, something that he had not thought of or, more fairly, something he had not had explained to him, would cost a fortune. Then of course there was water, then of course there was the question of having to have, at that time, a Portuguese partner and to employ local Portuguese people, of taxes, social security and licences. A veritable minefield or an unexploded disaster waiting to blow up.\n\nThe trouble with writing this book, dear reader, is that there are so many bizarre incidents that I have been involved in; any one of them, like the Portuguese campaign, could and should make a book in its own right. Unfortunately this time around I don't have the space to elaborate. However, in my usual Don Quixote way, I charged ahead to try and help Joe fulfil his dreams.\n\nOne of my unspoken jobs was to keep an eye on his kids, who were aged between fifteen and eighteen. Joe and his wife Brenda were fiercely family-orientated and devout Catholics and their sixteen-year-old daughter was kicking at the traces of that culture in a major way and, like all young girls, she found the motor-scooter-driving, suntanned, black-haired local boys irresistible. One night she begged her parents to be allowed to go to a discotheque with two boys twenty miles or so up the coast. Mother and father were not at all keen but eventually it was agreed that if I would be her chaperon, she could go. After all, had an English boy asked to take a Portuguese girl out to a discotheque late at night in his souped-up Mini, the answer would have been categorically 'No'. So, at the appointed time, nine o'clock one evening, I set off in a little Seat 600 with the daughter and her two friends, for the discotheque. Joe had given me some money for expenses so that I could buy, and at the same time control, their drinks. We set off at a terrifying pace into the hills. The daughter, who had been in Portugal for quite some time, spoke passable Portuguese, I none. Realising I was out of cigarettes, I asked her to tell her boyfriend to stop the car at a petrol station where I could buy some. This we did. When I returned from the dimly lit shack that passed as a kiosk, the car, the two young men and the girl had gone.\n\nI did not know where I was and I did not know their destination. I had been shanghaied. My immediate feelings were anger and fury but they quickly passed into anxiety and concern. To my mind the girl had been kidnapped. This was seriously rural Portugal, we had been driving for at least forty minutes before we stopped at the garage and it was now ten o'clock at night and dark. I had no idea how to make a phone call, spoke no Portuguese. I didn't panic but I was shit scared. I walked a kilometre or two until I found a hamlet where there was a small caf\u00e9-bar open and considered my position. I still had the expenses float that Joe had given me for the kids and eventually persuaded someone to drive me back to Faro, where I had the unenviable task of explaining to Joe that I had lost his daughter.\n\nIt was hardly the scenario that I had anticipated in trying to help to open a beach restaurant. Joe, who had a few contacts, like all good newspapermen do, started making phone calls to the authorities. I couldn't even tell them where I had been dumped off, so we spent an appalling night waiting for news. Had his daughter run away in young and impetuous love or had she come to harm? When morning came, we went to the police station. I was asked to sit in a long-wheelbase Land Rover with a plainclothes policeman in a burgundy suede jacket and snakeskin shoes, a driver and, in the back, four armed policemen.\n\nMuch to everybody's relief, the girl had somehow got herself back to Faro. She was apparently unharmed and was having checkups in the local hospital. The police, I guessed, had a pretty good idea of where to look for the two lads and I was being taken along to identify them, if we found them, which at the end of an exhausting day, we did. One of them was a leather worker and when approached by the police, he attempted to stab the plainclothes officer with a pair of cutting shears; he promptly shot him in the arm with a pistol. He was only slightly wounded, and when he had been bandaged and handcuffed along with the other man, he was unceremoniously bundled into the back of the Land-Rover and taken to the local jail.\n\nI never saw the daughter again, and never really found out what exactly had happened to her because she was put onto the first plane back to England and life returned to normal and I busied myself helping Joe set up the restaurant. Once it was virtually ready, he decided to take the family back to England for a final farewell visit and I went with them.\n\n# Halcyon Days\n\nI returned from Portugal to a less than enthusiastic welcome from Jesmond, not to mention a pile of angry brown envelopes that had to be dealt with urgently or there would be no heat, no phone, no light; to make matters worse, to help cover costs, Jesmond had let out the spare bedroom to a friend of hers who had two constantly screaming small children. Unfortunately, she never paid any rent and even managed to sell a couple of pieces of our furniture and keep the proceeds.\n\nI can't for the life of me recall what we lived on in those days, I think both of us were out of work. However, we managed to have several entertaining dinner parties now and again and Patrick, who was still very small, was a great source of fun. At one of these dinner parties \u2013 I remember making beetroot jelly and sour cream, mint and cucumber iced soup, and chicken roasted in butter and tarragon with an outrageously rich cream sauce which was made by adding double cream to the buttery pan juices and whisking in a couple of egg yolks until you had a smooth sauce the consistency of thin custard. Heart attack stuff, but seriously good. One evening David and Celia brought along with them a producer of a BBC television film with which they were both involved. Inevitably, food dominated the conversation and we ate and drank to excess. The discussion moved round to the question of catering for the many and varied people involved with the shoot, and somewhere in the increasing haze of the evening I found myself enthusiastically agreeing to be hired to provide food on location for fifty or sixty people a day for five days. The budget for three meals a day was negotiated down to 10s per person per day.\n\nAfter the euphoria of getting this break had subsided, it dawned on me that there were one or two snags. Firstly, I had no experience of location catering, secondly, I had no base kitchen to prepare the food in or any kind of transport or equipment to deliver it to and serve it at the location, and of course, the biggest snag of all, I didn't have a bean to my name. Shooting, or at least the bit I was to be involved in, would take place at Barclay Castle in Gloucestershire in just over two months' time.\n\nSomehow, with the help of Jesmond, Celia, David and David's writing partner, Bob Baker, I rented a small lockup shop and roughly converted it into the semblance of a kitchen, bought David and Celia's long-wheelbase Transit van from them and adapted it into a sort of mobile kitchen. I begged, borrowed or stole a generator from someone so that I could run a crude microwave in the van. During those two months we schemed and planned and worked late into every night. My plan was quite revolutionary for the time. Breakfast I would cook in the conventional way on portable gas stoves but the main lunch meal I would cook and freeze in individual portions and reheat them in the microwave. Afternoon tea was simply cakes, sandwiches, tea or coffee.\n\nThe first day of filming duly arrived and with the Transit laden to the gunnels and the second van I had acquired filled with portable tables, water containers, plates, knives and forks, equally completely overladen, we lurched off to the location where, jammed in behind a load of BBC trucks, I set out my stall to serve the first breakfast of the shoot. I was just frying the first batch of bacon when an irate production assistant told me there had been a change of schedule and the director wanted the breakfast served in a field about two miles away; they were having problems with horses, stagecoaches and a hot-air balloon there and wouldn't have time to come over to me.\n\nI had been under a huge amount of pressure getting this culinary show on the road and couldn't believe what the man was saying to me. There was no way I could move my vehicles because they were completely hemmed in by the wardrobe caravan, the generator truck and all the other paraphernalia associated with location shooting. I stood there with my arms apart. 'Look, this is where you put me. I can't fucking move! Now piss off!!' He reluctantly saw my point of view and wandered off, shouting into a walkie-talkie. Lunchtime came and with it half a dozen surprises that I had not considered. The production secretary, the make-up artist, the wardrobe mistress, the continuity girl and the director, who was called Rupert, were all fucking vegetarians and not just vegetarians, but I _Ching_ reading, emaciated macrobiotic freaks. Of course, I also hadn't considered that some of the electricians, carpenters and riggers were more into sausage, chips and beans than loin of pork with black cherry sauce. It was a hard, steep learning process and with all modesty, I must say, by the third day, we had the thing cracked and running like clockwork. I bought bundles of melons for the veggies, and bangers and beans for the boys. Jesmond was exhausted, not only working flat out but taking care of Patrick at the same time and I was certainly bad-tempered through sheer frustration and work. We were arguing like cats and dogs and to make matters much worse, the cheque I had given Celia for the van had bounced. She went absolutely ballistic, even to the point of repossessing it in the middle of the shoot.\n\nAnyway, apart from that and a few other hiccups, all of which were eventually resolved, the week had been a success, eventually to be crowned by a fat cheque from the BBC which of course took weeks and weeks to arrive. Well, it wasn't exactly a totally unqualified success because when the cheque arrived and I balanced the books, it was quite clear that I had underquoted disastrously. The result was stark: excluding the cost of the vans it was a straightforward trading loss of \u00a3250.\n\nStrangely enough, I didn't care. I was now in business! I built a little counter in the front part of the lockup and opened it as a takeaway: kebabs; steak, kidney and oyster pies; coq au vin; jugged hare; chicken liver pate. I called it Floyd's Feasts and it worked. For the first time ever, we had a small, but regular income. Flushed with this success I planned the next disaster meticulously. A revolutionary catering service was about to be born. Floyd's Feasts Dial-a-Dinner Service. We printed and distributed thousands of flyers and sat back waiting for the phone to ring, and for a glorious moment the dial-a-dinner service flourished, but increasingly it became the victim of hoax calls. On many occasions I would deliver pheasant in cream Calvados sauce or some such exotic dish to some completely bemused person living in a prefab on one of Bristol's rougher council estates.\n\nThrough drinking regularly in the Greyhound, I had become friendly with a potter called Paula Hughener. She had a studio-cum-coffee shop just down the road in Princess Victoria Street with which she had become bored, so I offered to rent it from her and in view of the alterations which were necessary, she had kindly agreed to let us have it for the first three months rent-free. It was a long, narrow room with a very pretty Victorian shop front. I managed to sell the takeaway shop, or at least its lease, fixtures and fittings, and scraped together about five hundred quid (which of course you and I both know was nothing like enough). I bought three old, speckled, enamelled gas cookers for \u00a32 each from a second-hand shop. Betty Letts sold me five oblong tables and twenty-eight fine, bentwood chairs for 30s each. For a carpet I bought a sheet of hessian which had been used to floor a tent at the Bath and West Show, and after a couple of weeks of frantic hammering, sawing and painting with the help of, and I put them here just for the record, Douglas Bullock, Mike McGowan, Tim Doubleday, Mr Snow and Mr Shepherd among others, and with the support of David and Celia (who had forgiven me over the van), Bob, Mark and Joy and the landlady and customers of the Portcullis, Floyd's Bistro opened its doors for the first time.\n\nDo you know, it's a very funny thing being called Floyd. The first customers actually asked me if it was my real name. Strangely, years later, people would ask me if I was an actor and had I been to drama school. I find this fascination with Floyd really bizarre. People still ask me, What was it like to open your restaurant at the age of twenty-three?' I just say, it was normal, it was what I did. But, I suppose, looking back, I was exceptional to be able to do that. Not so in the nineties and the new millennium where everything is youth-driven. But I was not aware of anything. I was just chopping courgettes and sprinkling salt on them and drying them on kitchen paper, I was stirring huge pots of goulash, emptying dustbins, repainting the dining room after the last customer had gone \u2013 and the last customers were mostly living with no visible means of support and trekking in their Transit vans to Greece or Ibiza. As a young cook the huge advantage that I had was that before I learnt to cook, thanks to the likes of Richard Hawkins, George Perry-Smith at the Hole in the Wall in Bath, and \u2013 fuck, whatshisname \u2013 the brilliant patron of Thornby Castle, I had first learnt to eat. And although the details of the whole episode are vague to me now, they were truly wonderful days. Or should I say nights.\n\nBy ten past six every night the Portcullis would be heaving with gin-and-tonic-drinking, Ford Cortina E-driving, suited young executives known as the young thrusters, who all lived in fine flats in the splendid Georgian terraces in Clifton. Well heeled, well paid, footloose and fancy-free, they formed the nucleus of the Bistro's customers and after an afternoon of preparation in the kitchen I would pop across to the pub for a drink before I opened. I brought two or three menus and took the first twenty orders for the evening whilst I was in the pub. About an hour later they would come crashing noisily in, clutching bottles of red wine purchased at the pub (at the time I had no licence).\n\nA little later in the evening, the students and the Greyhound hoi polloi, also clutching their bottles, would stream in and by eight o'clock all thirty-three seats were occupied. People tablehopped, shared wine, shared food, shouted and laughed and greedily, happily, chomped down their plates of moussaka, boeuf bourguignon, paprika beef, jugged hare, coq au vin, brains in black butter, et al. I had made an executive decision not to serve steak and everyone was delighted. By half past nine, a queue of couples and groups formed between the tables from the front door to the kitchen serving hatch waiting to grab the first seats that were vacated from the previous sitting. The waiting staff, plates held aloft, fought through this babbling, starving crocodile to deliver the sorbets and ice cream with hot chocolate sauce (the only puddings I did) to those already sitting.\n\nChuck Berry, the Beatles, Pink Floyd, the Grateful Dead, the Rolling Stones and others blasted from the speakers. Barristers argued with artists and sales reps chatted up the waitresses, and I, in my cramped, sweltering, open kitchen happily flamed kidneys in cognac and banged out plates of food, until by one o'clock there was just no food left. All the while, untroubled by the cacophony, Patrick slept blissfully in his carrycot underneath the till, which was full.\n\nAs the weeks went by, the Bistro's reputation spread. And now, at half past six, when I popped over to the Portcullis for my evening pre-service drink, there was already a queue of twenty or twenty-five people waiting to bag the first places when the door opened at seven. Tim Doubleday, aided by Jesmond, her sister Deirdre and a strange lank-haired girl, worked frantically delivering plates of grub in this hot and cramped and crowded little room. We often had three sittings or more and served up to 120 meals a night. The workload was becoming too heavy for me on my own and so Neal Ramsay came into the kitchen, as did Mike McGowan, to share the load. Neal Ramsay still runs the Bistro twenty-five years on and Mike still wows them at Michael's Restaurant in Hot Wells Road as I write.\n\nIt is quite amazing and extremely gratifying that even now, middle-aged men and women with married children approach me in bars and restaurants all over the world and say, 'Do you remember that night in the Bistro when you cooked my then girl\/boyfriend pork with black cherry sauce?' Naturally I say, 'Yes, how could I forget it?' After all, civility costs nothing.\n\nOne odd person took to eating in the Bistro. A well-dressed businessman with the air of a retired colonel of the old school, immaculate in his pinstripe suit and buttonhole, he ate early and drank only water. A very singular man, not at all like the other rowdy regulars. He ate two or three times a week, said little, passed no comment, was courteous and tipped correctly. One evening before leaving he presented his embossed business card with a request for me to phone him. It transpired he was a property developer and had for rent a premises which he thought most suitable for me to take over for a second restaurant. And so, just a year after I had opened the Bistro, I rented a splendid, spacious premises, a former chemist's shop, complete with its Victorian shop fittings and, at some massive and unquantified cost, turned it into Floyd's Restaurant.\n\nThese were halcyon days for me. After work in the Bistro friends who were helping to design and build the new restaurant would come round and we would sit with a bottle or two of wine, planning the new place, often until dawn. Days were spent in Oakfield Road (that's where Floyd's Restaurant was), cajoling workmen, hustling deals on kitchen equipment, planning menus and tasting wine. It was to be a restaurant the likes of which Bristol had never seen. An elegant, spacious reception area, an impressively stocked bar made from the fine old pharmacist's counters, an airy dining room and a huge downstairs state-of-the-art kitchen. The building itself was impressive and it had three more storeys above the restaurant that I could sublet as flats and thus cover the cost and make a profit on the rent that I had to pay (Ha, bloody ha!!).\n\nThe conversion of the old pharmacy was roaring along apace. Fabrics were chosen, colours were selected, furniture specially built, boxes of fine glasses arrived, fine white porcelain plates were piled next to bags of plaster, plumbers came and went and electricians too, when somebody said at one of our midnight planning sessions back in the Bistro, politely and softly and quite rationally, but with an impact that left me seeing stars and clutching my head, 'How are you going to pay for this?'\n\nDo you know, such was the enthusiasm, such was the fantastic spirit surrounding the project, I hadn't even vaguely costed the job, never mind considered where the money would come from!\n\nI was still discussing this perplexing question some days later with the usual gang in the back bar of the Greyhound when I was approached by a man in a suit whom I recognised as an occasional customer at the Bistro. I left Teddy (friends again now), Dave Martin, Sandy Smith, who was helping me design the restaurant, and others and had a drink at the bar with this chap called Nick. He was, he said, a friend of Tim Doubleday's and knew a lot about our plans for the new place. Momentarily, I was annoyed that Tim had been discussing my new business with this man, but I held my tongue and let him speak. He said, 'I get the impression from Tim that you are a bit stuck for cash to finish over the road, and I think that I could help you. I've seen the Bistro operation and I like it. Tim has shown me around Oakfield Road and I like it.' He went on to explain that he worked for a very, very long-established Bristol wine merchants called Howells and that he had seen the phenomenal wine sales at the Bistro (by this time I had my licence); if I would buy my wines for Floyd's Restaurant and the Bistro exclusively from them, he said, they could provide, by way of a low-interest loan, the capital shortfall.\n\nSome days later, in a highly polished and panelled boardroom, I sat at a long, mahogany table and, under the gaze of oil-painted portraits of the founders of the Bristol Merchant Venturers Society (whose present-day successors glided nightly in their Bentleys to the Clifton Club in The Mall), scratched my name in ink on parchment to clinch the deal. Floyd's Restaurant opened with a jazz band, champagne, fresh lobsters and caviare. Four hundred attended the invitation-only premiere, which was, of course, free. Over the next eighteen months only about twenty-four of those who left that evening so effusively praising the excellence of my establishment ever returned as paying customers.\n\nThe culinary philosophy of Floyd's Restaurant was very simple, and in stark contrast to the Bistro. Throughout the summer it would focus on and feature the freshest of fish, with just one or two meat dishes as alternatives. In the winter it would major on, specialise in game and such winter fish or shellfish as were available and good \u2013 mussels and oysters, particularly. It would have the most prestigious cheeseboard in the country, the most esoteric wine list possible, highlighting every single wine from the Cotes du Rhone. It would also have the finest selection of cognacs, marcs and eau de vies. The music would be soft jazz, via Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald, through to classical, on to Stephane Grappelli and carefully chosen blues. There would be fresh flowers in abundance and a fine range of Havana cigars and cigarettes. The house champagne would be Taittinger and those who did not wish to eat a full meal could have beluga caviare and iced Stolichnaya at the bar.\n\nAs Floyd's Restaurant slowly took off, I promoted Neal Ramsay to Bistro service chef. This meant that I would, in the daytime, prepare the jugged hare, coq au vin, etc. my way for him to reheat and serve in the evening while he did the \u00e0 la minute dishes like kidneys \u00e0 la cr\u00e8me and sweetbreads and brains in black butter, and at Oakfield Road I prepared the champignons \u00e0 la grecque, the ratatouille, the terrines and pates and hired a clinical but excellent Swiss chef called Albert Stauffer to cook the service. I would then, during the evening, alternate between both places and cook in both as the pressure built up. There were lots of other people who helped in various capacities; some, of course, were excellent, some were lamentably appalling, but we managed to achieve a very high standard of food and service. People like Mark and Joy Benson would do the odd guest spot of waitressing or bartending. My old squadron captain, Robin Evans (my boss in Fallingbostel), amazed me by walking in one day, absolutely unannounced, and offering his services in any capacity, so he became ma\u00eetre d', marching merrily, militarily, millboard of bookings in hand, ushering patrons to their tables.\n\nTim Doubleday drifted into overall command and the game was on. After a few months the pattern became well established and every Saturday night after work, at about two o'clock in the morning, we would put Patrick in his carrycot on the floor in front of the passenger seat of my red Volvo SP1800 \u2013 the one the Saint had \u2013 and bomb down to Port Isaac to load up the boot with ice, lobsters, turbot, brill, sole and whatever else the Roberts brothers and other fishermen had. The following evening we would have dinner at the Lobster Pot in Padstow, owned at that time by Tim's uncle, and return for work on Monday morning.\n\nWinter came, and with it, Barbary duck, ptarmigan, teal, pheasant, venison, woodcock and the immaculate Mr Coleman-Malden, the property developer from London. As formerly at the Bistro, for a period of two or three weeks he dined early, carefully and alone. And, as before, one evening he left me his elegant and embossed business card with the request that I should phone him the next day, which I duly did. He had, he said, observed with some satisfaction, and with great pleasure for me, that Oakfield Road was a success and that the Bistro continued to be so popular. And he had, he said, acquired a property in The Mall in Clifton that he thought would be eminently suitable for me to open a third restaurant in. The property in question was no less than Guido's Swiss Gourmet, where years ago Mark Benson and I, much to the annoyance of Mrs Benson, spent copious sums of money eating fondues and Guido's hand-whisked zabagliones; the place that was directly opposite me when I created Bistro Ten. In those days both Guido and the Ox on the Roof, now closed also, had accused me of trying to copy their dishes; now the wheel, owing to the sad death of Guido, had turned full circle and Floyd's Chop House was about to open.\n\nIn order to finance the Chop House, I sold 25 per cent of the shares of the limited company that owned Floyd's Restaurant to a man I shall simply call Trevor. So at this time the ownership of the Floyd Empire was as follows: Floyd's Bistro, and Floyd's Chop House, sole proprietor K. Floyd Esq.; Floyd's Restaurant owned by a limited company, KF 75 per cent, Trevor 25 per cent. For reasons of legal expediency proposed by the landlord, who wished to close the deal on the Chop House premises very quickly, it was decided to put the lease of that place in the company name for the time being with a view to transferring it back to me as soon as the documentation could be completed. Anyway, all that is by the by. For the moment at least.\n\nAnd so, for the third time in less than three years, in an amazing outburst of energy, within two weeks we had transformed Guido's Formica and gilt, fifties-style gourmet restaurant into an Edwardian-style, boothed, English chop house. I hired a very competent lady cook to execute my thoroughly British menu, viz lamb chops with reform sauce, faggots and peas, boiled ham with parsley sauce, boiled mutton with caper sauce, game pies, steak and kidney pies, etc., etc., desserts like spotted dick and custard, a demonic sherry trifle and a selection of savouries \u2013 Welsh rarebit, angels on horseback and so forth. To celebrate the opening of my third emporium I chopped in the Volvo and bought a wire-wheeled, convertible E-type Jaguar. Business was booming and I was now hurtling between three restaurants nightly like a man possessed and never getting home before four in the morning after a final nightcap and dragging the dustbins outside. We were still living in a flat some distance from the three restaurants, when the house next door to Floyd's Restaurant came onto the market. I decided to buy it and expand the restaurant into the ground floor and create a luxury, three-floored maisonette for us to live in above.\n\nIt goes without saying that I didn't have the money to buy it, so when, late one night, I got an incoherently drunken phone call from a friend in Southampton who told me he had just inherited \u00a35000 and didn't know what to do with it, I made the brilliant suggestion that he lend it to me, which would enable me to buy the house. I outlined an arrangement, which thoroughly appealed to him, and half an hour later he agreed to part with his money.\n\nI was on a huge roll. I had three restaurants, all of which were highly rated in _The Good Food Guide,_ I had fabulous staff, an E-type Jaguar and a lifestyle to die for, except I didn't really have too much of a life because I was passionately obsessed with the continual search to upgrade the quality of my food and service. When my friends and I went to the races and the rugby, a great passion of mine, I would never stay for the after-match drinks, not because I was needed in any of my three kitchens, but because it was where I wanted to be. If this sounds like pious, sanctimonious shit, remember that I never started a restaurant or a bar with the objective of making money. I had a kind of biblical attitude towards it and if, like Moses, I could part the Red Sea and make people happy, then such rewards as were due would surely follow.\n\nAnd you know, writing this book is a strange exercise. You have to trawl the sump of your memory to remember what it was like. In a little way, at that time, I was probably Bristol's most famous restaurateur outside of the legendary Berni brothers. And yet when today I am questioned about how I felt at that time, I was actually living life, not writing about it. I didn't have the time.\n\nThe friend I shall, for the purposes of this narrative, call Morris. The deal, although very informal, was as follows: the loan would be repaid in three years' time \u2013 the way things were going this was achievable. Also, in lieu of interest, he would have the use of the top floor of the house as a self-contained flat, rent, rates, gas and electricity free. In addition to the above, it was agreed that he would be given a job as a waiter in the restaurant with a salary slightly higher than the norm.\n\nIn order to double the size of the existing restaurant, I simply had to knock down a party wall, make good the hole, decorate the room, lay a carpet and whack in some tables and chairs. A gang of eight of us, commandeered mostly from the late-night remnants of the Greyhound, waited until the last restaurant customer had left, and at around midnight on a Monday night, we set about demolishing the party wall and painting the new room. This we somehow successfully achieved. At four o'clock the following afternoon we painted the still wet plaster archway which joined the two rooms, laid the new carpet, installed the tables and chairs, which had already been bought in readiness for this great event, nailed pictures onto the walls, laid the tables and opened for business as usual at six thirty.\n\nOne of my duties now that we had three restaurants, apart from the daytime preparation, was to relieve each chef one day a week for his day off. This particular Monday I had to cook in Oakfield Road. In order to keep myself from falling asleep after working through the night and the day, I fortified myself with several large glasses of pastis. Unfortunately, the combination of lack of sleep and too much booze interfered somewhat with my tolerance threshold. The first people to sit in the absolutely brand-new dining room, my pride and joy, the product of blood, sweat and tears that had given my restaurant so much extra space and style, were regular customers, and I couldn't wait to leave the kitchen, as was my routine, and pass by the tables doing the 'mine host' bit. I was particularly eager to hear the reaction of customers to my new setup. To my horror and utmost indignation, it appeared that these people, these regular customers, had not even noticed that since their last visit three days ago, the restaurant had been doubled in size and totally transformed.\n\nSeething with anger and disappointment, I returned to the kitchen for another glass of pastis. Now, for some inexplicable reason, I had hired the morose classical guitarist who used to play in Bistro Ten, and night after night he would drive me demented. He was hired to play from seven until ten thirty, but try as I might to get him to be flexible within that time, I failed. He would play passionately to a completely empty restaurant from seven until about a quarter past eight and then, as the restaurant began to fill, he carefully placed his guitar on its stand and came down to ask for his dinner. On this particular evening I was in no mood for this aggravating problem. In fact, I went ballistic. Gesticulating violently at him with one hand, I screamed a string of obscenities at him. He fled from the kitchen, a look of fear etched into his otherwise immobile features. It took me a few minutes to realise that the hand that was gesticulating wildly was actually clutching a twelve-inch, heavy-bladed cook's knife, and I had come perilously close to stabbing him.\n\nHe wasn't missed, so I carried on cooking for a while, finally going upstairs to chat to the customers. I was delighted to see two of my very favourite people, Mr and Mrs Wong, who ran one of the best Chinese restaurants that Bristol had ever seen. Not only was he a regular customer of mine but once a month he brought his entire staff out to my restaurant to eat. I liked him very much! The evening seemed to be improving. Disaster, however, was only just around the corner.\n\nMrs Wong did not like cats and I had a restaurant cat who was asleep on a chair at an adjacent table. Mrs Wong pointed ominously at the cat, and the aversion was politely explained. The cat was duly removed only to trot straight back in through another door, head for Mrs Wong and jump up onto her lap. This triggered off a hysterical scene and she burst into tears. I apologised profusely, unhooked the bristling cat from her lap and locked it in the downstairs lavatory.\n\nPeace and harmony were restored and the Wongs continued enjoying their dinner. I returned to the kitchen, finished my work and returned upstairs to plan tomorrow's menu in the corner of the restaurant.\n\nI glanced across to the Wongs' table. They were relaxing with coffee and brandy, cigar smoke drifting hazily around the remains of their dinner. Something pulled my gaze up to the mirrored Victorian overmantel which adorned the fireplace next to their table. To my horror, sitting on the mantelpiece was a mouse. Worse still, staring, alert underneath another table was the fucking cat, released from its prison in the loo, no doubt by a punter earlier.\n\nBefore I could do anything, a holocaust started. With one bound the cat had leapt onto the Wongs' table, knocking Mrs Wong's brandy into her lap. Not even pausing for breath it leapt onto the mantelpiece, grabbed the mouse and did a back flip, mouse in mouth, back onto the Wongs' table, this time knocking over Mr Wong's brandy and a very large vase of flowers, and charged towards the kitchen. Tight-lipped, speechless with rage, he frogmarched his hysterical wife out of the dining room and out of the restaurant.\n\nUnfortunately, I thought the whole thing was hysterically funny; it was several weeks before diplomatic relations were resumed.\n\nI had one old gentleman who dined with me three times a week, after his statutory preprandial \u2013 six large whiskys and soda \u2013 in the mellow gloom of the Clifton Club. I should have known better after all the time he had spent eating in my restaurant, but I always asked him how he had enjoyed his dinner and he always found something to moan about. However, he kept coming. So, one day, I decided to exact my revenge. I took a large beer mat and trimmed it to the shape of an escalope of veal, soaked it all day in beef stock, floured it, eggwashed it, breadcrumbed it, pan-fried it with butter and served it with a Madeira and mushroom sauce. To accompany it I served a dish of fresh French beans cooked al dente, tossed in butter and sprinkled with freshly ground black pepper, an immaculate wafer-thin gratin dauphinoise, a tossed green salad and a smile.\n\nAs was my custom, when he had finished his meal, I went up to him and asked him if he had enjoyed it (he had, by the way, eaten the lot). Yes, very good,' he said, 'very good, but the chocolate mousse was very disappointing. It had separated and was runny at the bottom!'\n\nHe declined my offer of a complimentary brandy, slipped into his astrakhan overcoat, adjusted his silk scarf, pulled on his gloves and left. His departing words were, 'I'll be seeing you again on Wednesday. Goodnight!'\n\nMorris, who spent all day hammering, sawing, cursing and hitting his thumbs upstairs in his apartment, turned out to be a catastrophic waiter. One night there was a prestigious table hosted by Patrick Drumgoole, then head of HTV, whose guests included David Martin, Leonard Rossiter, others whom I forget, plus the threatened arrival of Peter O'Toole.\n\nPatrick had pre-ordered a couple of magnums of Pommerol, which I had decanted and left on the serving sideboard with the bottles and their corks. Morris poured a little of the decanted wine for him to taste. He savoured the bouquet, sipped and approved it. 'May I see the bottle?' he asked. Morris looked pained. 'I can't think what you want to see the bottle for, it's only plonk!' was his somewhat less than considered answer.\n\nHe had, over a period of time, become very friendly with a fiery Australian artist and after work they would sit together at the bar drinking. After a few weeks I realised there was no money going into the till and I could tell by the number of empty bottles and broken glasses that I discovered when I sometimes came down very early in the morning when the cleaners arrived, that some serious damage was being done to the profits. Many evenings, Morris would arrive for work totally distracted. Strange things started to happen. Goods that I hadn't ordered mysteriously appeared. A waitress whom I had not met before was serving in the restaurant one evening. I went up to her and said, 'Who are you?' She told me. 'How did you get the job?' 'Mr Floyd hired me,' she replied. I was baffled by this but said nothing. To make matters worse, he sided sickeningly with my wife in the now all too frequent arguments and rows.\n\nAs yet, I had not laid any carpet on the stairs in my house. One afternoon, I was clumping upstairs in my clogs for my siesta, when the spare-room door was flung open and an awful witch of a woman, whom I knew to be a friend of my wife, hissed at me, 'Can't you be bloody quiet, I'm trying to get my kids to sleep!'\n\nI was gobsmacked. Without consulting me, or even telling me, my wife had invited this woman to live in our house. She had been evicted from her flat after her husband had been sent to jail for theft.\n\nI was furious. 'Don't you flicking tell me to shut up in my own house!' I yelled at her. Within seconds, Jesmond, Morris and this woman were screaming at me and calling me a heartless bastard. I probably thumped a couple of them, I don't really remember. I slammed into the bathroom, showered and went to the Greyhound to look for someone to get drunk with.\n\nI succeeded, and the following day I decided to sell the three restaurants, buy a yacht and fuck off. As I had angrily explained the day before, 'As long as I write the cheques, I will make the fucking jokes!' Coincidentally, that very same morning I had received a letter from one of the West Country's, indeed one of Britain's, most respected restaurateurs, who ran a highly successful gothic pile in the country, asking if I would like to sell him Oakfield Road as he wished to open a sophisticated 'urban and provincial' French restaurant and he was prepared to pay about \u00a316,000 for the lease, the fixtures, the fittings and the good will. Bearing in mind that my newly acquired convertible TR6 injection was only about nine hundred quid, this as one hell of a deal. The Bistro would have no difficulty in getting \u00a36000 or \u00a38000, and Mr Coleman-Malden was desperate to purchase the house, for which I had paid \u00a35000, for \u00a39000 in cash. The Chop House was the tricky one, but my wife expressed an interest in it with a view to running it with her sister, so it was loosely and bitterly agreed that I would keep the proceeds from the Bistro, which my chef, Neal, wanted to buy, she would have the Chop House and the rest would be sorted later with the aid of a breed of people I would grow to despise. Lawyers.\n\nSo, despite the horrific traumas of a domestic separation, there appeared to be plenty of quids for everyone. Morris would get his five grand back, despite the fact that he had been costing me thousands in booze and confusion and other general fuck-ups, the relatively small bank overdrafts would be cleared, the wine merchant would be paid off and I, at the age of twenty-eight, was going to escape from the unremitting work I had done since I left school at sixteen with hardly any holidays. I hadn't been able to take a year off and go hitchhiking around the world which many of my friends had done, and in truth, I resented none of it. I had, after all, been obsessed and happy with my work. Now I felt burnt out, alone and in need of a fresh start.\n\nI got hold of the money quickly and without fuss for the Bistro. I actually ended up, after all, with about \u00a33000 clear, with which I bought a beautiful sloop called _Flirty._ Over the next couple of weeks, with the aid of the lads from the Greyhound, especially the mystic Hywel Price, we moved her onto the river Hamble, preparing _Flirty_ for her journey to the Mediterranean.\n\nI informed Trevor of my intention to sell the restaurant. Indeed it was common knowledge anyway, and of course he would be repaid his investment plus 25 per cent of the profit. At the time I was unaware of what was going on behind my back, but the famous restaurateur phoned me to withdraw his offer since he now understood from definitely two, and possibly three credible sources, that the restaurant was not mine to sell. A series of meetings took place involving my wife, Morris, Trevor, my bank manager, their lawyers, and my lawyers. In addition were Mr Coleman-Malden's lawyers and probably a few other lawyers. I lost count. The story is still too vivid in my mind for me to bear to explain exactly what happened. Trevor decided to buy Oakfield Road and in one of the lawyers' meetings I signed some papers, he gave me a \u00a32000 deposit and I assumed that another \u00a310,000 would be paid in a month's time.\n\nAt another meeting, Trevor and my wife convinced me to sign papers at the bank, my bank, regarding the sale of the house and when, a month later, I returned to Bristol expecting to find Jesmond happily installed in the Chop House and to collect the \u00a310,000 from Trevor, I discovered that the documents that I had signed in Trevor's lawyer's office had actually sold him my shares in the company. Legally, he had no obligation to pay me the rest. To make matters worse, I had never transferred the lease of the Chop House out of the company and back into my own name, so he owned that as well. 'Sorry, old boy,' he said, 'that's the law.'\n\nI had signed the papers too soon, and he, for \u00a32000, now owned Floyd's Chop House and Floyd's Restaurant.\n\nIt was only after I attacked him that he agreed what was morally right all along. He gave my wife back the Chop House. I never saw the money for the house, I assume it went to Trevor.\n\nAnyway, after years of very hard work, and a great deal of success, I set sail in _Flirty_ with my worldly possessions, that is to say, my clothes and \u00a32000, on the first real adventure of my life. I remembered the gilt-framed oleograph in my grandparents' sitting room. It was a famous painting of, I think, Raleigh sitting on a beach, close to a boat drawn-up on the sand. His arm pointing, he was saying to a young boy, 'Go west, young man, go west.' I was headed on a long road south, but I think that picture had a lot to do with my ambitions and my life.\n\n# Flirty and Freedom\n\nThe yacht, _Flirty,_ was not only the first boat I had ever owned, she was also the first boat I had ever been on in my life up to now. My knowledge of sailing was absolutely nonexistent. But for my intended voyage to the Mediterranean, I managed to persuade a chum called Willy, a recently retired Royal Navy submarine navigating officer, who also had vast experience of sailing, to come with me and my crew (i.e. my friend Peter Gardiner and Morris) on the first leg as skipper and teacher.\n\n_Flirty_ was a stunningly beautiful craft, 44 feet long with varnished topsides, a virtually flush, teak deck and an ornate saloon panelled in walnut and mahogany. She was about sixty years old and had been built in Oslo as a day racing boat in 1912. The accommodation and facilities were very basic. She had a very tall wooden mast and a heavy wooden boom, no winches, only ropes and pulleys for handling the sails; and a very tired eighthorsepower, side-valve petrol engine.\n\nAfter several weeks of preparing the boat for our voyage we set sail from Plymouth on a blustery, grey May day, destination Nantes on the river Loire. After a couple of extremely uncomfortable and wet days and nights, we decided to go ashore on a small island called Belle-\u00cele not far from St Nazaire, which is at the mouth of the Loire. We entered a very narrow harbour and tied up outside a trot of fishing boats. Delighted to be ashore we clambered over the decks of the fishing boats and charged into the nearest bar, where we demolished huge quantities of red wine, moules marini\u00e8re, coq au vin, Camembert, coffee and cognac.\n\nSome hours later, mildly pissed, ecstatically happy and totally relaxed, we stumbled back to the quay, to find that the tide was falling fast and the fishing boats between the quay and _Flirty_ were untying and putting out to sea. It was quite clear that at any moment now, with the fishing boats gone, _Flirty_ would capsize when the tide was fully out and it was suddenly, frighteningly clear that the centre of the harbour, where Flirty was, was much shallower than the quaysides and she was in serious danger. In a prodigious feat of ingenuity and courage, Willy somehow managed to get a line from the bow of _Flirty_ and onto the quay before the last fishing boat departed. He then, commando style, crawled along the rope to get back on board, having previously told one of us to go to the opposite side of the harbour, which was, fortunately, very narrow. He disconnected one of the mast stays and threw it and a length of rope across to me so that I could tie it to a bollard to hold the boat upright. He then disconnected a stay from the other side of the boat, crawled back across the rope and made it fast in a similar way.\n\nSo, there we were, marooned on the quay with the boat precariously and absurdly balanced on its keel in the muddy mid channel and we were forced to sit the night out and await the returning tide in _the_ morning. We passed a miserable night on wrought-iron benches, sleeping fitfully between sips from a bottle of cheap brandy we had managed to buy before the caf\u00e9 shut. Eventually sleep completely overtook me and I passed out on a pile of smelly fishing nets. There were no recriminations: we all realised we had been complete prats, anxious only to get ashore and into the pub without seeking advice from the locals first.\n\nOne thing was clear, however: there was no way we could have survived without Willy. Anyway, apart from a really miserable night, a real crisis had been averted and, suitably chastened, we slipped out to sea and headed for St Nazaire and, with a ripping tide underneath us, flew up the Loire like a swan to the town of Nantes, where Willy was to leave us for a few days to return to England to attend a wedding.\n\nWe sailed up the Loire on a broad reach and we were literally flying along. _Flirty_ was a very fast boat: she was only 9 feet 6 inches in beam, drew 7 feet 6 inches and had a massive lead keel. Our exhilaration suddenly changed to panic when we saw the bridge ahead of us. We dropped the sails rapidly, but _Flirty_ glided swiftly and remorselessly on towards the bridge, which unless we could stop or turn round would surely dismast us. Our only chance was to start the engine and whack it into reverse. The engine burst enthusiastically into life, but a bodged and ill-fitted aluminium pulley sheared off the engine and we couldn't get it into gear. The impending disaster threw the little drama of Belle-\u00cele right into the shade; apart from the humiliation of being dismantled, I did not have the financial resources to buy a new mast.\n\nPeter Gardiner, was, by profession, an engineer. He built generators for a living and racing cars for a hobby. Somehow, by jamming in Allen keys and screwdrivers and cutting his fingers to ribbons, he managed to get reverse engaged and, although we hit the quayside with a considerable thump, we did manage to come to a very unseamanlike halt. I was having very serious second thoughts about this so-called adventure, which up to now had just been an unmitigated disaster.\n\nHowever, eventually we tied up safely and spent a couple of happy days in Nantes while we waited for our illustrious skipper to return. Well rested and with a firm resolve to be more sensible, we left Nantes and set sail for La Coruna in Spain, which we made uneventfully and in perfect sailing conditions in a very few days. Several times during that passage, I was able to buy fresh fish from passing fishing boats. The weather was so good, I was able to bake fresh bread and even make chips. Now we were sailing! We had settled down as a crew, took our turn at watches and everything was perfect. Sometimes dolphins swam along with the ship, sometimes we were so becalmed that we would dive into the Atlantic for a swim.\n\nOur next stop was Oporto, where we gorged ourselves on barbecued octopus and sardines and gallons of both red and white port.\n\nI remember being surprised by the British postboxes on the pavements of Oporto, but someone pointed out that Portugal was or is Britain's oldest European ally. Maybe merchants paid for their port with Victorian letterboxes. The weather was improving all the time and the calamities of Belle-\u00cele and Nantes had evaporated like a summer morning's mist and _Flirty_ surged and glided through the waves to Faro in the Algarve. As I remember, after negotiating a tortuous estuary, we finally anchored _Flirty_ a few hundred yards from Faro railway station and ran ashore in the little inflatable powered by a Seagull outboard motor. Same routine as our previous landfalls: find a bar, find a restaurant and hang one on in a self-congratulatory mood of having made another epic voyage!\n\n_Flirty_ wasn't really designed for this kind of voyage and living on board was cramped, uncomfortable and pretty bloody basic so we decided to stay ashore on this first night in Faro in an elegant, Moorish restaurant-cum-hotel run by an elderly English gentleman with a penchant for long flowing silk shirts, Turkish slippers and silk scarves. We all thought he must be some kind of raging pouf. He was not, of course; he was just one of those rather effete, cultured Englishmen who, at the age of sixty or so, was still managing to survive in the grand manner on the ever dwindling income of a family trust. He took a huge shine to us, got his servants to do our laundry, fed us and entertained us royally for two or three days without being so rude as to charge us a penny. It was just as well, as the odd repair to the boat and a pretty extravagant attitude to life had run my funds right down. I had, in fact, made arrangements to pick up some money in Faro from a bank with the unlikely name of Banco de Espirito Santo, which I decided meant the bank of spirit and health. Twice a day I would go to the bank to see if my funds had arrived and twice a day the teller, in an immaculately pressed, short-sleeved shirt, open at the neck, which was adorned by a huge golden crucifix, would smile apologetically and say 'No.'\n\nThe rest of the boys, who were simply on holiday with flights booked back to the UK from Gibraltar, were anxious to press on. So it was decided, somewhat reluctantly by me, that they would take the boat on to Gibraltar and when my money arrived, I would travel overland through Portugal and Spain and join them there. It was nearly a week after they left in what was the only thing I actually owned, to whit, _Flirty,_ that my money came through. Ironically, it had been there all the time, it was just that I had failed to ask at the right desk in the bank!\n\nOver the next several days, neatly dressed in pressed shorts, short-sleeved shirt and carrying a holdall, I travelled in a variety of overcrowded speeding buses, with roof racks stacked high with cages of chickens and piglets, across Portugal, down to Seville and finally through the vast Andalusian plains where herds of bulls roamed, on to Algeciras, where I bought a ticket to Tangier because, of course, the border between Spain and Gibraltar at that time was closed. So the only point of entry was to go to Tangier and from there back across the Straits to Gibraltar.\n\nI thought I would spend a day and a night in Tangiers before crossing back over to Gibraltar, something I would not do today. I drank mint tea, wandered around the Kasbah, paid off the pestering beggars, slept uncomfortably on an iron bedstead with a flock mattress in a cheap hostel and awoke to find that I had been robbed. I had only the equivalent of about \u00a35 left. Enough for a ticket for Gibraltar and a phone call or two. I phoned a friend who immediately wired me \u00a3500 to Barclays DCO in Gibraltar and walked down to the docks and bought a ticket for Gib. I did not look like a hippie: I had short hair, neat clothes, and yet, even though I had a ticket, the Gibraltarian police in Tangier would not allow me to board the boat because I could not prove that I had enough money to be able to leave Gib. I protested and appealed, I explained my yacht was in Gib. I had money in DCO. All to no avail. In the queue behind me was an RAF flight sergeant who had overheard and believed my story and offered to give me, to the satisfaction of the police, enough money to get an air ticket out of Gibraltar. But they still would not let me on.\n\nHow I survived the next forty-eight hours, trying to locate the British consulate in Tangier, persuading them to contact the authorities in Gib to verify my story about the yacht, how I slept on a park bench, pestered by hookers, pimps, dealers, beggars and thieves and with no money now for a room or even food, I think I can deliberately no longer remember. Eventually, starving, thirsty, angry and thoroughly depressed, I was allowed onto the ferry only to be arrested on arrival, taken into a room, requested to strip and body searched. It seems they thought I was a drug dealer.\n\nI eventually located my boat: Peter and Willy had returned to the UK and there was only Morris left on board with whom, after several weeks at sea, and the previous bad blood that had existed between us, I had fallen out in a major way. He was about as useful on a boat as a bicycle or an umbrella. He was also totally inexperienced and incompetent and somehow I had to get rid of him. But since, as so often has happened in my life, he was under the impression that if he didn't actually own me, he owned part of the boat, it was going to be a tricky knot to untangle.\n\nBut, in fact, he was the least of my worries at this precise time. _Flirty_ 's engine was now completely buggered and, for the first time, I had to take her onwards, as of course she had been designed to do, only by sail. I remember the fear and the exhilaration of hoisting the sails in the destroyer pens in Gibraltar and easing east into the Mediterranean. I wished I could have locked Morris in chains in the fo'c'sle until it was an appropriate time to tip him overboard, weighted down with lead! His total fear of the sea and his absolute lack of faith in me made him look, with his dark brown, sad eyes, like a rabbit who had been driven into a net by a ferret.\n\nI have forgotten to recount a little tale that does me no credit at all. When we were in Nantes, several weeks earlier, I had visited a duty free store, a sort of ship chandlers, that provided tinned butter, whisky and cigarettes. What I thought I had asked for was a couple of cartons of Benson & Hedges and about ten bottles of whisky, some lavatory paper, some basic groceries, a Calor gas bottle, some batteries and chocolate. They took the order, I waited a while for it to be assembled. They said, 'Don't wait, we will deliver it to the quay.' Smart service, thought I. Later that same day, a fairly substantial van drew up beside the boat and a man, dressed in blue denim overalls, unloaded, amongst other things, ten boxes of whisky, each containing twelve bottles, and six very large cardboard boxes filled with literally thousands of Benson & Hedges cigarettes. I was actually stunned, and, Your Honour, with no intention of malice aforethought, and with no intention to commit any kind of crime or fraud, I simply signed the proffered delivery note, gave him a tip of ten francs and he drove off, as I did within the next thirty minutes. I did not let on to the others that I had not paid.\n\nSo, despite my problems with Morris, dear old _Flirty_ was still laden to the gunnels with canned food, cigarettes and whisky. Morris was doing my head in and I suppose for the first time in my life, up to that point \u2013 I was probably twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old \u2013 I was experiencing real freedom: no restaurants, no staff, no bank managers, no nagging wives, just a total intoxicating sense of freedom and the only remaining hurdle was Morris.\n\nAfter leaving Gibraltar and sailing the boat on my own, under sail for the first time, my first port of call, by accident not design, as my navigational skills were nonexistent, was the small fishing port of Estepona. I knew that Morris had quite a bit of money on him which he was very reluctant to either spend or contribute, and I said, weren't we brave, dear boy, to do this leg on our own, why don't we go into town, take all our clothes and things, have them laundered, get a decent hot meal, spend a night on the town and stay in a decent pension or something? I made sure that evening that he got totally pissed. Once he stumbled up to his room, I lay awake in mine until dawn, ran back to the port, slipped the moorings and abandoned Morris. I had never felt better in my life: for once I had stopped putting up with assholes! Yes, it was cruel, yes, it was vindictive, but I have absolutely no regrets. So there!\n\n# Afloat on the Med.\n\nSo, there I was, alone again, just me, _Flirty,_ several cartons of whisky and cigarettes, the Mediterranean, and almost no idea of where I was going or how I was going to get there!\n\nI headed roughly east, and followed the coast. So far so good. My biggest worry, however, was the state of my boat. Never designed for Mediterranean cruising, her splendid, varnished teak decks were lifting, warping and twisting under the fierce sun, the engine was broken and the little rubber dinghy had gone, a victim of an earlier storm. I had also more or less run out of money. There was nothing for it but to put into port, attempt some repairs and work out what to do next. So I found myself in the busy trading port of Motril.\n\n_Flirty_ installed, I pondered my resources. I still had my contraband, but with no money, I found myself with nothing to do but while away my time waiting for an opportunity to raise its head. The weather was superb and every morning I would wash my jeans or shorts or shirts in a bucket of sea water and hang them out to dry, sit on the deck drinking coffee and fish for the grey mullet and the other dubious small fish that hang around marinas. The small town of Motril was a mile or so from the port and I was able to walk into town occasionally and buy the odd bucket of mussels and some vegetables to supplement my mullet diet. The rest of my time was spent hanging around the Yacht Club, such as it was. There were very few visiting yachts and no one in the club. The ships that came in and out of Motril were purely commercial, shifting gravel and transporting the sugar cane that grew, strangely enough, in that region.\n\nHowever, I was free. Free from the memories of being woken up and made to go to school, or to go on parade in the Army, of having to run my restaurants and all the hassle involved in that. Too many years of being disciplined by others had taken its toll on me, so this bizarre freedom was intoxicating.\n\nThere was, though, nobody to talk to. Even while we were sailing as a crew, there were no opportunities to have girlfriends, or even other friends: we were after all four blokes on a boat and the opportunities were limited and the conditions too cramped. I had certainly not been in Spain long enough to pick up any conversational Spanish, although my basic Spanish, on an everyday essentials basis, was improving, through absolute necessity of course. This was primarily a commercial port, and certainly not a holiday resort.\n\nOne interesting boat was moored near to me. It was an old naval gunboat, almost as old as _Flirty_ was, and living on board this gunboat, with his Somalian wife, was a former high commissioner of Somalia. They had clearly, following a revolution or for some other, unknown reason, been asked to leave, acquired this extraordinary boat and eventually wound up, like myself, in Motril, where they had been for some time. They were apparently in much the same situation as myself, nowhere to go, no money and a creaking old boat that could go no further. He was a fright-fully posh gentleman and she was a magnificent lady, resplendent in her long, colourful, flowing robes, adorned with magnificent baubles and bangles. Obviously fascinated by their strange new English neighbour in his elegant but battered boat, they took to inviting me over to eat with them. The commissioner's wife cooked the most superb, exotic and spicy dishes, and I would arrive with my whisky and cigarettes, a very agreeable arrangement indeed. In fact, for a while I traded, for food, favours and limited repairs, entirely on my contraband with the few yachts which came in and out of Motril.\n\nI think Franco was still in power at this time, and the port was strictly patrolled by the Guardia, dressed quite formidably in their long leather boots and the hats with the shiny raised backs to them. They knew I had boxes of illegal whisky and cigarettes on board and sternly demanded that they be locked away securely, not to be touched whilst I was on Spanish soil. Of course, they regularly checked up on me, reminded me of their laws and then settled down for several large whiskies, a few cigarettes and a chat about the weather. They always left with a bottle.\n\nKeeping up appearances is very important: being well dressed, or as well as you can be, being tidy and being polite are sure-fire ways to gain a certain respect, and on the basis of these rules, I had made a few useful friends around the port and the Yacht Club and had actually managed to secure myself an account at said club. This enabled me to sit on the balcony in the mornings with a cup of strong, pungent Spanish coffee, a piece of toast, some lovely, unsalted butter and a dollop of thick, bitter Spanish marmalade, watching the port going about its business and swopping pleasantries with my new foreign friends. One morning, sitting over the remains of my breakfast, I was gabbling away in a mixture of broken Spanish and broken French, about some or other trivia with the club steward, when a very plummy, very English voice behind me said, 'You must be English, no one else could speak such terrible Spanish or indeed such terrible French!' I turned round and found myself looking at a short-haired, wirily built, very tanned Englishman of about thirty or thirty-five years old, immaculately dressed in a very white T-shirt, pressed slacks and spotless deck shoes. He introduced himself to me as Hector, we shook hands and I invited him to join me. 'Splendid suggestion, dear boy!' he boomed and promptly ordered two coffees and two brandies. 'Heart starters,' he announced. Sensible man, I thought. Before long, we were settled and moving on to vodkas with freshly squeezed orange juice, known to this day to me and my chums as 'the breakfast'.\n\nDuring the course of our conversation, Hector told me some wonderful stories. He had been obliged to leave the West Indies, where he had owned an avocado plantation. He had in fact been expelled, quite a feat for one so young. He left with one canvas bag containing a couple of pairs of shoes, some jeans, T-shirts, a shotgun and a backgammon board. With nowhere particular to go and with very limited resources, he had made his way to Spain and secured a sort of job, partly as a tutor to two young Danish lads, and partly as a skipper on their father's yacht (he was, in fact, an accomplished sailor) and as such all he had to do was untie the ropes, fire up the engines, stock up the bar and take the family for a trip around the bay, not even something that they wanted to do on a regular basis. The tutoring part of the job was equally erratic. Hector lived on the boat, had the run of the house that the family lived in, in return for basically keeping an eye on these two teenagers whom he referred to as 'the reindeer puppies' \u2013 two huge, noisy, bombastic youths who used to chat up Spanish girls with lines like 'I want to * * * * you, bet you don't understand that in English, do you?' They didn't. Luckily they also did not know how to say 'Yes, OK' in English either! The equally colourful language they acquired from their tutor failed, luckily, to translate into Spanish. No one's feathers were ruffled, consequently.\n\nTo cut a long story short, Hector and I got on well. He said to me one day, over 'the breakfast', 'Where are you going from here?'\n\n'Nowhere,' I said. 'I have no money, my engine doesn't work and I am basically stuck here.'\n\n'Can you actually sail your boat?'\n\n'Well,' I replied, 'I have up to now, but I'm basically a cook, but have begun to realise that you can't have a boat without running a restaurant to finance it.' I did make it clear that I was totally happy, despite being totally broke, but I obviously had to do something.\n\n'I tell you what, dear boy,' he said one day, over breakfast, 'we are due to while away a few weeks on the boat. Why don't you assist me for a time? We have hot and cold running gin and tonic, a kitchen, engines, all mod cons. You could come with us in convoy and cook, pour drinks, whatever.'\n\nSo, I did. We sailed along the coast with me following behind in _Flirty,_ from breakfast to lunchtime, calling into port or anchoring occasionally for lunch. For the occasional overnight journey, they had navigational equipment, and besides, you could sail away, guided by the lights and the permanent beat of the nightclubs on the coast. When the wind dropped, they towed me. No one seemed to find this arrangement strange, and it suited me perfectly. We made our way slowly and decadently up the coast.\n\nThe interesting thing about Hector was that he took no money for his job. He considered it beneath him to be an actual employee; his aristocratic genes would simply not permit it. He survived on free board and lodging, slightly dubious lists of expenses and an uncanny skill at gambling at backgammon. In an unwritten rule, he was allowed an expense account at all the marinas or ports he visited. I considered him totally xenophobic and mysoginistic, a diabolical chauvinistic pig and a crashing snob. I liked him enormously.\n\nAnyway, after a number of harrowing experiences, narrow escapes and mini-adventures (his motto being, Let's hope for the best and fear for the worst), we finally wound up in Javea, where we stayed for a couple of weeks, generally enjoying ourselves, failing to offer tutorial advice, but managing to run up some spectacularly impressive bar, port and food bills. Now, unfortunately, while I was very happy to add to the numbers, eat the food, drink the booze and bum around, I was not actually being paid either. Minimal amounts of money were coming my way, and although my benefactor was happy to keep _me_ afloat, he was not actually prepared to keep my boat afloat. Harbour dues eventually raised their ugly head in respect of _Flirty._ As usual I had no money and the marina were pressing me to stump up a bit of livery. Tricky. Plus the whisky and cigarettes were now running seriously low! My trade route had dried up. However, I will for ever be grateful both to Hector's ingenuity, and my Scandinavian benefactor's sense of occasion. His name \u2013 we will call him Kjell, and it was he who really kept the show on the road: being Scandinavian, he had a very soft spot for _Flirty._ He was, after all, familiar with the design, and had seen these boats in his own country. Hector had a very soft spot for self-preservation. 'Dear boy,' he said to me, as I gloomily read the bill for _Flirty's_ accommodation, 'we could do worse than mosey quietly out of here tonight and call in at Denia for a couple of weeks. After all, _Flirty_ could do with being painted another colour: wood is very inappropriate for such a hot climate. She would be an entirely different boat with a bit of care and attention.'\n\nWell, we did the runner that night, and with the not inconsiderable monetary help of Shell, _Flirty_ was painted a gleaming white. She was indeed a different boat! On our return to Javea, the Marineros remarked that there had been a boat very similar to mine that had been here previously. We smiled noncommittally. We had actually got away with it. We did not, however, stay too long and returned to Denia.\n\nAt this juncture, I had, by some strange and unstructured process, become Kjell and his wife's butler and cook. When we sailed, I shopped, prepared food and drink, and cooked. When he wanted to call into port and go out to lunch, I would sit with Hector in the front of the car, the Man and his wife in the back, and look for restaurants. When we found a likely candidate, he would send me on ahead into the restaurant to inspect the kitchens. Just to explain, Kjell was a big man, but he had contracted and survived throat cancer; it made him strong, and, I regret to say, a bit of a bully. However, you could not bully Hector and you could not bully me. It was a slightly uneasy, but nevertheless relatively successful relationship for the three of us. Kjell was well known in this area, appreciated by us, and no one took offence.\n\nThe result of this 'marriage' was that Hector and I also became known and almost respected. We were approached by some dubious, and in many cases, well-known people regarding the charter of our boats for somewhat dodgy purposes. We always refused. Being mixed up with call girls, well-known dignitaries and politicians and not a few crooks really would have put the cat amongst the pigeons for us. We wanted fun, but needed to stay on the right side of right. We had managed to retain a modicum of integrity.\n\nIn Denia, I witnessed the attempted murder of a peer of the realm (an attempt to run him down in a large black Mercedes). This was heavy territory and not one that an itinerant cook and his sidekick should get remotely involved with. We wanted adventure, but not that much!\n\nTo all intents and purposes, we were quite happy. Well heeled in all respects, running up our tabs in the Yacht Club in Denia, lunching out and rarely called on to do any actual work. It is important to point out that we never drank or lunched less than seriously, always having brandy and cigars after a meal, and never accepting cheap wine, and our tabs were impressive. The trick to living well off nothing is always to move to another bar or restaurant when the tabs become indecent. Thus we progressed. We could always borrow off bar B to pay off bar A and vice versa. This was able to continue for many months, but, alas, as always, the walls eventually started closing in on us. I was forced to get a job. I washed up and waited in a number of local bars \u2013 not, I stress, the ones where we had drunk or lunched \u2013 but my meagre income from these jobs kept the heat off us for a while. Hector, of course, was opposed to earning money.\n\nConsequently, we struggled on my wages. He did, however, have the ability to gamble on backgammon. The following system, therefore, evolved. I would earn enough money to stake on a backgammon game, and he generally won. Unfortunately, as is often the case with gambling, the people he sometimes chose to play with turned out to be of an extremely dubious nature. Petty crooks, drug dealers and the like, who, more often than not, took exception to losing to this strange, unknown Englishman. One night, in fact, after he had a particularly impressive win, he was confronted by a large, drunk, bad-tempered loser armed with a piece of four-by-two. 'Give me a lift home,' the man demanded.\n\n'I wouldn't have you in my car if you were the last person on earth,' retorted Hector. Not a good idea. He was not a polite man, and obviously could not see a dangerous situation when one arose.\n\nThe man was beyond talking too he was drunk: eyes rolling, and obviously unexpectedly broke. He was out for blood. Strangely enough, he liked me. 'You're out of this, mate,' he said to me. 'It's him I want.'\n\nI eyeballed this man, quaking in my boots. 'You are not going to do this,' I aimed at him. 'If you take on him, you take on me, this is your own fault.' I quailed.\n\nHe stopped, looked at me as if I was mad and dropped the piece of wood. 'Next time!' he threatened, shooting us both a look.\n\nThere wasn't going to be a next time. We left smartly.\n\nHector was, in his own way, quite well known around Spain. It was not unknown for there to be messages from old friends and colleagues left in the offices of the sundry yacht clubs that we frequented. They were sometimes pleas for help, money, advice (God forbid, presumably about gambling) or to inform him that they would be passing through and wanted to party. He was also a respected yacht skipper, and would often be called upon to deliver or collect a yacht from somewhere or other. On these occasions he would often take me along as a deckhand. On one occasion, however, he was offered the job of delivering a boat from Almeria to Alicante. Unfortunately, the owner wished to come along as well. Hector knew the man and, for some reason, disliked him. 'Why don't you take the job, old boy?' he said.\n\nIt was good money, and my seamanship had improved dramatically. I was not actually expected to be in charge, just deckhand, cook and serve drinks. We had also, between us, reached financial rock bottom. I agreed to go, negotiating the none too straightforward journey, via several buses, from Denia to Almeria. I was due to meet my new employer at the local hotel. There I was to book myself in, open a tab and await the arrival of the owner, expected the following day. We would then collect the boat and sail it to Alicante. Of course, this arrangement was bound to go wrong, and it did. The owner failed to arrive for another five days. I was a bona fide guest in the hotel, and it had been arranged that all my expenses were taken care of and the hotel itself was very comfortable, but I couldn't go outside the hotel for anything. I had not yet been paid my fee, the bus fares and travel had used up my remaining money and I was totally reliant on the hotel for everything, unable to even have a coffee in a pavement caf\u00e9. It was incredibly boring and frustrating. Needless to say, when my employer eventually arrived, I was raring to get back to Denia. The journey was uneventful though quite enjoyable: the coastal resorts such as Banus and Marbella were just starting to appear, as interest in the Costas as a holiday resort was just beginning. My temporary employer was a successful architect, so we were able to get a fairly close look at these places in their fledgling stages. Interesting in hindsight, as I live there myself today.\n\nAnyway, the boat delivered safely, I pocketed my money and made the hot, overcrowded, boring and bumpy bus journey back to Denia, arriving about a month after I had first set out!\n\nWhilst I was away, our wonderful benefactor, Kjell, had decided it was time to pack up his family and return home. Hector and I were effectively out of a job. We could just about survive by returning to the old routine of me cooking, washing up, waitering and generally odd-jobbing, and Hector gambling on the backgammon, but it never managed to provide enough to elevate us to our previous luxurious and pampered lifestyle. Inevitably by this time, I was tiring of this hand-to-mouth, rather rickety existence. The time was rapidly approaching when we were going to have to pay off our not inconsiderable outstanding tabs, and move on. Where to? We had nowhere to go, no money (as usual) and no prospects of anything more than subsistence living. We were sitting in our favourite bar one day, pondering on this dilemma. We would have to do the midnight flit, as we had out of Javea. This settled, we decided to celebrate with 'the last supper', only in this case it was the last lunch. We went for broke: we already owed this bar a huge amount of money, so it seemed more sensible to leave owing a staggering amount. We ordered everything, aperitifs, grilled Dover soles, salads and puddings washed down with copious amounts of good white wine. For a finale we ordered several brandies and a couple of cigars.\n\nAs we sat, replete, puffing on our cigars and drowning the last of our brandy, I became aware of a smartly white-jacketed, gold-epauletted, grim-faced waiter weaving his way through the tables in our direction. He was bearing a small silver tray on which was an envelope. It could only be one thing. Our bill. We looked at each other in horror. Thinking back, they had been a bit cool to us all day, and, to be fair, we had rarely managed to pay anything off our tab in the past. The sight of us indulging in this orgy of eating and drinking had evidently triggered the inevitable. As the waiter neared our table, Hector whispered to me, 'Well, I'm not taking it, you take it.'\n\n'I'm certainly not taking it,' I hissed frantically back.\n\n'Hope for the best and fear for the worst, dear boy,' said Hector encouragingly. The waiter had arrived. He placed the silver tray, with its envelope, down on the table between us and walked away. We then argued about who was going to open it. It looked terrifying enough just sitting there. In the end, I opened it. It wasn't a bill, it was a telegram, addressed to Hector, care of Denia Yacht Club. In short it said the following: 'Dear Hector, in deep trouble, wife broken leg, come immediately to Ajaccio in Corsica, I need help. Tom.'\n\n'Does this actually mean anything to you?' I asked my companion.\n\n'Ah, indeed it does. Known old Tom for many years, jolly nice old boy. Very comfortably off. You order another bottle, and I'll give him a call.'\n\nHe returned shortly from his reverse-charged call to Corsica explaining that Tom and his wife, usually residents in Denia, had taken their boat to Corsica for a holiday. While they were there, his wife had inadvertently slipped up on a bottle of gin or something and broken her leg and they couldn't make the passage back alone. Could Hector and, if possible, a friend as well, rescue them and bring them and the boat home to Denia? Apparently, we were to go to his house, see his housekeeper who would give us \u00a3500 (a huge amount of money) and fly from Alicante to Corsica without delay.\n\nWe ordered another bottle without delay. We had been saved! We eventually beetled round to collect our money, returned to the Yacht Club and settled our various bills. More drinks were ordered in the meantime, but by now, we did not have enough money left to fly. We would have to go by a cheaper method.\n\nWe caught the bus to Alicante, and then boarded a train for Barcelona, and from Barcelona we caught a very smart train to Marseilles, from where we planned to fly to Ajaccio. Once in Marseilles, I remembered, from a previous visit to the area, a particular restaurant, Mere Michelle (you will still find it in the Michelin guide today), which served the most exquisite prawns in a\u00e0oli, and the most wonderful bourride, and splendid chocolate cake. I suggested to Hector that it would be a crime to pass up the opportunity to have one outstanding meal before embarking on the last leg of our journey.\n\nWe found the restaurant and settled down to a superb meal, some excellent wines, and the usual coffees and brandies. By the time we arrived at the airport, we had missed our plane. There was another tomorrow: we would just have to spend the night in Marseilles. Having booked into a comfortable hotel, we set out to explore the town and have a couple of drinks, as you do. We also discovered the Casino. Well, by about four o'clock in the morning we were down to our last hundred francs. We had again run out of money. No money to pay the hotel and no money to buy our air tickets. We decided we had no option but to gamble the last of our money on the last spin of the roulette wheel that night. I always choose 0. It never comes up. It did. We were solvent again! We collected our considerable winnings, picked up our possessions from the hotel and headed, this time without deviating, to the airport.\n\nTickets purchased, a couple of heart-starters under our belt, we boarded the plane, eventually landing in Ajaccio three days after we had set off. Not too bad considering. We had, of course, spent all our money again. Hector, ever the optimist, strode out of the airport and yelled, 'Taxi!' Taxi? We didn't have the fare. 'Not a problem, dear boy,' he said. A large black cab appeared, we got in and headed for the port. 'Just wait here a minute,' said Hector to the taxi driver and he strode off shouting at the top of his voice, _'Bellavista, Bellavista_ (the name of the boat we were looking for). Minutes later, Tom appeared, delighted to see us. 'Just pay off that taxi, would you, old boy, we appear to have no money,' Hector commanded.\n\n'Absolutely no problem,' said Tom, 'I thought you'd have no money. You were bound to spend it all.'\n\nTaxi paid, introductions made, Tom and his limping wife took us off for lunch and arranged for us to have another couple of hundred pounds 'just for expenses'. They were a charming couple. Their favourite saying was 'have the other half. They would produce a bottle of gin and a bottle of tonic. They then poured out two large gins, slightly anointed them with tonic, drank them and then said, 'Shall we have the other half?' This, of course meant the other half of the tonic. They were permanently pissed.\n\nWe happily installed ourselves on board their splendid yacht and prepared to escort them back to Denia. 'I've always wanted to visit that nudist beach in Formentera,' announced Tom as we were about to head out. \"We can surely afford a short detour before we go home.' This, far from being a serious SOS, had become another jaunt. We called in at every major port in the Balearics. Hector drove the boat, I cooked for us, Tom and his wife had several 'other halves' and we finally arrived back in Denia several weeks later. As we said goodbye, Tom handed Hector an envelope. Yelling their thanks, they drove off. Hector looked in the envelope. It contained another \u00a3500.\n\nHowever, I had had enough. I was fed up with boating, fed up with the lifestyle and, apart from the occasional fling with the odd girl on holiday, I was fed up with the celibate lifestyle and really missing my son Patrick. It was time to go. I left my boat with Hector to sell (amazingly, Hector eventually sold _Flirty_ to an American enthusiast, who installed the boat in a museum in San Francisco), took my half of the five hundred quid and planned to return to where this story first started, in Wiveliscombe. It was agreed that Patrick should come and live with me. I would send him to the same village school I had been to all those years ago, rent a small cottage and consider my next move.\n\nBut then I had one more nautical adventure.\n\n# Attention all Shipping\n\nAt some time during the Mediterranean caper on _Flirty,_ I met a guy with a huge, two-masted Baltic trader. A magnificent sailing cargo vessel which he and his wife and friends had converted into a fabulous cruising boat. He said to me, 'You should go up to Norway \u2013 you can buy something like this for virtually nothing; in fact I know the name of a bloke who will find one for you.' I thought this would be a brilliant idea, so I contacted Willy, the plan being that once we had bought it and converted it into a luxury vessel, he would skipper it, I would cook in it and we would make our fortune cruising the Greek islands. So, with the few quid I had left from the sale of _Flirty_ and my Triumph TR6 and all the money that Willy could raise, we set off to Norway.\n\nAfter a month or two we found this amazing 65-foot Norwegian fishing boat that had originally been rigged for sail. It had the most amazing single-cylinder engine which was started by aligning a massive flywheel; this was kicked into action by compressed air. We spent a couple of months in Norway, near Bergen, getting the vessel as shipshape as possible before we set off on what was, for me, one of the most harrowing experiences of my life. At the time I harboured ambitions of being a writer. What follows is the account of that amazing experience which I wrote as a short story in the hope of having it published. No such luck!\n\n#### THIRTY-TWO HOURS\n\n'Attention all shipping. Especially in sea areas Viking, Fair Isle and Southeast Iceland. The Meteorological Office issued the following gale warning at 0630 GMT, today, Thursday, December 22nd.\n\n'Viking. Southerly gale force 9 now in operation, increasing later storm 10...'\n\nAt 11 a.m. we passed through the jagged gap at Marstein Lighthouse and into the North Sea.\n\nI went below to the engine room. Down the slimy bright orange steel steps to do the hourly outline oiling and greasing. And twist round the cold steel T-shaped handles and ram home some more grease into massive, slow-turning, clicking machinery. Before going back to the wheelhouse I checked the wooden bung we had to jam into the bottom of the starboard and main fuel tank. The wooden chock jammed between it and the engine-room deck that held it in position had vibrated loose. Gingerly, so as not to break the whittled-down broom handle that served as a stopper, I tapped the block tightly under it again. I waited for the ship to roll to port before I pushed open the engine-room door with my shoulder and, back on the starboard roll, scrabbled onto the deck and up the three steps into the wheelhouse. A violent roll back to port had me hanging like a weightless man over the thick grey water for a second. But with the next roll I made it easily into the little wheelhouse.\n\n'The bung was loose, I fixed that. Everything else is good,' I told Christopher, who was at the wheel.\n\n'Goodo.'\n\nI passed him a cigarette and had one myself wedged in the corner of the wheelhouse. The sky was clear, save a few clouds, and quite sunny. The door linking the bridge house to the wheelhouse swung open and through the after window I could see the sharp black mass of headland at the Marstein gap appearing and quickly disappearing in the small square window. Like a film badly taken from a tossing helicopter. I caught a glimpse, as an explosion of spray erupted around it, of the stocky lighthouse itself, standing safe and comfortably sound. Later I looked again. But there was only sea behind us then. The wind was blowing hard from the south, but not yet at gale force, though the sea was well up after days of force 10 and 12 winds. And the ship, completely empty of cargo and with no ballast except for some spare barrels of fuel lashed to the forward mast, rolled gunnel to gunnel as the short steep seas smashed spitefully into her.\n\nI was frightened of being sick, terrified of losing my nerve in front of this pea-jacketed public-schooled parson's son, who stood short and solid behind the wheel. Sharp submariner's eyes scanning the horizon through the cracked, streaming bridge windows.\n\n'This is the real big ship routine. We're on automatic pilot and nothing can go wrong. Go wrong. Go wrong.' For politeness' sake I laughed at Christopher's old worn-out joke. Any moment now he'd say, as a big one hit us:\n\n'There we were in the _Nautilus_ [or some such name], rounding the Horn in a force 12 with nothing on the clock but the maker's name, when...'\n\nI wanted to turn back. Now. We had been in the open sea for about thirty minutes. Telling myself this sixty-five-foot Norwegian fishing boat had been built for everything the North Sea could throw at it in no way gave me the confidence I desperately needed.\n\nShe had looked huge as we swept along at 25 knots, a few inches above the water, into the small inlet in the Bergen Fjord, her bow rising sheer from the still clear water where she lay magnificently and regally at anchor. Dominating, but complementing the grey lava-stone boathouse standing back from the jetty; man-made on the western point of the natural harbour. The eastern promontory that formed the other side sloped grey and grassless into the sea; beyond, a ribbon of snow-covered mountains merged with the white empty sky, dyed yellow where the sun was clawing to its zenith, slightly topping the mountains. The effort of getting there was too much and within minutes the exhausted, weakened yellow plate was sliding slowly down again.\n\nErik cut the engine of the motorboat and in perfect silence we glided through the crystal water to the ship's side, shattering the reflected image of her varnished planking with the wash from the launch. We knew this was the ship for us. The search was over. All systems were now go.\n\nThe idea, planted in my mind one drunken night in Motril as I stared over my drink into the darkening Spanish night nearly 4000 miles and two months away, was to be a reality. I had watched enviously as the huge Baltic trader, a three-masted schooner, had glided into harbour and moored ahead of me. And later, drinking John Collins on the after deck of the _Anna_ with her American owner and skipper, I was told:\n\n'Boy, few wanna cheap ship. Get yor ass upta Norway. They're giving 'em away up there.' He took another gulp at his tall glass, drained it and threw it over the side. The gentle plop erupted into sparks of phosphorescence. Suddenly. And died.\n\n'Y'understand me. The sea is the only life left. F'ra gennleman with no money. An alotta guys on shore tryin' a relieve yew of what yew have got. Go north, lad.'\n\nIn the morning I sent a telegram to Christopher asking him to join me on an expedition to Norway to buy an old fishing boat; these, according to my American friend, were being scrapped under a Government scheme to modernise the fishing industry, and could be bought cheaply to convert into luxury sailing vessels. I waited anxiously for a reply which took twelve hours. It was yes.\n\nAnd there lay _Andromeda,_ a long varnished hull, capped by white bulwarks sweeping way back to her rounded, canoe stern, which lifted a little in harmony with the rise of the bow. Even the large bridge house, rectangular and white with its wheelhouse, or bridge, leading to the chart room, skipper's bunk and galley \u2013 which on other craft we had looked at had seemed ugly and awkwardly out of proportion \u2013 was right on _Andromeda._ The massive mainmast, and the mizzen which stood aft of the wheelhouse, gave her the elegance of an old schooner. We walked, not daring to speak lest our excitement should cause us to say silly things in front of the owner and Erik, round to the stern, behind the mizzen, where a companionway led to the stern cabin, seven steps down into the hull, with heavy brass portholes. Christopher told me they were known as scuttles in the Royal Navy. Thick with furry green mildew or not, scuttles or portholes, they were there, with thick, expensive, practical green-tinted cut glass in them. Just what a proper ship should have. A ship with portholes like that had to be a good one. Back on the stern deck I could see that Christopher was mentally fixing varnished wooden seats around the bulwarks. To sit, on sunny days and dreamy nights, sipping gin and tonic. Christopher, when he could not toast his feet before an open log fire with a whisky in hand, would accept only one alternative. The canopied after deck of a ship. In the sun.\n\nIt took a long time to walk to the fo'c'sle, past the enormous fish hold, beyond a rusting winch, massive, angular and useless. More a piece of mechanical sculpture. Down the forward companionway, where the eight-man crew would sleep in her fishing days. Eight narrow wooden lidless coffins built round the iron coal stove. Gloomy with grained brown paint.\n\nStanding in the wheelhouse, eight or ten feet above the water, Christopher, legs apart, white socks rolled over green Wellingtons, took a feel of the huge spoked wheel.\n\n'This is big ship routine,' he said. The engine room, with its grey, single-cylinder engine, controlled by oily brass rods, was directly under the wheelhouse and forward of the stern cabin. A varnished teak door at deck level led to it. The planking there was smoothly worn by the rubber boots of the engineer. Scooped out enough to hold a pool of water.\n\nThat October day we found _Andromeda_ was long gone now. I held tighter to the wheel as the sea smashed unceasingly against us. It was hard to believe it was the same boat. Hard to believe anything. Harder to believe in anything. I was not even aware of being on a boat. Just a battle with the sea. I couldn't even share it with Christopher. He'd crossed the Atlantic in a thirty-foot yacht when he was seventeen. They even held his place at Dartmouth while he did it. I didn't want to be on a boat. The ship we had seen that bright clear day was mighty, proud, beautiful, even elegant and full of promise. Of good times. And suntanned ladies with icy drinks and warm bodies. Of tan sails, topmasts and gaffs, sailing into a sunset. Of friends in the leather-panelled saloon on leather seats sipping daiquiris. With me leaving the galley of succulent aromas for a moment to recharge my own glass. And perhaps feel a downy sun-tanned arm as I brushed past to the bar.\n\nBut October days are not the same as December days in the North sea. Where was that dream? It certainly wasn't in this cold, wet wheelhouse, as _Andromeda_ fought bravely, twisting and turning as the sea mounted assault after assault on her, with the inflexible desire for victory through humiliation, trying to crush, smash, beat this tiny wooden shell I found myself trying to control. The sea had everything going for her. Strength and vicious cunning. Endless schemes to catch me off guard, to unnerve me. Every time I fell for the feint. As my eyes followed the suddenly weakened waves, another more awesome green mountain would lash at us from the blind side, to send me spinning to the floor with the crumbling cigarette ends, awash in salty water.\n\nWhat if the engine stopped? That ragged mizzen couldn't help us. Or we overturned? We had no life raft. No radio. No flares. Just two life jackets. What could they do for us in December? In the North Sea. I'd rather jump over holding the anchor. You wouldn't see a man in this sea anyway. Sure, Erik had said he would notify the Air-Sea Rescue Service, if we had not contacted him from Lerwick within forty-eight hours. Cold comfort indeed. I opened the window and threw out a large cardboard box and watched it disappear in seconds in the sickening grey mass behind us. A thick green wall marched towards the bridge house. Unable to move, I looked it in the eyes till it hit me, as I ducked. The charts and pencils slipped to the floor. I turned my duck into a search for the pencils.\n\nAt twelve, one hour out to sea, I took the watch and Christopher went below for the engine routines. I suppose I felt better for having something to do. It was really the first time I had taken the wheel, and for the while, I was too busy trying to hold her on course to notice what was going on outside. Christopher popped back from the engine room and went aft to study the chart. I was glad to be alone. I felt my face was showing the fear in my mind.\n\nAs we pitched and rolled, lashed round the mainmast were seven 50-gallon drums of fuel oil. As the ship rolled they lifted clear off the deck, in crazy slow motion. Still loosely contained by the strained and rotted ropes, a drum would lift clear and stay up while another detached itself from the deck. For a moment, both were suspended in the driven spray before crashing heavily back into, miraculously, their places, only to be lifted clear of the retaining framework with the impact of a solid wave that we took full on the nose. It brought _Andromeda_ up all standing. Momentarily the engine note died as the sheer force of the head-on collision brought us to a dead halt. I lost control for a moment and the beam-striking sea forced me right round before I could regain my course. Now one drum was free of all ropes, wedged against the winch. The others must break free too, and run amok down the slippery deck until they were pitched overboard. I should tell Christopher. Now. Ask him to take the wheel while I restow the drums. But I couldn't go out. And run fifty feet up the deck as they careered towards me. Let the damned things go. We can buy more fuel in Lerwick.\n\nI clipped my safety harness to the line running the length of the ship, which I had fitted before we left, and ran, crouching, to the mast. Thankfully I threw my arms around it. To study the situation. To gain time for action. I fell with a crack against the bulwarks and saw the other end of the parted safety line snaking down the deck with the escaping water that had thrown me, when it burst over the bow. I was drenched. Sod it! That's it! Nothing worse can happen now. I heaved and lifted, shoved and pushed. Still ducking the breaking sea and cursing the spray that stung my eyes. Cold hands fumbling to untie the ropes. To retie them. To hold down the barrels. As I knelt with my back hard against the mast. Pulling the rope as tight as I could. I noticed matchsticks in cracks in the deck that the water rushing over them failed to dislodge. And the thick scabbing paint on the metal hatch to the fo'c'sle. The violent rolling was getting worse. I gripped the mast with all my strength, legs apart, bending at the knees to soften the sock as we flipped over and back. Sometimes sliding down a big wave the wrong way. And hitting a bigger one bow on. The nose. That lifted us up and stopped us dead until the engine picked up and plodded on. Again. Bomp. Bomp. BOMP. I died with the engine each time we hit a big one. I seized my chance and half crawled, half ran back to the wheelhouse door, which Christopher kicked from the inside to open, and the starboard flip threw me in. It was one o'clock.\n\nI went below again to the engine, on hands and knees to the steel deck, reaching through the prehistoric clicking machinery to the water pump, as it sucked itself up and down, spraying fine particles of grease and water into my face as I incline my shoulders to reach the grease nipple and step across the mighty crankshaft. Squeezing between the cylinder and the spinning flywheel to adjust the generator belt. Back in the bridge house, stripped and looking for dry overalls, I realised I had not checked the bung in the bottom of the fuel tank. If it came out, the fuel would drain away in minutes, leaving _Andromeda_ wallowing helplessly like a cork whale in this insane sea. Till we were pounded to bits, to drown without a trace.\n\nI could stand thinking about it no longer. For nearly half an hour I had argued, quite reasonably, with myself that it would not have come loose. Why, Christopher had checked it only an hour ago. Hadn't he? Perhaps he hadn't. Another three minutes of my precious hour off watch used up. It was still in place, though I tried to loosen it before I left the engine room satisfied. In the bridge house lying on the only bunk. The engine exhaust, a monstrous cast-iron affair, fifteen inches in diameter, ran through the cabin. It was _very_ hot and there was no way of keeping a window open for any length of time to get some fresh air. Time and again I was thrown from the bunk, too lazy and tired to harness myself to a steel rod that ran from the engine room to the cabin roof. I tried to close my eyes, begging for a few moments of unconsciousness. But as I tumbled to a doze, the engine note changed. There was a banging that I swore I hadn't heard before. Something had seized. The engine was slowing. Oh Christ! Then faster again. Christopher kicked open the door.\n\n'Got any string? Throttle keeps slipping. I need to tie it down.' I found some and crawled to the swinging door. Using both hands to pull myself up, I handed him the string. He did not comment. I made it a point of honour and efficiency always to have anything he asked for. But he saw nothing strange in the fact that I always had what he wanted. Sitting on the floor, with my back to the bunk and my feet against the opposite wall, I managed to fill a cup from one of the two flasks of hot coffee I'd prepared before we left. I never made it to the bridge. So we just ate sandwiches. It was too rough to drink.\n\nBy 3.30 it was dark. It would be night for nearly fifteen hours. One hour on, one hour off, for fifteen dark hours. On the hour, every hour, into the engine pit. The low bulb flickering and casting macabre shadows over the ponderous machinery as you felt for the grease cups, the oiling points. Your own wild shadow on the aft bulkhead as you tried to fill the oil can. Now you couldn't see the water. But the wind was louder, desolate over the thumping of the engine. We did not speak much when we changed watches, just reported the routines done. Or offered a hopelessly hollow 'Hello, sailor.' To which the other halfheartedly replied 'Hello, honkytonk.' And you were alone again for another hour, listening, straining for a change in the engine note, only feeling the dark sneaky waves as they hit you again, not seeing them. Then a moon, a long path of reflected light to drive down. But the moon was the sea's ally, no friend of mine. Called in to torment me with half shadows and shapes out there. Lit like wreckers' beacons, to draw me off course and into some bottomless pit. To plunge down for ever, never reaching the bottom.\n\nClimbing carefully onto the deck, not releasing one hand until the other was gripped tight. The greasy steps to the engine, exposed and clacking brass rods, the generator belt slipping. Oh God, please let it stop! The weather getting worse as I stand, forlorn, behind this wheel; the wind rising higher and higher, throwing a jet of spume against the windows and rattling the glass. Water trickling through the ill-fitting bleached window frames while the draught darts nimbly round the little paraffin light in the compass, almost gutting it. But it leaps alight brightly again and I taste the acrid fumes in a furry mouth, full of slimy, gravel teeth. But the smoke from the paraffin clouds the dividing window between the compass and the lamp, and I scorch my numb fingers trying to clean it.\n\nI want to get home. For the first time ever. There's someone waiting for me, who, after years of acrimony, scorn and hate, says it's me she really loves. Come back to us! Please! I know you really love me too. Her letters came almost daily while we sat at night moping in the late autumn rain, listening to the BBC World Service. On _Andromeda,_ tied to Erik's jetty. Waiting to leave. To know she's thinking of me makes everything worse. And my son, who I heard saying behind a bolted door once: 'It's Daddy, back from France.' As I hammered, unexpected and unwanted, on the door I owned. She would not open the door, for me or him. In case I took him away.\n\nMy son, he's only four. I haven't seen him for a long time. If I die, here, alone, now, he won't know how I love him. He won't know what kind of a man his father was. I'll be forgotten.\n\nI can't explain why I am doing this thing, or why I am so scared. Just to think of him saying, like he did the last time I saw him: 'You're not going away again, Daddy, are you? Daddy, don't go away again, Daddy!'\n\nDaddy. The very word makes me afraid. I want to cry. Son, I'm thinking of you. Can you feel me? Please wake up. I know you are sleeping now. How can I tell you I'm thinking about you? I'm frightened for you. For me. Oh God, at least stop me being afraid! It's the loneliness I'm scared of. I'm proud, you see, and selfish. A midnight hero. And if I have to die, I want someone to see, someone close, who would know I was brave at the end. Oh Christ! God! Make it stop, please! Make it stop. Stop this cruel crashing, this hungry hunting holocaust from turning my craft into a coffin.\n\nI know, I'll sing. If I keep singing...But I'll have another fag first. Ten hours we've been at sea. Christopher said thirty-two hours to Lerwick. Nine o'clock now. Ten or more hours of this blasted night. Five more watches for me. Five more engine routines. Four fags every watch. If I don't smoke them off watch, by the time this packet is empty, it will be day and I'll be able to see the Islands.\n\nAnd divide the morning into sections of little times, as we approach the land. Dreaming of pints of beer, kippers for breakfast, forgetting the terror of the watery night. Getting too drunk to be bothered to send a postcard to dear ones who, in times of pain, I call out to.\n\nThe compass light blew out. See everything in the moonlight. Those drums are getting loose again. We are bound to lose them. See the shrouds red where the port navigation light shines on them. Can't see the green, perhaps it's out. No, not as strong, it's OK though. Flat out, the engine beats time with God rest ye merry, Gentlemen. Let nothing you dismay. Dismay. Dismay. Erik had said:\n\n'A force ten? Oh, just keep going. Your ship is a good one.' Let nothing you dismay. Dismay. Dismay. That mast, it has not enough stays, it'll come down, rip open the deck. Help me if you can, I'm feeling down. And I do appreciate you being round. When I've finished this sweet it'll be fourteen minutes to four. At ten to four I'll have a fag. Then it's routines. Then an hour off. To worry.\n\n'Hello, sailor.'\n\n'Hello, honkytonk.'\n\n'What's it like?'\n\n'About the same.'\n\n'Goodo.'\n\n'I'll do the engine then.'\n\n'Righto.'\n\nStrapped in my bunk, wish I could sleep, wake up when we get there. But it's too hot. I'll open the window, take it right off. Banging by my head. Christ, the mizzen's moving from side to side. What the hell's happened? If that comes down! It's ten to six, I'll pretend I haven't noticed it. Let Christopher fix it when he comes off watch. You can't stand on the deck in this mad merry-go-round, the boom scything 180 degrees from port to starboard. If that mizzen goes, it'll rip the bridge house to pieces. I lashed the boom to the taffrail, the ropes had given, parted feebly, and the beam had smashed the starboard shrouds. The mizzen'll come down any time now. Christopher turned the ship down wind. Steadier now, the smashed bottle-screw on the end of the steel shroud swinging at my head. Duck and grab it as it swings. And miss. Watch the boom! If that hits you, you're over the side. I'm wasting my time, can't do it. Lash down the boom first. Don't stand up, daren't look over the side which is three inches away. Steady for the flip. Can't see any water now, just a moon beneath me.\n\nThe boom's fast. One more roll like that and the mizzen has to give. I can't stay here, must do it. Can't go back until I've done it. Get a rope through the bottle-screw. As the mast rolls back, get the rope under the handrail. Sweat it up. Can't. The mast swinging back the other way snatches it through my raw hands. This time. Hold on. Take a turn. Got it, but it's too slack. I know, pull the shroud and the rope extension together. That's it, hold tight here. Mustn't fall now. Trembling, back in the wheelhouse, feeling sick.\n\n'It's OK, I think it will hold till Lerwick.'\n\n'Goodo. Hold tight, I'm turning back again.'\n\nAnd on into the night. Down the track of the moon, a silver helter-skelter in this blackness. For Jesus Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas Day. Bomp. Bomp. Bomp. Dismay. Dismay. Twenty more cigarettes gone. But it's not light. Lashing the mizzenmast cost two hours. Please let it be light!\n\nIn a week of sheeting, leaden, howling rain, hard driven by a screaming wind, so hard you couldn't see the tall clapboard houses at the landing stage four hundred yards across the fjord from Erik's jetty, where _Andromeda_ lay tethered waiting for the weather to break, I woke, cold and damp, to a stunning silence. The rain had stopped clattering on the decks. There was no wind. I sensed a soft stillness floating down, in the quiet muffled morning, the stillness sweeping sombrely from the east, smashed by the nasal screech from outside.\n\n'Hey, English! Kom here! Hey, English!' I shot onto the deck. The old man was standing on the jetty, white boots and white sou'wester.\n\n'It is time to go. You must leave now. Maybe there will be an easterly. You wait more and you will stay all winter.'\n\n'I know, we plan to leave...'\n\n'Catch this, English!' and he swung a small cod and a crab towards me. I missed and they skidded down the snow-covered canvas-covered fish hold and dropped on the other side of the ship. When I had picked them up he was gone. Every day he rowed five miles down the fjord to lay his nets. Every morning again to check them for results. He was over seventy but seldom missed a day's fishing.\n\nThe fish, only minutes from the water, was frozen solid. I left it on the hatch cover; the cod silver and black, glinting in the pale reflected sun. Christopher, half standing in and half hanging out of the bridge-house door, was wrapped in blankets, his young face red and wrinkled with sleep.\n\n'What's going on?'\n\n'Only the Admiral. Telling us to go now. Gave us some fish again, too.'\n\n'How very kind.'\n\n'Yeah, but in a way it gets on my nerves, the Admiral telling us to go all the time. Erik saying we can't go till we've done this or that, the old shipbuilder coming down _every_ day, just looking at us working, never saying anything. Just looks as though we are mad or he knows the ship's rotten.' I was sitting on Christopher's bunk as he poured water from the enormous kettle into tin mugs, rolling my sixth cigarette of the morning.\n\n'Oh they mean well. But I agree, I can't stand many more of Erik's \"Captain's Rounds\".'\n\nDuring the five weeks we had been tied up at his jetty making preparations for the journey home or just waiting for the weather to break, Erik's daily visits to inspect our work had been getting us down. Yesterday, he had insisted we buy a radio. The day before, his wide-spaced blue eyes rolled in black anger as he patiently pointed out the need to replace the rusted rods that operated the steering. I, practised in the art of deceptive longwinded politeness, found the directness of his manner and his penetrating blue eyes disturbing. I felt them watching me from under the flat black captain's hat he wore, still in perfect shape and unbent after fifteen years. His questions were short, sharp staccato streams of loaded frankness. And he didn't take his eyes from yours while you fumbled for answers.\n\nTheir kindness and hospitality was unlimited. I felt we were taking advantage. We decided to stay away from the house for a bit, but Erik came down to the boat to ask why we were staying away. And the old boy who brought us fish from time to time would not accept thanks or rewards for his gifts, and only told us to go. 'The weather will only get worse. If you are sailors you must go. Before the winter.'\n\nThere was a scuffle of boots sliding on the icy decks and a stern knock on the door.\n\n'Cave, it's the Captain.' I jumped for a screwdriver and Christopher opened the door.\n\n'Good morning, gentlemen,' Erik said, in his sing-song but fluent English. 'I have to remind you of our little party tonight. Please come at half past seven.'\n\nBut for all we moaned about Erik and the others, without their help we'd never have found the boat. In the end he even waived the commission for arranging things. Our stay on the Bergen Fjord was sometimes miserable in the rain, for which the area is famous, and sometimes, very drunk in the Wesselstube, we would become maudlin and talk of home. I listened with half an ear to Christopher as my eyes scanned the bar for a woman to talk to, and later love, until it was time to leave. One night, at a discotheque in Bergen's Bristol Hotel, I whispered loving lies and she said yes. And after, warm on the floor of a foreign flat, she left to cook breakfast for her man, whom she loved more than me. This free love that cost dear, in later lonely nights of searching. And Christopher said, 'It serves you right. You have a wife at home.' A wife whom I could speak to on the telephone from Lerwick, perhaps only ten hours away from this cruel sea. Erik had been upset when we left. It was good to think \u2013 no, to know \u2013 that he would not be happy till I phoned him from Lerwick. He'd put his faith in us and in _Andromeda._ We could not let him down; _Andromeda_ could not let him down. He would not have given us the party, the farewell party, if he had not thought highly of us.\n\nDuring the day, Erik had floodlit _Andromeda_ so she could be seen from the windows of his house by the guests at the party. At the bottom of the stairs were crossed British and Norwegian flags, not cheap paper ones, but crisp, proud flags on silver-topped varnished poles. Over the table, set with finest silver and twinkling cut glass and groaning with Norwegian cold delicacies, were charts pinned to the wall, showing with red silk tape our route from Bergen.\n\nCrowning the table was a model of _Andromeda,_ detailed from chocolate ice cream with drawn-sugar rigging, which it broke my heart to eat. After smoked fish in cream sauce, smoked oysters in hot red juices, bitter herrings, sweet herrings. Happy talk of voyages in Viking ships, long ago painted in wood dyes, passing this curious purple liquid back to me again which I choke back during the speeches of hello and goodbye and pretend to gulp down the wrong way to hide my sadness. The cool hand holding mine under the table is staying behind with a husband I tried hard not to hurt. To be a star in this gathered galaxy and drunk two ways at once, leaves me six feet tall and wet-eyed.\n\nErik was crying when he said goodbye. 'My son.'\n\nTo remember this in the night. Don't worry, I won't let you down. Don't let me down. Don't let me down. Driving up this night. Down that wave to the morning light. With no moon now. Sometimes see the port light spilling red into the driven spray. Wonder if they'll fuse if the water gets in. Hope Christopher checks the bung, too. If I press my thighs against the wheel I can hold the course to roll a cigarette, instead of these filter things.\n\nSeems to be a ship over there, without lights. I could follow it, it's going my way.\n\nPunching through this soft lead sleeping bag, chewing blood and stone. Eyes closed, I smash the lamp to kill the light, whose exploding bulb blows my mind. When I thought I'd really made it through the night.\n\nI woke up to a distant shouting. Coming closer. Christopher in the doorway. It's morning!\n\nMorning. Despite the wildly rolling grey water, morning was beautiful. Pale grey seeping through the inky sky, slowly at first, then more boldly creeping from the bow towards me, till I could see the compass rose and my feet. And the lighter I dropped in the night. This impertinent revealing dawn flooding grey greasy skin and black eyes red-rimmed below matted hair, with the yellow pallor of a December sea dawn, makes me smile. The terrible monsters of the night leaving in the light. Leaving me alone with the barren hills. Grey uniformed legless sentinels marching wave after wave inexorably upon us. Regardless of loss or injury, marching endlessly to do battle with me, they hurl their mindless bodies at me. Again, and again.\n\nRemorseless wreckers, smashing us down, to spring up before the count, barely upright before a fresh onslaught hurls us over to the broken water on the other side.\n\nMorning. Hello world. Good morning, morning. Christopher singing. Morning has broken, like the first morning, blackbird has spoken. Tired, nervous eyes straining through the morning gloom for the low outline of the Islands. Everything grey, can't see where the sea ends and the sky begins. The excitement of morning fades, spirits dropping like a shot seagull. No land. No beer by two o'clock. Well, there's poor visibility, probably won't see anything until we're right on top of it. It's only ten o'clock anyway. At best speed we can't be there before about five. But morning should have brought something. Seagulls, or another ship, or a bleep on the radio DF.\n\nThe novelty, relief, of daylight has gone now. Two o'clock on this sunless North Sea day, slipping fast into dusk. Got to get used to the sea again, those pounding grey aqueous automatons, heart-sinking thuds as they hit us. The prospect of day helped me make it through the night. But grey landless day is so empty, so lonely. And now it's day, the weather can only change for the worse. Running before a southerly gale to Iceland, or an easterly to America.\n\nIn half an hour it will be dark again. We must be able to see something by now, surely to God. We've no way of knowing our actual speed. Maybe we're only halfway there. He'd reckoned on about six knots, but what if we've been doing only two or three? Last night's \u2013 last night? Has it only been one night? \u2013 last night's fear coming back. Inevitably, like night itself. I can't face another night in this reeking wheelhouse. The paper I put on the floor to soak up the grease of our boots is in a million black balls, dangerous to stand on, rubber soles slipping down this desolate December day.\n\n'A ship, a trawler. I can see a ship.'\n\n'It has to be coming from Lerwick then. Pass me the DF. I'll try to raise Ronaldsay Point again.'\n\nAn hour ago we couldn't get a bleep from the thing, and now it's blasting our ears.\n\n'A life on the ocean wave...' Our spirits soaring. The trawler going south across our bows, into the sea, head on, plunging up to her bridge in water and lifting right out again, clear, and crashing down. Christ! Look at that sea. God knows what we must look like to them. But still no lighthouse, or outline of land as darkness fell like a sheet of wet and rotten moss.\n\nFor two hours you can see the pitching stern light of the trawler. It must just be very bad visibility. The lighthouse has a range of thirty miles. We must be that close at least by now.\n\nNot another night! Not another night! I linger in the engine room in the hope that when I come up there will be a light.\n\n'I've got it, over there. See it?' Christopher said calmly. Leaving this range of water mountains, closing the sound in cold and calm. As lights wink on along the shoreline under the dark shapes of the mainland. Nearly colliding with a towed trawler, limping out from a battering received in 120-mile-an-hour harbour winds. Standing in the bows, I could make out Christopher's glowing cigarette moving as he frantically manhandled the controls to bring us alongside. On the quay, a small knot of men had gathered under the ghostly fluorescent lights, attracted by the unfamiliar note of our engine.\n\nI threw the bow line too late and missed. I could feel Christopher curse as he had to make another pass at the quay, but he was going too fast anyway.\n\nAs we came in again, a man shouted, 'Get the rest of the crew up. Don't do it on your own.'\n\nThe engine died as he wound it frantically back, before it picked up into hard astern. This time we made it. In seconds we were ashore. The Harbour Master came over to us:\n\n'Where are you boys from then?'\n\n'Bergen.'\n\n'Just the two of you?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'You must have hearts like lions.'\n\n#### THE END\n\nWell, I suppose our dream had been altogether too romantic: there was no way we could raise the money to convert the ship and luckily, to save our skins, just, Willy managed to sell the boat to an enthusiast who wanted to catch scallops.\n\nP.S. Because the short story was meant to be a work of fiction, the names of the main characters have been changed to protect the victims!\n\nPPS. I have always been a frustrated writer, an unfulfilled writer. I imagined a sun-soaked terrace under an azure sky with freshly watered lemon trees dripping onto terracotta tiles where, between the hours of eight and twelve, before the sun got too hot, I would tap away at my Olivetti Electra 22. Well, I hadn't made it yet, but what's wrong with having dreams?\n\n# Draw Sword and Charge\n\nAs I said earlier, I have never kept a diary, don't have any photographs, don't keep press cuttings, in fact I don't even have copies of my own books, or even videos of my TV programmes, so I can only imagine or guess that it was around 1974 or 1975 that, with the generous financial help of a friend \u2013 I had spent the last few months or year working as an employee cook, something which I was not happy about, having always been pretty much self-employed \u2013 I started a small wine-importing business. I had visited the department of the Vaucluse in Provence, usually as the guest of my former _Evening Post_ Editor, Richard Hawkins, who owned, and indeed still owns, a cherry farm and had fallen completely in love with the region, its food and its wines. I restored a three-ton, ex-GPO lorry and once a month drove down to the Rhone valley to fill my truck with 3000 bottles of wine, which I then proceeded to sell to the restaurants and wine bars in the still throbbing city of Bristol.\n\nI visited countless vineyards and something called _caves cooperatives_ before I found the wine I was looking for, which was a highly drinkable country wine, an unusually powerful red from the Lub\u00e9ron. It came in those wonderful old, five-starred litre bottles and at a price which would make me, the restaurateur and his customer jolly happy. I was at that time well known within the Bristol eating and drinking restaurant society so I had no difficulty in obtaining orders for my first shipment. I spent frustrating weeks getting all the necessary bureaucracy sorted out \u2013 import licences, wholesale liquor licences etc. The idea was to buy the wine in unlabelled bottles and relabel them as 'Floyd's Vin Rouge'. Before setting off on my first trip, I phoned the bottlers in France to make sure that everything was organised and ready for me to pick up, and off I set from Southampton to Le Havre, trundled all the way down the autoroute to Paris and then on down the autoroute du soleil, through Burgundy down to Lyon, into the Rhone valley and finally into Provence. I was so excited and happy at starting this venture, and it also stood a reasonable chance of making a bit of money. I travelled down with a friend called Bob to help me load the truck and we were going to stay at Richard's farm and, after we had loaded, celebrate with a superb meal and drive the fifteen hours back to the ferry, stopping only for diesel and lunch.\n\nLiterally tingling with excitement, I parked the truck outside the warehouse and bounced into the office to pay for and collect my wine. The man at the desk filled in endless forms, issued me with a thing called a _vignette_ \u2013 this was the necessary licence required under French law to transport wine \u2013 I paid the bill and the taxes and carefully folded the multi-rubber-stamped _factures_ and placed them carefully in my briefcase. I asked where the wine was. He called a man to take me to it. He pushed the heavy sliding door open and led me to a loading bay where my wine was stacked. _'Voil\u00e0,'_ he said pointing. 'Help yourself.'\n\nI was dumbfounded! He was pointing at a huge stack of heavy, coarsely made, wooden crates, each one containing ten litres of wine. 'Where are the cartons?' I asked. 'Why isn't it in cardboard boxes?'\n\n'Oh, we don't put wine in boxes,' he said. 'People who buy our wine take it away in these crates and when they have sold it, they bring back the crates and refill them.' The sheer volume, not to mention the weight of the crates, made it impossible for me to get even a third of them into the truck.\n\nI was devastated, the whole thing was quite impossible. I went into the office and asked for help. The man said there was someone in Cavaillon who made cartons for the melon farmers; perhaps he would help. I asked the man to phone, which he did and he said Yes, he could supply me with boxes. What a fool I was not to have thought of cardboard boxes. I just assumed that wine came in cardboard boxes; also, I was not sure if I had the money for these boxes. I was now confronted with many problems. First I must get the cartons, which I did \u2013 flat-packed, rectangular boxes designed for melons and melons only. I then had to buy a roll of white adhesive tape, then I had to make two journeys from the _cave_ to Richard's farm to get the wine into his barn, unload all the bottles from the wooden cases and make two journeys back with the empty cases to the _cave_ and claim my deposit on them.\n\nBy the time we had done this, it was dark and there was no electricity in the barn. There was nothing else we could do until the next day, the day we were due to return to England. You could say I was bowed, but not exactly broken, so we went down to the local caf\u00e9 and had a few rounds of pastis before eating and working out a plan. The next major problem was, of course, that the cartons had no divisions and as the following day was Sunday, there was no way of buying anything to cushion the bottles with. I laugh today, but at the time I think I was close to tears when I realised that the only way to pack the wine into the cartons, each one of which took twenty-four bottles, almost too heavy to lift, was by bedding them in bucket load after bucket load of painfully gathered, fallen autumn leaves, a task which took up the entire day.\n\nFully laden, the truck was much slower going back and it took us eighteen hours to get to Le Havre, where I was obliged to spend three hours filling in forms with the French customs before waiting in a queue wait-listed for that night's ferry. On arrival in Southampton, I had to go to the freight customs office, armed with a veritable file of paperwork. Five hours later, I emerged, cleared and ready to go. The customs officer said if I came through again, I must employ a customs agency to do the paperwork as was the normal procedure. The problem was, that would have cost about \u00a3200 and would have seriously damaged the profitability of the load.\n\nFrustrated and exhausted and several days late, we finally got back to Bristol to face the next crisis, which was to soak off the heavily glued labels from the bottles, which we did by dunking them, one after the other, into buckets of lukewarm water. I was so delighted by the achievement of importing this wine that I gaily dismissed the disasters and cock-ups of the last few days and set about flogging the stuff. This took about a month, during which time I tried to arrange for the wine to be properly packed in cartons for the next trip, which my suppliers either were unable or refused to do. They did, however, suggest I contact another _cave_ producing similar wine which they felt sure would help me out, so I set off again to pick up another load. To my great relief the wine was in boxes, the bottles were not labelled, everything was perfect, and the director of the _cave_ spoke perfect English. I roared back to Bristol in triumph and on schedule and with no customs problems either side.\n\nOn the next trip, on arrival at Southampton, the customs officer decided to exercise his right to have a full inspection of my cargo and asked to see a selection of boxes from the very front of the truck, which, of course, involved unloading the first 150 or so cases. A bloody nuisance, but it had to be done. I started to unload the lorry, only to be told that I was not allowed to do that, I had to employ an official gang of port dockers to do it, heavily controlled by the unions as they were. They would not be available to do this until the next day, which meant I had to stay with the truck in Southampton dock until it suited them to unload the boxes. It never took my companion and me any longer than two hours to load. The team of eight or ten men that I was obliged to hire took six hours over it and managed to smash several bottles. The customs officer also insisted this time that a customs agent filled in the forms. The cost of the agency and the dockers wiped out every penny of profit on the entire load. I felt like reversing the truck into the harbour with me in it.\n\nBut as you may notice through these chronicles of mine, I have this stupid stubborn streak in me which says I won't quit.\n\nDuring my regular visits down to the Avignon area, I noticed that every Sunday, in a nearby town, there was an antique and bric-\u00e0-brac market in the main street and I hit upon the wizard idea that instead of taking an empty lorry down to Provence, I would fill it with junk and flog it in this market. This was not as simple as it seemed: licences had to be applied for, I needed to be able to live in the town and in fact reverse the whole modus operandi, which I did. As for the wine business, partly through the exigencies of the customs, partly because of restaurants' notorious habit of not paying their bills and my stupidity in selling too cheaply, it was quite clear that it was a disaster. On the other hand, the English bric-a-brac was selling like hot cakes. I therefore abandoned the wine and instead of going to France once a month to buy wine, I went to Bristol once a month to buy junk.\n\nThis continued quite satisfactorily for several months, until I pulled into a parking area, just off the autoroute near Avallon, on route for Bristol. As I opened the bonnet to check on a burning smell, the vehicle burst into flames and was completely destroyed, along with my briefcase containing all the money to buy the next lot of merchandise. In the breast pocket of my shirt I had my passport, my driving licence and about twenty quid. The police arrived very quickly and the fire brigade far too late. They took me back to the gendarmerie, where I reported the accident, or act of God, or hammer of fate, call it what you will. I explained that I would now have to hitchhike back to Avignon, and they invited me back for a drink in the canteen and drove me to a hotel and restaurant in a nearby town which they said was much used by truckers. I had enough money for a room for the night and dinner, just, and the police had asked the proprietor to fix me up with a lift with the first possible truck heading down south. Shortly after eight o'clock I was sitting high up in the front of a massive articulated truck chainsmoking Gitanes filters, having a complicated conversation with a driver who had an impenetrable Breton accent.\n\nAfter about three hours, we were flagged down by a gendarme for what I assumed was a routine control. There was much armwaving, shouting and shrugging which resulted in the end, to cut a long story short, in the lorry driver and me being arrested on suspicion of being overladen. Under police escort, we drove to the public weighbridge in Beaune, where the truck was found to be some 20 tons overweight. We were then taken to the police station at Beaune, where there were more heated discussions, frantic phone calls and statements being written and signed. I was now just so punch-drunk with bewilderment, confusion and hopelessness, I just sat there. The driver protested his innocence, his proprietor on the phone was doing the same when suddenly, as only seems to happen in France, because it was twelve o'clock, the aggression and the talking stopped and the police took us to a restaurant and bought us lunch. By now I was totally confused. At two o'clock we were back in the police station. It seems everything had been sorted. We drove round to a cold storage unit on the industrial estate, where we were both given thermal smocks with hoods, rather like monks, and under police supervision, the driver and I unloaded 20 tons of frozen fish fillets before we set off, once again, for Avignon.\n\nAfter a couple of days of brooding, thinking, planning and facing the stark fact that everything was busted flat, I made a bold and enlightened decision that would save everything. With unerring madness, I opened a restaurant, slap in the middle of a small market town in Provence. And, believe it or not, after all I had been through previously \u2013 in Bristol, elsewhere in Spain and Portugal \u2013 I was the only one who could not see that I was stark raving bonkers...1 mean, alcoholics can ring up the AA, potential suicides can phone the Samaritans, battered wives can phone a helpline, but for a chronically incurable optimistic restaurateur, there are no such support systems.\n\nAround 1979 or 1980, after about four terrific years in France (now, dear reader, at this point in what I hope is my ascending literary career, I have to explain that it is not possible within the confines of this autobiography to recount what a profound influence France, and my French friends, had upon my development, both as a cook and a person. It is a book in its own right which, one day, I will get round to writing), I felt it was time to move back to England and try to start a serious money-making business. I felt I had learnt so much about food and cooking and wine that it was time to get serious. I was about thirty-seven or thirty-eight, I suppose, and I felt I had learnt some harsh business lessons too.\n\nThe problem was, as usual, that I had no capital. However, this was overcome by a group of friends who all invested in the new restaurant \u2013 strangely enough also called Floyd's Bistro \u2013 on the basis that over a couple of years they would eat off their investment. Plus, I had a good track record with suppliers from the original Floyd's Bistro days and they were only too happy to give me extended credit to get started again. While I converted a double-fronted shop in a charming Victorian street, to cut costs I lived on the earth-floored basement, sleeping on a camp bed. This I continued to do once the restaurant was open until it had become successful enough for me to be able to afford to develop the basement into a larger kitchen and store rooms. When I first started up, as with the original Bistro, I had a small open kitchen overlooking the dining room.\n\nI attracted a bizarre clientele of high-spending, hard-drinking, good fellows. Wealthy entrepreneurs with gold medallions and white silk suits and bronze Bentleys, who liked their steaks well done but bought vintage port by the crate, mixed happily with doctors, actors and a load of media people. The medical faculty of Bristol University provided all the waitresses, washers up, waiters and kitchen assistants that I needed, all of whom were training to be doctors. During all the years I have since and subsequently run restaurants and pubs, I never had a better staff team than those medical students.\n\nThe restaurant established itself quite quickly, with a very loyal, regular customer base. I was thinking that I might soon be able to move to bigger premises and get back into the mainstream restaurant area, which was Clifton. During this time, some ten years after I had separated from my first wife, I got married again. Two restaurant-owning friends, Barry Yewille and Mike McGowan, gave us a fantastic reception in Michael's restaurant and Barry provided the Bentley. Unfortunately, my mother-in-law refused to acknowledge me in any way, convinced, as she was, that I was a former convict and a bigamist, and despite the birth, a year later, of our wonderful daughter Poppy, she never allowed me into her house on the tax-exile island of Guernsey. This and my own driving ambition to make a success of the restaurant, which resulted in me coming home very late and leaving very early, put an insupportable strain on our marriage.\n\nOne of my very regular customers, a highly successful businessman, proposed a scheme that he would finance totally, whereby we would open a chain of Floyd's restaurants. This was the break that I had been dreaming of. Companies were formed, shareholders were found, directors were appointed, meetings with banks, lawyers and accountants took place. I was going to be given a huge sum of money for the use of my name, enough to set my own life up really well, plus shares, plus a salary. This quite extraordinary deal was an open secret in the city and on the day that we were due to sign the deal, the local paper ran a major story with the headline, 'Floyd sells out for a fast buck'. The idea was that we would have a central kitchen where fresh food would be painstakingly prepared, vacuum-packed and chilled and distributed to the satellite restaurants. Indeed, my tycoon had taken us on several very extravagant trips to Paris to study this system of catering. The deal was to be done in his huge country house set in manicured gardens with a paddock full of horses and huge garage full of expensive new cars. Safe in the knowledge of the impending deal, I wasn't too worried about the creditors and the bank overdraft. I also celebrated, for the first time in many years, by buying myself a brand new Volvo estate car and ordered a few handmade suits as well. I was just about to leave the flat to go to a meeting, when my lawyer called to tell me that the whole deal was off. The man, in fact, had not been able to raise the money that he thought he would \u2013 unfortunately for all of us finding financial support for restaurants is a notoriously tricky business \u2013 and, after nine months of negotiations, I never saw him again.\n\nMy attitude has always been to draw my sword and charge. I don't care about or count the odds. If I want to do something, I will bust a gut to achieve it. But in the seventies there just wasn't the understanding of risk investment and I found myself forever dealing with really shadowy figures. Had I today the enthusiasm that I had then for starting new restaurants, I know for a fact that I could attract the financial resources and, much more importantly, the financial administration necessary to make an outrageous success\n\n# Cameras, Fish and a Walk in the Garden\n\nSo, all those months of negotiations and all the promises had come to nought. I was absolutely devastated. Not only that, I was in an appalling financial situation. On the strength of the deal I had mortgaged the restaurant but at the same time another recession had hit. I could barely make the repayments and was in imminent danger of losing the lot. My marriage was heading screaming onto the rocks and most weeks it seemed as though I had more visits from bailiffs than from customers. I was forty years old, virtually bankrupt, and there was nothing on the clock but the maker's name. I was a middle-aged cook with a brilliant future behind me. I was cooking splendid food that no one wanted to eat. The trouble was the success of Floyd's Bistro ten or twelve years previously was still fresh in people's minds. They still wanted the moussakas, goulashes and boeuf bourgignons, but after my sojourn in France I had moved on from that. I had developed and was cooking truly authentic French cuisine. My wine list was too long and esoteric, my imported, unpasteurised French cheeses were not eaten and no one seemed to be impressed by the fact that I stocked every conceivable marque of Cognac, Armagnac, Calvados and eau de vie.\n\nNo one really noticed that every single dish was carefully cooked to order and they thought I was short-changing them because I refused to garnish my dishes with unnecessary wedges of tomato, mustard, cress and lettuce. In a life so far full of outrageous peaks and troughs, I was at my lowest ebb. The few regular customers I did have loved the place so much that they kept it to themselves as a jealously guarded secret. There had been so much publicity in the local press and radio about the new company that its failure to happen tarred me with the same brush as the other well-known Bristol chancers.\n\nIn a desperate attempt to revive the restaurant's fortunes I decided to 'down-market' it, and I even opened for Sunday lunch and offered excellent dishes like roast guinea fowl, jugged hare, paella and couscous and a help-yourself table of hors d'oeuvres, George Perry-Smith style. Now, in France, in a competent bourgeois restaurant, you have an inexpensive menu du jour, or a menu gastronomique and an \u00e0 la carte, but on Sundays, when families go out to eat, the menu du jour is suppressed and the prices are hiked and the clientele flock in with their families and enjoy themselves uncomplainingly. Why is it, in Britain, that Sunday lunch is synonymous with a discounted price and why do people, who if asked to work on Sunday demand double-time rates, expect to get Sunday lunch in a restaurant at half the price of a meal in the same place during the week?\n\nI had resurrected the bistro format and renamed it Floyd's Bistro. I advertised it heavily in theatre programmes, newspapers and, of course, as often as possible I plugged it on my radio show, which I had just started.\n\nWell, it didn't work. In fact the whole thing backfired in a spectacular manner. Night after night telephone bookings failed to arrive. Then one day the awful truth dawned on me. The original Floyd's Bistro, known now simply as the Bistro, was still operating in Clifton. People thought I had moved back to my old location in Clifton. They all turned up there and so that business boomed as a result. Most nights after work, I would go round to see Barry at the Bonne Auberge which would, of course, be packed with Bristol's glittering medallion Mafia and their peroxide molls. We would go upstairs to the Casino where, unbelievably, I was extremely lucky and for many weeks managed to keep my financial ship afloat. Needless to say, we were all drinking far too much and many nights, after an hour or two in the Casino, we sat drinking in an illegal club until dawn. Harry's Club opened at 2 a.m. and was frequented, exclusively, by gamblers, late-night waiters, croupiers and criminals. It goes without saying, this appalling lifestyle didn't go down too well at home, but, quite frankly, I was past caring and didn't give a damn.\n\nOne morning, one sunny, happy morning (I had had a good win the night before) I was making red pepper mousses when I was called to the phone to speak to a man called David (why don't people who take telephone messages find out who the people on the phone are, their surnames and what they want? I had no idea who David was). I took the receiver and said, 'Good morning, Keith Floyd here, how can I help you?'\n\nHe said, 'Hi! It's me!'\n\n'Who is me?' I asked.\n\n'Me, David.'\n\n'David Who?' I asked.\n\n'David. David Pritchard. You remember?' Well, quite frankly I couldn't remember. Eventually, of course, the penny dropped. It was the producer who had filmed me in the restaurant eighteen months previously. 'Yes,' he said, 'I've been promoted. I'm now Features Editor at BBC Plymouth. How would you like to make a programme about cooking fish?' Of course, I was delighted and we arranged to meet for lunch in the Mandarin Restaurant the following day.\n\nSo, over a lunch of dim sum, steamed crab with ginger and shallots, fried Singapore noodles, pak choi in oyster sauce, crispy roast duck and a lake of saki, David outlined his plans. We would travel the West Country, catch fish in lakes and rivers, go out on trawlers, visit fish markets and smokeries and cook what we found. It was, I thought, a brilliant idea, but more importantly, exposure on local television would surely help my restaurant. The down side was that I would have to be away from the restaurant for several weeks and I was not in a position to pay somebody to replace me as the chef and my two assistants were not really up to frying speed yet. Also, I had a ten-year-old white Mini van which both my wife and the restaurant needed. And, although I had readily agreed to accept David's offer, I couldn't see how I could afford to do it. For a start I needed a decent car, so I asked David, 'How much do I get paid?' He said it would be about \u00a32000 for the seven episodes and it would take about seven weeks to film (as I write this twelve years later, 'Floyd on Fish' is still being shown on TV stations around the world). I persuaded him to give me an advance of \u00a31000, put a grand deposit on a Volvo estate car and thought, 'Fuck the restaurant, the boys can cope. This opportunity may never come again.' Also, any excuse to get away from the restaurant and its inherent problems and unhappiness was good enough for me.\n\nDavid Pritchard, a big man with a voracious appetite for food and pints of Bass, a brilliant sense of humour and an anarchic attitude, was just the companion and challenge I needed, since I was severely disillusioned with the restaurant business. Two or three of Bristol's most popular restaurants, even in 1984, were making the sauce for their canard \u00e0 l'orange by chucking a jar of marmalade into the antediluvian espagnol sauce, while I was roasting free-range Barbary ducks to order and reducing the pan juices flavoured with finely minced duck liver. While they were still serving unripe, green rugby balls cut in half under the name of melon au porto for \u00a31.50, I was serving whole, chilled, aromatic, ripe cavaillon melons with iced Muscat de Beaumes-de-Venise for \u00a32.75. A bargain for the punter and a loss leader for me.\n\nOnce I had been the leader of a restaurant revolution but now I was floundering in a tidal wave of medallions of pork fillet in a cream and mushroom sauce and thrown up on a beach strewn with fillet steaks covered in cream and pink peppercorn sauce. To be accurate, take out the word sauce and just say cream and pink peppercorns. To make matters worse, a former kitchen assistant of mine was enjoying huge success with a small restaurant in Swindon modelled on the original Floyd's Bistro, which was promoted in local magazines and papers appearing to imply I was involved in it.\n\nTwo of the most successful dishes in the first Floyd's Bistro in Princess Victoria Street in Clifton were boeuf bourgignon and paprika beef. The two dishes were prepared in completely different ways. The bourgignon was cubes of beef braised in red wine, button mushrooms, baby onions and lardons. The beef paprika was browned and simmered with finely chopped onions, garlic, fresh tomatoes, Hungarian paprika and various fresh herbs and served with a little fresh cream or natural yoghurt. My former kitchen assistant decided that the lengthy preparation of the dishes was too arduous and a quite unnecessary chore and expense, so he made a brown thick stew to which, if it was to be boeuf bourgignon, he would add washed-off pickled silverskin onions and add tinned mushrooms. If it was to be beef paprika he took a portion of the stew and stirred in a dollop of tomato puree and a handful of paprika and, of course, no one gave a damn.\n\nBut to me, this was the most appalling attitude to take. Integrity in food is essential. It doesn't matter whether you are frying an egg or preparing an exquisite terrine of foie gras set in a Sauternes jelly, you must respect the raw materials. For example, then, as now, my mother never betrayed her culinary integrity. Because I am something of the Prodigal Son, when I return home the fatted calf is lovingly presented, and she will always offer a choice for lunch. It might be a leg of pork, its crackling roasted crunch and golden, with sage and onion stuffing made from the crumbs of her own home-baked bread, herbs from her garden, apple sauce and a rich, but not thick gravy, and a roast duck with chestnut stuffing and a rich giblet sauce. Many cooks and most housewives, even if they bothered to offer two different dishes, would certainly not take the trouble that my mother did to make her pork gravy from pork bones quite separately from her duck sauce, made from giblets, carrots and onions. I recall an occasion when my wife Tess and I paid a flying visit for lunch, having previously begged my mother to take no trouble, but we were presented with simmered breast of lamb with a creamed caper sauce made from the lamb stock, and boiled ham with parsley sauce, equally creamy and smooth with fresh parsley chopped into it and, of course, the base of this sauce was the ham stock.\n\nAnyway, back to my former kitchen assistant, now Bistro owner. He had worked for me briefly, washing up and preparing vegetables, in Floyd's Restaurant and although he was a sharp, bright young man, after twelve weeks and a series of baffling incidents, I had to, as they say, let him go. Years later, under a variety of assumed names, he would still sell lurid stories to the tabloids based upon his 'long-standing and intimate friendship' with me that had 'stretched over years'. He was one of those people who only remembered that he knew me after I had appeared on network television. The day after I snubbed him when he bounded up to me like a long-lost buddy in a pub in Clifton, he sold a miserable story to the _People_ newspaper, claiming that now I was rich and famous I had abandoned all my pals who had helped me through difficult times. I shan't name any of his various aliases (but for the moment let us call him Steerpyke), but he knows who he is. As they say, 'What goes around, comes around' and one day that little shit will get his comeuppance.\n\nHowever, as I sit here today on the terrace under a warm, rapidly rising sun, drinking chilled fino in my fine penthouse apartment overlooking the Mediterranean, and Paco is watering and de-heading brightly smiling geraniums, Carmen is polishing the silver, and a Bentley convertible waits in the drive to take us to lunch, I can't help wondering where he is now. Selling timeshare, insurance, who knows? Who cares...?\n\nAnyway, none of this has happened yet, although it was only the tip of a massive iceberg that I was later to crash into. Right now I am stunned and excited and raring to go and am looking forward to whizzing around the country, staying in hotels and enjoying the glamour of being with producers, make-up artists, wardrobe mistresses, cameramen, home economists and all the glittering paraphernalia that I thought was attached to working for the world's finest broadcasting organisation.\n\nSo, to return to the initial plot. I loaded my highly polished second-hand Volvo with my knives and Magimix, several sets of clothes and several sets of shirts, each of the same colour blue, yellow, white, etc., and set off on a squally, thundery afternoon down the M5 to meet David and the crew, as instructed, at a hotel somewhere near the Devon\/Cornwall border. I eventually arrived at my destination. As I pushed open the sticking, dirtily glazed door and stepped into the foyer of this worn, red-carpeted hotel with its cheap, gilt ornaments, tasteless pictures and a wood-grained Formica reception desk, the first of many illusions was shattered. The place was cold and dark, smelt of chips and was out of season. Eventually, a grumpy, fat barmaid-cum-receptionist waddled out only to announce, in bored tones, that she could find no reference to my reservation and there was no BBC film crew booked here either. They did, however, have a room if I wanted one. I thought it best to take it, sit it out and hope the others would arrive.\n\nSome hours later, around about eleven or eleven thirty, David came rollicking in carrying a small suitcase that was decorated with Mickey Mouse and other Walt Disney characters. 'Keith! Hello!' he said. I looked askance at the suitcase. 'Ah. Yes. Lucy's. My daughter. Hey,' he said, 'you missed a great evening. The Green Mullet down the road does the best Bass this side of the Barbican. Had a brilliant evening! Anyhow, let's go and have another.' Why not? We went through to the grim, gilt bar and ordered drinks. He had not asked how I was, how I had been or where I had been. I told him that we had no reservations. 'Ah, Frances will sort that out,' he said, 'she booked it. I'm the producer. She looks after things like that.'\n\n'Where's the crew?' I asked. 'I thought there would be a crew.'\n\n'Oh, they're probably looking for a cheap curry house or a fry-up in a transport caf\u00e9.'\n\nThis turned out not to be the case. The crew, having been given the address of an entirely different hotel, had also arrived to find there was no reservation for them. Obviously. While they set off on foot to rectify the situation their van was broken into, and they had spent the last three unhelpful hours at the police station. They eventually arrived at our hotel. Like me, they had not eaten. We couldn't anyway, because the hotel stopped serving food at seven o'clock, and David, unconcerned because he had had several bowls of won ton soup and Singapore noodles at a nearby Chinese restaurant and was full of Bass, announced he was tired and must go to bed. I had not been introduced to the crew and we sat there awkwardly, making small talk, wondering how to get something to eat. It was twenty to one in the morning. Finally we managed to persuade the woman behind the bar, who was in fact quite nice and under the circumstances very sympathetic, to make us some sandwiches. Eventually, a cheese sandwich later, totally confused, bewildered and full of whisky, I climbed several flights of stairs dragging my suitcases with me, to a bedroom with no bath or shower and a broken pane in the window.\n\nIn the morning, after an appalling breakfast, we set off to our first location. The Horn of Plenty. A very prestigious, country house restaurant near Tavistock. It was a warm and sunny day. As we sat on the lawn, I had already forgotten the names and roles of the crew that Fran, David's personal assistant, had introduced me to earlier that day. She was probably in her late thirties, with rich, black hair, a millboard in her hand and a stopwatch hanging around her neck. She reminded me a little of my sister, kindly and concerned and overenthusiastic in an anxious kind of way. I didn't know what the stopwatch was for; in fact, I suddenly realised I didn't know what anything was for. David and the crew, who had worked together many times before, evidently, were reminiscing happily about previous shoots and I felt very much excluded. I was clearly the new kid in town.\n\nFinally, I could bear it no longer. 'What exactly are we doing?' I asked David. I had imagined there would be a plan, a script. I'd heard about Idiot Boards. I supposed there would be a schedule.\n\n'Oh, just go and cook with Sonia,' he said (Sonia Stevenson was one of the few great British female cooks at that time). 'You know,' he said, 'just do your thing.' Jesus Christ! I had no idea what my 'thing' was. Years before, with David and Celia, I had eaten at the Horn of Plenty and sat in awe of Sonia's food and in fear of her husband, whose prodigious knowledge of wine and music was legendary. I mean, was I to interview Mrs Stevenson while she cooked? Was I to cook? Was I to be a presenter or a participant? 'Ah, don't worry,' said David, 'we only want four or five minutes.'\n\nAt the end of eight hours of setting up lights, spraying shiny surfaces with dulling spray, after several takes of me and Sonia standing like Woodentops, directionless, behind our chopping boards, I learnt the first great television lie. 'We only want five minutes' means We will now bugger you about for six or eight hours.' I had seen no television cookery programmes apart from the odd glimpse of Fanny and Johnny and a few seconds of the Galloping Gourmet some years previously. This was an entirely new concept and one that didn't even exist as we were the first people to do this type of programme.\n\nOf course we were all lost. I stood like a petrified lemming while Sonia (equally terrified, I found out later) was also wondering what the hell to do. Needless to say, the hake was similarly clueless and lay there, torpid, its eyes glazing over, waiting for the next instruction which never came. David said things like Turn over!' Somebody else said 'Speed!' Frances said, 'Oh, I haven't got my watch!', so the commands Turn over again', 'Speed' and 'Off you pop' from David followed. Sonia, with a piece of hake trembling in her hands, for all the world the cookery teacher at an expensive girls' school, said in a flat, hesitant tone, Today, I am going to show you how to prepare poached hake with hollandaise sauce. Now, first you must gut the fish.' She said it again. 'First you must gut the fish,' and the fish was duly placed on the chopping board. She looked helplessly around for a knife and wandered off to the other side of the kitchen to find one. I stood there. The camera was turning, Sonia had disappeared and David was shouting 'Cut!'\n\nWhat was clear was that none of us had a clue what was going on. Sonia had not been briefed. It was not her fault, she'd never done this before. She and I were both awkward and embarrassed, and David was already impatient with the lack of progress. After twenty minutes of command and countercommand, Sonia assembled all that was required on the same table. We started again and I adopted the hesitant interviewer's attitude, saying things like 'And what are you doing now, Sonia?' and she would turn to me or I to her like the wooden figures in a weather house. She said, 'I am now filleting the hake, Keith,' and I turned towards her with all the ease of a Thunderbirds' puppet and said, 'What are you going to do next, Sonia?'\n\nWe were two hours down the track. It wasn't working. David was tearing his hair out and the crew could barely disguise their contempt at such a show of unprofessionalism and incompetence.\n\nAt the next impasse, Clive, the cameraman, said, 'May I make a suggestion, Pritch? Why don't you and Keith go for a walk in the garden?' Clive had spotted, but had not presumed to publicly say, what was going wrong. In all the meetings before today, Pritchard and I had got on extremely well, but now there was a chasm between the intention of the programme and its deliverance (over the following eight or ten years Clive would often suggest the 'walk in the garden'. It later turned out to be the fundamental key to the success of the Floyd programmes). Alone in the garden I explained to David that I had no role to play in this cooking scene and equally I didn't think Sonia could handle it on her own. I now understood exactly what she was trying to do, so couldn't we reverse the roles? 'You remember when I did the rabbit in Chandos Road? Couldn't I cook the hake in my way and ask her to help me and get her to taste it to see if I have cooked the dish correctly?'\n\nDavid immediately agreed. He said, 'I tell you what, get a bottle of wine on the table and cheer the whole thing up. Humanise it. Take a swig and get on with it.' I actually needed a drink, I have to say. Back inside, David explained to Sonia the new approach, and I set about preparing the hake \u2013 poaching or frying it, I can't remember which.\n\nI spent twenty minutes, as any cook would, preparing my ingredients on the table next to the stove. I then said to David, 'Would it be OK if I had a bottle and a glass of wine, because I have an idea?'\n\nThen I asked David how we should set up the piece, and he said, 'Well, you and Sonia should be here first of all to establish where we are. You will introduce Sonia, she will move out of shot and you will carry on.'\n\nI broke eggs into the Magimix and made my instant hollandaise sauce, chatted away to Sonia and every time I had a second's mental lapse over what to say next, reached for my glass of wine and said, That's that. Time for a quick slurp!' I was flying. Sonia was brilliant, the dish looked great and quite unwittingly, thanks to the quick slurp of wine, we had cracked it.\n\nI did the opening piece to camera, introduced Sonia, took off my double-breasted very expensive West of England woollen cloth blazer, placed it on the floor and, Walter Raleigh-style, invited Sonia to step over the imaginary puddle and out of shot and then I set about cooking the dish. I glanced up while the onions were frying in the pan and realised the camera was fixed on me, not on the food. What possessed me to say it I will never know, but I did. I said quite curtly, 'If this is meant to be a cookery programme, we ought to be looking at the food and not me. Point the camera down there, please.' I suddenly realised that Clive was now staying on the onions for too long and I didn't know what to do next, because those onions had to soften before I could add the white wine. In desperation I said, 'Hey, Clive, back up to me for a sec...I want to say something to the viewer.' I said, 'Ah thank you. Look, while these onions are sweating down, which will take about five minutes, I think I will just have a quick slurp of wine,' and although none of us knew it at that moment, to quote Bob Dylan:\n\nThe line it is drawn,\n\nthe curse it is cast,\n\nthe slow one now\n\nWill later be fast,\n\nAs the present now,\n\nWill later be past,\n\nThe order is rapidly fadin'.\n\nAnd the\n\nfirst one now\n\nWill later be last,\n\nFor the times they are a'changing.\n\nFlushed with a sense of achievement, later that night Pritchard and I were back in the Barbican drinking Bass, congratulating ourselves for what we at least thought had been good. He looked hard at me, after eight pints of Bass, and said, 'I want you to remember one thing...I will never treat you as a star.' Years later he told a journalist when asked about me, 'I think I've created a monster and it's time to load the gun with silver bullets.'\n\nLooking back, I realise that a marriage made in Hell which was to last for eight or nine years had been consummated.\n\nFor the next five or six halcyon weeks we charged around the South West of England, cooking on trawlers, inventing imaginary scallop festivals in Bridport. We hooked and lost salmon, hooked and cooked pike, baked trout in newspaper at the 'last trout farm before motorway', stayed in appalling hotels, ate endless curries, drank pints of Bass and laughed into the small hours of the morning. We waded up to our waists in mud on the Severn Estuary to retrieve fish from a kind of tennis net that trapped the fish at high tide. We filmed elver poachers in balaclavas on the river Parrot. We collected cockles and mussels on the Pembroke coast. (This turned out to be an unusable sequence because we were filming on an RAF bombing range and the noise of the screaming jets obliterated our soundtrack.) We stir-fried prawns in Chinese restaurants. We spent a fruitless night pilchard fishing in Cornwall with two charming rogues who happily accepted the BBC fee to take us out at a time when they and the pilchards knew there were no pilchards, and drew what they called 'the black net' after six fruitless hours, but that, they said, was the fault of having a maid aboard (a quaint reference to Fran). We dredged the most succulent oysters from the Helford river. We were up at dawn, eating raw fish, guzzling mussels, with me sticking my finger into hot sauces and pronouncing them 'delicious!'\n\nAll the time David was demanding more and more. 'Eat more! Taste more! Have another oyster! Take that bass again and smile while you suck it into your mouth!' I was sick to death of fish. During the whole time we rarely had a recognisable meal at a recognisable time. 'Enjoy those sardines! Smack back another mouthful of monkfish! Say that again! As you spoke, a piece of fish was dribbling from your lips!' And all the time, none of us knew what we were doing. Every time I ad-libbed perfectly the sound man rejected the take because the noise of the gas burner and the sizzling of the pan was, to him, unsatisfactory. Every time I had concluded a complicated piece of cooking, Frances would click her stopwatch, fumble through the sheets on her millboard and whisper in her soft, beautiful Scots accent, 'Ooh, David, I think the tomatoes were left off camera when we started and now they are not in the shot.' So, because of some totally unnecessary continuity, we would go again. The last take was perfect but David, who had stood behind the camera like a football manager in the bunker beside the pitch, gesticulating and silently urging me on, said, 'Yeah, yeah. Crap anyway. Let's go again!' At this point, of course, there would be a twenty-minute delay, because the lighting man, anxious to get in on the disruptive act, decided he needed to reposition his lights whilst I, hot to trot, wanted to go again immediately, not least because the one and only fish I had was about to be burnt to buggery! I felt as if I was back at school, doing high-jump trials. Each time I cleared the pole successfully, they hiked it up another two inches! It wasn't until I finally knocked over the pole at its highest level that David would say, 'OK, check the gate.'\n\nAfter what seemed like months of rushing around the West Country, eating and living fish, to my utter amazement, David suddenly announced that the final shoot for the last programme was to take place in Brittany. I think I have mentioned several times in this tome that I had never kept a diary, press cuttings or photographs. In short, I have no tangible record of what I have been doing for the last twelve years since we first made 'Floyd on Fish'. I can recall some splendid meals at the restaurant in St Malo called La Duchesse Anne. I know that we discovered an amazing dessert at Jacques Yves's restaurant there. In fact, it was such a good dessert that on several occasions Pritchard and I would have about twelve or thirteen of them before staggering up the wooden hill. The dessert in question was a Slim Jim glass with a ball of lemon sorbet drenched in a variety of flavoured vodkas. So you can see, it is difficult to remember exactly what went on and so, I am afraid, my dear reader, I have had to do a little bit of cheating and to give you an idea of the last day's filming of 'Floyd on Fish', I have had to phone up a friend and ask to borrow his copy (for I have none of my books) of _Floyd on Fish_ to refresh my memory. From my first masterpiece (published by the BBC) I quote the following:\n\n> Low tide at Cancale and the beach stretches far to the Brittany horizon. The sun has resigned, washed out by the early evening grey. A niggling wind is blowing, rippling the water in the little oyster basins that clutter the beach like a system of crude sewage tanks. Concrete tanks that trap the receding tides are filled with sacks of oysters. Stumps, clustered with mussels, stand like rotten gibbets, way down to the muddy sea.\n\nA toothless woman packs her beach stall, folds the money into her apron and bounces off across the shingle in a battered _deux chevaux._ The oyster farmers, another day over, roar away in yellow oilskins on orange tractors to the comfort of a bar in the village. Crocodiles of multi-coloured school children, their Natural History lesson over, snake off across the flats to waiting buses. The last tourist rolls up her beach mat and makes for the hotel. Seabirds wheel and cry over a beach, derelict and deserted of human life.\n\nDeserted, that is, except for a BBC film unit, which in no way can be described as human. We are about to shoot the last sequence and after weeks of catching, cooking, eating, talking and breathing fish, we are at an end.\n\nThe director wants a good pay off. 'You know, just one last plumptious little darling. A little sizzler to go out on.'\n\nM. Mindeau, a charming diminutive Frenchman who has spent the day courteously guiding me around the oyster beds, waits, uncomprehendingly, as the director explains what he wants.\n\n'Roll up your sleeve, pluck an oyster from the basin, hold it to camera. Do the piece again, where M. Mindeau says the Portuguese oysters are the mushrooms and the flat Helford ones are the truffles. Translate it in a piece to camera and...'\n\n'I am not eating another oyster!'\n\n'Just put your hand in the basin, grab the ******* oyster, open it and eat it.'\n\nThe director, tall and plump, starts towards me, pointing a threatening finger. I say, 'Listen, I've been eating these things since seven this morning, as well as clams and spider crabs and cockles, whelks, winkles and raw mussels. Not only today, but every day we've been filming. Fish! I loved it, now I hate it. I won't eat another oyster for you or anyone else!'\n\n> M. Mindeau looks at me, then at the director. He smiles and shrugs his shoulders. I know what he is thinking. And I feel guilty, so I swallow the oyster and smile.\n> \n> The director says, 'Cut. It's a wrap.'\n> \n> The cameraman looks at him. 'Keith's smile was a little forced, you know. Happy with that?'\n> \n> Something in me snaps. I choke on the half-ingested oyster and collapse into hysterics. M. Mindeau just smiles; a sad, pitying smile.\n\nFilming was over. David had edited it and I returned to the BBC studios in Plymouth to record the commentary. People like David Attenborough, or any esteemed broadcaster, I later learnt, would have spent hours reviewing their film and carefully preparing their script, which would be broken into readable and articulate sentences and delivered with consummate skill each time the green light came on in the dubbing theatre. Not so with 'Floyd on Fish'. Pritchard and I would scribble notes as we fast-forwarded the tape and I would ad-lib to the pictures until such time as we felt lunch coming on. We would then go into training for the world sakidrinking championships, and return to the BBC Club in Plymouth, just as the bar opened.\n\nDavid, ever mindful of his wife, always took her home a present after protracted absences from home. On this occasion, as we staggered from the Chinese restaurant, he purchased a head of spring cabbage for his beloved wife and decided to have a quick pint of Bass or three before actually returning to the club, which was full of serious weather forecasters, smocked, documentary-making feminists, silvery-haired newsreaders of the old school and an aggressive assistant producer from Birmingham. We walked cheerfully into the bar. Remember, Pritchard was a senior man. People crowded around him, sycophantically asking for his views on the work on which they were engaged. He held up the cabbage, high above his head, and said, 'This cabbage has more feeling, more sensitivity, more art, more talent than you bunch of cunts could ever get together for the rest of your lives!'\n\nA few weeks passed and I was invited to appear on 'Spotlight', which was BBC Plymouth's regional news programme, ostensibly to promote the first episode of 'Floyd on Fish'. On live regional television, the presenter said, 'Hello, good evening. Our special guest tonight is Keith Floyd whose programme \"Floyd on Fish\" will be screened tonight at eight o'clock. Now tell me, Keith, what was the biggest fish you caught?'\n\nI said, 'It's not a fishing programme, it's a cooking programme.'\n\nStunned silence. 'Oh my God. I thought...please fade to black...' It transpired that, although he was the Commissioning Features Editor of BBC Plymouth, David had to work to the BBC's regional remit, which was to make programmes which reflected local interests or activities. Polluted rivers, dry stone walling, local arts, musicians and fishing, because, of course, Devon and Cornwall were famed for their fishing. Because the station was not known for cookery, everyone assumed that we were making a documentary on the state of the West Country fishing industry. No wonder I had been confused by the lack of information and organisation. David had been, and still is, flying by the seat of his pants.\n\nWhenever I was in trouble or distress, like the time in France, like times of marital crisis, I always fled to Gull Cottage in Dorset to my lifelong friends David and Celia, and there I knew I would not be able to see the screening of the first episode of 'Floyd on Fish'. Instead, I could get warmly drunk and cosseted in the Bridport Arms with people who really did understand me. I didn't give a damn about Floyd's Bistro, which was, for the moment, back on a high. But full of vain curiosity, I phoned them the next day, to be told that they had been inundated with congratulatory phone calls from people who had seen the show, and moreover, the _Western Morning News_ led its television review with the headline 'Last night, a star was born.'\n\nThanks to David Pritchard, I was out of the frying pan...\n\nBut, as a kind and gentle man who had cycled hundreds of miles to court my mother \u2013 a man who had been temporarily financially broken by my schoolboy extravagance, a man who urged me never to become a bloated middle man, nor a lender nor borrower be, a man who read me the _Just So Stories,_ a man who had been hurt by my juvenile resentment, a man who quietly quoted, 'If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two imposters just the same, if you can...walk with Kings, nor lose the common touch...if you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run...you'll be a man, my son' \u2013 would have said to me, 'You might be out of the frying pan, my son, but you will surely jump into the fire.'\n\nSadly, Sidney Albert Floyd died before he could see the results of the investment of his time, sagacity, wisdom, tolerance and morality, and the love that he had given to what he must have thought was a hopelessly wayward son.\n\nHappily, he did not live to see his prophecy realised.\n\n# Food, Frying Pans and Fame\n\nBeneath an azure sky the Mediterranean, dotted with fishing boats, twinkles two hundred metres away from the balcony where I sit typing. As I pause to sip a crisp chilled manzanilla and nibble on an olive stuffed with anchovy I realise it is fifteen years since I wrote my first book...well, not really a book, a cookery book. I sat in David Pritchard's office in the BBC studios in Plymouth with a two-week deadline and a beaten-up Olivetti Letra 22 manual typewriter, an advance of \u00a310,000 and a pile of blank paper.\n\nHow times have changed, how life has changed in those fifteen years. Mostly these days I dictate books onto expensive and totally bewildering laptop; in fact only the other day for a book called _Floyd on the Mediterranean,_ I stood in frustrated fascination as Karen, who had come to operate the machine, wittered on interminably about bytes and Apple Macs (Apple Macs...is that some kind of fruit hamburger? The only bites that a computer takes are out of your soul). Yes, how things have changed. Carefree, shambolic days filming in the West Country, drinking pints of Bass in the Dolphin pub in the Barbican in Plymouth, sakidrinking competitions and fried noodles in the Mandarin at night and the pleasure and excitement of having had fifteen minutes of fame on BBC Regional Television.\n\nNow as I gaze at the ocean eighteen books, sixteen TV series, three marriages, one receivership, countless kiss-and-tell stories, outrageous press praise and equally unjustified vilification later \u2013 not to mention several million pounds earned, spent, lost, stolen, misinvested, squandered, removed and remisinvested, the lost friends I had no time to meet and the unwelcome strangers who befriended and surrounded me like horseflies \u2013 I wonder, if I knew then what I know now, whether I might never have made 'Floyd on Fish'.\n\nOh well, time for another manzanilla...\n\nDespite the outstanding regional success of 'Floyd on Fish', the Programme Controller, or the Boss, or whatever he was called, flatly refused to offer the series to the network, and so began the first of a series of battles and feuds with what must be, apart from the CIA and the Mormon Church, the most mysterious organisation in the world...the BBC.\n\nFortunately, Pritchard was a member of the BBC Mafia and managed to outmanoeuvre his boss, and 'Floyd on Fish' hit the network with a bang. Suddenly I was in demand for opening fetes, giving cookery demonstrations and after-dinner speeches. I was, if you like, a one-man unknown rock'n'roll band that had had an unexpected hit record. I bought myself a new car with a personalised number plate, FOF304 _('Fuck Off Floyd', 'Floyd on Fish, 'Floyd on Food',_ or what you will), and travelled the country doing cooking gigs in kitchen centres, Electricity Board showrooms, university theatres, women's institutes, food exhibitions, caravanning exhibitions and finally in provincial theatres, where up to 500 people would pay money to see me perform on stage. With the help of a great pal called Peter Bush, who played the piano, with a variety of attractive home economists I developed an outrageous one-man show, sort of a cross between Dave Allen, me and Peter Ustinov. On the bigger gigs we had an a cappella group from Clifton College in Bristol, immaculate in dinner jackets and black tie, singing songs like Fats Waller's 'Fish is my Favourite Dish'.\n\nWhile my things were cooking I told long, convoluted, shaggy dog stories. One that went down particularly well \u2013 except for on one unfortunate occasion, I think it was in Cheltenham, where, unbeknownst to me, the whole audience was comprised entirely of a women's Christian group \u2013 was the one where I pretend that I am being chauffeur-driven in my Bentley to the gig and I am listening to 'Hudlines' on the radio and I say, 'It's amazing, I had no idea I was so famous, I suddenly heard my name mentioned on \"Hudlines\". I spoke into the intercom and asked my driver to turn up the radio. I heard them say, \"What's the difference between Keith Floyd and a jog? One is a pant in the country...'\" and then I would pause and wait for the reaction, which was obviously hysterical. 'Unfortunately at that moment we went under a motorway tunnel, the radio blanked out and I never did get to hear the answer.' Get it? And on and on and on.\n\nBut by and large the cooking gigs were a nightmare. One classic one was at an Electricity Board headquarters, where I was to demonstrate to about 300 home economists and all the staff, about 600 people in all. Despite having sent very carefully annotated lists of my requirements for cooking pots, etc. etc., I arrived and, to my horror, found they had provided ceramic-topped electric cookers but had had to borrow the pots and pans from their staff canteen, where they cooked on gas. There was no possible way that these pans, contorted by years of gas rings, could function on the ceramic tops. To make matters worse, when I did manage to get things going \u2013 and I like to use a lot of heat \u2013 I had three or four cookers going at the same time and the ovens flat out, and about every five minutes the whole lot fused. I was forced to abandon the cooking and tried to entertain them with stories. On other occasions I used to arrive and it would be a stage in a university theatre and there would be no water. Cooking once on a cross-Channel ferry in front of 400 people I was devastated to find my equipment comprised a trestle table and an electric frying pan. After two miserable years hacking around the country I gave up gigging, and now wild horses and thousands of pounds would not lure me to another cookery demonstration, even in the NEC.\n\nAnother depressing side to gigging was driving myself around and staying in the weirdest of hotels and pubs, where everybody wanted me to stay up all night drinking with them, and being forced to eat something that the chef had specially prepared for me, when all I really wanted was a plain steak and salad, certainly not rolled fillets of sole stuffed with larks' tongues, smothered in some dreadful sauce; nor did I want to eat a five-course dinner. I spent years, and indeed I still do, travelling with a variety of small plastic bags in my pockets in which to dispose of unwanted morsels.\n\nThe same thing happened while we were filming 'Floyd on Fish', mainly in Devon and Cornwall. People were so kind and helpful and generous that it was really hard, at times impossible, to turn down invitations to eat overelaborate but well-intentioned meals. The irony of the thing was we invariably left our hotels before breakfast was served and returned after the dining room had shut, so I developed an emergency rations pack which I travel with to this day, which is an ice box filled with Mars bars, apples, mineral water and whisky and, wherever possible, white-sliced-bread-and-cucumber sandwiches.\n\nThere was another funny thing...the whole business of books and television is so mysterious. I was suddenly but quite casually told by David Pritchard: 'Oh,' he said to me one day in the pub or in the office, I forget where we were, 'they want you to write a book for this \"Floyd on Fish\".'\n\nI said, 'Who's they?'\n\nHe said, 'I don't know, some chap from BBC Books phoned me up but I forgot to tell you about him.'\n\n'Oh, thanks!' I said. This was actually quite serious, because I was broke, a temporary miniature star still having to live with my mum because my marriage was in trouble and I couldn't afford to rent anywhere as they needed something like three months' rent as deposit and I just did not have it, so \u00a320,000 to write this book was going to change everything. David didn't mean not to tell me, it's just that he lives his own life and forgets things, particularly other people.\n\nEventually I went up for a meeting with this brilliant chap called Roger Cheown who, David imagined from his voice over the phone, 'must be a dashing cavalry major type of person', which sounded great good fun. On the other hand, I had friends who were writers and they always told me that the negotiations were always very tricky and you must take great care or you could sign your life away.\n\nOf course, while I was doing the book tour and filming 'Floyd on Fish' and then starting to do the cooking gigs, I had to neglect my restaurant. The consequence of that, of course, was that I managed to offload it at a complete loss but at least before the bailiffs took it away completely.\n\nSomething almost as mysterious is a book signing. With the consummate skilful planning that they always seem to come up with, my first one was in Boots in Portsmouth in, I think, 1985, for _Floyd on Fish,_ and the only person who turned up for the event was my cousin, Adrian, who happened to live in Portsmouth, because my mother told him I was going. There had been a small oversight in that the television programme had not yet been transmitted, so nobody knew who Keith Floyd was at all and there was no reason for anybody to turn up to see someone they had never heard of, signing a book about fish, when they didn't know if it was about angling, catching them or cooking them or what.\n\nAdrian turned up, which was very good, and I sat there.\n\nIn a variety of ways we went all over the country, sometimes on a bus, sometimes on a train, sometimes in a taxi, turning up at all these places, and they stand behind you while you are there and the manager says to the PR girl, 'We had Alan Whicker last week, he signed 180 copies. Do you think he'll sign any?' and you feel like you're a cabbage or a product. But I had always realised that you are only an expendable commodity so I decided very early on in my career that if I was only an expendable commodity like a sack of Brussels sprouts then I would adopt Mr Sainsbury's attitude: I would have the finest refrigerated lorry to be transported around in and I would be given the prime, best refrigerated shelves to sit on. Consequently I decided, right from the beginning, after my first experience of a book tour, that if anybody wants me, unless they're prepared to pay for first-class travel and accommodation I am not going. That wasn't out of arrogance, it was because I thought they could always say no, and since they spend so much time telling you how wonderful you are (until you actually ask for money from them), let's see it. This is a policy that I maintain to this day.\n\nSo I asked John Croft from Absolute Press (I had contributed to two books out of goodwill and written him another little one called _Floyd's Food_ for 400 quid, which helped establish him a bit as a local publisher) if he'd come up to London with me and have lunch and let me know what he thought about it all.\n\nBy some magic piece of osmosis, if that's the word I'm looking for, the result of this lunch was that Absolute Press became copublishers of my book and John Croft somehow became my literary agent, taking 20 per cent. A couple of years later he announced that he wanted to become my formal literary agent. By that time I wasn't too happy with him but I didn't say anything about it. However, he sent me a contract, and even though I didn't sign it this enabled him, when I tried to dismiss him or terminate his services, to sue me successfully for loss of future earnings and defamation of character and professional ability. I don't know how it happened, and of course we went to the lawyers, etc., with me saying that it was outrageous and that I shouldn't have to pay people with whom I hadn't signed a contract, but apparently you do. So I had to settle out of court for tens and tens and tens of thousands of pounds, not to mention the vast fees I ran up with lawyers and QCs and stuff like that. Quite extraordinary. Lots of things have happened to me like that, and that's perhaps why I don't have any money. My accountants' bills always seem to be \u00a370,000 a year.\n\nAccountants make me shudder. I remember one day I was in Santa Fe, New Mexico. It was Easter and I was filming 'Floyd's American Pie' and I got a phone call from my accountant, who said I'd got too much money in my bank and that I must buy some pensions immediately and I'd got twenty-four hours to organise it otherwise I would have to pay a whole lot in tax. Well before I went to America I told my accountants I would be away for the next three months and asked if there was anything I should know. 'No, everything's absolutely fine.'\n\nA similar thing happened in Normanton, right up at the top end of Australia. They phoned me one day (this is a different accountant by now, of course. I have had more accountants than most people have had hot dinners) to say that I hadn't filled in my company tax returns and had twenty-four hours to do it otherwise I might go to prison!! I said, 'That's your job.'\n\n'Well, yes,' they said. Once again, I had told them I would be away for three months in Australia and asked if there was anything I should know about and they had answered no. They're still whacking through these huge, huge bills.\n\nAnyway, more of agents, accountants and lawyers a bit later...\n\nThe programme 'Floyd on Fish' caught up with the book and actually in the nonfiction section it became a number one bestseller, even though it was only a very small book, and in fact, with only two exceptions, I think that all of the books I've written have all managed to make number one for some period of time in the bestsellers' charts. _Floyd's Fjord Fiesta_ didn't because there was no television programme to go with it and _Floyd Uncorked_ didn't because again, it had only a small audience at that time on Channel 5.\n\nHaving got rid of the restaurant I had to carry on doing the food gigs because I had no other source of income, and as the brouhaha of television had died down a bit and I was getting bundles and bundles of fan mail asking me for recipes and lots of requests to open things, I thought, That's it, I've had my fifteen minutes, what the hell do I do now?' When we wrapped on 'Floyd on Fish' that was it, there was no more BBC, nobody phoned up and said, 'That was great' or 'Would you like to do something else?' There was just silence. I imagine it's a bit like having given birth to a baby and then putting it on the chapel steps and running away. I felt empty. I was chuffed with what I had done. I didn't think it was brilliant but I thought it was quite good, and in its time it was good compared with what there was. When I look at it now I feel so embarrassed at how amateurish it was, but on the other hand it was fresh and fun. But then there was nothing to do, except every now and again go and earn \u00a3150 or \u00a3200 doing a dreadful cookery demonstration in Nebnit Frodwel or Liverpool or somewhere. So I thought what I ought to do, because the restaurant had come and gone and I was fed up with Bristol, where I had been living, and liked Devon and Somerset, was become a pub landlord. At least I could carry on cooking, which is my first love really and truly, but pure restaurants per se didn't seem to work, so a pub with good grub would be a more practical way of earning some loot and would be a reasonably good life. But my daughter Poppy had just been born and my marriage with Julie was going down the pan, and there was no way whatsoever she would consider moving into a pub. So we carried on living above the restaurant in a somewhat strained atmosphere wondering what the Hell to do next.\n\nOh shit, Wizz the Frizz (cat) has just pissed onto the electric computer cables and blown the whole lot up.\n\nAfter a couple of months of anxiety Pritchard was back on the phone inviting me to make another West Country-based series, which was to be called 'Floyd on Food'. That was disappointing, because I had got used to the first crew from 'Floyd on Fish', which was shot on film, if I remember rightly, and I had just about got used to all the guys and the way they did things over the couple of months we had spent making it, and suddenly we got a completely different crew of people, who had never, despite the fact they were jolly good, worked on location before. Not that I had either, only once. I don't want to make it sound as if I had become an expert because I hadn't. I said to Pritchard, 'Why can't we have the other lot?' and he said, 'Well, you know, they're a bit expensive and we've also got to give the studio people a fair crack of the whip.'\n\nAlthough the change didn't worry me very much it actually worried David. He didn't like the way they worked and there were rows between them.\n\nI can honestly say that, apart from one day paralysed with a migraine on a wet and blustery day in a muddy yard of a rarebreeds animal farm that made wonderful West Country produce (beautiful bacon, excellent sausages and free-range beef, etc.), I can remember very little of 'Floyd on Food', which is probably for the best because I don't think it was a very good series. This must have been about 1985 or 1986, I suppose.\n\nI can remember trying to film at a Cheddar cheese farm, where we were suddenly refused entry because the last TV crew who had been there (not BBC by the way) had totally pissed them off. They had gone there pretending to make a documentary about cheesemaking but actually did one about animal rights and stitched them up, so they wouldn't let us come.\n\nOn a shoot at my old school, Wellington in Somerset, David Pritchard asked my old housemaster, who was still there, to see the school photograph. Jeffrey Archer had been at that school at the same time as me, and David said, 'Where's Jeffrey Archer in this photograph?' and Don Colver, my housemaster, a very whimsical and humorous man, said, 'Oh, probably sitting next to the Headmaster!'\n\nHindsight is, of course, everything!! And looking back now to the making of 'Floyd on Food', I realise that David Pritchard and I were beginning to have serious disagreements. It's quite hard to explain but I felt that he was making television programmes for the sake of (his genuine love of) television. He was more interested, or so it seemed, in putting me in ludicrous situations to see how well I could perform as a television freak rather than giving me the opportunity to demonstrate my actual ability, which was and is cooking. Again, looking back, I realise that somewhere along the road filming 'Floyd on Food' David and I found that the ways we operated were completely different. I remember a day in a hotel in Kirkwall in the Orkneys, where we were having breakfast prior to being interviewed by the local radio. Apparently the arrival of the Floyd team had created a huge excitement in the Islands and the local paper and local radio station were most anxious to interview us. I asked David to sit in on the first interview in case he felt it necessary to put the overall producer's philosophy about our work over to the reporter. Before he switched on his tape recorder the journalist said, 'We're all very disappointed with you, Mr Floyd.' I'm looking at him absolutely gobsmacked because at this time in my career (not so later, of course) everybody, but everybody, loves Floyd! Floyd is a good guy, a fun guy, he's a nice guy! He went on, 'Only, to let people down like that is really quite unforgivable!'\n\nI said, 'What do you mean, let what people down?'\n\n'Well,' he said, 'you know you were going to the island of...(sorry, I've forgotten the name of it \u2013 a small island with a community of thirty or forty people living on it some miles out into the ocean), where Mrs...(again I'm sorry, but I've forgotten the name), who makes one of the finest Orkney cheeses, has spent weeks repainting her dairy, organising her neighbours to prepare an Orcadian feast in honour of your visit, and yesterday you phone up to say you can't be bothered to go!'\n\nI am absolute dumbfounded and speechless!!! I turn around to David and before I can speak to him he is walking away from the table. I ran after him. I said, 'Why aren't we going to this island?'\n\n'I know nothing about it,' he said.\n\nI said, 'David, look at me! Did you cancel that shoot or did you not cancel that shoot, and if you didn't, who else did?' He blustered and he pulled himself up to his full, quite menacing height (he's a much bigger man than me). Even to this day it is too painful to go through the complete discussion we had but eventually he admitted that he had told them it was me who could not be bothered to go, not him. So for the rest of that shoot our relationship was extremely strained, especially on those days when his organization appeared to be quite capricous.\n\nThroughout all the rows which ensued, David's assistant, the gentle, even-tempered Frances, would do her best to mediate. But even she, along with everybody in television, seemed to think it does not matter what pain or confusion or chaos you have to cause, no matter how disorganised travel arrangements are or how eccentric \u2013 and I used the word very lightly \u2013 the director may be, they all say it doesn't matter as long as they've got a good programme. I completely disagree with that philosophy. You can still make a good programme by being courteous and organised and straightforward.\n\nHowever, of course, we completed the series and it was a success, although I find embarrassingly in the year 2000 it is still being shown somewhere in the world by BBC Prime or BBC World, or whatever they call themselves. I regularly get my royalty payment of about \u00a325 a year and I suppose therefore their philosophy is right. It doesn't matter what you go through, as long as you make a good programme!\n\nAlthough it may sound naive or even stupid, at this time I was in no way aware that I was becoming some kind of celebrity. I was not then and I am not now under any illusions about the power or the importance of a television cookery programme. They are not in the same league as BBC dramas, 'Panorama', 'Coronation Street' or 'Match of the Day'. They are, when properly made, diverting, hopefully informative programmes, that sit firmly in the second division of popular entertainment.\n\nSo I was beginning to find it rather uncomfortable to receive the attention that was paid to me when I sat on a train or went into a bar or restaurant. I was on the road a great deal doing personal appearances or opening supermarkets or turning up on chatshows like 'Wogan', 'Aspel' or 'Women's Hour', invitations which absolutely gobsmacked me \u2013 I couldn't understand that I might be sitting in the same Green Room (which is the hospitality lounge television studios provide) with such people as Kenny Everett, Joan Collins, Chuck Berry or Harry Secombe, government ministers, American film stars or famous classical actors. My appearance on such shows falsely elevated me to this imaginary air-filled celebrity status.\n\nI realise that it was perhaps naive of me, but the frustration for me was that people \u2013 everybody, but everybody \u2013 would only ever talk to me about food. I could not sit on a train without a drunken barrister crashing onto my seat and asking how to cook a goose, even if I was trying to read today's newspaper. I could not stand on a railway station platform at 6.55 a.m., without some bright spark asking where my glass of wine was. I started to become a recluse. I used to sit outside a pub in my car for forty minutes sometimes, trying to pluck up the courage to go in. I would talk to my friends about these anxieties, but in much the same vein as the television philosophy of doing the programme no matter what, they would say, 'Well, old bean, that's the price of fame!'\n\nThis 'price of fame' thing is not worth paying. You suddenly become deprived of normal social intercourse. You try to invite a girl for lunch but your television persona is in her eyes so powerful and so daunting she won't trust you. You try to go into a simple restaurant and have a simply grilled Dover sole and some French fried potatoes, mushrooms and tartare sauce, and the head waiter says, The Chef will be very disappointed if you don't try his special creation.' This has been one of the most irksome things for me since I have been on television. I am a plain cook and I am a simple eater, but people with the best of intentions and the kindest of thoughts are forever trying to make me eat things I don't like. This is another piece of personal liberty that has been taken away.\n\nHowever, a few months after 'Floyd on Food', Pritchard and I are chums again and totally excited by the prospect of filming 'Floyd on France', which is going to change my life for ever.\n\nAt that precise moment in time the material rewards of my quite unexpected, so-called success had permitted me to rent a one-bedroomed flat, buy a new suit and put a deposit on a Volvo estate car. It did not enable me to reroof the house of my now estranged wife.\n\n'Floyd on France' to me was 'Floyd on Farce'. The whole shoot appeared to me to be chaotic and quite disorganized \u2013 but what did I know about television? I was the only person in the entire crew who had any French at all. My assistant, whom the BBC had very grudgingly provided, was an assistant producer from BBC Plymouth, of high intelligence, considerable charm and a serene personality, whose presence at least stopped me from putting an axe through Pritchard's head, and a Russian-speaking vegetarian. Nobody except me knew anything about French food. So we were absolutely ideally equipped to explore the intricacies of French regional cooking!\n\nThere were some spectacular highlights...David's long-suffering assistant, Frances, who appears on the credits as the production assistant, or assistant producer or some very important role, phoned up to ask our whereabouts because she was intending to join us but didn't know where we were (we had omitted to tell her). My dear wife served the divorce papers on me by special delivery somewhere in the heart of France. Indictment of my misdoings ran to several pages \u2013 alcoholism, gambling, irresponsibility, mental cruelty, absenteeism, etc., etc., to name but a few.\n\nBearing in mind that all these programmes are fully researched by the producers\/directors before we actually set off to film, the best moment was when we arrived in the Alsace town of Colmar to spend a week filming in that region, only to find that we had no hotel to stay in. They had forgotten to book one. So I went on strike and forced David to go and book a hotel. He spent most of the day in the cinema watching _Full Metal Jacket_ until finally, around about nine o'clock at night, he managed to get a couple of rooms at a farmhouse bed-and-breakfast joint. I had lent him my car and driver that I was paying for myself to go and look for a hotel, but, as I say, as I discovered later that he had spent most of the day in the cinema, leaving me stranded in a caf\u00e9.\n\nI have no doubt that David will see it all quite differently when he reads this, and I am sure he will have some stories to tell about me, which is absolutely fine!\n\nOf course, when Pritchard and I weren't rowing, we really had a pretty good time eating and drinking fine food and wine as if it was going out of fashion. And with an excellent cameraman like Clive North and David's highly individual and creative directing abilities we really did make a cracking series. The book which accompanied the series was a bestseller and the series was highly acclaimed.\n\nThen we made 'Floyd around Britain and Ireland'. The same rows, the same confusions, the same success! This was followed by 'Floyd's American Pie', where our relationship had deteriorated so much that we were only communicating by notes passed between us by the ever-patient Frances. It was in New Orleans, one terribly drunken night, that we vowed never to work with each other or speak to each other again. But it was in Memphis that I had the most extraordinary experience.\n\nWe wanted to get some rock 'n' roll into the programme so we were shooting a sequence of me driving a '57 Chevrolet across the Memphis City Bridge, over which David was going to lay Chuck Berry's song 'Memphis, Tennessee'; also, by a quirk of fate, the newspaper I was reading that day had an article on the front page honouring the thirtieth anniversary of Buddy Holly's death. We were standing on the bridge (it was about minus 10 degrees), taking some shots, when I just keeled over and collapsed. The next thing, semiconscious, I was screaming in a paramedic truck with what I was told later was a suspected stroke, and rushed into the Memphis Baptist Memorial Hospital, where a young, Hispanic doctor in a black polo shirt, white jacket, a huge diamond-studded crucifix around his neck and a pair of snakeskin high-heeled cowboy boots, said, 'Welcome to Baptist Memorial Hospital, sir, this is where Elvis died.'\n\nI stayed in hospital for only about twenty-four hours, had exhaustive checks but they could find nothing wrong with me. However, for me the whole of the trip to the US was marred not only by my rows with David, but by almost nightly attacks of migraine. At night I would spend sometimes two hours standing under a shower to try to make the pain go away. I even had to stop drinking, but that made no difference.\n\nThe series came out, same old story, same old success!\n\nLucrative offers to endorse frozen food, frying pans, knives, barbecues, kitchens and kitchen equipment came flooding in. I made countless corporate videos and training films for such diverse people as the British Heart Foundation, pointing out how cholesterol was bad for you, and dairy companies who wanted to put the opposite point of view. I made endless TV commercials for kiwi fruit, cheese, wine, coffee, washing machines, microwaves \u2013 I was inundated with requests to appear on TV and radio chat shows. I was offered bit parts in films, columns to write for any newspaper or magazine that I wished. The fan mail never stopped: many of the fan letters were from women and were extremely suggestive and I had invitations to dine with the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, to speak at the Oxford Union debate. I could go on and on...it was just totally bewildering.\n\nAnd really, it was all down to Pritchard. I had never set out with an ambition to be on television. It was an accident that happened that whipped itself up into a hurricane, I now realise. I loved going to work and going on the road, despite its problems, but I hated coming home. I had no steady or permanent relationship. It was difficult to keep in touch with my friends, and in spite of all the money and public acclaim, I was frankly miserable, and completely insecure. I never knew if I was going to work again after a programme was transmitted \u2013 TV people don't tend to ring you up and congratulate you and ask how you're doing. You are only important for as long as the programme is on air.\n\nIn the long periods between making programmes or writing a book I more or less locked myself away in a remote cottage in Devon, going to the local pub every lunchtime, sitting on my own and drinking until I was drunk enough to be able to sleep through the afternoon, and then repeat the same process in the evening. I would then go to bed and listen to the World Service until Radio Four clicked in with the farming report and I would then eventually fall asleep. It was a hateful time.\n\nMost of the pubs in my area were crummy and the food generally appalling, and yet I couldn't bring myself to head up to London and join in what I saw as the false success of my celebrity in smart restaurants and nightclubs, although when I was in London for business reasons I would invariably sit in Tramp until virtually dawn on my own or, more likely, chatting to Johnny Gold.\n\nOut of the blue I was offered a TV commercial in Australia for some quick-cook pasta dishes. Up to then my integrity regarding products that I endorsed had been exemplary and I questioned myself long and hard about whether I should accept this job, because although it was a very good product, it wasn't really typical of what I had been preaching on the television and in books and articles over the last few years. But every man has his price. I had never been to Australia, and they were offering me mega-bucks to go. I requested and got first-class travel to Sydney. The agency handling the account was Ogilvy and Mather, who treated me like a pop star who had just had yet another worldwide number one hit album. Limos and chauffeurs, luxury hotels, days off, private aeroplanes or boats at my disposal, spending money over and above my fee (hundreds of dollars a day), big-production commercials \u2013 at one stage we had over 200 extras. The hotel I stayed in on each trip (the contract went on for nearly three years) was filled with the world's rich and famous from Miles Davis to Robert Sangster to Wet, Wet, Wet, Phil Collins, Elton John \u2013 you name it, they were all staying there, Ian Botham, everybody. And by some incredible fluke I was part of it!\n\nAt the end of the first commercial shoot in Australia, and indeed throughout it, on every radio or TV show I was asked what my next series was going to be. Well, I knew there wasn't going to be another one because I had effectively been dumped by the BBC. And I have to say I have no bitterness about it, either then or now. I had had four or five incredible years.\n\nAnyway, when they asked me what I was shooting next, rather than tell the truth and say 'Nothing', I said, 'I am planning on doing a series on Oz, because it's a wonderful country' \u2013 which it is by the way. I caught the plane home and thought nothing more about it and went back to my self-pitying Devon solitude. I had quite a few quid and I realised my TV career was over \u2013 or rather my television sojourn: you could not exactly call it a career, for God's sake! This must have been around about 1990, possibly 1991; frankly I can't remember.\n\nAround about 1989 or 1990 the real insecurity of television was getting to me. I had just finished filming 'Floyd's American Pie' and now, after nearly five years, I actually received a letter from the BBC \u2013 the first one I'd ever had! It was from Alan Yentob and it was about two lines long; said, 'That was jolly good, keep it up.' But at the same time David Pritchard had decided to take early retirement and redundancy, which was a BBC scheme to encourage people to go independent, and David wanted to set up a production company with me. There was no way I could have countenanced doing that, for many reasons. So, with David not at the BBC any more, and this perpetual deafening silence after the series was made, I was thinking 'What the bloody hell can I do?' I think the consensus of opinion from the BBC was that if I didn't work with David there was no point in having me: they naturally assumed that the entire success of the programmes lay with David, something which I of course would be quite prepared to dispute.\n\nThe last few years had been really quite bizarre and lonely and rushed, but for the first time in my life I actually had a load of money. I had a wonderful cottage in Devon. I had a beautiful, tiny but derelict fisherman's cottage in County Cork in southern Ireland. I had a Bentley (which was a dream from childhood when I used to hitchhike to school to save the bus fare my mother gave me so that I could spend it in the tuck shop. Once a week the doctor in his Bentley used to pick me up and drop me at school because he practised at Wellington, and I used to say to myself, 'One day I'll have a Bentley'). I'd got an XJS V12 5.3 litre, a Mini Cooper S and a Land Rover. My bills were paid up and I didn't even owe the taxman any money at that time. But there were two things missing...I'd got nothing to do and I hadn't really got any friends. Although I was dating lots of girls, I never met one that I liked, and it was always too difficult to see my mates. Either they were broke and I was rich, or vice versa, and they were all scattered far apart.\n\nSo in a way, I had everything except companionship and something to do, and Heaven knows when I'd ever make another television programme. As it turned out, 'Floyd's American Pie' was the last time (I think it was 1988) that I worked for the BBC.\n\nSo what did I do? I had all that, and I went and bought a pub!\n\nThe South Hams in Devon is probably one of the prettiest areas in the West Country you could possibly imagine. Between Totnes and Dartmouth the Dart is a spectacularly beautiful river, with Agatha Christie's old house nearby and lovely lush pastures running right down to the water's edge, where cows plod in to drink. Only a few remaining families still have a licence to net salmon in their old-fashioned way, and it is an absolutely enchanting place.\n\nHalfway between Dartmouth and Totnes there is a creek called Bow Creek. This is a tidal creek which runs up to a village called Tuckenhay, where up until the fifties there was a mint that printed currency for countries all over the world. But its time had come and gone and it had been turned into a very smart self-catering holiday complex.\n\nWhere the creek ran out and the Harbourue river joined it, nestling right on the edge of the creek, was a run-down old pub called the Maltsters Arms. (Was it a free house? Yes, the Maltsters Arms was a free house.) It was an absolute tip. It was open \u2013 just. It was one of those places with wheeled-back 1950s seats, Indian carpets and a smell of chips and cod fries. It was awful! It had a poky little bar with half a bottle of whisky, one bottle of Advocaat, a bottle of Drambuie, and very little else. There was a nasty, Formica-topped bar, rickety, spindly, brown-legged stools, aluminium windows with false plastic Georgian criss-crosses on them, overlooking this beautiful view of the estuary. What passed as the car park in front of the pub and down to the river was a barren tract of land with rusting bicycles, prams and old dinghies lying around. I just completely fell in love with it! I thought, 'I've got enough money, I can do this up, it's no problem.'\n\nSo I bought it, I think, for \u00a3320,000, and immediately closed it down to begin the renovations. The kitchen had been condemned by the health authorities, the lavatories were appalling \u2013 in fact, the whole thing was a complete shambles.\n\nSo I contacted two mates of mine. One was called Jeff and the other was called Biff. Biff was a carpenter and Jeff was essentially a painter, and they had done lots of work on my little cottage at Ashprington, just up the road from where the pub is. They knew a plumber and an electrician, etc., etc., and they would boss the job for me. So we set about destroying the inside of the pub.\n\nThe place was on three levels, which was a bit of a nightmare. We put in a beautiful mahogany bar and an open kitchen, and a bistro-style restaurant on the bar floor. Downstairs we built a really good preparation kitchen. We built a 'snug' which had soft furnishings and carpet. It was a deliberately quiet room, like a gentleman's club. The bar was in the middle and at the other end we had a room which I called 'the broom cupboard'. This had wooden floors and was designed so that kids could go in there and we supplied Lego and toys for them to play with, whereas in 'the snug' we put magazines such as _Country Life_ and _Sporting Life_ and all the daily newspapers.\n\nWe spent three months of absolutely frantic work making a car park outside, building a quay so that boats could tie up to the pub when the tide was in and getting a famous local wildlife artist to paint signs like the ones you see at national parks, so that people sitting in the car park or on the quay or at the outside tables could identify the birds. I built an outside barbecue and altogether thoroughly smartened the place up. It looked like a million dollars!\n\nAlthough I never once looked at a single bill during the whole time we were doing the conversion, I think I spent about \u00a3350,000 to get it up to the standard I wanted.\n\nNeedless to say, there was a huge amount of publicity in the papers about it all: by the way, apart from anything else we were making a documentary about converting the pub and setting it up, which David Pritchard organised \u2013 a little programme called 'Tales from the Riverbank', which was gleefully repeated when the pub went into liquidation.\n\nThe buzz was enormous. Floyd was going to have a pub in Devon and people were truly excited about it. It was named Floyd's Inn (Sometimes).\n\nBut having had a lot of experience in the restaurant business, I did not want to open a restaurant per se. I wanted a place where farmers and fishermen could walk in with their muddy boots and have a pint, eat a lovely fresh doorstep Dart-salmon-and-mayonnaise sandwich or a hot, properly made British sausage at the bar with pickled eggs, pickled onion, etc.\n\nIn part of the bar I had a shop in the Irish way, selling aspirins, films, emergency tins of baked beans, soup and Heinz tomato ketchup for people who rented caravans. In the bistro I reverted to my infallible Floyd system of food \u2013 a table of hors d'oeuvres with things like hummus, ratatouille, champignons \u00e0 la grecque, home-made p\u00e2t\u00e9s and terrines, crudit\u00e9s, salade ni\u00e7oise, aubergine caviare, a whole feast of classical starters, and then another table with whatever fresh berries of the season there were and beautiful Devon clotted cream, fresh fruit salad, a range of ice creams from the freezer with proper hot chocolate sauce made with fresh orange juice and Cognac, a table of cheeses, and then four or five main courses each day, mainly fish.\n\nThe idea was that there would be a fixed price and no bookings were taken. It was dead basic. There were no tablecloths. It was a little French provincial bistro in the classic sense, set inside a typical English pub, and it all worked very well. For the fixed price customers could help themselves to hors d'oeuvres and then we would come and take their order for the main course. The kitchen was open, like my kitchen even to this day at home, so the cook can look down through the dining room and see all the people eating and know when to lay the next fish on the grill. It was all very simple, very fresh and very good.\n\nIn the winter I would do dishes that I know people like Floyd for, dishes like paella, couscous, jugged hare, coq au vin \u2013 all the good, substantial food, not 'tortured' food with penises of butter sitting in a tray of green olive oil and twisted shapes of exquisite little things placed just so by the genius chefs. That is strictly for the birds in London and other capital cities. The art of people like Marco Pierre White and so on is not to be diminished in any way, it is to be adored and praised, but it is not appropriate in a country pub.\n\nMeanwhile at the bar, apart from sandwiches they could have pork pies, ploughman's, onions, pickled eggs, sausages, etc., and they were all done properly. There were no individually wrapped packets of butter. There was no reheated bread from the freezer. Everything was real and everything was fresh.\n\nThere was a water bowl outside the front door for dogs. There was a glass jar with a glass stopper full of doggie chews on the bar. There were little sweeties on the bar. Everything to make people feel really comfortable.\n\nDuring the brouhaha of the advance publicity (which was enormous \u2013 all the magazines were coming down to shoot it), I put in ads for staff in the _Caterer,_ in the _Evening Standard,_ in _The Times_ and in the local press. I wanted a head chef, two assistants, and I wanted bar staff, waiters, waitresses and a manager. Despite intensive advertising and amazing publicity, only three people applied for the job of head chef. One was an alcoholic, ex-British Rail buffet car attendant who had 'also worked on the ships, Guv'. Another was a seventeen-year-old boy and a third was a charming young lady who felt she could handle the job. I was so disappointed and surprised. I couldn't believe that anybody who knew about it had not bothered to apply for the job, and I was prepared to pay anything.\n\nOf the twenty or thirty waiters and waitresses, bartender-type staff who did turn up for interviews, only about four could even be roughly considered. Some of the people who turned up were just absolute morons. I mean total, total, morons! In my last restaurant in Bristol, which I had had for five years, the only time staff ever left was because they graduated from university and became doctors. No one ever left.\n\nBy the end of the third week I had no choice (because of ignorance, incompetence, laziness and stupidity) but to sack nearly the whole bar staff. I would ask them to turn up in a white shirt and black tie and they would do it for one day but the next day would turn up in trainers, jeans and a top. 'You can't do that,' I said, 'this isn't how it is.'\n\n'Oh, I forgot.'\n\nTeaching them how to lay a table was an impossible task. The only skill a waitress had to master was to wrap a cheap pair of stainless steel cutlery tightly into a red paper napkin and shout out 'Number 47!' Trying to teach them to say 'Good evening, Sir or Madam' or to smile was just a nightmare. If I could get them to acknowledge that people had names, instead of saying, 'Mr and Mrs Smith, you are at such a table' it was 'Oh, are you Smith?' There were, however, a couple of really excellent people out of the first batch.\n\nThen, as if that wasn't enough...the customers! Now the pub down the road did a four-course roast Sunday lunch for about \u00a33.99. My Sunday lunch was \u00a310.50. The fact that I was using prime Scotch beef and losing money on it by doing it properly failed to win over the locals, to whom I was nothing but a bloody rip-off! You could get precooked, thinly sliced silverside at a dozen pubs in the area for around three or four quid, plus synthetic trifles and stuff like that.\n\nSo that was one level of problem. The other was that people who travelled down from all over the country to this pub and they knew my no-nonsense style of cooking from the television, were horrified to find that I was not at the end of a long gravelled drive in a Georgian house, with dimwitted country girls standing in their Laura Ashley dresses, clasped to the walls like statues or walking over to you and saying, This is the gratin dauphinoise', shaking and trembling as they put it down, while the French head waiter told them to put out their cigarette because 'One doesn't smoke in a restaurant of this standing'. Why they didn't see that I was running a cheerful, happy pub I can't understand.\n\nThen there were the genuine fans of the pub, who really did understand the problems. I would tell them (and I would use it replying to letters of complaint sometimes), 'Well, in deepest, darkest Devon it is very difficult to recruit staff. 50 per cent of our staff are absolute morons. 50 per cent are really excellent people. It's the same with our customers, half our customers understand what's going on and the other half are as thick and as snobbish and as stupid as you can get. Unfortunately it appears on the night in question when you were here, you formed part of the latter customer ratings and you happened to hit the B Team doing the service.'\n\nSo for the whole of one summer I did the cooking myself, which was not the object of the exercise at all. And to make matters worse, the suppliers turned out to be very strange people. Trying to buy fresh fish from Brixham, only eight or nine miles away (one of the largest fishing ports in the West Country), or from Plymouth, a mere twenty-five miles away, was a nightmare. 'Ah, yes, we can bring you bass and we can bring you lobsters,' they would say, and I would order them. The dining room opened at 7.00 p.m., and at 6.30 p.m. it would be full with thirty or forty people and I would be peering out into the car park waiting for the fish to arrive.\n\nSo not only did I fire staff (I became known as the Butcher of Tuckenhay), I used to fire suppliers because again, they were either completely useless, totally dishonest or downright fucking incompetent and arrogant...with some exceptions. These chaps will have no names. I'm not going to take out anybody and say, 'Bill was really good but Bob was really bad.'\n\nI couldn't get my kitchen assistants, people who wanted to be chefs, to fry a chip properly. Time and again I would tell them to peel the potatoes, chip the potatoes, rinse them and rinse them and rinse them again in water and dry them, then blanch them in hot fat and put them into a tray so that when it was time to serve the beautiful home-made chips you would take a handful and drop them into the hot fat and they would be perfect. They would never wash them, they were put in with all their starch, and they would never blanch them. I used to speak to people kindly for the first and second time they did it, but by the fifth time I would have no choice but to hit them. I couldn't believe or understand or comprehend their crass stupidity, ignorance and lack of respect for food; worse still, I couldn't believe that I was behaving like the moron who had thumped the living Bejasus out of me in Port Isaac thirty years ago.\n\nIt was the same with the sausages. We were famous for our sausages on the bar. In the summer we would probably serve 200 or 300 sausages a day. I used to say, 'In the morning, first thing at eight o'clock, prick 150 sausages, roast them in the oven and then put them on trays in the fridge, so that by the time it is eleven o'clock we can put them into our little heater on the bar and they'll warm through and be lovely.' So, having been out, I would wander in at twelve o'clock to see no sausages on the bar.\n\n'Well, the butcher hasn't delivered them yet.'\n\n'Why didn't you order them yesterday?'\n\n'I didn't know.'\n\nOr we'd have the sausages but they wouldn't cook them until eleven o'clock and it would be too late, so that at one o'clock when the rush came we would run out. These were just simple things they could not get right.\n\nThe ones with aspirations to be chefs felt that preparing a sausage or a salmon sandwich or some chips was beneath them, so they cut themselves off at the legs for a start. This was the whole trouble. This was still the era when the only so-called good restaurants in our area were in the country house hotels, where the cooks knew that at 8.30 p.m. fourteen people would be sitting down for an elegant, poncy evening of bullshit. Invariably there were set dinners in these places so the cooks, although very good, had no experience of fast, good food. Good for dinner parties but no good for 'a la minute' service. The good guys, in places like London, didn't want to come down to deepest, darkest Devon, and after five years of having lived there, I have to say I can't fucking blame them!\n\nShortly after the pub had opened I had to go to Australia for three weeks to make some TV commercials. My then pub manager was a highly respected (so the locals said) publican who had had a bit of bad luck when his wife ran off with a spoon, as it were, in his own previous pub. But as I arrived in Australia, I heard that the man was ill and unable to work, and so I had to leave the pub in the hands of inexperienced staff. I came back to find there were no till rolls for three weeks' worth of trading and no money had been banked. Staff were being permitted to get taxis home, twenty-five miles away, at my expense. The conditions of employment were that unless they had your own transport I wouldn't give them a job. People, when asked if they could drive and had a car, would say yes. The second day, if they were late, when asked why would say, 'Well, I couldn't get a lift today.' I said, 'But you said you had a car,' to which they replied, 'I had to say that or I wouldn't have got the job.'\n\nI rented flats for some young chefs from a catering school who were down for three or four months. They were good boys, keen to learn and keen to cook. Some of them stole the furniture from the apartments I was renting for them and sold it.\n\nAlthough it was a battle to try to get the pub running to my standards, it was at least the sort of battle I understood, and it gave me something to do, a purpose in life, at long last. I was completely fed up with writing cookery books, often having to submit the manuscript before we'd even finished filming. I vainly thought it might also provide an environment where I could meet new people and really make some friends. So, ignoring all the problems, I blindly and enthusiastically carried on doing whatever it took financially to make the place excellent.\n\nThings were quite settled and then I received a call from my agent\/manager to say that an Australian company would like me to go over to Oz and make a series. I had enjoyed my previous visits making the commercials so I leapt at the opportunity. Part of the problem was, who was going to be the director? I didn't really fancy some gung ho Australian so I agreed to do the series on condition that I could appoint the director, to which the producers readily agreed. So I did what I vowed I would never do again. I picked up the phone and called Pritchard! He was, after all, the obvious choice. He agreed, and we were soon on our way to Sydney for a three-month shoot.\n\nBefore I left the pub I made sure that every bill was settled, every supplier was paid. I carefully briefed the manager on what should happen during my absence. It was the beginning of the summer and getting very busy.\n\nI phoned my publishers and offered them the book that would go with the series. They accepted, and I was on a roll again, especially since the Australian producers were paying me five times more for this series than the BBC had paid me for 'Floyd's American Pie'. In fact for those of you who think that those of us on television make fortunes, the highest fee I got from the BBC was for 'Floyd's American Pie', \u00a318,000 for seven half-hour television programmes and three months' work!\n\nSo off we set, David and I, blood brothers, all differences forgotten, heading for the big wide open. It was a fantastic trip. We fished in the South Atlantic, we sailed in the Indian Ocean and we slept in the bush under the Southern Cross. We took float planes to rivers and lakes where probably no man had ever stepped before. We took the Ghan from Adelaide to Alice Springs. We off-roaded around the Top End, rode camels in the desert and herded cattle in the Northern Territory. We flew a Catalina to a remote settlement called Heartbreak Hotel. We cooked kangaroos, iguanas, ate witchetty grubs and went walkabout with Aboriginals. And, of course, every three or four days, we had a blazing row! But it didn't matter because, as they had done when I made the commercials, the Australian producers looked after us magnificently. There was none of the penny-pinching that I had had to suffer whilst working for the BBC. If I wanted a portable gas stove, I got one. If I wanted 50-litre cool boxes, I got them. If I needed a personal assistant, I got one. If I needed a driver, I got one. When we were in the big cities they put us into the best hotels.\n\nAgainst my better judgement, Pritchard persuaded me to scuba dive \u00e0 la James Bond off the Great Barrier Reef, something I had never done before. Luckily for me, the underwater cameraman saved me, as my attempts to attract the attention of anybody on the boat failed. Once I was over the rail, they were all inside having a drink!\n\nSadly the shoot came to an end. David stayed behind to edit the series, something which he is particularly good at, I have to admit. I returned to Heathrow laden with suitcases, tin trunks full of souvenirs, Driza Bones, and things. I am a compulsive shopper and I cannot stop myself from buying good shoes and silk ties \u2013 things, many things!\n\nI had been away for a couple of months or so, and I arrived in London at around five in the morning after an appalling journey from Melbourne, with just a short stopover in Singapore. My chauffeur was waiting for me at the terminal to drive me back to Devon. But for some reason we didn't land at the right terminal. I was exhausted from the flight, hungover, excited to be back and worried and anxious to get hold of my chauffeur to come round to the other terminal. I blearily pushed my cases through Customs, said Hi to a few people, and was just about to go into the Arrivals Hall when a uniformed lady Customs Officer said, 'Oh by the way, Mr Floyd, do you have anything to declare?'\n\nI said, 'No, I don't.'\n\n'Well, can I just have a look in your briefcase?' She took out my wallet and started looking through the credit card slips. 'So if you've nothing to declare, how is you've spent what looks to me like \u00a315,000? Please come into the office.' They unpacked all my suitcases, picked up a leather Driza Bone and said, 'Did you buy that in Australia?'\n\n'Yes,' I said.\n\n'What about these crocodile shoes? What about this video camera?'\n\n'Yes,' I said.\n\n'What about this pair of binoculars?'\n\nBelieve it or not, I was sitting there totally uncomprehending. I didn't think that buying clothes and wearing them, buying a video camera and using it while you are on a film shoot constituted smuggling. But it did!\n\nThey said I had two choices \u2013 I could be fined on the spot or I could go to Bow Street Magistrates Court and be charged. The significance of this didn't sink into me at all. I had been paid by the Australians and I had a cheque for \u00a3100,000, and I said to the Senior Officer: 'Look, I haven't bought these things to smuggle them, as a matter of fact they all cost more in Australia than they would in the UK. And why would I smuggle? I've got a banker's draft here for \u00a3100,000, for Christ sake!' By the way, in a cubicle next door was the corpse of an African child who had been forced to swallow sachets of heroin. In another cubicle, people were screaming and shouting. Luckily at the time I had a Coutts Bank gold card. They fined me in excess of \u00a32,000 to be paid in cash on the spot and put me on probation for five years. After I had settled all of this \u2013 actually I think there was another fine for about \u00a31,000, I don't remember exactly \u2013 as I left the office, virtually a cell (I think they call it an Interview Room), the officer who arrested me asked me for my autograph.\n\nI managed to get back to the pub just before closing time. It was not busy and some callow youth I had never met was working behind the bar. 'What can I get you, mate?' he said to me. I noticed the pub clock had stopped and the flower arrangements were dead or waterless.\n\nI said to the bartender, 'Where is Jim, the manager?'\n\n'Oh, he's at the races \u2013 why, who wants him?' It wasn't until I went downstairs to the kitchen that I recognised any of the staff I had left just under three months previously.\n\nThat whole dreadful experience actually only lasted about two or three minutes. Suddenly some locals came in and I walked into the dining room and said hello to the customers. Somebody must have phoned the manager on his mobile because he came hurtling in. The flags of 'Welcome Home' that they had planned to put up and the caviare and the whisky they had ready for me had fallen victim to one of life's bitter accidents \u2013 I had returned one day earlier than scheduled!\n\nWhen I left for Australia there had been about fourteen full-time members of staff. I returned to find that there were now thirty-two and the outstanding bills, most of them overdue, accrued over the three busiest summer months of the year, came to nearly \u00a390,000. I discovered that folk had come in for my famous sausages or my doorstep Dart-salmon sandwiches and had been told 'We don't do that sort of thing any more. If, however, you would like to eat in the restaurant, you must book a table.' The pub was on its knees.\n\nIt takes about a week to recover from coming back from Australia, and once I was up and running again I set about systematically sacking people, including the secretary who had, of course, failed to keep the books so there was no record of what had been taken during my absence. The only evidence was of how much I owed. With a combination of the madness of Lear and the stupidity of Canute I decided to start all over again.\n\nSo, I hired yet another manager, more chefs, cleaners, gardeners and chambermaids, but no matter how well I paid them or what incentives I offered (free accommodation, use of a car or a motorbike), I just could not keep a nucleus of professional and competent staff.\n\nI realise now, how naive I have been. Many of the people who came to work at Floyd's Inn (Sometimes) merely wanted to put the allegedly famous Keith Floyd on their CV. What a dumb prick I was. And of course the other stupid thing I did, I put the ephemeral world of television before my true passion and ability, thus, when the final reckoning comes, despite my protestations to the contrary, the real reason that Floyd's Inn (Sometimes) failed was because Floyd was only in sometimes.\n\nI mean, the most amazing things would happen! A member of staff would borrow a car, crash it, write it off and somehow the manager pocketed the insurance! My bartender took my beautiful XJS to the garage for a service and wrote it off. He didn't even tell me, he just didn't come back to work again. I only found out when I asked the manager where Henry was today. Then upon checking with yet another secretary, I discovered to my horror that the insurance hadn't been renewed. We had several robberies, all of which the police were sure were orchestrated from inside but we could never get the evidence to prove it.\n\nOnly the other day a young man approached me in a bar in Spain and said, 'Mr Floyd, I'd like to speak to you. You remember that time there was an armed robbery at your pub and I was one of the suspects and was arrested for it [he was one of my allegedly professional waiters]? Honest to God, Mr Floyd, I have always wanted to tell you that I was in no way part of that armed robbery.'\n\n'I know,' I said, 'the police established that. But it is true, isn't it, that one day you took \u00a3700 from the till to go and buy wine from the wine shop in Dartmouth, put the wine on my account, pocketed the money and fucked off?'\n\n'It is true, yes,' he said.\n\n'Why did you do it?' I asked.\n\n'Because I was desperate.'\n\nChefs would resign in the middle of a service with no explanation of any kind. Despite taking a lot of money the pub was losing thousands of pounds a month. I was at my wits' end.\n\nThen one day I was doing one of my weird promotional jobs, standing in Covent Garden giving away ice creams, when I bumped into an old friend of mine called Mike who was a senior lecturer at a very well-known catering college. Several times he had sent some of his students down to the pub for work experience so I knew him well and respected him. On the off chance I asked if he would like to give up his secure, pensioned, academic job and come and take over the pub. To my delight he agreed. So once again, I washed down the decks, so to speak, rerigged the ship and, with another massive injection of capital, set sail with Captain Mike at the helm, while I buggered off to live in Southern Ireland.\n\n# The Irish Period\n\nUp until then the press had always treated me and my programmes very favourably. Good reviews, good profile pieces. Until one Sunday morning, when I happened to be yet again in Australia, I got my comeuppance with a bang. For the first time I was the victim or the villain, depending on which way you look at these things, of an appalling _News of the World_ kiss-and-tell story. No longer was I the wine-slurping extrovert, the workaholic one-take wonder with a passion for food; I was now the Bentley-driving bounder who couldn't even bonk properly! It's curious that everybody says, 'Of course, the only bad publicity is no publicity, and anyway the odd story like this goes with the job, so what, ha, ha!' Just wait till it happens to you! Because, of course, there is no right of reply. You won't even be asked to comment on what they are going to print. But the worst effect it has is upon your children, your parents and your loved ones. Friends telling you that today's scandal is tomorrow's fish and chip paper, I'm sorry to say, doesn't help. That article heralded a dramatic sea change in my fortunes and I was now perceived in a completely different light. For example, a spontaneous decision to visit an old girlfriend in Newcastle would be reported as 'Lovesick Floyd's dramatic dash to save relationship!' The sad thing was that the only people who might have vaguely known what I was up to were those in the pub. There was a mole in the pub, either a customer or a member of staff, who took great pleasure in constantly phoning up the press.\n\nNow, when it was necessary to give interviews to promote my latest series or book the only mention of the book or series would be the small codicil at the end of two pages of stories about ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, etc., etc. I actually used to live in fear of Sundays. I remember one ex, very casual girlfriend, whom I had not even seen or spoken to for five years, wrote to me out of the blue asking if I could lend her a few thousand pounds to put down as a deposit on a cottage she wanted to buy with her boyfriend. I wrote politely back and said that I couldn't help and that I was sorry.\n\nNext Sunday, whoops, there it was again! The intimate details, exclusively told by the six-foot leggy blonde ex-model. I decided to stop having relationships of any kind. I had become so paranoid, I couldn't trust anyone. Luckily I was able to find considerable solace by indulging in my passion for watching rugby, and on every conceivable occasion I would drive, no matter where in the country, to watch Bath play. I got to know a lot of the players, many of whom to this day are still incredibly famous internationally, and I can honestly say that rugby players and rugby supporters are the only group of people that I have been able to mix with simply because of a shared interest rather than being a media curiosity.\n\nIt's curious, though: football aces can beat up their girlfriends and get drunk in nightclubs and it doesn't matter as long as they are still scoring goals, but take a rugby star like Dellaglio or Carling, and their alleged misdemeanours are somehow supposed to threaten the very moral fibre of the country!\n\nI got a phone call from my manager, who said he had a really good offer for me. A Sunday paper was relaunching its magazine section and was offering me a really good deal to do the cookery section each week. I wouldn't even have to write a word of it, they would simply take recipes from my books. My only commitment was to have my photograph taken regularly. They would pay, if pushed, \u00a330,000 a year \u2013 damn good money, you must admit! But I was still smarting from the kiss-and-tell stories so I told my manager to tell them to get stuffed! Of course, he was very reluctant to do this because he was on 20 per cent of everything I earned, so I couldn't always be sure that he was totally sincere when he recommended things as good career moves. Besides, I was bored with the whole food thing and I had written for the _Sunday Express_ and the _Sunday Times,_ and I suppose I thought, apart from anything else, that a Sunday tabloid was a bit of a step in the wrong direction. Anyway the paper in question was not to be put off. I had a personal call from the Editor or the Assistant Editor, who begged me, literally begged me, to accept the offer. I said, Thank you, I'm flattered, the money's good, everything's good. But did you see what your paper did to me last Sunday?'\n\n'Yes,' he said, 'but that's the newspaper, we're the magazine. That's nothing to do with us.' We rang off. An hour later he was back on the phone again, and the same the next day and the day after that. Each time I said no.\n\nThe chap who was calling was a perfectly nice guy; I liked him then and I like him now. But I said, 'Listen, mate, what part of no don't you understand? The answer is no, and I'm telling you I would not get out of bed for your paper [feeling smug that I'd really floored it this time!] for less than a hundred grand a year. Goodbye!' An hour later my manager called me. Would I accept ninety? I said, 'OK.'\n\nIt turned out to be jolly useful, that money, because when my then manager and I decided to part company it appeared I owed him a huge amount, so he simply took the cheques each month from the paper until he was paid off (over several months, I might add), and thereafter like a complete idiot I allowed the money to be paid directly to the pub to keep it going. So in fact over three years or whatever it was, the paper gave me more than \u00a3300,000 (and it went up each year) but I personally never saw a penny of it.\n\nIndeed, the pub was going so badly now that I was trying to negotiate an overdraft from a bank. They said they'd like to help. They admired my programmes, they admired my pub, they admired everything. But they felt it was a bad risk because I wasn't there enough personally to supervise it. Anyway to cut a long story short, the manager of this particular bank said he had a valued customer and a long-standing friend, now retired from the hotel industry, who would be a perfect man to occasionally, unannounced, pop into the pub and keep an eye on things.\n\nAt that particular time I had no personal manager to handle my television and writing affairs, my personal appearances, etc., etc. John Miles, my agent\/business manager, and I had parted company without any acrimony or ill feelings \u2013 it just cost a lot, that's all! My contract with the newspaper was up for renewal so I asked this chap who was keeping a rough eye on the pub if he wouldn't mind negotiating the new deal for me. It was also a condition of the bank that this money would be paid each month into the pub account to reduce the overdraft which they had now given me. As it turned out, rather stupidly, I agreed to let the paper pay the money directly to this nice old gentleman recommended by the bank, who promptly pocketed twenty-five grand of it and fucked off! Although I could never get anybody to properly admit it, the bank did know very well when they recommended this man to me that he had no assets, was in hock to the bank and was a thoroughly dodgy character. Indeed, the bank, in one of those mysterious procedures involving letters which say 'without prejudice', felt concerned enough to give me \u00a310,000 as a sign of good will for an error for which they of course denied, and I agreed to accept, any responsibility whatsoever.\n\nQuite clearly, dear reader, you must think after these appalling tales of woe, and you would probably be right, that I am a complete prat! Now we shall move on to some more cheerful aspects of my life, which I shall call 'the Irish Period'.\n\nAs I said earlier, I had buggered off to Ireland, leaving the pub and all its attendant nightmares in the capable hands of Mike. I was, for once, free. Free of television, free of books, free of articles, and most importantly, except for the financial responsibility, free of the pub.\n\nAfter the transmission of 'Floyd on Fish' I received literally hundreds of invitations. Invitations to the Houses of Parliament. Invitations to lunch with newspaper editors. Invitations to dine with earls. Invitations to dine in with the officers at the Royal Naval College in Dartmouth. Invitations to open the local fete or judge the egg and spoon race at the local primary school. As and when I could I accepted them with great glee.\n\nAmongst these invitations was one from, I think, Brymon Airways, but it came via a lady called Maureen Ahern, who was something to do with Cork City Airport. I eventually got through to Maureen Ahern and she explained that Brymon Airways were starting a regular service between Plymouth and Cork City, and a variety of local dignitaries on both sides of the Irish Sea, journalists and others were being invited to the Kinsale Gourmet Festival for the weekend. Brymon Airways would be delighted to give me, along with the others, a free return ticket to Cork. I had never been to Ireland and desperately wanted to go. I've always been passionately interested in Irish literature, whether it's Flann O'Brien, Swift or Wilde.\n\nOne part of me really wanted to go. The small part of my brain which is financially shrewd told me that I ought to charge somebody some money for going because they are bound to use me in a picture boarding the aircraft for the local papers, etc., etc.\n\nAt the time, the news reader on BBC Southwest based in Plymouth was a chap called Chris Denham, and I know that he used to get invitations like this, as did the man who read the weather. So I said to him, 'What do you think I should charge?'\n\n'Well you've got to charge at least a hundred and fifty quid plus your free ticket.' Now at this time of course I had no personal management or agency; in fact I remember travelling one day to visit various agents with a video of my very first 'Floyd on Fish' programme and none of them would take me on. So what I decided to do, rather than demanding a fee, which I didn't know how to do on behalf of myself, was to say to Maureen \u2013 and it was totally true \u2013 'I'm awfully sorry I can't come, I just can't afford to stay in a hotel for four nights, I just can't afford it.' And I couldn't. I didn't have any money at all. What I didn't know was that in that western county of Ireland, County Cork, they had all seen 'Floyd on Fish' and loved it. I was a miniature star in that part of Ireland, amongst a few people.\n\nMaureen said she'd sort something out. 'We really want you to come.'\n\nI said, 'Well couldn't you ask Brymon Airways to give me a few quid?' Although I had not met her, on the phone she was a friendly and approachable person.\n\n'Oh they won't do that,' she said.\n\nI said, 'Well there we are \u2013 I'm sorry but we'll just have to leave it that way.'\n\nThe next day she phoned me to say that Cork Airport Authority, i.e. her office, would undertake to cover all my expenses because they would really like me to come. 'And anyway,' she said, 'you will have the time of your life!'\n\nIn those days Cork Airport was really a pub with an airstrip. Wearing what I thought would be very appropriate clothes, a three-piece maroon corduroy suit, suede brogues and a green bow tie, I arrived at Cork Airport with \u00a310 in my pocket and a handmade leather suitcase containing a change of clothes. At Arrivals I was met by Maureen and some of her colleagues and whisked straight to the bar, where I discovered that Guinness is not the only stout in Ireland. In Cork, the rebel county, they have Murphy's.\n\nCork Airport to Kinsale is no more, I don't suppose, than sixteen miles. Including welcome drinks at the airport and essential pit stops on the way the journey took four and a half hours!\n\nKinsale was, probably still is, one of the prettiest coastal towns in Ireland. It has an uncanny mixture of Irish, British, colonial, Spanish \u2013 even, if you squint your eyes, Mediterranean \u2013 architecture. I was taken to Acton's Hotel and told to be down for the opening ceremony of the gourmet festival at seven o'clock. Maureen and her colleagues were there to meet me and various dignitaries made speeches. The American Ambassador was there, the Australian Ambassador was there, TDs \u2013 which is Irish for MPs \u2013 were there, and pints of Murphy's and glasses of Baileys and Paddy whiskey were flowing like you could not believe. The banqueting suite was packed, the bars were packed and the jazz band began to play.\n\nIt was the most incredible four days I had ever experienced \u2013 and I have had some amazingly good times in my life! So when David Pritchard phoned many months later to ask 'Shall we do \"Floyd around Britain\"?' I said, 'On condition that it can include Ireland, or at least a bit of Southern Ireland \u2013 actually, Cork County!'\n\nSo we started filming in Kinsale, staying at Acton's Hotel. We filmed with the legendary Myrtle Allen at Ballymalloo House, _the_ icon of Irish cookery \u2013 or the iconette!! We fished for salmon on the Blackwater river. We ate the finest hot corned beef sandwiches in the world, served at the Long Valley Bar in Cork City. We almost forced Murphy's Brewery to take on extra staff to maintain the quantity of stout that was required. We cooked Irish stew, ate thick slices of fine Irish smoked salmon, had prawns every day, bought fine black puddings, pigs' trotters and spiced beef from one of the best indoor markets in Europe, the English Market in Cork City. We went to the races, to the hurling, and stumbled out of bed only minutes after getting into it for plates of sizzling rashers, homemade sausages and free-range eggs.\n\nOne morning, in a splendid country house at Mallow I read carefully through the menu. It offered white pudding with fried laver (a kind of seaweed) bread. It offered pan-fried trout, a mixed grill of kidneys, liver, bacon, chops and steak. It offered smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, a wild mushroom omelette. I ordered a large vodka with freshly squeezed orange juice, black coffee, thick, salty rashers of crisply fried homemade black pudding and grilled tomatoes and homemade bread. The waitress said, 'Ah, so it's breakfast you're having.' I felt, if I had ordered a roast pheasant and game chips they would have produced it! That was at a hotel called Longville House. I think it was also the only vineyard in southern Ireland and the trees in the formal park were planted to represent the positions of the armies at the Battle of Waterloo. Or if it wasn't Waterloo, it was the way all the ships were placed at the Armada \u2013 in any event, it was very significant!\n\nIt was during this time, each day as we left Acton's Hotel, that I noticed, hidden in the bushes of an overgrown garden on the estuary just outside Kinsale, what appeared to be a tiny, semiderelict gatehouse or worker's cottage. I remember the occasion so very well. I had now been working with David Pritchard for at least two or three years. We were sitting in a car driving past this little cottage that I had been noticing, and he asked me where I lived. I said, 'I'll tell you where I'd like to live. What I'd like is a little cottage like that one, only in Devon or Somerset where I was brought up. The trouble is they cost about \u00a3150,000. For the moment I'm staying with my mum.'\n\nLater that day we were filming in the Long Valley Bar, very generously and unofficially sponsored by Murphy's. There was some kind of technical hitch and David said, 'Look, you might as well bugger off for a couple of hours because nothing's going to happen.' So I went walkabout in Cork City, window-shopping, a bit grumpy. We'd started very early and now we were delayed, and all I really wanted to do was get back to the hotel and shower and rest.\n\nEstate agents in Ireland, if you don't know, are generally known as auctioneers. In a narrow, grey Cork street, I stopped in front of a dusty, slightly flyblown window that bore the title Sheeney Brothers, Auctioneers. Amongst the photographs of neat suburban houses, along with farms and castles for sale was a faded, curling, black and white photograph of that selfsame little cottage that I had passed but a few hours earlier. I walked into the office and pretended to show some interest in semi-detached houses, castles and farms. They immediately recognised me as 'Floyd on Fish', so I explained quickly I had no intention of buying a castle but, by the way, what sort of money would that little cottage fetch? For a local it would have been worth probably between \u00a35,000 and \u00a310,000 at that time. It had only two bedrooms, tiny ones at that, no electricity and no water. They said they felt they could probably persuade the owner to let it go for \u00a318,000. \u00a318,000, which I did not have, for something which in Somerset or Devon would cost \u00a3100,000, struck me as a good deal. I agreed to buy it on the spot.\n\nIt took me eleven months to complete the deal. The farmer who owned it would rather have let it fall down than see some kind of British yuppie taking it over. In order to persuade him to sell it to me I told him of my Somerset childhood, of pigs, of chickens, of ferreting in the winter. I said, 'If you sell me this place, I promise you it will have ducks and chickens and pigs. It will have a row of beans and hollyhocks around the door.' All the while, his wife was sitting silently in the back of their gloomy, highly polished lounge. This, although the first visit to his house, was the last of six meetings. He was still reticent, and I'm the kind of guy who would normally say, 'Look, do you want to fucking sell it or not? Make your fucking mind up!' He sat there in front of the peat fire nodding. He indicated something to his wife, who emerged from the shadows clasping two glasses and a bottle of Powers whiskey, which she placed on one of the biggest Bibles, almost the size of a coffee table, I had ever seen. She poured two glasses and withdrew to her easy chair. In a silent moment he reached for the glass, motioned for me to pick up mine, and said, 'It's yours.'\n\nI spent the next year renovating the house, clearing and planting the garden and building chicken houses and pigsties.\n\nSo, as we began this segment, here I am, moving into my cottage properly for the first time. Footloose and fancy-free! No girlfriends, no wives, just a few quid, a Bentley and an ex-policeman as a minder-cum-gardener-cum-caretaker. Now, if you have the stomach for strong drink, read on...\n\nI slipped into the manic, merry mayhem of Irish life like snow melting off a steeply corrugated roof. Most mornings I would call the pub in England and then phone my new manager, Stan. I would wander down the long and narrow garden and marvel at the beauty of the estuary. I would say hello to the pigs and sometimes, although Jim, my gardener, normally did it and sprinkle some corn for the ducks, geese and chickens. I would take the dogs for a walk and ease on down to the Sixteen and One Bar or the Blue Haven Hotel Bar. And so would begin, as they say in Ireland, another shitty day in paradise!\n\nWithin seconds of the first pint of Murphy's being poured someone had come up with a scheme for the day's entertainment. This might be a trip up the Bandon river in a vintage motor launch, groaning with drink and sides of smoked salmon and cold roasted chickens, or maybe we would hop onto the train to Dublin to follow in the drinking and literary footsteps of the famous Irish writers \u2013 what is euphemistically known as the Literary Pub Tour, i.e. getting smashed in all the places they used to drink in. It might mean going to a local point-to-point or up to Punchestown for the races or visiting Galway races on Ladies' Day in September swiftly followed by the Clarenbridge Oyster Festival, attending the hurling finals at Croake Park in Dublin, and of course, especially going to watch the rugby at Lansdowne Road. We even occasionally managed to find time to squeeze in lunch!\n\nLooking back, I realise our behaviour was absolutely appalling! We would all start off, finely suited with our smart overcoats and the intention of 'just having the one'. I remember one classic Sunday morning in Dublin. I had arranged to meet the boys from Murphy's Brewery in the Shelbourne Hotel at 9.00 a.m. for breakfast as a prelude to watching the hurling final that same afternoon at 3.00 p.m. On this particular occasion I had been on one of my rare visits to my pub in Devon, so I had got up at something like 3.00 a.m. to drive to Bristol Airport to catch the red-eye into Dublin for the occasion. I was really looking forward to a full Irish breakfast and perhaps a leisurely flick through the Sunday papers. It wasn't to be! No sooner had I checked into the Shelbourne than my host said we had to move on, I had to meet some other people. So, alas, there was no time for breakfast. In case you are unfamiliar with Ireland, pubs do not open on Sundays until 12.30 p.m. We bundled into a couple of cars and drove around the deserted streets of Sunday morning Dublin and pulled up in a completely empty street \u2013 there were no parked cars, not even a stray dog wandering around. The street, as yet uncleaned, was still littered with Saturday night's discarded empty cans and bottles, chip papers and burger boxes.\n\nI couldn't see what we were doing in this street, there was no sign of life at all. Indeed, most of the shops looked derelict, with their corrugated, galvanised steel security blinds pulled down. It was ten to ten on Sunday morning and we marched up the street and knocked loudly on a heavy, black-lacquered, wooden door. I heard the key turn in the lock. The door opened and we stepped into Saturday night! It was a pub! It was packed, with men of course \u2013 no women ever on any of these trips \u2013 all in their suits with their collars undone and their ties loosened, waistcoats unbuttoned and every man with a pint of Guinness in his hand (and although I was with the Murphy's boys, they didn't object to drinking in a Guinness pub). And so we started drinking and talking about the match. The pub had not shut on Saturday night, and anybody who was anybody in Ireland had been locked in there for the last twelve hours \u2013 politicians, journalists, aristos, racehorse owners, trainers, jockeys \u2013 and for God's sake, the game didn't even start until three o'clock!\n\nSome hours later, after the pub had officially opened, it was announced that we would have lunch, which was to be served in a priests' college next to the stadium. In this unbelievable refectory, where the walls were adorned with carvings of the crucifixion and holy paintings and artefacts, texts and inscriptions, assembled the 200 or 300 guests of Murphy's Brewery to consume unholy quantities of Irish whiskey and stout and slabs of roast beef. We were served by smiling Irish girls in black costumes and white aprons, as we, in this holy sanctuary, sat effing and blinding. It was shockingly good fun!\n\nWe watched the game and to our delight Cork City won \u2013 by the way, if you have not been to a hurling game in Ireland, you absolutely must. It is one of the finest sports on the planet.\n\nNeedless to say, after the game there was a hospitality tent. My flight back to Bristol was at 8 p.m. and there was no way my hosts, who had so faithfully promised to deliver me back to the airport in time to catch my flight, would take me to the airport. 'Just stay overnight,' they said. 'You've got a room at the Shelbourne, you can fly back tomorrow. Or if it's really urgent, the next day.'\n\nIrish hospitality is legendary \u2013 if you are a bloke. It is conducted largely in public at the racetrack hospitality tent, the pub or the golf course, but very seldom at people's homes. I remember one morning, I had been granted an audience with the then Prime Minister of Ireland at his home in Howth near Dublin. I had the day before attended a charitable event for him to raise money for underprivileged children, and he readily agreed to see me (I wanted some advice on the possibility of registering as an artist in Ireland in order to pay less income tax, a scheme which he himself had set up for people in the entertainment business who wished to live there). I was picked up from my hotel by plainclothes policemen in a limousine and taken to his house, an elegant mansion, the entrance hall of which was adorned with photographs of world statesmen, sportsmen, racehorse owners, etc., etc. I was shown into his office and I expected an audience of, say, ten minutes, and then to be suddenly and politely ushered back out and so on. When we had finished our business he invited me to walk around the gardens. He showed me some of his thoroughbred horses and some deer that he kept. I thought, this is odd, it's a big prime minister of Ireland and I haven't yet been shown the door. It was about eleven o'clock and he said, 'Do you fancy a drink?'\n\nI said, 'Yes, that would be terribly nice, thank you.'\n\nThen come along with me,' he said. We went back into the house and along some passageways. He got some keys from his pocket and opened a door, and we stepped into the perfect replica of an authentic Irish pub, complete with till, bar, beer fonts, the lot! He picked up a telephone and spoke to a member of staff. 'Is Mrs Haughey there?' he enquired. Clearly she was. 'Would you be good enough to tell her that Mr Floyd has talked me into having a drink and would she be good enough to join us.' The same thing as the hurling final, for God's sake! I yet again had a plane to catch and yet again they wouldn't let me leave. 'It'll be no problem to get you to the airport,' he said. 'My son will fly you there in the helicopter.'\n\nThe only sane times I spent in Ireland, and I use the word very loosely, was fishing for salmon on the Shannon, usually with Stan, my manager, and a couple of the locals who would gillie for us \u2013 and then make us stay up till dawn in some bar where the stories were just too good and amusing, just too hauntingly beautiful to be able to leave. Tear-jerking Irish folk songs, of which to me probably the most haunting is called 'Old Skibbereen', a poignantly painful story of English brutality during the potato famine. Yet at no time in Ireland did I ever remotely perceive or experience, despite their inbred anger at those unhappy times, any anti-English feelings or sentiments.\n\nMany years later, another marriage come and gone (yes, that makes it three, but who's counting? Only the female hacks on certain tabloid newspapers), my wife, Tess, and I were invited to the races at Kilbeggan, a beautiful racecourse west of Dublin. Now this is an Irish story, it could only happen in Ireland. And I think it could only happen to me. It goes something like this...\n\nIn Kinsale, where we were then living, there is the excellent Blue Haven Hotel, the manager of which at that time was a young man called Noel. Noel had, over the years, along with the proprietor of the hotel, Brian Cronin, accorded me fantastic service, always giving me a room when they might have been fully booked \u2013 in short, it had often been home to me. Now Noel was in love, hesitantly, and he needed an opportunity, a romantic opportunity, to propose to his love. It happened that he was planning to be in Dublin at the same time as Tess and me, so we invited him to the races. More importantly \u2013 and this is awfully posey but it's the kind of thing you do \u2013 we would drive them both in great style in the Bentley to the races, where we would be received as VIPs. He would have his perfect setting, on this gorgeous summer's day shortly after the corn had been cut, to charm his girlfriend. The following weekend I had arranged to drive my cleaner's daughter to the church for her wedding in Kinsale. I was to be the chauffeur. I know this sounds convoluted and complicated but I ask you to bear with me.\n\nOn the eve of the race meeting, I had illegally parked my Bentley on the pavement in front of the Lord Mayor of Dublin's official residence and under the eyes of a policeman, or at least a security guard, and had stepped across the road into La Stampa restaurant for dinner. Halfway through dinner two Gardai walked in wanting to know who was the owner of the white Bentley parked outside. Well, of course, Irish barmen are in a world class of their own. They knew it was ours but would not reveal to the police this information. They admitted to having the keys for it although they weren't sure who the owners were. If it had to be moved, they would move it. 'No, it doesn't have to be moved,' said the Gardai, 'it's just that someone's thrown a brick through the windscreen.' They had also stolen the mobile phone (I had stupidly left it on the seat, and by the way, take it from me, if your mobile phone is ever stolen in Dublin, this is what you do \u2013 you don't go to the police, you simply ring yourself up and the man who stole it will tell you you can pick it up in a certain pub for a certain amount of money. At that time we didn't know this).\n\nBut the window was more important than the mobile phone; in fact those of you who remember the great Gerard Hoffnung and the famous story of the barrel and bricks that he told at the Oxford Union in about 1958 might begin to see some similarities with my tale. We had promised Noel and his fiancee the day of their lives, swishing up to the races in a Bentley, champagne tent, smoked salmon and strawberries et al. But the Bentley is now undriveable and there is no Bentley or Rolls-Royce to be rented at such short notice in Dublin. So, sitting in the bar of the Shelbourne, the Horseshoe Bar, one of the great bars of the world, I prepared myself to disappoint Noel. Then I suddenly remembered, or somebody suddenly remembered, that our chum the Prime Minister's son ran a helicopter company. So I phoned him up, explained my predicament, and he flew us to and from the races at half the normal prices.\n\nThe trouble was, to get a replacement windscreen for the Bentley was proving to be impossible in Ireland and it had to be flown in from England. So we abandoned the Bentley, and hired a car to drive us back down to Cork, where we had business to attend to. Then we had to catch the train back to Dublin to retrieve the Bentley to drive it back down to Cork and to Kinsale so I could take Carmel's daughter to her wedding. Unfortunately, after the races, we had arranged two days' fishing on the Shannon before going back down to Kinsale, and I in fact caught a salmon (8lb 12oz). We packed it in ice and set off in our brand new rented motorcar for home. Two days' fishing and two nights in a hotel on the Shannon is great fun but it ain't cheap.\n\nJust outside Cork City the rented car blew up. We called the AA, but the mechanic could not find a problem with the car and said, 'Follow me and we'll drive it to a Ford garage and have it dealt with.' The AA van was quite an old van and its brake lights didn't work. The AA man shot off at a rate of knots around the back lanes of Blarney with us in hot pursuit. At an intersection he recklessly pulled out, realised his mistake, and stopped dead. But, as I say, he had no brake lights and we went right into the back of him, writing off our Ford Fiesta and denting the back door of this beaten-up old AA van, and leaving him concussed and bleeding. He was unbelievably cool. 'Sure, it's nothing at all,' he said. 'I will dump the car and Mr Floyd at the garage, and Mrs Floyd, I will take you to the airport at Cork City, where you can rent another car.' The only decent thing I could do was give him the salmon.\n\nHowever we finally got home and eventually settled the insurance claim for the AA, which was \u00a32,000 (rather more than the van was worth!), another couple of thousand pounds for the Ford Fiesta \u2013 add that to the price of a helicopter and a new windscreen for a Bentley, two first-class train tickets back to Dublin to collect the Bentley in time for the wedding, the cost of a gillie, the hotel and the licence in Shannon, and at around \u00a37,000 I think that was the most expensive salmon caught in history!\n\nWhen I have recovered from this passage I will tell you about the wedding.\n\nThe distance from my cottage to the bride's was about I kilometre. The distance from the bride's house to the church was less than a kilometre. The service would last approximately forty-five minutes and the distance from the church to the hotel for the reception was about 800 metres. The service was planned for 2 p.m. so in theory I would have fulfilled my duties by 3 p.m. at the latest, and I could get back home to watch the rugby on television. I suppose I should have known better. I had been to one Irish wedding before but that was by accident. I was attending a function at a hotel and I unwittingly stumbled into the wrong room. The fact that I was uninvited and knew no one there made no difference at all. As usual, it took about two hours to escape!\n\nAnyway, everything went brilliantly according to plan. I wore a dark navy suit, white shirt, black tie, black shoes, black gloves and behaved like the perfect chauffeur. At ten to three they came out of the church. I reverentially opened the door for the bride and groom and set off to the reception, only to be flagged down and stopped by the official wedding photographer, who climbed in beside me and said, 'First we must take a couple of pictures.'\n\nIt was unfortunately an awful day as far as the weather was concerned \u2013 squalls and gales, blustering wind, intermittent heavy rain. The first photograph was taken at the groom's parents' house. The next one was taken at the school they'd both gone to. The next one was taken in front of the bride's grandparents' house, the next one on the old Head of Kinsale where they had courted before they were married, gazing out over the ocean. Then the photographer suddenly remembered we hadn't taken any pictures of the church, so off we went back to the church. Then, while they were posing for photographs in a particularly picturesque part of old Kinsale, the groom escaped into the pub with his mates, where he resolutely stayed for an hour and a half, downing pints as fast as possible before he could be persuaded to continue with the photographic shoot.\n\nBy now the poor bride is freezing cold in her elegant but somewhat flimsy silk wedding dress, and I have to admit I'm getting a bit pissed off because it's nearly six o'clock. I haven't had a drink, and I daren't drink because of my responsibilities as the chauffeur. Actually, I've just remembered, it wasn't my cleaning lady's daughter; it was her niece. A very charming young woman.\n\nFinally, we made it to the reception at about half past eight, by which time, of course, all the guests were in full party mood \u2013 that is to say, some were dancing, the hard men were just drinking, a couple were being sick in the lavatories and a few were sitting stoically and silently with a piece of wedding cake balanced on their knees, sipping an unaccustomed glass of sherry. There was a great trio \u2013 keyboards, sax and guitar \u2013 doing appalling renditions of songs like 'Moon River'. The reception went on till at least 2 a.m., during which time I don't think the groom and the bride had time to speak to each other, so busy were they both individually but separately being congratulated by well-wishers. By now the men had their ties off and their collars open.\n\nI only heard the full story the following Monday morning when Jimmy, my cleaning lady's husband, failed to come into work on account of being detained in the police station on a charge of assault after he mistook a couple of plainclothes policemen for suspicious characters lurking near his house. I also believe that a couple of the hired minibuses for guests and friends required extensive repairs after a slight misunderstanding with a Halt sign! I am pleased to say that, in the event, the police accepted Jimmy's side of the story and no charges were brought, and as far as I know, the bride, the groom and all their family and friends are all busily living happily ever after. It's the last time I shall offer my services as a chauffeur! I'd done it several times before in Devon for customers of the pub, but never with such catastrophic results as this one.\n\nI think the last point-to-point in the Irish calendar is held in Kinsale in a beautiful, natural amphitheatre some time in October, usually sponsored by Murphy's Brewery, and advertised as a pintto-pint! It's a great day's racing, with the farmers and locals and of course a few ringers mounted by National Hunt jockeys, but mainly it's a drinking event. A huge marquee is erected, Murphy's supply the beer, if not free then at very keenly discounted prices, and the organisers stand to make many thousands of pounds out of this spectacular event. In theory, although this was a national event of many years' standing, each year the organisers have to apply for a temporary licence for the marquee. This was normally done by borrowing a licence from one of the local pubs, who would agree to shut for the day in exchange for money, and the licence would be legitimately transferred to the point-to-point. This particular year the organisers had overlooked this, no one had ever asked them for the licence before and indeed, there is a natural inclination in the Irish to scorn bureaucracy. Unfortunately they hadn't accounted for the fact that Kinsale had just been given a new Chief of Police, who decided to flex his muscles by asking the organisers for a copy of their licence. Despite all their protestations, their arguments, their philosophies and their silver-tongued excuses, the Sergeant closed down the bar. Three thousand fun-loving punters were unable to have as much as a sniff of a bottle of Paddy.\n\nA similar fate nearly befell Kinsale Rugby Club on the weekend of the Seven-a-Side Tournament. I was there to present the cups in conjunction with a government minister when we heard the call that the Sergeant was coming to enforce the actual opening hours of the bar. This was a different Police Chief, by the way, and after he had been invited by my government minister and myself to have a couple of stiff ones, he quickly saw the error of his ways and pints continued to be poured and the band played on.\n\nBut sadly my Irish idyll came to an abrupt end. During a routine phone conversation with my manager he told me he had just signed a three-series, three-year television contract for me. The Far East, Spain and Italy. Three series, three books and back on the goddamned road again. It was a pretty important, independent production company which had very fixed views on how the programme should be made, but I managed to persuade them that they would of course have to have David Pritchard as the director.\n\n# The Leap out of the Frying Pan\n\nAfter my Irish sojourn it was strange to be back on the road. Over those three years I filmed in Singapore, Hong Kong, Vietnam, Malaysia and Thailand, the whole of Spain and the whole of Italy. I made TV commercials in Britain, Ireland, Australia, South Africa and Scandinavia. I know many would give their right arm to do what I did and yes, it's amazingly flattering to be mimicked by brilliant comedians or to be turned into wax in Madame Tussaud's (I live in fear of being melted down) or to be the subject of This Is Your Life', but there is also a terrific pressure to turn up at openings, events and charitable occasions. All people want to talk to you about is food. Food, food, food. And although food has brought me and cost me fame, notoriety and fortune, I seem to have spent most of my life over the last fifteen years sitting disconsolately in inhospitable hotel lobbies or airports. With my reputation now firmly established in the press it was virtually impossible to find solace in any kind of relationship. Out of desperation rather than interest I would accept invitations to openings and parties, only to find myself strangely too shy to join in the fun.\n\nBy the winter of 1994\/95, I really felt it was time to dramatically change the direction of my life. The pub was no longer a challenge, it was a burden, and my love affair with Ireland was compromised by my latest passion, which was my wife Tess. I thought I ought to think about life beyond television while I was still popular so I toyed with the idea of liquidating my assets (this was before I realised that the pub was in very serious financial difficulties) and moving to the island of Ko Samui in the Gulf of Thailand, where my friend Khun Akorn has a fantastic hotel. There I could amuse myself by acting as a consultant to him \u2013 we had already built a Floyd's Bar and Restaurant on his private beach \u2013 and I could in a leisurely manner set about fulfilling an ambition to take up writing seriously and get the hell out of the frustrations of my life in England and Ireland, one of which was that the last production company with whom I had made three series, had, although they decided they did not wish to renew our association, nevertheless taken out an injunction on me to prevent me from working with anyone else. This, however, was resolved later on when, to my amazement, two quite senior executives from BBC Bristol travelled down to Devon \u2013 the first time such a thing had happened for at least five years \u2013 and offered me another series, which was to be 'Floyd on Africa'.\n\nBe that as it may, one fine day, I was commissioned to make a television commercial in Birmingham for a furniture company called Cookes. Their advertising agency had come up with the amusing idea that I would provide the perfect recipe to help you furnish your home. The shoot was bizarrely located in what I think was the drama and television department of Birmingham University. Television producers and especially commercial directors have a pathological fear that their artists will arrive late, so they always insist that you are on set at about 6 a.m., even though you know for a fact, based on a huge amount of experience, that you will be very lucky if you are required to do anything before about eleven or twelve o'clock because invariably they will still be building the set or, more absurdly, trying to locate the product that we are supposed to be advertising.\n\nWell, this commercial was an exception. We didn't turn over a frame until about 6 p.m. I was sitting on a filing cabinet in a corridor chatting with my manager, Stan, rather disconsolately and certainly very bored, and definitely irritated. Production assistants, PR people, agency people were dashing around and making endless calls on their mobiles. Altogether there were about twenty people milling around and carpenters and painters hammering and banging and painting, when this tall, leggy woman sashayed confidently through a door into this corridor and in a kind of a Mae West manner, said, 'Hi boys, has anyone got a light?' As one, seven Armani-suited executives dropped their mobile phones and proffered a battery of Zippos and Dunhill cigarette lighters. This was clearly an important person, probably the client, whom everybody on a commercial shoot is in fear of, even though in private, of course, the creative people, the directors and other artistic worthies only do this shit for the money. I was instantly attracted by this woman, whom I took to be around twenty-nine or thirty years old, and set about working out how I could engage her in conversation before she was whisked off to lunch by a young executive, probably in a red Toyota Celica. She offered to make everybody coffee and, to my intense excitement, actually brought my cup to me and asked me for a light. This was the crack in the ice that I needed. 'What do you do?' I asked.\n\nShe said, 'I'm the food stylist.' Needless to say there was going to be a tableau of food on the table as part of the commercial. 'I'm bloody hopping mad, because my agency cocked up. I had to turn down a much more lucrative job with Gary Rhodes, or one of those other television cooks,' she said dismissively!\n\nThe advantage of having your manager with you on occasions like this is that it is he who goes to the producer and says, 'You kept us hanging around far too long: you are clearly not ready and won't be for some time, I'm taking Mr Floyd away for lunch and will be back later when you are.' And using the secret code that he and I have, I got him, in his blunt but quite unthreatening way, to say to Tess, as that was her name, 'Do you want to come and have a bite of lunch with us, love? No point hanging around with these wankers.'\n\nShe said yes, we went to the pub, had a glass of wine and started talking. We did not stop talking until the shoot was wrapped at eleven o'clock that night.\n\nI had been trying all afternoon and evening, as it was hard to get her on her own, to seize the opportunity to make a date to see her again, although from my point of view this could not be for the next two or three weeks as I was working abroad. Eventually the moment came and, with a deep fear of rejection, I said, 'Are you a woman of decision?' (Of course I knew the answer to that.)\n\nShe said, 'Yes, why?'\n\n'Well,' I said, 'I live in Ireland and in two weeks' time I'm having a barbecue at my home. Could you fly to Cork City, where I'll meet you and come for lunch?'\n\nTo my delight and relief, she said, 'Yes, of course.'\n\nWe exchanged telephone numbers and went our separate ways, me and Stan on to the next job and she back down to Oxfordshire to prepare for another job in Manchester the next morning.\n\nTwo weeks later, an hour before Tess's flight was due, I went to Cork Airport, which was packed with families waiting to greet their loved ones off the lunchtime London flight. This is when the panic set in. Would she really actually arrive? And I had this irrational fear that I couldn't really remember what she looked like. So I stood as close to the barrier as possible and watched them pour off the plane. Then, at the back of the stream of people, I saw her striding through the crowd, head held high, long auburnred hair flying out behind her. Without breaking step or pausing for breath, she linked arms with me and said something like, 'As I was telling you...' It was if we hadn't been separated for two weeks. And to this day, more than five years later, we have not stopped talking; even during my nearly three months in Africa, we managed to communicate either by fax or phone.\n\nWhilst in Africa, Stan and I had endless discussions about the pub and after much soul-searching, I decided to take his advice and call in the receivers, or at least have a preliminary meeting with them. For certain I could not continue propping it up to the tune of something in excess of \u00a3150,000 a year. It would be sensible to swallow my pride, give up my dream and cut my losses, a decision that should have been made a long time ago. Outwardly, the pub seemed to be running well: they flocked in for our concerts and firework displays, they arrived by boat, by horse, by Bentley or caravan and enjoyed themselves and for once the day-to-day management of the pub itself was being executed very efficiently. We also, for about the first time, had a chef who was knowledgeable enough and humble enough to pay as much attention to the pub grub that I was so passionate about as he did to the more sophisticated restaurant food.\n\nAfter nearly three months on the road in Africa, I was exhausted and I couldn't face going back to the crazy life in Ireland just yet, so I moved into a totally anonymous tranquillity with Tess in her Oxfordshire cottages \u2013 days spent driving around the autumnal lanes, simple lunches in roadside pubs, evenings spent watching television in front of a log fire, something I had not done in years. Cocooned in this little village, free from arguments about the pub, free from customers interrogating me upon my every move, free from newspapers or TV or radio companies phoning me every day, I began to recover my good humour and peace of mind. Too many nights over previous years had ended in shouting matches and me returning to an empty home that I didn't even want to be in. I knew I had finally found the peace and security that I had not been able to accept before because of either my job or my lifestyle; or perhaps it had, in fact, never existed before. As is my custom, every day I would phone Stan, who ran the office in the pub, just to keep in touch with the outside world. Everything was cool, he said.\n\nDuring my years of so-called celebrity, I had to be very cautious about making friends or indeed accepting offers of friendships. Throughout the course of this miniature masterpiece, I have mentioned the names of a few true, lifelong friends. I think I have been extremely fortunate to keep them while my own particular tide of success ebbed and flowed. Sometimes I have been sad that, owing to outrageous travelling, I have not been able to keep up with them all. I think it has also been quite remarkable that both Jesmond, the mother of my son Patrick, and Julie, the mother of my daughter Poppy, have never attempted to take advantage of my success or attempted to exploit my failures. There is a sadness that is created through the loneliness of the long distance runner. But people throughout the world have offered me support and friendship and given me shelter from the storm and if ever I won the lottery, I would like to go back fifty years and travel round the world again without a film crew and thank everybody I have ever met.\n\nTwo of my best friends are called Hugh and Trish (Hugh, who along with Stuart Barnes enabled me to enjoy some of the best times of my life by helping me recruit such rugby luminaries as Phil De Glanville, Jason Leonard, Ray Gravelle, Mike Teague, Steve Ojomo, Victor Obugu, Olly Campbell and many many others for a charity fifteen-a-side match at the annual Kinsale Rugby Sevens) and I was anxious for Tess to meet them. So, one glorious early autumn morning we purred up in the Bentley to meet them for lunch in Langan's Brasserie in London. It was the longest lunch my life. It started in Langan's, continued in a Chinese restaurant and on into the early hours of the morning in nightclubs and casinos until we crashed out at Trish and Hugh's. After scrambled eggs and smoked salmon we drove to Oxford to continue the lunch, interrupted only by me proposing to Tess and stumbling down an alleyway of antique ring dealers before heading back to Tess's village for a fish and chip supper in the pub. The celebrations continued until Hugh and Trish crashed out in Tess's spare room.\n\nThe next day, after several hungover cups of coffee, we slowly worked our way up to Henley-on-Thames, again via lunch. We continued until about seven o'clock, when I remembered that my sister lived in Henley and decided it would be a great idea to introduce her to my friends and my future wife. Hugh, as was his wont for the summer months, was dressed in shorts, an opennecked shirt and an outrageous blazer; Tess was in jeans and a baggy sweater, I in my habitual blue trousers, blue shirt and blue pullover, Trish much the same. It would be an understatement to say we were all in high spirits when we knocked on the door of my sister's house. We had phoned to say we were coming, so I was surprised to find Brenda, her husband Edward, and Victoria, one of their daughters, all immaculately dressed in suits and evening dresses. How respectful, I drunkenly felt, to take this trouble. Anyway, we all stumbled in cheerfully, demanding ash trays in a nonsmoking house, and wondering when they were going to offer us a drink. I suppose to them we must have looked like a part of the rugby team that had missed the bus home after the Easter tour.\n\nThey politely explained that they were delighted to see us, but that they had a long-standing dinner engagement at their club. That's no problem at all,' we said, 'we'll come with you!' This generous attitude of ours was met with a certain coolness. 'No, we won't have dinner with you,' we said, 'we'll have a drink and move on.' There was one of those silences that occurs in many a scene in the stories of Bertie Wooster, Jeeves and an ancient aunt. But nothing could dim our enthusiasm for going with them until Edward explained that in any event we would not be allowed in dressed as we were. It was by all accounts a very smart private members' club on the Thames, one of those sought-after venues for the Henley Regatta.\n\nIt was already quite clear from the three or four days we had been lunching together that Tess was as big a bosom buddy with Hugh and Trish as I was, and really close friends can communicate in code. We were going whether they wanted us or not, we had decided, but we outwardly appeared to be leaving. We said our fond farewells and drove off, apparently in our different directions. We gave them two or three minutes' start before we made our way to the club. Hugh and Trish are such party animals that they never go anywhere without a wardrobe that would have shamed Imelda Marcos stashed in the boot of their car. Quite the funniest sight I have ever seen was, in the now cold and dark autumn evening, four people, two women and two men, in the car park, stripping off their jeans, shorts and jumpers and changing into, in the girls' case, tights, high heels and miniskirts, or in our case, smart business suits and rugby team ties. The girls did their make-up in the car wing mirrors, while Hugh and I poured one final drink from the mobile bar that we always carry in our car. We then invaded the club.\n\nImmaculately dressed we swept through Reception to the delight of the head waiter, who welcomed us by name, Hugh having been there many times before, particularly at Regatta time, and we were immediately escorted to a table. My sister's and brother-in-law's faces were a picture. We arrived ten minutes after them but the first drink had appeared on their table, a bottle of champagne, sent across by Hugh. The chefs came out to talk to us; so did the waitresses. I don't think we ate \u2013 we just ordered a bottle of port for my brother-in-law, a round of drinks for the staff, and swept out again. I know we behaved badly but it was such fun! We finished lunch the following day \u2013 a liquid one on the fifth floor of Harvey Nicks, where the necessary hangover cures were administered before Tess and I staggered home to Oxfordshire.\n\nMy son Patrick came to stay with us, ostensibly to take Tess shopping to buy something to wear for our wedding. She came back with nothing: Patrick had spent the trousseau money on shirts, socks, jumpers, trainers and so on. The night before the wedding, which was to be held in Didcot Registry Office, Steve, our local landlord, phoned to say there were some suspicious people in the village and that he had called the police to have them removed. It was, of course, our friends from the press, who had finally discovered we were to be married. We lived opposite the church and old, disused graveyard. It was dark when Tess came home with the shopping for the supper. As she got out of the car, a bunch of photographers leapt out from behind a gravestone, clicking away like mad, determined to get a photograph of my future wife. Scared to death at this sudden flashing onslaught from the land of the dead, she ran yelling into the house. So determined were they to get a photo of Tess before the event, they phoned up her friends offering large sums of money for a picture or, hopefully, a lurid story that they could run the next day. Tess had very loyal friends: they got nothing.\n\nOn the morning of our wedding, Tess had to work in Newbury styling some cherry pies, so, rather than be left under siege at the cottage, I went the thirty miles with her to be her assistant. The members of the press, not sure where we were going, decided to follow, and about ten cars formed a crocodile behind us. They were very disappointed when we arrived at an industrial estate, emerge three hours later and drove back to the cottage. Serves them right!\n\nMy best man, Hugh, and Tess's matron of honour, Trish (the only people to attend this wedding), arrived at about one o'clock, Trish with a bag of spare clothes for Tess, and Hugh, resplendent in a kilt, bearing a bottle of champagne. We holed up in the cottage, opened the champagne and a few other bottles and set about getting ready for the big moment. Drinking and giggling, we barged about trying on suits and getting into the mood for this momentous occasion. Eventually we were ready. We emerged from the cottage and bumped into the press again. What the hell. They took their photo and we scrambled into the car and drove the five minutes to the registry office with them in hot pursuit. Arriving at the registry office, which was above the library, a large, very unattractive concrete building, we stumbled, still giggling and definitely slightly tight, up the stairs to be greeted by Jean and Beryl, the ladies who were to do the honours. It was a bit strange standing in this room, just the six of us, but it was time to go ahead with the proceedings. I can only imagine that these two lovely ladies were rather overcome by all the activity outside, and things started to go a bit awry. Do you, Keith, take Trish to be your lawful wedded wife? Trish! This small name mix-up resulted in the four of us breaking down in hysterical laughter which took about ten minutes to recover from. Every time I tried to put the error right, more hysterics resulted. We did, however, manage to complete the ceremony in the end, having been threatened that if we did not calm down, they would not proceed.\n\nWe emerged married and walked straight into the waiting press, plus a few nonplussed locals. We felt that as we couldn't shake this lot off, we might as well invite them back to our local pub, where our lovely landlord Steve and his wife Eve had laid on a little reception. We sneaked away to another pub later that evening for fish and chips and all ended up back at the cottage, made coffee and continued laughing and joking long into the night. Not the most conventional of days, but certainly the best.\n\nWe couldn't go on honeymoon: Tess had a contract to fulfil and I had to go off on a nationwide promotional tour. We finally got back together two days before Christmas at home in Ireland where, in typical Irish fashion, we threw a party for about 150 people, of whom we actually knew at least seventy-five. A long, hard traumatic year had come to an end. Despite all the problems I was blissfully happy and, with a song in our hearts, we left the Irish winter gales in the New Year, and flew to Ko Samui as guests of my friend Khun Akorn. Here for a few days we lay on the beach, soaked up the sun, all our cares receding as we enjoyed our belated honeymoon \u2013 until the fatal phone call. Nobody, I thought, knew where we were, no one knew where we were going, but the _Daily Mirror_ did. They wanted to interview me about the fact that that day, Floyd's Inn (Sometimes) had gone into receivership.\n\nOf course, I knew it was going to happen, but I had no idea when or how. I thought the receivers were working for us but the reverse was true: they were working for the creditors. Apparently they arrived at the pub early in the morning, like a Gestapo dawn raid, changed the locks, threw everyone out and appointed a caretaker manager.\n\nWe immediately cut short our trip, threw our clothes into a suitcase, and caught the first flight back to England to face the music. On arrival, I was not allowed into the building, not even to retrieve my own personal possessions, which amounted to several thousand pounds' worth of artefacts, pictures, sundries and even furniture that I had taken from my home to decorate the pub with. They said that unless I could produce receipts for all of these items (many I had had for many years) they would be deemed as part of the inventory of the pub, which, by the way, with its luxurious bedrooms and marble bathrooms, its gourmet restaurant, bistro and bar, its manager's flat and staff accommodation, its magnificent location on the river Dart, was worth at least \u00a31.5 million. They sold the pub part for about \u00a3300,000, took about \u00a3100,000 in fees, gave the bank \u00a3200,000, leaving me with a massive personal liability for the balance. The other part of the property, which was a converted warehouse, for which I had paid \u00a350,000 and spent \u00a3200,000 turning it into luxury accommodation, they managed to sell, in a sealed-bid offer, for \u00a398,000, amazingly exactly equal to the amount of the outstanding mortgage on the building. It was sold to a local publican.\n\nI had personal guarantees to the brewery and, of course, to the Inland Revenue and, since all my spare money went into improving the pub, which I saw as my pension plan when my television sell-by date arrived, and because I live life pretty much to the full, I did not have a large nest egg of cash in the bank to pay my debts there and then. I was effectively broke. After several humiliating meetings, the three principal creditors, the brewery, the bank and the Inland Revenue, grudgingly agreed to let me repay them at the rate of several thousand pounds a month over the next few years.\n\nThe publicity was, of course, appalling, and overnight the phone stopped ringing. It was essential now that I was able to carry on working. Up until this time, and certainly over the previous five years, I couldn't have cared less whether I did a television series or wrote a book or not. 'Floyd on Africa' came out and had fantastic reviews in all of the papers and was pick of the week or the day for nearly every week of the series in one paper or another.\n\nA couple of weeks later, at the end of the series, a chap from the BBC in Bristol wrote me a brief note \u2013 something along the lines of 'Dear Keith, thanks for your enthusiastic efforts over the last few years and thanks for a successful Africa series. The controller has decided not to commission any more \"Floyd on...\" series. Best wishes, etc., etc., etc.' What timing.\n\nThe next day the Sunday newspaper that had given me the outrageously well-paid weekly column informed me that my contract had come to an end and they would not be renewing it.\n\nIt was very early in 1996, I had virtually nothing in comparison to my liabilities and no future work in the pipeline. The phone did not ring. By September the situation was seriously bleak. I tried to remortgage my house in Ireland so that I could maintain my repayments but of course as a self-employed freelance, out-of-work television presenter, I could not provide the income guarantees that they required. In the middle of all of this, Tess's rented cottage in Oxfordshire was burgled and emptied out!\n\nBut, unbeknown to me, Stan, who doesn't know the meaning of the word defeat, pulled off two very good deals. One was to make a commercial video for a wine company, to be shot in 1997; the other was a major television series for Scandinavian TV called 'Floyd's Fjord Fiesta', which took us all over Greenland, Finland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, also for 1997. But during 1996 we did not know this and the only job I think I got was a TV commercial in South Africa.\n\nWe came back from Africa sometime in early December and flew to Paris to celebrate our wedding anniversary courtesy of the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, who arranged for us to stay at their then sister hotel the George V, where it was agreed that we would get staff rates on a standard room. To my horror, when we arrived we were shown to the most magnificent suite, complete with drawing rooms, sitting rooms, bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchen, all magnificently furnished with antiques and oil paintings. A bar was there complete with every kind of drink imaginable, and a silver tray with a galaxy of canapes of foie gras and beluga caviare. A large bottle of Bollinger was placed, in an ice bucket, next to this. According to the ticket on the door, this suite was approximately \u00a31,700 per night! We were booked in for five nights. Oh shit, we thought, how on earth are we going to pay this, even with a 50 per cent discount? Still, we thought, what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound, let's celebrate! I still had my Coutts gold card, so I had a month's credit to get myself out of the shit. Because our honeymoon had been curtailed, Khun Akorn had again generously sent us two first-class tickets to join him in Ko Samui in January, where I decided I would really bite the bullet, buckle down and write this book in one month flat, and that would be the answer to some of our immediate financial problems. After all, Jeffrey Archer did it, why not me?\n\nWith this in mind, we spent our five days in Paris walking around this beautiful city, eating at simple but splendid restaurants and relaxing in the hotel bar in the evening, refusing to let the horrendous cost of the break get us down. We were being splendidly treated and at last had some real time to ourselves, away \u2013 albeit temporarily \u2013 from our troubles. We strolled around the Sunday market of Neuilly and watched the fat drip from the plump roasting chickens on the rotisserie into a trough of potatoes in the market square. We munched on hot, bright red radishes dipped in salt as we drank pastis in the pale winter sunshine. Little ladies in fur-collared coats were taking their coiffured poodles for a stroll along the sidewalk and old men stared from the benches in the park waiting to place their bets on the Tierce. Night-times, arm in arm we strolled like an American in Paris down the Champs Elys\u00e9es and mornings we drank coffee and ate croissants in the Boulevard St Michel and thought, yes, it's true, the Sun Also Rises.\n\nWhen the day came to return to Ireland, we walked towards the reception desk, quailing slightly at the thought of the imminent bill. We were greeted at the desk by the manager. 'Mr Floyd,' he said, 'there is no charge to you at all. Please accept this visit as a gift from the hotel.' We nearly fell over. After the horrors and misery of the year, this was unbelievable, but it was true. I shall for ever be grateful for this overwhelming generosity. We thanked everyone, gathered up our possessions and flew home for Christmas and to pack for our trip to Thailand on I January 1997.\n\nChristmas 1996 came and went in a flurry of socialising, tidying and packing, my mind racing with plans for my book and the forthcoming trip. Two days before we were due to leave Ireland we made our last-minute document checks. Itinerary? Yes. Tickets? Yes. Passports? Yes. Credit cards? Where were the credit cards? We searched high and low, panic rising by this time. Where had they last been? In my jacket pocket. Where was my jacket? We plundered the wardrobe. Nothing. I had last had it in Paris. A horrible thought struck me. 'Ring the George V,' I said to Tess. She did. After a short search at their end, they confirmed our worst fears. We had left it hanging in the wardrobe in Paris. They immediately offered to send the jacket and the credit cards back to me as quickly as possible, but with the delay over New Year, there was no way it was going to reach us in time for our trip. We phoned the airline and tried to postpone our tickets, but they had no free spaces on any flights for the next two weeks: everyone, it seemed, was flying to Bangkok for January. There was nothing else for it. We had to cancel and return the fares to Khun Akorn with huge apologies.\n\nIt was another miserable disaster and only just 1997. I had no enthusiasm for the writing project if we were still stuck in cold, dark, wet Ireland surrounded by our awful problems. We sank into gloom once more, but had run out of options, it seemed. A few days later, as we sat dejectedly in our local pub drowning our sorrows and feeling pretty low, some dear friends spotted us and came over. 'We thought you were in Thailand writing a book,' they said. I gloomily related the tale of woe to them.\n\n'But we have a flat in Spain which is empty for a couple of months,' they said. 'Why don't you buy a cheap ticket and borrow it for as long as you like? The weather is nice there in January and you won't be bothered by anyone.'\n\nThanks to a couple of wonderful supportive friends, we had been thrown another lifebelt. We thanked them profusely, borrowed the keys and a set of (rather vague), directions and dashed off home to call the airline. Two days later, after madly phoning around to arrange for people to keep an eye on the house, feed the pets and generally keep the everything up and running, we boarded a plane for southern Spain, enthusiasm renewed and hopes high. We landed in Malaga at 8.30 p.m. on a miserably cold, wet, windy January night. Having collected our luggage from a near-empty carousel, we hired a tiny car and, armed with directions, headed down the coast. Torrential rain slowed our journey and we eventually arrived at our destination at about 10.30 in the pitch black. We hadn't a clue where we were, but we were wet, tired, cold and irritable, bickering about whose fault all this was. The usual thing. We let ourselves into the little whitewashed flat. It was cold and a bit damp. The hot water was reluctant to work and, obviously, there was no food in the fridge, no coffee or tea and all we had to cheer ourselves up was the bottle of duty-free whisky we had bought at Cork Airport. After a fortifying drink, we collapsed, exhausted, into bed and fell asleep immediately. We would think again tomorrow.\n\nWe were woken the next morning by bright sunshine streaming in through the bedroom window. Looking out, we realised we were right on the beach. The rain had given way to the most brilliant, gloriously sunny morning and the Mediterranean sparkled a brilliant blue in front of us. With nothing to eat or drink in the flat, we scrambled into jeans, T-shirts and jumpers and went off up the beach in search of a caf\u00e9 for coffee and breakfast. After about ten minutes we found ourselves in the most picturesque little port surrounded by white painted houses, caf\u00e9s and shops. Boats bobbed in the marina under the azure sky. We found a caf\u00e9 and breakfasted on bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, and stared out on this amazing picture postcard view. Bolstered by this excellent start, we wandered back along the beach to the flat and unpacked. Sitting on the sun-drenched balcony, warm enough even in January to discard jumpers for T-shirts, I set to work on my book.\n\nA couple of weeks later, having made good progress on the writing, lunched in little Spanish caf\u00e9s, walked on the beach and generally recovered, I was sitting on the balcony with Tess, looking out to sea, where the multitude of tiny, brightly coloured fishing boats went about their daily business. I suddenly realised that my sciatica, something which had caused me serious pain and discomfort for several years now, had gone. I looked at Tess, fiddling away at the laptop in a bikini, looking stress-free for the first time for a year or more, and a bizarre thought popped into my head. Why not move to Spain? Life would be simpler and more relaxed on a daily basis and Ireland and England had somewhat lost their charms for me. I turned to Tess. 'How would you feel about selling up in Ireland and moving here?' She looked up at me and a huge grin broke out on her face.\n\n'Why not?' she said.\n\nWithin a week, we had put the house on the market. Not knowing what to expect, we carried on working and waited to hear from them. Amazingly, the second person who saw the house decided to buy it. Following a frenzy of negotiations, phone calls and faxes, we agreed a deal. The best thing was that the buyer actually wanted to buy the house, contents, our cars and animals, which consisted of four dogs, five cats, fifty-eight rare-breed chickens, twelve geese, one pair of swans, two Jacob sheep, one pony, six beehives, seventy-seven goldfish and twelve Vietnamese potbellied piglets, and although I had enjoyed ten years building up this bizarre operation \u2013 I even grew chillies, lemons and garlic in my greenhouse \u2013 I felt an end of an era had come and we had no regrets. We returned very briefly to Ireland about two months later to sign the contracts and returned to Spain. We rented a slightly larger furnished flat, and settled down to life in the sun.\n\nAfter all, I could always pick up the frying pan again...!\n\nBut, before I make any rash decisions I think we'll hop onto the boat and pop across the Straits to Morocco for lunch. Five twisting floors up, on the balcony of a carpet warehouse, we are gazing across the cracked tiles on the crippled roofs past the domed mosque of Tetu\u00e1n. Beneath us, in the arched narrow alleyways that smell of chilli and saffron and urine, in the narrow streets where a ferret would fear to run, old men with gnarled faces and young fresh-faced boys sit on crude stools or pieces of carpet behind piles of bankrupt washing machine parts, dynamos, old radios, bags of nails and the assorted jetsam, discarded, unwanted, unsaleable except to those who effectively need to take in each other's washing to survive. I have just bought four carpets woven in silk that I didn't really need, probably created by enslaved women and children. But above this derelict balcony where I am standing, the sky is blue and the sun shines and, in the harbour nearby, I have a boat to take me home, a home which I am building with Tess.\n\nThere will be days now of knocking down walls, arguing over the tiles for a bathroom, trembling with excitement when the lorry comes, carrying palm trees, orange trees, lemon trees, young roots of bougainvillea which we will plant against the walls. We are going to dig holes and create a water garden. We will go into the ponds and the. dried-up river beds in the _campo_ and net frogs, newts and freshwater crayfish for our own ponds. We will buy lilies and other water plants and \u2013 good news \u2013 we have got a licence for our parrots for Tess's aviary and Tess says, 'Shall we have chickens again?' \u2013 and we buy two that lay breakfast for two each day in this earthly paradise. As William Butler Yeats said:\n\n>...And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,\n> \n> And live alone in the bee-loud glade.\n\nAll this takes me back to those days at Wiveliscombe when life was so simple and fishing and bird-nesting and ferreting and keeping tadpoles, gathering chestnuts in the autumnal Somerset fields was your life long before the rock and roll of television.\n\nSo now each morning directly through our bedroom window the sun rises, big, yellow and bold, and over little cups of strong black coffee, we leap out of a frying pan and back into life.\n\nSee you later\n\nKeith Floyd\n\nP.S. Shortly after I'd finished this book, I was invited back to my old school in Wellington, Somerset, disguised as a celebrity, to raise money for a new sports complex. I told fibs and tales and made them laugh for two and a half hours and, as you do on these occasions, at the end the master of ceremonies invites questions from the audience. From the back, now retired, Joe Storr, my English master from the 1950s, said:\n\n'It is quite extraordinary, and believe me I know, that you left this school with barely four O levels and an appalling academic record. So how on earth have you become so successful?'\n\nI took a swig from a large glass of whisky I had on the podium and thought hard for a moment and I said:\n\n'Joe, it was people like you and the other teachers at this school, who although you recognised that we were a wild bunch and would never master Latin declensions, encouraged us to believe in ourselves.'\n\n## If you enjoyed _Out of the Frying Pan: Scenes from My Life_ , check out these other great Keith Floyd titles.\n\nBuy the ebook here\n\nBuy the ebook here\n\nBuy the ebook here\n\n# About the Author\n\n### Out of the Frying Pan\n\nKeith Floyd has written some twenty cook and travel books, the latest of which is _Floyd Around the Med._ He lives in Spain with his wife, Tess, one dog, one cat, four parrots, two chickens and three partridges. And yes \u2013 he does have a pear tree.\n\n# About the Publisher\n\n**Australia**  \nHarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.  \nLevel 13, 201 Elizabeth Street   \nSydney, NSW 2000, Australia  \n<http:\/\/www.harpercollins.com.au>\n\n**Canada**   \nHarperCollins Canada  \n2 Bloor Street East \u2013 20th Floor  \nToronto, ON, M4W 1A8, Canada  \n<http:\/\/www.harpercollins.ca>\n\n**New Zealand**   \nHarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited  \nP.O. Box 1   \nAuckland, New Zealand  \n<http:\/\/www.harpercollins.co.nz>\n\n**United Kingdom**   \nHarperCollins Publishers Ltd.   \n77-85 Fulham Palace Road   \nLondon, W6 8JB, UK   \n<http:\/\/www.harpercollins.co.uk>\n\n**United States**   \nHarperCollins Publishers Inc.   \n10 East 53rd Street   \nNew York, NY 10022   \n<http:\/\/www.harpercollins.com>\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"**_Books by Nelson DeMille_**\n\nBY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON\n\nCATHEDRAL\n\nTHE TALBOT ODYSSEY\n\nWORD OF HONOR\n\nTHE CHARM SCHOOL\n\nTHE GOLD COAST\n\nTHE GENERAL'S DAUGHTER\n\nSPENCERVILLE\n\nPLUM ISLAND\n\nPublished by\n\nWARNER BOOKS\n\nTHE GOLD COAST. Copyright \u00a9 1990 by Nelson DeMille. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.\n\nFor information address Warner Books, Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.\n\n  A Time Warner Company\n\nISBN: 978-0-7595-2262-6\n\nA trade paperback edition of this book was published in 1997 by Warner Books.\n\nThe \"Warner Books\" name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.\n\nFirst eBook Edition: April 2001\n\nVisit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com\n**_Contents_**\n\nPart I\n\nOne\n\nTwo\n\nThree\n\nFour\n\nFive\n\nPart II\n\nSix\n\nSeven\n\nEight\n\nNine\n\nTen\n\nEleven\n\nTwelve\n\nThirteen\n\nFourteen\n\nPart III\n\nFifteen\n\nSixteen\n\nSeventeen\n\nPart IV\n\nEighteen\n\nNineteen\n\nTwenty\n\nTwenty-one\n\nTwenty-two\n\nTwenty-three\n\nTwenty-four\n\nPart V\n\nTwenty-five\n\nTwenty-six\n\nTwenty-seven\n\nTwenty-eight\n\nTwenty-nine\n\nThirty\n\nThirty-one\n\nThirty-two\n\nThirty-three\n\nPart VI\n\nThirty-four\n\nThirty-five\n\nThirty-six\n\nThirty-seven\n\nThirty-eight\n_To my three budding authors:  \nRyan, Lauren, and Alex._\n**_Acknowledgments_**\n\nI wish to thank Daniel and Ellen Barbiero for sharing with me their invaluable insights into Gold Coast life, and also Audrey Randall Whiting for sharing with me her knowledge of Gold Coast history.\n\nI would also like to acknowledge my gratitude to Harry Mariani for his generous hospitality and support.\n\nI also want to thank Pam Carletta for her tireless and professional work on the manuscript for this book.\n\nAnd once again, my deepest gratitude to Ginny DeMille, editor, publicist, and good friend.\nA man lives not only his personal life as an individual, but also, consciously or unconsciously, the life of his epoch and his contemporaries.\n\n\u2014THOMAS MANN  \n_The Magic Mountain_\n**_Foreword_**\n\nI was born in New York City, and when I was four years old, my family moved to nearby Long Island. My father was one of the many post-World War II builders to come out to Long Island from the city to help create a new suburban frontier. New York City's teeming population of eight million was ready to spill out of the five boroughs and pour into the farms and villages of old Long Island. In 1946, Arthur Levit began building 15,000 homes on what had once been potato fields and meadows, the largest single subdivision ever created. By the late 1950s, over a million people had transformed much of Long Island from rural to suburban.\n\nAs a kid, I'd ride around the unpaved roads of the new housing tracts with my father in one of his army surplus jeeps, and even at that young age, I think I understood that one way of life was passing away and another was beginning. Long Island's Dutch and English history goes back to the early 1600s, and there was much that should have been saved and preserved. But in the rush to provide housing to returning veterans and their baby boomer families, questions of land use and landmark preservation were rarely addressed.\n\nFirst, the farms fell to the builders, then the forests, and gradually the grand estates of Long Island's North Shore\u2014the Gold Coast\u2014began to be divided by the surveyors, and the great houses began falling to the wrecker's ball. Much of the visible evidence of the golden age on Long Island, spanning from the end of the Civil War to the stock market crash of 1929, was disappearing as housing tracts covered fields and woodlands where ladies and gentlemen once rode to hounds and hundred-room mansions were either deserted, razed, or used to house institutions.\n\nBy the 1970s, the acceleration of the destruction had slowed, and efforts were being made to preserve the estates as parks, museums, or nature conservancies.\n\nThis was the Long Island I knew growing up, but I was only dimly aware of the history of the Gold Coast\u2014that is, until 1962, when in college I read F. Scott Fitzgerald's _The Great Gatsby._\n\n_Gatsby_ is not only an entertaining story, but also a fascinating piece of social history, a peek into the loves, lives, and tragedies of the people who lived in that special time and place, the Gold Coast of Long Island during the Jazz Age.\n\nAs I read _Gatsby_ in 1962, I was struck by the fact that the story took place only a few miles from where I was going to college and from where I grew up. Also, the time distance between the stock market crash of October 1929 and my freshman year of college was thirty-three years\u2014eons for me, but not for my parents or some of my teachers, who had lived through the Roaring Twenties and the Great Depression. Yet it seemed to me that most people spoke very little about the 1920s, and only a bit more about the depression. The defining years of their lives seemed to have been World War II. In retrospect, the years between World War I and the end of World War II were so crammed with momentous and earth-shattering events that, as one of my history teachers put it, \"These thirty years produced more history than the average person could consume.\"\n\nSo, although the 1920s were in many ways a turning point in American history, there were other turning points, so that the Jazz Age, the Roaring Twenties, the Age of Prohibition, while not forgotten, were to some extent eclipsed by subsequent events.\n\nEarly in my writing career, I decided I wanted to write a Gatsbyesque novel. I began searching for similar novels written during the period or afterward, and I was surprised at how few I was able to turn up, other than \"gangster books.\"\n\nOn reflection, I decided that a novel set entirely in the 1920s might not be well received by the reading public, so I decided to write a _generational_ novel, which began on Armistice Day, November 11, 1918, and continued to the present. My book was going to center on Long Island as the \"cradle of aviation,\" and the cast of characters in this huge book would include cameo appearances by Charles Lindbergh, Amelia Earhart, Glenn Curtiss, Leroy Grumman, and a host of other aviation greats. The project was breathtaking in its scope and entirely too ambitious for a lazy writer.\n\nBut the 1920s still fascinated me, and one day someone said, \"Examine the pieces of the Crash. Examine the Crash site.\" In other words, write a contemporary novel set on the old Gold Coast amid the remaining mansions and estates and the crumbling ruins. This seemed to be the best and most workable idea.\n\nBut what kind of story did I want to tell? Obviously, I needed old WASP families, some down on their luck, some doing well. I needed to examine the old morals, manners, and mores that still hung on, and compare and contrast them to the new ways, the new suburban America that lay just beyond the hedgerows of the once-grand estates.\n\nI knew the ingredients, the formula, but when I put it together, it still had no heat, no light, no spark. There was something missing and, finally, a chance piece in a local newspaper provided the missing element: the Mafia.\n\nThe more successful of the organized crime families had for years been taking up residence on the Gold Coast, and now the entire theme of my proposed novel took form: _The Godfather_ meets _The Great Gatsby_ on the Gold Coast. My wife, my agent, and I were sitting in my living room, and we were there to finalize the concept, plot, characters of _The Gold Coast_ book\u2014this is called a story conference, and it's either a lot of fun or it's pretty grim. I began the conversation with those ten words: \" _The Godfather_ meets _The Great Gatsby_ on the Gold Coast.\" Everyone stayed silent for a few seconds, then my agent, Nick Ellison, said, \"That's it. You got it.\" My wife Ginny, a former English teacher, said, \"I love it.\" We all got up and went out for a drink. The next day, Nick called the publisher and gave her the same ten words. She said, \"That's it. Go for it.\"\n\nAnd thus, a novel was conceived, but it was still a long way from being born.\n\nI won't go into detail about the writing process or the research, but suffice it to say, I knew a good number of the people in my novel. And those I didn't know personally or intimately, I knew _of_. This was, after all, if not _my_ backyard, it was my _neighbor's_ backyard. I did not grow up _on_ the North Shore of Long Island, the Gold Coast, but I grew up _near_ it, and had come to know it by osmosis and by brief contact. Thus, by my forty-fifth year when I began writing _The Gold Coast_ , this lost world that had seemed to me in 1962 so distant in time and place had become strangely closer, reminding me of the famous last line of _Gatsby\u2014_ \"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.\"\n\nThe reaction to the book when it was published in 1990 was interesting. It wasn't a \"DeMille\" book; that is, it wasn't an action adventure tale. It was, in fact, a serious novel, but some people had trouble making the mental transition. In fact, my own publishing company, in press releases and ads, called it a \"thriller.\" This would be like calling the _The Great Gatsby_ or _The Godfather_ a thriller. Some reviewers were confused, some didn't get it at all, and some ignored the book. The publishers had second thoughts about DeMille doing a non-DeMille book, and they put out a relatively modest number of hardcovers. Some astute reviewers, however, compared _The Gold Coast_ favorably to Tom Wolfe's then-recent bestseller, _The Bonfire of the Vanities_. Other reviewers said it was far better than _Bonfire._ One major review even suggested that it was better than its granddaddy, _The Great Gatsby._\n\nBut with the ads and press releases sending out mixed signals, confused reviews written by people who read the press releases and not the novel, and the modest printing, the book was not a hardcover phenomenon, despite the Book-of-the-Month Club\u00ae featuring it as a Main Selection, and despite a significant movie deal. Eventually, _The Gold Coast_ was translated into all major foreign languages, although the title was changed because the Gold Coast in much of Europe and the world refers to the African Gold Coast.\n\nSo, with mixed reviews and modest sales, I started to write my next novel, _The General's Daughter_ , a murder mystery, and, I hoped, a book that would not confuse anyone.\n\nBut then strange and wonderful things started to happen\u2014I began to hear from the actual reading public. Fan letters from bookstore owners, college professors, students, men, and more significantly, women, who had not been my primary readers, letters from people of all age groups and all social strata and from all parts of the country. (Some marketing and sales people had predicted that _The Gold Coast_ wouldn't \"play west of the Hudson.\") I had never gotten so many letters in twenty years of writing. More important than quantity was the quality of the letters\u2014passionate, intellectual, funny, and interestingly, sad. Many people said they cried at the end. What more can an author ask for?\n\nBut much of the positive reaction to _The Gold Coast_ came too late to influence the course of the hardcover. I took some comfort in recalling that _The Great Gatsby_ also had mixed reviews and poor sales when it was first published in 1925.\n\nBut, like _Gatsby, The Gold Coast_ was not fated to die or be buried. It was to be published in paperback in March of 1991, and the groundswell of readers who'd made the hardcover almost an underground classic now burst out into bookstores and airports, and wherever paperback racks exist. Within weeks, sales of _The Gold Coast_ were close to a million, and now, some six years later, the book is still in print, and has gone on to sell millions more.\n\nIn addition to retail sales, _The Gold Coast_ has experienced some interesting institutional sales. When the Republican National Committee met on Long Island prior to the 1996 presidential campaign, their local hosts included in all welcome packets a copy of _The Gold Coast._\n\nCollege and university sales have shown a steady rise over the years as instructors assign _The Gold Coast_ as required and suggested reading. Some instructors have written saying they assign it as companion reading to _Gatsby._ Other instructors in creative writing courses have told me they assign it by itself, or with Tom Wolfe's _Bonfire,_ as one of the few modern and noteworthy examples of social satire, manners, and mores.\n\nAnd finally, in the _Fodor's Guide to Long Island,_ under the topic of suggested further reading, is _The Gold Coast._\n\nAn author looks at sales not simply as money in the bank, but as approval\u2014why do we write except to be read? The more an author sells, the more people there are who are reading the author, obviously. And so, while the somewhat delayed commercial success of _The Gold Coast_ was nice, it was really the vindication of the book that made me feel good as a writer. It was, ultimately, not the hype-masters, the sales or ad people, or the reviewers who made the book successful, it was the word of mouth of bookstore owners and clerks, and the buying and reading public who put _The Gold Coast_ on the paperback bestseller list, and who have kept it on the shelves for all these years, and hopefully for years to come.\n\nBut what is it about this novel, this story, that has so captured the imagination and tickled the fancies of so many readers, not only in America, but worldwide? This is hard to answer, except to say that the story is a universal one: it is first a love story, but also a story _of_ America, how we were, where we are, and maybe where we're going. It's a story, too, that combines those delicious ingredients of lust, sex, and coveting your neighbor's wife\u2014all in a spicy dish. It is a novel that touches on some primal fears and needs, such as the territorial imperative, the threat and use of violence, the battle between good and evil, of right and wrong.\n\nThese various themes are examined and seen through the eyes of the narrator, John Sutter, whose self-deprecating and rueful sense of humor lightens the story at critical junctures.\n\nI believe also that there is a great affinity, duality, if you will, between the demise of the \"old\" Mafia and the old-money WASP world portrayed in _The Great Gatsby._ Both groups are on the far side of their Belle Epoch, or clinging to the remnants of their Belle Epoch. Some say a new America is emerging that has not room for, nor tolerance of, organized crime on the one hand, and inherited money and privelege on the other. That's not true. What is true is that other groups are getting more of the apple pie. In America, more than just about anywhere else on this planet, \"the more things change, the more they remain the same\"; I truly believe _The Gold Coast_ can be read seventy years from now, and it will be as understandable then as the seventy-year-old _Gatsby_ is today.\n\nSo that's my intro, which hopefully answers many of the questions that my readers have asked over the years. If you're a new reader of _The Gold Coast,_ I hope you enjoy the story. If you're re-reading this book\u2014like the eighty-year-old gentleman who told me he's read it ten times and still finds something new in it\u2014I hope you, too, find something new and thought-provoking this time around.\n\nNelson DeMille  \nLong Island, New York\n\n**_Part I_**\n\nThe United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem. . . .\n\n\u2014Walt Whitman  \nPreface to _Leaves of Grass_\n\n**_One_**\n\nI first met Frank Bellarosa on a sunny Saturday in April at Hicks' Nursery, an establishment that has catered to the local gentry for over a hundred years. We were both wheeling red wagons filled with plants, fertilizers, and such toward our cars across the gravel parking field. He called out to me, \"Mr. Sutter? John Sutter, right?\"\n\nI regarded the man approaching, dressed in baggy work pants and a blue sweatshirt. At first, I thought it was a nurseryman, but then as he drew closer, I recognized his face from newspapers and television.\n\nFrank Bellarosa is not the sort of celebrity you would like to meet by chance, or in any other way, for that matter. He is a uniquely American celebrity, a gangster actually. A man like Bellarosa would be on the run in some parts of the world, and in the presidential palace in others, but here in America, he exists in that place that is aptly called the underworld. He is an unindicted and unconvicted felon as well as a citizen and a taxpayer. He is what federal prosecutors mean when they tell parolees not to \"consort with known criminals.\"\n\nSo, as this notorious underworld character approached, I could not for the life of me guess how he knew me or what he wanted or why he was extending his hand toward me. Nevertheless, I did take his hand and said, \"Yes, I'm John Sutter.\"\n\n\"My name's Frank Bellarosa. I'm your new neighbor.\"\n\n_What?_ I think my face remained impassive, but I may have twitched. \"Oh,'' I said, \"that's . . .'' Pretty awful.\n\n\"Yeah. Good to meet you.\"\n\nSo my new neighbor and I chatted a minute or two and noted each other's purchases. He had tomatoes, eggplants, peppers, and basil. I had impatiens and marigolds. Mr. Bellarosa suggested that I should plant something I could eat. I told him I ate marigolds and my wife ate impatiens. He found that funny.\n\nIn parting, we shook hands without any definite plans to see each other again, and I got into my Ford Bronco.\n\nIt was the most mundane of circumstances, but as I started my engine, I experienced an uncustomary flash into the future, and I did not like what I saw.\n\n**_Two_**\n\nI left the nursery and headed home.\n\nPerhaps it would be instructive to understand the neighborhood into which Mr. Frank Bellarosa had chosen to move himself and his family. It is quite simply the best neighborhood in America, making Beverly Hills or Shaker Heights, for instance, seem like tract housing.\n\nIt is not a neighborhood in the urban or suburban sense, but a collection of colonial-era villages and grand estates on New York's Long Island. The area is locally known as the North Shore and known nationally and internationally as the Gold Coast, though even realtors would not say that aloud.\n\nIt is an area of old money, old families, old social graces, and old ideas about who should be allowed to vote, not to mention who should be allowed to own land. The Gold Coast is not a pastoral Jeffersonian democracy.\n\nThe nouveau riche, who need new housing and who comprehend what this place is all about, are understandably cowed when in the presence of a great mansion that has come on the market as a result of unfortunate financial difficulties. They may back off and buy something on the South Shore where they can feel better about themselves, or if they decide to buy a piece of the Gold Coast, they do so with great trepidation, knowing they are going to be miserable and that they had better not try to borrow a cup of Johnnie Walker Black from the people in the next mansion.\n\nBut a man like Frank Bellarosa, I thought, would be ignorant of the celestial beings and great social icebergs who would surround him, completely unknowing of the hallowed ground on which he was treading.\n\nOr, if Frank Bellarosa was aware, perhaps he didn't care, which was far more interesting. He struck me, in the few minutes we spoke, as a man with a primitive sort of \u00e9lan, somewhat like a conquering soldier from an inferior civilization who has quartered himself in the great villa of a vanquished nobleman.\n\nBellarosa had, as he indicated, purchased the estate next to mine. My place is called Stanhope Hall; his place is called Alhambra. The big houses around here have names, not numbers, but in a spirit of cooperation with the United States Post Office, my full address does include a street, Grace Lane, and an incorporated village, Lattingtown. I have a zip code that I, like many of my neighbors, rarely use, employing instead the old designation of Long Island, so my address goes like this: Stanhope Hall, Grace Lane, Lattingtown, Long Island, New York. I get my mail.\n\nMy wife, Susan, and I don't actually live _in_ Stanhope Hall, which is a massive fifty-room beaux-arts heap of Vermont granite, for which the heating bills alone would wipe me out by February. We live in the guesthouse, a more modest fifteen-room structure built at the turn of the century in the style of an English manor house. This guesthouse along with ten acres of Stanhope's total two hundred acres were deeded to my wife as a wedding present from her parents. However, our mail actually goes to the gatehouse, a more modest six-room affair of stone, occupied by George and Ethel Allard.\n\nThe Allards are what are called family retainers, which means they used to work, but don't do much anymore. George was the former estate manager here, employed by my wife's father, William, and her grandfather, Augustus. My wife is a Stanhope. The great fifty-room hall is abandoned now, and George is sort of caretaker for the whole two-hundred-acre estate. He and Ethel live in the gatehouse for free, having displaced the gatekeeper and his wife, who were let go back in the fifties. George does what he can with limited family funds. His work ethic remains strong, though his old body does not. Susan and I find we are helping the Allards more than they help us, a situation that is not uncommon around here. George and Ethel concentrate mostly on the gate area, keeping the hedges trimmed, the wrought-iron gate painted, clipping the ivy on the estate walls and the gatehouse, and replanting the flower beds in the spring. The rest of the estate is in God's hands until further notice.\n\nI turned off Grace Lane and pulled up the gravel drive to the gates, which are usually left open for our convenience, as this is our only access to Grace Lane and the wide world around us.\n\nGeorge ambled over, wiping his hands on his green work pants. He opened my door before I could and said, \"Good morning, sir.\"\n\nGeorge is from the old school, a remnant of that small class of professional servants that flourished so briefly in our great democracy. I can be a snob on occasion, but George's obsequiousness sometimes makes me uneasy. My wife, who was born into money, thinks nothing of it and makes nothing of it. I opened the back of the Bronco and said, \"Give me a hand?\"\n\n\"Certainly, sir, certainly. Here, you let me do that.'' He took the flats of marigolds and impatiens and laid them on the grass beside the gravel drive. He said, \"They look real good this year, Mr. Sutter. You got some nice stuff. I'll get these planted 'round the gate pillars there, then I'll help you with your place.\"\n\n\"I can do that. How is Mrs. Allard this morning?\"\n\n\"She's very well, Mr. Sutter, and it's nice of you to ask.\"\n\nMy conversations with George are always somewhat stilted, except when George has a few drinks in him.\n\nGeorge was born on the Stanhope estate some seventy years ago and has childhood memories of the Roaring Twenties, the Great Crash, and the waning of the Golden Era throughout the 1930s. There were still parties, debutante balls, regattas, and polo matches after the Crash of '29, but as George once said to me in a maudlin moment, \"The heart was gone from everybody. They lost confidence in themselves, and the war finished off the good times.\"\n\nI know all that from history books and through a sort of osmosis that one experiences by living here. But George has more detailed and personal information on the history of the Gold Coast, and when he's had a few, he'll tell you stories about the great families: who used to screw whom, who shot whom in a jealous rage, and who shot themselves in despair. There was, and to some extent still is, a servants' network here, where that sort of information is the price of admission to servants' get-togethers in the kitchens of the remaining great houses, in the gatehouses, and in the local working man's pubs. It's sort of an American _Upstairs, Downstairs_ around here, and God only knows what they say about Susan and me.\n\nBut if discretion is not one of George's virtues, loyalty is, and in fact I once overheard him tell a tree pruner that the Sutters were good people to work for. In fact, he doesn't work for me, but for Susan's parents, William and Charlotte Stanhope, who are retired in Hilton Head and are trying to unload Stanhope Hall before it pulls them under. But that's another story.\n\nEthel Allard is also another story. Though always correct and pleasant, there is a seething class anger there, right below the surface. I have no doubt that if someone raised the red flag, Ethel Allard would arm herself with a cobblestone from the walkway and make her way toward my house. Ethel's father, from what I gather, was a successful shopkeeper of some sort in the village who was ruined by bad investment advice from his rich customers and further ruined by the failure of those customers to pay him what they owed him for goods delivered. They didn't pay him because they, too, had been financially ruined. This was in 1929, of course, and nothing has been the same around here since. It was as though, I suppose, the rich had broken faith with the lower classes by going broke and killing themselves with alcohol, bullets, and leaps from windows, or simply disappearing, leaving their houses, their debts, and their honor behind. It's hard to feel sorry for the rich, I know, and I can see Ethel's point of view.\n\nBut here it is, some sixty years after the Great Crash, and maybe it's time to examine some of the wreckage.\n\nIf this place doesn't sound quite like America, I assure you it is; only the externals and the landscape are a bit different.\n\nGeorge was talking. \"So, like I was saying the other day, Mr. Sutter, some kids got into the Hall a few nights ago and had themselves a party\u2014\"\n\n\"Was there much damage?\"\n\n\"Not too much. Lots of liquor bottles, and I found a bunch of those . . . things\u2014\"\n\n\"Condoms.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"So, I cleaned it all up and replaced the plywood on the window they got in. But I'd like to get some sheet metal.\"\n\n\"Order it. Charge it to my account at the lumberyard.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Now that spring is here\u2014\"\n\n\"Yes, I know.'' The hormones are bubbling and the local bunnies are in high heat. I used to get into abandoned mansions myself, to be truthful. A little wine, some candles, a transistor radio tuned to WABC, and maybe even a fire in the fireplace, though that was a giveaway. There's nothing quite like love among the ruins. I find it interesting that condoms are back in fashion. \"Any sign of drugs?\"\n\n\"No, sir. Just liquor. You sure you don't want me to call the police?\"\n\n\"No.'' The local police seem very interested in the problems of the gentry, but I find it awkward standing around a deserted fifty-room mansion with cops who are trying to look sympathetic. Anyway, there was no damage done.\n\nI got into my Bronco and drove through the gates, the tires crunching over the thinning gravel. It will take five hundred cubic yards of crushed bluestone at sixty dollars a yard to get barely an inch of new topping on the winter-ravaged drive. I made a mental note to write my father-in-law with the good news.\n\nMy house, the guesthouse, is about two hundred yards up the main drive and fifty yards from it, via a single-lane spur also in need of gravel. The house itself is in good repair, its imported Cotswold stone, slate roof, and copper-sheathed sash and drainpipes virtually maintenance free and nearly as good as aluminum siding and vinyl plastic windows.\n\nWe have ivy on the walls, which will be in need of cutting as its new pale-green tendrils begin to creep, and there is a rose garden out back that completes the image that you are in England.\n\nSusan's car, a racing-green Jaguar XJ-6, a gift from her parents, was sitting in the turnaround. Another merrie-olde-England prop. People around here tend to be Anglophiles; it comes with the territory.\n\nI went inside the house and called, \"Lady Stanhope!'' Susan answered from the rose garden, and I went out the back doors. I found her sitting in a cast-iron garden chair. Only women, I think, can sit in those things. \"Good morning, my lady. May I ravage you?\"\n\nShe was drinking tea, the mug steaming in the cool April air. Yellow crocuses and lilies had sprouted in the beds among the bare rose bushes, and a bluebird sat on the sundial. A very cheering sight, except that I could tell that Susan was in one of her quiet moods.\n\nI asked, \"Were you out riding?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's why I'm wearing my riding clothes and I smell of horse, Sherlock.\"\n\nI sat on the iron table in front of her. \"You'll never guess who I met at Hicks' Nursery.\"\n\n\"No, I never will.\"\n\nI regarded my wife a moment. She is a strikingly beautiful woman, if I may be uxorious for a moment. She has flaming-red hair, a sure sign of insanity according to my aunt Cornelia, and catlike green eyes that are so arresting that people stare. Her skin is lightly freckled, and she has pouty lips that make men immediately think of a particular sex act. Her body is as lithe and taut as any man could ask for in a forty-year-old wife who has borne two children. The secret to her health and happiness, she will tell you, is horseback riding, summer, fall, winter, and spring, rain, snow, or shine. I am madly in love with this woman, though there are times, like now, when she is moody and distant. Aunt Cornelia warned me about that, too. I said, \"I met our new neighbor.\"\n\n\"Oh? The HRH Trucking Company?\"\n\n\"No, no.'' Like many of the great estates, Alhambra had passed to a corporation, according to county records. The sale was made in February for cash, and the deed recorded for public view a week later. The realtor claimed he didn't know the principals involved, but through a combination of research and rumors by the old guard, the field was narrowed down to Iranians, Koreans, Japanese, South American pharmaceutical dealers, or Mafia. That about covered the range of possible nightmares. And in fact, all of the above had recently acquired houses and property on the Gold Coast. Who else has that kind of money these days? The defenses were crumbling, the republic was on the auction block. I said, \"Do you know the name Frank Bellarosa?\"\n\nSusan thought a moment. \"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"Mafia.\"\n\n\"Really? That's our new neighbor?\"\n\n\"That's what he said.\"\n\n\"Did he say he was Mafia?\"\n\n\"Of course not. I know him from the newspapers, TV. I can't believe you never heard of him. Frank 'the Bishop' Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"Is he a bishop?\"\n\n\"No, Susan, that's his Mafia nickname. They all have nicknames.\"\n\n\"Is that a fact?\"\n\nShe sipped her tea and looked distantly into the garden. Susan, not unlike many of the residents in this Garden of Eden, excludes much of the outside world. She reads Trollope and Agatha Christie, never listens to radio, and uses the television only to play videotapes of old movies. She obtains her weather reports from a recorded phone message. Local events are learned through the good-news weekly newspaper and from a few upscale magazines that serve the affluent Gold Coast communities. Regarding hard news, she has adopted Thoreau's philosophy: If you read about one train wreck, you've read about them all.\n\nI asked, \"Does this news upset you?\"\n\nShe shrugged, then asked me, \"Are you upset?\"\n\nAs an attorney, I don't like people turning questions back to me, so I gave a flippant reply. \"No. In fact, Grace Lane will now be well protected by the FBI, joined by county detectives on stakeouts.\"\n\nShe seemed to be processing that information, then said, \"This man . . . what's his name . . . ?\"\n\n\"Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"Yes, well, I'll talk to him about the horse trails and rights of way over his land.\"\n\n\"Good idea. Set him straight.\"\n\n\"I will.\"\n\nI recalled a silly, though appropriate, joke for the occasion and told it to Susan. \"Christopher Columbus steps ashore in the New World\u2014this is a joke\u2014and he calls out to a group of Native Americans, _'Buenos dias!'_ or maybe _'Buon giorno!'_ and one of the Indians turns to his wife and says, 'There goes the neighborhood.'\"\n\nSusan smiled politely.\n\nI stood and walked out the rear garden gate, leaving Susan to her tea, her mood, and her potential problem with explaining equestrian rights of way to a Mafia don.\n\n**_Three_**\n\nOne of the local traditions here says that if you're crossing an estate on foot, you're trespassing; if you're on horseback, you're gentry.\n\nI didn't know if Mr. Frank Bellarosa was aware of that as yet, or if he was, if he was going to honor the tradition. Nevertheless, later that Saturday afternoon, I crossed over onto his land through a line of white pine that separated our properties. I was mounted on Yankee, my wife's second horse, a six-year-old gelding of mixed breeding. Yankee has a good temperament, unlike Zanzibar, Susan's high-strung Arabian stallion. Yankee can be ridden hard and put away wet without dying of pneumonia, whereas Zanzibar seems to be under perpetual veterinary care for mysterious and expensive ailments. Thus the reason for Yankee's existence, just as my Ford Bronco fills in when Susan's Jag is in the shop every other week. But I suppose there's a price to pay for high performance.\n\nComing out of the pines, an open field lay ahead, a former horse pasture now overgrown with brush and various species of saplings that aspire to be a forest again if left alone.\n\nI was certain that Bellarosa, like most of his kind, was not as concerned with his privacy as with his personal safety, and I half expected to be confronted by swarthy, slick-haired gunmen in black suits and pointy shoes.\n\nI continued across the field toward a grove of cherry trees. It was just turning dusk, the weather was balmy, and there was a scent of fresh earth around me. The only sounds were Yankee's hoofs on the soft turf and birds trilling their twilight songs from the distant trees. All in all, a perfect late afternoon in early spring.\n\nI took Yankee into the cherry grove. The gnarled and uncared-for old trees were newly leafed and just budded with pink blossoms.\n\nIn a clearing in the grove was a sunken mosaic reflecting pool, filled with dead leaves. Around the pool were toppled classical fluted columns and broken lintels. At the far end of the pool was a moss-covered statue of Neptune, his upraised hand minus his trident, so that he seemed to be halfway through a roundhouse punch. At Neptune's feet were four stone fish, whose gaping mouths once spouted water. This was one of the classical gardens of Alhambra, built as a mock Roman ruin, now ironically a real ruin.\n\nThe main house of Alhambra is not itself a classical structure, but a Spanish-style mansion of stucco walls, stone archways, wrought-iron balconies, and red-tiled roofs. The four pillars that hold up the arched portico were actually taken from the ruins of Carthage in the 1920s when it was fashionable and possible to loot ancient archeological sites.\n\nI don't know what I would do if I had that much money myself, but I like to think I would show some restraint. But then restraint is a condition of our era with its dwindling supply of nearly everything vital to life. Restraint was not what the Roaring Twenties was about. One can be a product only of one's own era, not anyone else's.\n\nI rode across the garden ruins, then up a small rise. About a quarter-mile to the east, sitting in shadow, was Alhambra. A solitary light shone from a second-floor balcony window that I knew to be the location of the library.\n\nAlhambra's library, like many rooms in the greatest of the estate houses, had originally existed in Europe. The original owners and builders of Alhambra, a Mr. and Mrs. Julius Dillworth, on a tour of Europe in the 1920s, took a fancy to the hand-carved oak library of their host, an old English peer whose name and title escape me. The Dillworths made an uninvited but spectacular offer for the entire library, and the tweedy old gentleman, probably short of cash as a result of the same World War that had enriched the Dillworths, accepted the offer.\n\nI watched the library window for a minute or so, then reined Yankee around and rode down the slope, back toward the garden.\n\nI saw now a white horse nibbling on new spring grass between two toppled columns. Astride the horse was the familiar figure of a woman dressed in tight jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. She turned to me as I approached, then faced away. It was my wife, Susan, but I could tell from her look that she was not herself. What I mean is, she likes to playact. So, to be cooperative, I called out, \"Who are you?\"\n\nShe turned back to me and responded in an icy voice, \"Who are _you_?\"\n\nActually, I wasn't sure yet, but I improvised. \"I own this land,'' I said. \"Are you lost or trespassing?\"\n\n\"Neither. And I doubt anyone dressed as you are, with so wretched a horse, could own this land.\"\n\n\"Don't be insolent. Are you alone?\"\n\n\"I was until you came by,'' she retorted.\n\nI pulled in Yankee side by side with the white Arabian. \"What is your name?\"\n\n\"Daphne. What is _your_ name?\"\n\nI still couldn't think of a name for me, so I said, \"You should know whose land you are on. Get down from your horse.\"\n\n\"Why should I?\"\n\n\"Because I said so. And if you don't, I'll pull you down and take my switch to you. Dismount!\"\n\nShe hesitated, then dismounted.\n\n\"Tether him.\"\n\nShe tethered her horse to a cherry limb and stood facing me.\n\n\"Take off your clothes.\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"I won't.\"\n\n\"You will,'' I snapped. \"Quickly.\"\n\nShe stood motionless a moment, then pulled off her turtleneck, exposing two firm breasts. She stood with the sweater in her hand and looked up at me. \"Do I have to do this?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nShe dropped the sweater, then pulled off her boots and socks. Finally, she slid her jeans and panties off and threw them in the grass.\n\nI sidled my horse closer and looked down at her standing naked in the fading sunlight. \"Not so arrogant now, are you, Daphne?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\nThis is Susan's idea of keeping marital sex interesting, though to be honest, I'm not complaining about acting out Susan's sexual fantasies. Sometimes these dramas are scripted and directed (by Susan); sometimes, as with this encounter, they are improv. The locales change with the seasons; in the winter we do it in the stable or, to relive our youth, in front of a fireplace in a deserted mansion.\n\nThis was our first alfresco encounter of the new spring season, and there is something about a woman standing naked in a field or forest that appeals to the most primal instincts of both sexes, while at the same time flouting modern conventions regarding where love should be made. Trust me on this; you get used to the occasional ant or bumblebee.\n\nSusan asked, \"What are you going to do to me?\"\n\n\"Whatever I wish.'' I looked at Susan standing motionless, her long red hair blowing in strands across her face, waiting patiently for a command. She has no acting background, but if she had, she would be a method actress; there was not a hint in her face or bearing that she was my wife, and that this was a game. For all purposes, she was a naked, defenseless woman who was about to be raped by a strange man on horseback. In fact, her knees were shaking, and she seemed honestly frightened.\n\n\"Please, sir, do what you will with me, but do it quickly.\"\n\nI'm not good at the impromptu games, and I'd rather she scripted it so I know who I'm supposed to be or at least what historical epoch we're in. Sometimes I'm a Roman or a barbarian, a knight or an aristocrat, and she's a slave, a peasant, or a haughty noblewoman who gets her comeuppance.\n\nI brought Yankee right up to Susan and reached out and held her upraised chin in my hand. \"Are you embarrassed?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nI should mention that Susan often takes the dominant role, and I'm the one who plays the part of a naked slave at auction or a prisoner who is stripped and given a few lashes, or whatever. Lest you think we are utterly depraved, I want you to know we are both registered Republicans and members of the Episcopal Church, and attend regularly except during the boating season.\n\nAnyway, on this occasion, I had the feeling we were in the seventeenth century or thereabouts, thus the \"Don't be insolent'' line and all the rest of the silly dialogue. I tried to think of another great line and finally said, \"Are you Daphne, wife of the traitor Sir John Worthington?\"\n\n\"I am, sir. And if you are indeed Lord Hardwick, I've come to ask you to intercede on my husband's behalf with his Majesty, the King.\"\n\nI was indeed hardwick at that moment and wished I'd worn looser trousers. \"I am every inch Hardwick,'' I replied, and saw a real smile flit across her face.\n\nSusan dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around my boot. \"Oh, please, my lord, you must present my petition to King Charles.\"\n\nHistory is not my strong point, but I can usually wing it. History wasn't the point anyway. I said, \"And what favor will you do me in return if I do this for you?\"\n\n\"I will do _anything_ you wish.\"\n\n_That_ was the point. And in truth, the playacting usually got me jump-started before Susan, and I wanted to get on with the last scene. \"Stand,'' I commanded.\n\nShe stood and I grabbed her wrist as I took my foot from the stirrup. \"Put your right foot in the stirrup.\"\n\nShe put her bare foot in the stirrup, and I pulled her up facing me, both of us tight in the English saddle, with her arms around me and her bare breasts tight against my chest. I gave Yankee a tap, and he began to walk. I said, \"Take it out.\"\n\nShe unzipped my fly and took it out, holding it in her warm hands. I said, \"Put it in.\"\n\nShe sobbed and said, \"I do this only to save my husband's life. He is the only man I have ever known.\"\n\nA few clever replies ran through my mind, but the hormones were in complete control of my intellect now, and I snapped, \"Put it _in_!\"\n\nShe rose up and came down on it, letting out an exclamation of surprise.\n\n\"Hold on.'' I kicked Yankee, and he began to trot. Susan held me tighter and locked her strong legs over mine. She buried her face in my neck, and as the horse bounced along, she moaned. This was not acting.\n\nI was now completely caught up in the heat of the moment. I'm only a fair horseman, and what little skill I have was not equal to this. Yankee trotted at a nice pace through the cherry grove, then out into the pasture. The air was heavy with the smell of horse, the trodden earth, our bodies, and Susan's musky odor rising between us.\n\nGod, what a ride, Susan breathing hard on my neck, crying out, me panting, and the wetness oozing between us.\n\nSusan climaxed first and cried out so loudly she flushed a pheasant from a bush. I climaxed a second later and involuntarily jerked on the reins, causing Yankee to nearly tumble.\n\nThe horse settled down and began to graze, as if nothing had happened. Susan and I clung to each other, trying to catch our breath. I finally managed to say, \"Whew . . . what a ride. . . .\"\n\nSusan smiled. \"I'm sorry I trespassed on your land, sir.\"\n\n\"I lied. It's not my land.\"\n\n\"That's all right. I don't have a husband in trouble with the King, either.\"\n\nWe both laughed. She asked, \"What were you doing here?\"\n\n\"Same as you. Just riding.\"\n\n\"Did you visit our new neighbor?\"\n\n\"No,'' I replied. \"But I saw a light in his window.\"\n\n\"I'm going to speak to him.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you'd better put your clothes on first.\"\n\n\"I may have better luck as I am. Was he good-looking?\"\n\n\"Not bad, in a Mediterranean sort of way.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nI reined Yankee around. \"I'll take you back to Zanzibar and your clothes.\"\n\nShe sat upright. \"No, I'll get off here and walk.\"\n\n\"I'd rather you didn't.\"\n\n\"It's all right. Hold my hand.\"\n\nShe dismounted and walked off. I called after her, \"You have no time to talk with Bellarosa. We'll be late for the Eltons again.\"\n\nShe waved her arm to show she'd heard me. I watched my wife walking naked through the pasture until she entered the shadows of the cherry grove, then I turned Yankee and headed for home.\n\nAfter a minute or so, I was able to get Lord Hardwick back in his pants.\n\nI _do_ make love to my wife, Susan Stanhope Sutter, in our bed, and we enjoy it. Yet, I believe that marriages entirely grounded in reality are bound to fail, just as individuals who cannot escape into flights of fancy are bound to crack up. I'm aware that a couple who acts out sexual fantasies must be careful not to step over into the dark side of the psyche. Susan and I have come to the brink a few times but always drew back.\n\nI crossed from Bellarosa's land through the white pines to Stanhope. I didn't much like leaving Susan with darkness coming and with a few hundred yards' walk in the nude back to her horse, but when she says she's all right, she means go away.\n\nWell, I thought, the flowers were bought and planted, the main house resecured, we had chicken Dijon and asparagus delivered from Culinary Delights for lunch, I was able to get into the village to do some errands, and I had my afternoon ride, and got laid at the same time. All in all, an interesting, productive, and fulfilling Saturday. I like Saturdays.\n\n**_Four_**\n\nThe Lord rested on the seventh day, which has been interpreted to mean that His sixth-day creations should do the same.\n\nGeorge and Ethel Allard take the Sabbath seriously, as do most working-class people from that generation who remember six-day workweeks of ten-hour days. I, on the other hand, have to take care of the Lord's English ivy creeping over my windowpanes.\n\nI don't actually do any business on Sunday, but I do think about what has to be done on Monday morning as I do my Sunday chores.\n\nSusan and I had cut ivy until about ten in the morning, then got cleaned up and dressed for church.\n\nSusan drove the Jag, and we stopped at the gatehouse to pick up George and Ethel, who were waiting at their front door, George in his good brown suit, Ethel in a shapeless flower-print dress that unfortunately seems to be making a comeback with women who want to look like 1940s wallpaper.\n\nThe Allards have a car, William Stanhope's old Lincoln that he left here when he and Charlotte Stanhope moved to Hilton Head, South Carolina, in '79. George sometimes doubled as the Stanhopes' chauffeur and is still a good driver despite his advancing years. But as there is now only one service at St. Mark's, it would seem snooty for us not to offer to drive, and perhaps awkward for us to ask him to drive us. Maybe I'm being too sensitive, but I have to walk a thin line between playing lord of the manor and being George and Ethel's assistant groundskeeper. We all have so many hang-ups from the old days. Anyway, George isn't the problem; Ethel the Red is.\n\nThe Allards climbed in, and we all agreed it was another beautiful day. Susan swung south onto Grace Lane and floored it. Many of the roads around here were originally horse-and-buggy paths, and they are still narrow, twist and turn a bit, are lined with beautiful trees, and are dangerous. A speeding car is never more than a second away from disaster.\n\nGrace Lane, which is about a mile long, has remained a private road. This means there is no legal speed limit, but there is a practical speed limit. Susan thinks it is seventy, I think it's about forty. The residents along Grace Lane, mostly estate owners, are responsible for the upkeep of the road. Most of the other private roads of the Gold Coast have sensibly been deeded to the county, the local village, the State of New York, or to any other political entity that promises to keep them drained and paved at about a hundred thousand dollars a mile. But a few of the residents along Grace Lane, specifically those who are rich, proud, and stubborn (they go together), have blocked attempts to unload this Via Dolorosa on the unsuspecting taxpayers.\n\nSusan got up to her speed limit, and I could almost feel the blacktop fragmenting like peanut brittle.\n\nHigh speeds seem to keep older people quiet, and the Allards didn't say much from the back, which was all right with me. George won't discuss work on Sundays, and we had exhausted other subjects years ago. On the way back, we sometimes talk about the sermon. Ethel likes the Reverend James Hunnings because, like so many of my Episcopal brethren, the man is far to the left of Karl Marx.\n\nEach Sunday we are made to feel guilty about our relative wealth and asked to share some of the filthy stuff with about two billion less fortunate people.\n\nEthel especially enjoys the sermons on social justice, equality, and so forth. And we all sit there, the old-line blue bloods, along with a few new black and Spanish Episcopalians, and the remaining working-class Anglos, listening to the Reverend Mr. Hunnings give us his view of America and the world, and there is no question-and-answer period afterward.\n\nIn my father's and grandfather's day, of course, this same church was slightly to the right of the Republican Party, and the priests would direct their sermons more toward the servants and the working men and women in the pews, talking about obedience, hard work, and responsibilities, instead of about revolution, the unemployed, and civil rights. My parents, Joseph and Harriet, who were liberal for their day and social class, would gripe about the message from the pulpit. I don't think God meant for church services to be so aggravating.\n\nThe problem with a church, any church, I think, is that unlike a country club, anyone can join. The result of this open-door policy is that for one hour a week, all the social classes must humble themselves before God and do it under the same roof in full view of one another. I'm not suggesting private churches or first-class pews up front like they used to have, and I don't think dimming the lights would help much. But I know that years ago, it was understood that one sort of people went to the early service, and the other sort of people to the later one.\n\nHaving said this, I feel I should say something in extenuation of what could be construed as elitist and antidemocratic thoughts: First, I don't feel superior to anyone, and second, I believe fervently that we are all created free and equal. But what I also feel is socially dislocated, unsure of my place in the vast changing democracy outside these immediate environs, and uncertain how to live a useful and fulfilling life among the crumbling ruins around me. The Reverend Mr. Hunnings thinks he has the answers. The only thing I know for certain is that he doesn't.\n\nSusan slowed down as she approached the village of Locust Valley. The village is a rather nice place, neat and prosperous, with a small Long Island Railroad station in the middle of town, from which I take my train into New York. Locust Valley was gentrified and boutiquefied long before anyone even knew the words, though there is a new wave of trendy, useless shops coming in.\n\nSt. Mark's is on the northern edge of the village. It is a small Gothic structure of brownstone with good stained-glass windows imported from England. It was built in 1896 with the winnings of a poker game playfully confiscated by six millionaires' wives. They all went to heaven.\n\nSusan found a parking space by hemming in a Rolls-Royce, and we all hurried toward the church as the bells tolled.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn the way back, Ethel said, \"I think Reverend Hunnings was right and we should all take in at least one homeless person for Easter week.\"\n\nSusan hit the gas and took a banked curve at sixty miles per hour, causing the Allards to sway left and quieting Ethel.\n\nGeorge, ever the loyal servant, said, \"I think Father Hunnings should practice what he preaches. He's got nobody but him and his wife in that big rectory of theirs.\"\n\nGeorge knows a hypocrite when he hears one.\n\nI said, \"Mrs. Allard, you have my permission to take a homeless person into your house for Easter week.\"\n\nI waited for the garrote to encircle my neck and the sound of cackling as it drew tight, but instead she replied, \"Perhaps I'll write to Mr. Stanhope and ask his permission.\"\n\nTouch\u00e9. In one short sentence she reminded me that I didn't own the place, and since Susan's father has the social conscience of a Nazi storm trooper, Ethel got herself off the hook. Score one for Ethel.\n\nSusan crested a hill at seventy and nearly ran up the rear end of a neat little red TR-3\u20141964, I think. She swerved into the opposing lane, then swung back in front of the Triumph in time to avoid an oncoming Porsche.\n\nSusan, I believe, has hit upon a Pavlovian experiment in which she introduces the possibility of sudden death whenever anyone in the car says anything that doesn't relate to the weather or horses.\n\nI said, \"Not too much spring rain this year.\"\n\nGeorge added, \"But the ground's still wet from that March snow.\"\n\nSusan slowed down.\n\nI drive to church about half the time, then there's the three-month boating season when we skip it altogether, so going to church is dangerous only about twenty times a year.\n\nActually, I notice that when Susan drives to and from church I feel closer to God than I do inside the church.\n\nYou might well ask why we go at all or why we don't change churches. I'll tell you, we go to St. Mark's because we've always gone to St. Mark's; we were both baptized there and married there. We go because our parents went and our children, Carolyn and Edward, go there when they are home on school holidays.\n\nI go to St. Mark's for the same reasons I still go to Francis Pond to fish twenty years after the last fish was caught there. I go to carry out a tradition, I go from habit, and from nostalgia. I go to the pond and to the church because I believe there is still something there, though I haven't seen a fish or felt the presence of the Holy Spirit in twenty years.\n\nSusan pulled into the drive, went through the open gates, and stopped to let the Allards out at the gatehouse. They bid us good day and went inside to their Sunday roast and newspapers.\n\nSusan continued on up the drive. She said to me, \"I don't understand why he didn't come to the door.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Frank Bellarosa. I told you, I rode right up to the house and called up toward the lighted window. Then I pulled the bell chain at the servants' entrance.\"\n\n\"Were you naked?\"\n\n\"Of course not.\"\n\n\"Well, then he had no interest in making small talk with a fully dressed, snooty woman on a horse. He's Italian.\"\n\nSusan smiled. \"The house is so huge,'' she said, \"he probably couldn't hear me.\"\n\n\"Didn't you go around to the front?\"\n\n\"No, there was construction stuff all over the place, holes in the ground, and nothing was lit.\"\n\n\"What sort of construction stuff?\"\n\n\"Cement mixers, scaffolding, that sort of thing. Looks like he's having a lot of work done.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nSusan pulled up to our house. \"I want to get this thing straight with him about the horse trails. Do you want to come along?\"\n\n\"Not particularly. And I don't think it's good manners to approach a new neighbor with a problem until you've first paid a social call.\"\n\n\"That's true. We should follow custom and convention, then he will, too.\"\n\nI wasn't sure about that, but one never knows. Sometimes a neighborhood, like a culture or civilization, is strong enough to absorb and acculturate any number of newcomers. But I don't know if that's true around here any longer. The outward forms and appearances look the same\u2014like the Iranians and Koreans I see in the village wearing blue blazers, tan slacks, and Top-Siders\u2014but the substance has been altered. Sometimes I have this grotesque mental image of five hundred Orientals, Arabs, and Asian Indians dressed in tweeds and plaids applauding politely at the autumn polo matches. I don't mean to sound racist, but I am curious as to why wealthy foreigners want to buy our houses, wear our clothes, and emulate our manners. I suppose I should be flattered, and I suppose I am. I mean, I never had a desire to sit in a tent and eat camel meat with my fingers.\n\n\"John? Are you listening?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Do you want to go with me and pay a social call on Frank Bellarosa?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Let him come to us.\"\n\n\"But you just said\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't care what I said. I'm not going over there, and neither are you.\"\n\n\"Says who?\"\n\n\"Says Lord Hardwick.'' I got out of the car and walked toward the house. Susan shut off the car engine and followed. We entered the house, and there was that pregnant silence in the air, the silence between a husband and wife who have just had words, and it is unlike any other silence except perhaps the awful stillness you hear between the flash of an atomic bomb and the blast. Five, four, three, two, one. Susan said, \"All right. We'll wait. Would you like a drink?\"\n\n\"Yes, I would.\"\n\nSusan walked into the dining room and got a bottle of brandy from the sideboard. She moved into the butler's pantry, and I followed. Susan took two glasses from the cupboard and poured brandy into each. \"Neat?\"\n\n\"A little water.\"\n\nShe turned on the faucet, splashed too much water in the brandy, and handed me the glass. We touched glasses and drank there in the pantry, then moved into the kitchen. She asked, \"Is there a Mrs. Bellarosa?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Well, was Mr. Bellarosa wearing a wedding ring?\"\n\n\"I don't notice things like that.\"\n\n\"You do when it's an attractive woman.\"\n\n\"Nonsense.'' But true. If a woman is attractive and I'm in one of my frisky moods, I don't care if she's single, engaged, married, pregnant, divorced, or on her honeymoon. Maybe that's because I never go past the flirting stage. Physically, I'm very loyal. Susan, on the other hand, is not a flirt, and you have to keep an eye on women like that.\n\nShe sat at the big round table in our English country-style kitchen.\n\nI opened the refrigerator.\n\nShe said, \"We're having dinner with the Remsens at the club.\"\n\n\"What time?\"\n\n\"Three.\"\n\n\"I'll have an apple.\"\n\n\"I fed them to the horses.\"\n\n\"I'll have some oats.'' I found a bowl of New Zealand cherries and closed the refrigerator door. I ate the cherries standing, spitting the pits into the sink, and drank the brandy. Fresh cherries with brandy are good.\n\nNeither of us spoke for a while, and the regulator clock on the wall was tick-tocking. Finally, I said, \"Look, Susan, if this guy was an Iranian rug merchant or a Korean importer or whatever, I would be a good neighbor. And if anyone around here didn't like that, the hell with them. But Mr. Frank Bellarosa is a gangster and, according to the papers, the top Mafia boss in New York. I am an attorney, not to mention a respected member of this community. Bellarosa's phones are tapped, and his house is watched. I must be very careful of any relationship with that man.\"\n\nSusan replied, \"I understand your position, Mr. Sutter. Some people even consider the Stanhopes as respected members of the community.\"\n\n\"Don't be sarcastic, Susan. I'm speaking as an attorney, not as a snob. I make about half my living from the people around here, and I have a reputation for honesty and integrity. I want you to promise me you won't go over there to call on him or his wife, if he has one.\"\n\n\"All right, but remember what Tolkien said.\"\n\n\"What did Tolkien say?\"\n\n\"Tolkien said, 'It doesn't do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations if you live near him.'\"\n\nIndeed it does not do at all, which was why I was trying to factor in Mr. Frank Bellarosa.\n\n**_Five_**\n\nDinner at The Creek Club with the Remsens, Lester and Judy, began well enough. The conversation was mostly about important social issues (a new resident whose property bordered our club had brought suit over the skeet shooting, which he claimed was terrorizing his children and dog), about important world issues (the PGA was going to be held in Southampton again this May), and about pressing ecological issues, to wit: The remaining land of the old Guthrie estate, some one hundred acres, had gone to the developers, who wanted a variance to put up twenty houses in the two-million-dollar price range. \"Outrageous,'' proclaimed Lester Remsen, who like myself is no millionaire, but who does own a very nice converted carriage house and ten acres of the former Guthrie estate. \"Outrageous and ecologically unsound,'' Lester added.\n\nThe Guthrie estate was once a three-hundred-acre tract of terraced splendor, and the main house was called Meudon, an eighty-room replica of the Meudon Palace outside Paris. The Guthrie family tore down the palace in the 1950s rather than pay taxes on it as developed property.\n\nSome of the locals considered the tearing down of Meudon Palace a sacrilege, while others considered it poetic justice, because the original Guthrie, William D., an aide to the Rockefeller clan, had purchased and torn down the village of Lattingtown\u2014sixty homes and shops\u2014in 1905. Apparently the structures interfered with his building plans. Thus, Lattingtown has no village center, which is why we go to neighboring Locust Valley for shopping, church, and all that. But as I said earlier, that was a time when American money was buying pieces of Europe or trying to replicate it here, and the little village of Lattingtown, a tiny hamlet of a hundred or so souls, could no more resist an offer of triple market value than could the English aristocrat who sold his library to adorn Alhambra.\n\nAnd perhaps what is happening now is further justice, or irony if you will, as land speculators, foreigners, and gangsters buy up the ruins and the near ruins from a partially bankrupt and heavily taxed American aristocracy. I never came from that kind of money, and so my feelings are somewhat ambivalent. I'm blue blood enough to be nostalgic about the past, without having the guilt that people like Susan have about coming from a family whose money was once used like a bulldozer, flattening everything and everybody who got in its way.\n\nLester Remsen continued, \"The builders are promising to save most of the specimen trees and dedicate ten acres as park if we'll offer our expertise for free. Maybe you could meet with these people and tag the trees.\"\n\nI nodded. I'm sort of the local tree guy around here. Actually, there are a group of us, who belong to the Long Island Horticultural Society. All of a sudden I'm in demand as local residents have discovered that raising the ecological banner can hold off the builders. Ironically, that's one of the reasons that Stanhope's two hundred acres can't be sold, which is good for me but not for my father-in-law. That's a messy situation, and I'm caught right in the middle of it. More about that later. I said to Lester, \"I'll get the volunteers out, and we'll tag the rare trees with their names and so forth. How long before they break ground?\"\n\n\"About three weeks.\"\n\n\"I'll do what I can.\"\n\nIt never ceases to amaze me that no matter how many million-dollar houses are built, there is an inexhaustible supply of buyers. Who are these people? And where do they get their money?\n\nLester Remsen and I discussed the skeet-shooting problem. According to yesterday's _Long Island Newsday_ , a judge issued a temporary restraining order stopping the shoot, notwithstanding the fact that the shooting has been going on for more than half a century before the plaintiff bought his house or was even born. But I can see the other point of view. There is population pressure on the land, and there are noise and safety considerations to be taken into account. No one hunts deer or pheasant around here anymore, and the Meadowbrook Hunt Club, in its last days, had to plan a trickier route each year, lest the horses and hounds wind up charging through new suburban backyards or a shopping mall. Talk about terrorizing new residents.\n\nI know that we are fighting a rearguard action here to protect a way of life that should have ended twenty or thirty years ago. I understand this, and I'm not bitter. I'm just amazed that we've gotten away with it this long. In that respect I say God bless America, land of evolution and not revolution.\n\nSusan said, \"Can't you put silencers on the shotguns?\"\n\n\"Silencers are illegal,'' I informed her.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"So gangsters can't get ahold of them,'' I explained, \"and murder people quietly.\"\n\n\"Oh, I bet I know where you could get hold of a silencer.'' She smiled mischievously.\n\nLester Remsen looked at her.\n\n\"Anyway,'' I continued, \"half the fun is the noise.\"\n\nLester Remsen agreed and asked Susan where in the world she could get a silencer.\n\nSusan glanced at me and saw this was not the time to bring up the subject. She said, \"Just joking.\"\n\nThe club dining room was full for Sunday dinner. The clubs around here, you should understand, are the fortresses in the fight against the Visigoths and Huns who are sweeping over the land and camping out around the great estates in cedar and glass tents that go up in less time than it takes to polish the marble floors of Stanhope Hall. All right, that was a bit snooty, but one does get tired of seeing these stark, skylighted contemporaries reproducing themselves like viruses everywhere one looks.\n\nAs for the clubs, there are many types: country clubs, yachting clubs, riding clubs, and so forth. I have two clubs: The Creek, a country club, which is where we were having dinner with the Remsens, and The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, whose first commodore was William K. Vanderbilt. I keep my boat, a thirty-six-foot Morgan, anchored at the yacht club.\n\nThe Creek is what the media like to call \"very exclusive,'' which sounds redundant, and a \"private preserve of the rich,'' which sounds judgmental. It isn't true anyway. Rich counts around here, no doubt about it. But it doesn't count for everything the way it does with the new rich. To fully understand what is sometimes called the Eastern Establishment is to understand that you can be poor and even be a Democrat and be accepted in a place like The Creek if you have the right family background, the right school, and know the right people.\n\nRemsen and I, as I said, are not rich, but we breezed through the membership committee interview right out of college, which is usually the best time to apply, before you screw up your life or wind up working in the garment industry. In truth, one's accent helps, too. I have what I guess you'd call an East Coast preppie accent, being a product of St. Thomas Aquinas on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, St. Paul's in New Hampshire, and Yale. That's a good accent to have. But there is a more predominant accent around here, which is known (nationally as I've discovered) as Locust Valley Lockjaw. This condition usually afflicts women, but men often display strong symptoms. With Locust Valley Lockjaw, one has the ability to speak in complete and mostly understandable sentences\u2014including words with lots of broad vowels\u2014and do so without opening one's mouth, sort of like a ventriloquist. It's quite a trick, and Susan can do it really well when she's with her bitchy friends. I mean, you can be having a drink on the club patio, for instance, and watch four of them sitting around a nearby table, and it looks as if they're silently sneering at one another, but then you hear words, whole sentences. I never get over it.\n\nThe Creek itself, named after Frost Creek, which runs through the north end of the property on the Long Island Sound, was originally an estate. There are about a dozen other country and golf clubs around here, but only one other that counts, and that is Piping Rock. Piping Rock is considered more exclusive than The Creek, and I suppose it is, as its membership list more closely matches the Social Register than does The Creek's. But they don't have skeet shooting. Though maybe we don't either. Susan, incidentally, is listed in the Social Register as are her parents, who still officially maintain a residence at Stanhope Hall. In my opinion, the Register is a dangerous document to have floating around in case there is a revolution. I wouldn't want Ethel Allard to have a copy of it. I have a John Deere cap that I plan to wear if the mob ever breaks through the gates of Stanhope Hall. I'll stand in front of my house and call out, \"We got this here place already! Main house is up the drive!'' But Ethel would give me away.\n\nSusan looked up from her raspberries and asked Lester, \"Do you know anything about anyone moving into Alhambra?\"\n\n\"No,'' Lester replied, \"I was going to ask you. I hear there have been trucks and equipment going in and out of there for over a month.\"\n\nJudy Remsen interjected, \"No one has seen a moving van yet, but Edna DePauw says she sees furniture delivery trucks going in about once a week. Do you think anyone has moved in yet?\"\n\nSusan glanced at me, then said to the Remsens, \"John ran into the new owner yesterday at Hicks'.\"\n\nLester looked at me expectantly.\n\nI put down my coffee cup. \"A man named Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\nThere was a moment of silence, then Judy said contemplatively, \"That name sounds familiar. . . .'' She turned to Lester, who was looking at me to see if I was joking. Lester finally asked, \" _The_ Frank Bellarosa?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nLester didn't respond for a while, probably waiting for his stomach to unknot, then cleared his throat and asked, \"Did you _speak_ to him?\"\n\n\"Yes. Nice chap, actually.\"\n\n\"Well, he may have been with you, but\u2014\"\n\nJudy finally connected the name. \"The gangster! The Mafia boss!\"\n\nA few heads at other tables turned toward us.\n\n\"Yes,'' I replied.\n\n\"Here? I mean, next door to you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nLester asked, \"How do you feel about that?\"\n\nI thought a moment and made a truthful reply. \"I'd rather have one gangster next door than fifty nouveau-riche stockbrokers with their screaming kids, lawn mowers, and smoking barbecues.'' Which, when I said it aloud, made sense. Only I wish I hadn't said it aloud. No telling how it would be misinterpreted or misquoted as it made the rounds.\n\nLester Remsen looked at me, then went back to his apple pie. Judy spoke to Susan without opening her mouth. \"Would you pass the cream?'' Susan replied without so much as a throat flutter\u2014I think the sound came out of her nose, \"Of course, dear.\"\n\nI caught Susan's eye, and she winked at me, which made me feel better. I didn't feel sorry for what I'd said, but I wished I had remembered that Lester is a stockbroker.\n\nThe problems were beginning.\n\n**_Part II_**\n\nThe business of America is business.\n\n\u2014Calvin Coolidge\n\n**_Six_**\n\nThe following week passed without incident. I went to my law office in Locust Valley on Monday, then commuted by train to my Manhattan office on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Friday found me back in Locust Valley. I follow this schedule whenever I can as it gives me just enough of the city to make me a Wall Street lawyer, but not so much as to put me solidly into the commuting class.\n\nI am a partner in my father's firm of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. The firm is defined as small, old, Wasp, Wall Street, carriage trade, and so on. You get the idea. The Manhattan office is located in the prestigious J. P. Morgan Building at 23 Wall Street, and our clientele are mostly wealthy individuals, not firms. The office's decor, which has not changed much since the 1920s, is what I call Wasp squalor, reeking of rancid lemon polish, deteriorating leather, pipe tobacco, and respectability.\n\nThe Morgan Building, incidentally, was bombed by the Anarchists in 1920, killing and injuring about four hundred people\u2014I can still see the bomb scars on the stonework\u2014and every year we get a bomb threat on the anniversary of the original bombing. It's a tradition. Also, after the Crash of '29, this building chalked up six jumpers, which I think is the record for an individual building. So perhaps along with prestigious, I should add historic and ill-omened.\n\nThe Locust Valley office is less interesting. It's a nice Victorian house on Birch Hill Road, one of the village's main streets, and we've been there since 1921 without any excitement. Most of the Locust Valley clientele are older people whose legal problems seem to consist mostly of disinheriting nieces and nephews, and endowing shelters for homeless cats.\n\nThe work in the city\u2014stocks, bonds, and taxes\u2014is interesting but meaningless. The country work\u2014wills, house closings, and general advice on life\u2014is more meaningful but not interesting. It's the best of both worlds.\n\nMost of the older clientele are friends of my father and of Messrs. Perkins and Reynolds. The first Mr. Perkins on the letterhead, Frederic, was a friend of J. P. Morgan, and was one of the legendary Wall Street movers and shakers of the 1920s, until November 5, 1929, when he became a legendary Wall Street jumper. I suppose the margin calls got on his nerves. My father once said of this incident, \"Thank God he didn't hurt anyone on the sidewalk, or we'd still be in litigation.\"\n\nAnyway, the second Mr. Perkins, Frederic's son, Eugene, is retired and has moved down to Nags Head, North Carolina. The Carolinas seem to have become a respectable retirement destination, as opposed to Florida, most of which is considered by people around here as unfit for human habitation.\n\nAnd the last senior partner, Julian Reynolds, is also retired, in a manner of speaking. He sits in the large corner office down the hall and watches the harbor. I have no idea what he's looking at or for. Actually, he occupies the same office from which Mr. Frederic Perkins suddenly exited this firm, though I don't think that has any relevance to Julian's fascination with the window. My secretary, Louise, interrupts Mr. Reynolds's vigil every day at five, and a limousine takes him uptown to his Sutton Place apartment, which offers an excellent view of the East River. I think the poor gentleman has old-timers' disease.\n\nMy father, Joseph Sutter, had the good sense to retire before anyone wanted him to. That was three years ago, and I remember the day with some emotion. He called me into his office, told me to sit in his chair, and left. I thought he had stepped out for a moment, but he never came back.\n\nMy parents are still alive, but not so you'd notice. Southampton is on the eastern end of Long Island, only about sixty miles from Lattingtown and Locust Valley, but my parents have decided to make it further. There is no bad blood between us; their silence is just their way of showing me they are sure I'm doing fine. I guess.\n\nAs you may have gathered or already known, many white Anglo-Saxon Protestants of the upper classes have the same sort of relationship with their one or two offspring as, say, a sockeye salmon has with its one or two million eggs. I probably have the same relationship with my parents as they had with theirs. My relationship with my own children, Carolyn, age nineteen, and Edward, seventeen, is somewhat warmer, as there seems to be a general warming trend in modern relationships of all sorts. But what we lack in warmth, we make up for in security, rules of behavior, and tradition. There are times, however, when I miss my children and wouldn't even mind hearing from my parents. Actually, Susan and I have a summer house in East Hampton, a few miles from Southampton, and we see my parents each Friday night for dinner during July and August whether we're all hungry or not.\n\nAs for Susan's parents, I call Hilton Head once a month to deliver a situation report, but I've never been down there. Susan flies down once in a while, but rarely calls. The Stanhopes never come up unless they have to attend personally to some business. We do the best we can to keep contact at a minimum, and the fax machine has been a blessing in this regard.\n\nSusan's brother, Peter, never married and is traveling around the world trying to find the meaning of life. From the postmarks on his infrequent letters\u2014Sorrento, Monte Carlo, Cannes, Grenoble, and so forth\u2014I think he's trying the right places.\n\nI have a sister, Emily, who followed her IBM husband on a corporate odyssey through seven unpleasant American cities over ten years. Last year, Emily, who is a very attractive woman, found the meaning of life on a beach in Galveston, Texas, in the form of a young stud, named Gary, and has filed for divorce.\n\nAnyway, on Friday afternoon, I left the Locust Valley office early and drove the few miles up to The Creek for a drink. This is a tradition, too, and a lot more pleasant one than some others.\n\nI drove through the gates of the country club and followed the gravel lane, bordered by magnificent old American elms, toward the clubhouse. I didn't see Susan's Jag in the parking field. She sometimes comes up and has a drink on Fridays, then we have dinner at the club or go elsewhere. I pulled my Bronco into an empty slot and headed for the clubhouse.\n\nOne of the nice things about having old money, or having other people think you do, is that you can drive anything you want. In fact, the richest man I know, a Vanderbilt, drives a 1977 Chevy wagon. People around here take it as an eccentricity or a display of supreme confidence. This is not California, where your car accounts for fifty percent of your personality.\n\nBesides, it's not what you drive that's important; it's what kind of parking stickers you have on your bumper that matters. I have a Locust Valley parking sticker, and a Creek, Seawanhaka Corinthian, and Southampton Tennis Club sticker, and that says it all, sort of like the civilian equivalents of military medals, except you don't wear them on your clothes.\n\nSo I entered The Creek clubhouse, a large Georgian-style building. Being a former residence, there is nothing commercial looking about the place. It has instead an intimate, yet elegant atmosphere, with a number of large and small rooms used for dining, card playing, and just hiding out. In the rear is the cocktail lounge, which looks out over part of the golf course and the old polo field, and in the distance one can see the Long Island Sound, where The Creek has beach cabanas. There is indoor tennis, platform tennis, possibly skeet shooting, and other diversions for mind and body. It is an oasis of earthly pleasure for about three hundred well-connected families. Someday it will be a housing subdivision and they will call it The Creek Estates.\n\nAnyway, I went into the lounge, which was filled mostly with men who were in that Friday mood that reminds me of grinning idiots at a locker room victory party.\n\nThere were the usual hellos and hi, Johns, a few backslaps, and assorted hail-fellow-well-met rituals. More interestingly, I caught a wink from Beryl Carlisle, whom I would dearly love to pop if I weren't so faithful.\n\nI looked around the room, assured once again that there were still so many of us left. An Englishman once said that he found it easier to be a member of a club than of the human race because the bylaws were shorter, and he knew all the members personally. That sounds about right.\n\nI spotted Lester Remsen sitting at a table near the window with Randall Potter and Martin Vandermeer.\n\nI thought the best thing to do regarding Lester, whom I hadn't heard from since Sunday, was to just go over and sit down, so I did. Lester greeted me a bit coolly, and I had the impression the other two had just gotten a negative evaluation report on me. The cocktail waitress came by, and I ordered a gin martini, straight up.\n\nRegarding bylaws, the rules of this club, like those of many others, prohibit the talking of business, the original purpose being to provide an atmosphere of forced relaxation. These days we like to pretend that this bylaw precludes members from having an unfair business advantage over people who are not allowed in the club. Americans take their economic rights very seriously, and so do the courts. But the business of America is business, so Randall and Martin went back to their business discussion, and I took the opportunity to address a question to Lester Remsen. \"I have a client,'' I said, \"a woman in her seventies, with fifty thousand shares of Chase National Bank stock. The stock was issued in 1928 and 1929\u2014\"\n\nLester leaned toward me. \"You mean she has the actual certificates?\"\n\n\"Yes. She lugged them into my Locust Valley office in a valise. They were left to her by her husband, who died last month.\"\n\n\"My Lord,'' Lester exclaimed. \"I've never seen Chase National certificates. That's Chase Manhattan now, you know.\"\n\n\"No, I didn't know. That's what I wanted to speak to you about.'' Of course I did know, but I could see Lester's feathers getting smoother and shinier.\n\nLester asked, \"What did they look like?\"\n\nSome men get excited by _Hustler_ ; Lester apparently got excited by old stock certificates. Whatever turns you on, I say. I replied, \"They were a light-green tint with ornate black letters and an engraving of a bank building.'' I described the certificates as best I could, and you would have thought by the way Lester's eyes brightened that I'd said they had big tits.\n\n\"Anyway,'' I continued, \"here's the kicker. On the back of the certificates, there is the following legend: 'Attached share for share is an equal number of shares of Amerex Corp.' '' I shrugged to show him I didn't know what that meant, and I really didn't.\n\nLester rose a few inches in his club chair. \"Amerex is now American Express, a nothing company then. It says that?\"\n\n\"Yes.'' Even I was a little excited by this news.\n\nLester said, \"American Express is thirty-three and a half at today's close. That means . . .\"\n\nI could see the mainframe computer between Lester's ears blinking, and he said, \"That's one million, six hundred and seventy-five thousand. For American Express. Chase Manhattan was thirty-four and a quarter at the close. . . .'' Lester closed his eyes, furrowed his brow, and his mouth opened with the news: \"That's one million, seven hundred and twelve thousand, five hundred.\"\n\nLester never says \"dollars.'' No one around here ever says \"dollars.'' I suppose if you worship money, then like an ancient Hebrew who may not pronounce the name of God, no one in this temple will ever pronounce the word _dollars._ I asked, \"So these shares are good front and back?\"\n\n\"I can't verify that without examining them, but it sounds as if they are. And, of course, the figures I gave you don't take into account all the stock splits since 1929. We could be talking about ten, maybe ten point five.\"\n\nThis means ten or ten and a half million. That means dollars. This was indeed good news to my client who didn't need the money anyway. I said, \"That will make the widow happy.\"\n\n\"Has she been collecting dividends on these stocks?\"\n\n\"I don't know. But I'm handling her deceased husband's estate, so I'll know that as I wade through the paperwork.\"\n\nLester nodded thoughtfully and said, \"If for some reason Chase or American Express lost touch with these people over the years, there could also be a small fortune in accrued dividends.\"\n\nI nodded. \"My client is vague. You know how some of these old dowagers are.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I do,'' said Lester. \"I'd be happy to send the information to my research department for verification. If you'll just send me photostats of the certificates, front and back, I'll let you know how many times each company's shares have split, what they're worth today, and let you know if Chase or American Express is looking for your client so they can pay her dividends.\"\n\n\"Would you? That would be very helpful.\"\n\n\"The shares ought to be examined and authenticated, and they should really be turned in for new certificates. Or better yet, let a brokerage house hold the new certificates in an account. No need to have that kind of money lying around. I'm surprised they've survived over sixty years already without mishap.\"\n\n\"That sounds like good advice. I'd like to open an account with you on behalf of my client.\"\n\n\"Of course. Why don't you bring the actual certificates to my office on Monday? And bring your client along if you can. I'll need her to sign some papers, and I'll need the pertinent information from the estate establishing her ownership as beneficiary and all that.\"\n\n\"Better yet, why don't you come to my office after the close? Monday, four-thirty.\"\n\n\"Certainly. Where are the shares now?\"\n\n\"In my vault,'' I replied, \"and I don't want them there.\"\n\nLester thought a moment, then smiled. \"You know, John, as the attorney handling the estate, you could conceivably turn those shares into cash.\"\n\n\"Now why would I want to do that?\"\n\nLester forced a laugh. \"Let me handle the transaction, and we'll split about ten million.'' He laughed again to show he was joking. Ha, ha, ha. I replied, \"Even by today's Wall Street standards, that might be construed as unethical.'' I smiled to show I was sharing Lester's little joke, and Lester smiled back, but I could see he was thinking about what he'd do with ten million in his vault over the weekend. Lester wouldn't give it to the cats.\n\nAfter a few more minutes of this, Randall and Martin joined our conversation, and the subject turned to golf, tennis, shooting, and sailing. In most of America that Friday night, in every pub and saloon, the sports under discussion were football, baseball, and basketball, but to the best of my knowledge no one here has yet had the courage to say, \"Hey! How about those Mets?\"\n\nOther taboo subjects include the usual\u2014religion, politics, and sex, though it doesn't say this in the bylaws. And while we're on the subject of sex, Beryl Carlisle, who was sitting with her pompous ass of a husband, caught my eye and smiled. Lester and Randall saw it but did not say something like, \"Hey, Johnny boy, that broad is hot for your tool,'' as you might expect men to say in a bar. On the contrary, they let the incident pass without even a knowing glance. Lester was going on about the damned skeet shooting again, but my mind was on Beryl Carlisle and the pros and cons of adultery.\n\n\"John?\"\n\nI looked at Randall Potter. \"Huh?\"\n\n\"I said, Lester tells me you actually met Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\nApparently someone had changed the subject during my mental absence. I cleared my throat. \"Yes . . . I did. Very briefly. At Hicks' Nursery.\"\n\n\"Nice chap?\"\n\nI glanced at Lester, who refused to look me in the eye and acknowledge that he had a big mouth.\n\nI replied to Randall Potter, \"'Polite' might be a better word.\"\n\nMartin Vandermeer leaned toward me. Martin is a direct descendant of an original old Knickerbocker family and is the type of man who would like to remind us Anglo-Saxons that his ancestors greeted the first boatload of Englishmen in New Amsterdam Harbor with cannon fire. Martin asked, \"Polite in what way, John?\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps, 'respectful' is a better word,'' I replied, searching my mental thesaurus and stretching my credibility.\n\nMartin Vandermeer nodded in his ponderous Dutch manner.\n\nI don't want to give the impression that I'm cowed by these people; in fact, they're often cowed by me. It's just that when you make a faux pas, I mean really blow it, like saying a Mafia don is a nice chap and suggesting that you would rather have him as a neighbor than a hundred Lester Remsens, well then, you've got to clarify what you meant. Politicians do it all the time. Anyway, I didn't know what these three were so unhappy about; I was the one who had to live next door to Frank Bellarosa.\n\nRandall asked me, with real interest, \"Did he have any bodyguards with him?\"\n\n\"Actually, now that you mention it, he had a driver who put his purchases in the trunk. Black Cadillac,'' I added with a little smirk to show what I thought of black Cadillacs.\n\nMartin wondered aloud, \"Do these people go about armed?\"\n\nI think I had become the club expert on the Mafia, so I answered, \"Not the dons. Not usually. They don't want trouble with the police.\"\n\nRandall said, \"But didn't Bellarosa kill a Colombian drug dealer some months ago?\"\n\nOn the other hand, I didn't want to sound like a Mafia groupie, so I shrugged. \"I don't know.'' But in fact I recall the news stories back in January, I think, because it struck me at the time that a man as highly placed as Bellarosa would have to be insane to personally commit a murder.\n\nLester wanted to know, \"What do you suppose he was doing at Hicks'?\"\n\n\"Maybe he works there on weekends,'' I suggested. This got a little chuckle out of everyone, and we ordered another round. I wanted desperately to turn my head toward Beryl Carlisle again, but I knew I couldn't get away with it a second time.\n\nMartin's wife, Pauline, showed up and stood at the door near the bar, trying to get his attention by flapping her arms like a windmill. Martin finally noticed and lifted his great roast beef of a body, then ambled over to his wife.\n\nRandall then excused himself to talk to his son-in-law. Lester Remsen and I sat in silence a moment, then I said, \"Susan tells me I made an unfortunate remark last Sunday, and if I did, I want you to know it was unintentional.'' This is the Wasp equivalent of an apology. If it's worded just right, it leaves some doubt that you think _any_ apology is required.\n\nLester waved his hand in dismissal. \"Never mind that. Did you get a chance to look at Meudon?\"\n\nThis is the Wasp equivalent of \"I fully accept your halfhearted apology.'' I replied to Lester, \"Yes, I took the Bronco over the acreage just this morning. I haven't seen it in years, and it's quite overgrown, but the specimen trees are in remarkably good shape.\"\n\nWe spoke about Meudon for a while. Lester, you should understand, is no nature nut in the true sense, and neither are most of his friends and my neighbors. But, as I said, they've discovered that nature nuts can be useful to achieve their own ends, which is to preserve their lifestyle. This has resulted in an odd coalition of gentry and students, rich estate owners, and middle-class people. I am both gentry and nature nut and am therefore invaluable.\n\nLester proclaimed, \"I don't want fifty two-million-dollar tractor sheds in my backyard.\"\n\nThat's what Lester calls contemporary homes: tractor sheds. I nodded in sympathy.\n\nHe asked, \"Can't we get Meudon rezoned for twenty-acre plots?\"\n\n\"Maybe. We have to wait until the developer files his environmental impact statement.\"\n\n\"All right. We'll keep an eye on that. What's the story with your place?\"\n\nStanhope Hall, as you know, is not my place, but Lester was being both polite and nosey. I replied, \"There are no takers for the whole two hundred acres with the house as a single estate, and no takers for the house with ten surrounding acres. I've advertised it both ways.\"\n\nLester nodded in understanding. The future of Stanhope Hall, the main house, is uncertain. A house that size, you understand, may be someone's dream palace, but even an Arab sheik at today's crude oil prices would have a hard time maintaining and staffing a place that's as big as a medium-size hotel.\n\nLester said, \"It's such a beautiful house. Got an award, didn't it?\"\n\n\"Several. _Town & Country_ noted it best American house of the year when it was built in 1906. But times change.'' The other option was to tear the place down, as Meudon Palace had been torn down. This would force the tax authorities to reassess the property as undeveloped land. The guesthouse is Susan's, and we pay separate tax rates on that, and the gatehouse where the Allards live is theoretically protected by Grandfather Stanhope's will.\n\nLester said, \"What sort of people seem interested in the house?\"\n\n\"The sort who think five hundred thousand sounds good for a fifty-room house.'' That's what I'm trying to get for it with ten acres attached. The irony is that it cost five million dollars in 1906 to construct. That's about twenty-five million of today's dollars. Aside from any aesthetic considerations about tearing down Stanhope Hall, my frugal father-in-law, William Stanhope, would have to consider the cost of knocking down a granite structure built to last a millennium and then trucking the debris someplace as per the new environmental laws. The granite and marble used to build Stanhope Hall came here to Long Island by railroad from Vermont. Maybe Vermont wants the rubble back.\n\nSusan, incidentally, does not care about the main house or the other structures\u2014except the stables and tennis courts\u2014which I find interesting. Whatever memories are attached to the house, the gazebo, and the love temple are apparently not important or good. She _was_ upset the night that vandals burned down her playhouse. It was a sort of Hansel and Gretel gingerbread house, as big as a small cottage, but made of wood and in bad repair. One can only imagine a lonely little rich girl with her dolls playing lonely games in a house all her own.\n\nLester inquired, \"Did you hear from the county park people yet?\"\n\n\"Yes,'' I replied. \"A fellow named Pinelli at the park commissioner's office. He said he thought the county owned enough Gold Coast mansions for the time being. But that might only be their opening gambit, because Pinelli asked me if the house had any architectural or historical significance.\"\n\n\"Well,'' said Lester, \"it certainly has architectural significance. Who was the architect?\"\n\n\"McKim, Mead, White,'' I replied. Neither history nor architecture is Lester's strong point, but in addition to becoming a nature nut, he's becoming an authority on the social and architectural history of the Gold Coast. I added, \"As for historical significance, I know that Teddy Roosevelt used to pop over from Oyster Bay now and then, and Lindbergh dined there while he was staying with the Guggenheims. There were other noteworthy guests, but I think the county is looking for something more significant than dinner. I'll have to research it.\"\n\n\"How about making something up?'' Lester suggested half jokingly. \"Like maybe Teddy Roosevelt drafted a treaty or a speech at Stanhope Hall.\"\n\nI ignored that and continued, \"One of the problems with selling the estate to the county as a museum and park is that Grace Lane is still private, as you know, and that doesn't sit well with the county bureaucrats. Nor would I be very popular on Grace Lane if a thousand cars full of people from Brooklyn and Queens showed up every weekend to gawk.\"\n\n\"No, you wouldn't,'' Lester assured me.\n\n\"Bottom line, Lester, if the county did make an offer, it would only offer a price equal to the back taxes. That's their game.\"\n\nLester did not ask how much that was, because he had probably looked it up in the public record or saw it published in the _Locust Valley Sentinel_ under the heading, TAX DELINQUENCIES.\n\nThe back taxes on Stanhope Hall, including interest and penalties, is about four hundred thousand dollars, give or take. You can look it up. Well, you might be thinking, \"If I owed four _thousand_ dollars, let alone four _hundred_ thousand dollars, in back taxes, they'd grab my house and kids.'' Probably. But the rich are different. They have better lawyers, like me.\n\nHowever, I've nearly exhausted all the legal maneuvers that I learned at Harvard Law, and I can't forestall a tax sale or foreclosure on this potentially valuable property for much longer. I don't normally do legal work for free, but William Stanhope hasn't offered to pay me for my services, so I guess I'm making an exception for my father-in-law. Not only is it true that the rich do not pay their bills promptly, but when they do finally pay, they like to decide for themselves how much they owe.\n\nLester seemed to be reading my dark thoughts because he said, \"I trust your father-in-law appreciates all you've done.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he does. However, he has lost touch with the new realities here regarding land use and environmental concerns. If he can't sell the whole estate intact, he wants it subdivided and sold to developers. Even if I could get the two hundred acres divided, there's the house to deal with. William has the idea that a developer will either tear down the old house or offer it to the new residents as a clubhouse or some such thing. Unfortunately, it's expensive to tear down and much too expensive for twenty new households to maintain it.\"\n\n\"It certainly is a white elephant,'' Lester informed me. \"But you _are_ trying to preserve the land if not the house.\"\n\n\"Of course. But it's not my land. I'm in the same situation as you are, Lester, living in splendid isolation on a few acres of a dead estate. I'm master of only about five percent of what I survey.\"\n\nLester thought about that a moment, then said, \"Well, maybe a white knight will come along to save the white elephant.\"\n\n\"Maybe.'' A white knight in this context is a nonprofit group such as a private school, religious institution, or sometimes a health care facility. Estate houses and their grounds seem to lend themselves to this sort of use, and most of the neighbors can live with this arrangement because it keeps the land open and the population density low. I wouldn't mind a few nuns strolling around Stanhope's acres, or even a few nervous-breakdown cases, or, least desirable, private-school students.\n\nLester asked, \"Did you ever contact that real estate firm in Glen Cove that puts corporations together with estate owners?\"\n\n\"Yes, but there seems to be a glut of estates and a dearth of corporations that need them.'' I should point out that corporations have bought entire estates for their own use. The old Astor estate in Sands Point, for instance, is now an IBM country club, and one of the many Pratt estates in Glen Cove is a conference center. Also, one of the Vanderbilt estates, an Elizabethan manor house with a hundred acres in Old Brookville, is now the corporate headquarters to Banfi Vintners, who have restored the sixty-room house and grounds to its former glory. Any of these uses would be preferable to . . . well, to twenty tractor sheds inhabited by stockbrokers and their broods.\n\nWilliam Stanhope, incidentally, is far enough removed from here not to fully appreciate the fact that my environmental activities and his instructions to me are very nearly mutually exclusive. This is called a conflict of interest and is both unethical and illegal. But I really don't care. He's getting what he's paying for.\n\nMy father-in-law, you understand, can, if pushed, come up with the four hundred thousand dollars in back taxes but chooses not to, not until he's got a buyer or until the day before a tax seizure takes place. He fully intends to protect his huge asset unless and until he determines it is a liability and cannot be sold in his lifetime.\n\nIf you're wondering what this white elephant is worth to William Stanhope and his heirs and successors, here are the figures: two hundred acres, if they could be rezoned into ten-acre plots, would fetch over a million dollars a plot on the fabled Gold Coast, which amounts to a total of over twenty million dollars before taxes.\n\nSusan, I assume, will eventually inherit enough money to get herself a full-time stable mucker and someone to help me and old George with the gardening.\n\nIf you're wondering what else is in it for me, you should know that these sorts of people rarely let money get out of the immediate family. In fact, I entered into a prenuptial agreement long before the middle class even knew such a thing existed. William Stanhope and his paid attorney drew up the \"marriage contract,'' as it was then called, and I acted as my own attorney, proving the adage that a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. Anyway, William has been getting free legal advice from the fool ever since.\n\nOn the brighter side, Edward and Carolyn have a trust fund into which Stanhope monies are deposited. And in fairness to Susan, the \"marriage contract'' was not her idea. I don't want the Stanhope money anyway, but neither do I want the Stanhope problems. I said to Lester, \"Neither Susan nor I am in favor of suburban sprawl, nor, specifically, the development of Stanhope Hall for monetary gain. But if this paradise is to be down-zoned to limbo, then we each have to decide if we wish to stay or leave. That is also an option.\"\n\n\"Leave for where, John? Where do people like us go?\"\n\n\"Hilton Head.\"\n\n\"Hilton Head?\"\n\n\"Any planned little Eden where nothing will ever change.\"\n\n\"This is my home, John. The Remsens have been here for over two hundred years.\"\n\n\"And so have the Whitmans and the Sutters. You know that.'' In fact, I should tell you that Lester Remsen and I are related in some murky way that neither of us chooses to clarify.\n\nFamilies that predate the millionaires can indulge themselves in some snobbery, even if their forebears were fishermen and farmers. I said to Lester, \"We're on borrowed time here. You know that.\"\n\n\"Are you playing devil's advocate, or are you giving up? Are you and Susan moving? Is this Bellarosa thing the last straw?\"\n\nSometimes I think Lester likes me, so I took the question as a show of concern and not an expression of desire. I replied, \"I've thought of it. Susan has never once mentioned it.\"\n\n\"Where would you go?\"\n\nI didn't know five seconds before he asked, but then it occurred to me. \"I would go to sea.\"\n\n_\"Where?\"_\n\n\"Sea, sea. That wet stuff that makes waterfront property so expensive.\"\n\n\"Oh. . . .\"\n\n\"I'm a good sailor. I'd get a sixty footer and just go.'' I was excited now. \"First I'd go down the Intracoastal Waterway to Florida, then into the Caribbean\u2014\"\n\n\"But what about Susan?'' he interrupted.\n\n\"What about her?\"\n\n\"The horses, man. The horses.\"\n\nI thought a moment. In truth, a horse would be a problem on a boat. I ordered another drink.\n\nWe sat and drank in silence awhile. I was beginning to feel the effects of the fourth martini. I looked around for Beryl Carlisle, but her idiot of a husband caught my eye. I smiled stupidly at him, then turned to Lester. \"Nice chap.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Beryl Carlisle's husband.\"\n\n\"He's a schmuck.\"\n\nLester picks up words like that where he works. _Putz_ is another one. They seem like excellent words, but I just can't seem to find the opportunity to try one of them.\n\nWe sat awhile longer, and the crowd was starting to thin. I wondered where Susan was and if I was supposed to meet her somewhere. Susan has this habit of thinking she's told me something when she hasn't, and then accusing me of forgetting. I understand from friends that this is quite common among wives. I ordered another drink to jog my memory.\n\nHorses and boats went through my mind, and I tried to reconcile the two. I had this neat mental image of Zanzibar, stuffed and mounted on the bow of my new sixty-foot schooner.\n\nI looked at Lester, who seemed deep in his own reveries, which probably ran along the lines of horse-mounted gentry burning down tractor sheds and trampling tricycles.\n\nI heard Susan's voice beside me. \"Hello, Lester,'' she said. \"Are you still insulted? You look all right.'' Susan can be direct at times.\n\nLester asked, \"What do you mean?'' feigning ignorance.\n\nSusan ignored that and asked, \"Where's Judy?\"\n\nLester said with real ignorance, \"I don't know.'' He thought a moment and added, \"I should call her.\"\n\n\"First you have to know where she is,'' Susan pointed out. \"What were you and John talking about?\"\n\n\"Stocks and golf,'' I answered before Lester could dredge up the subject of Stanhope Hall again, which is not Susan's favorite topic. I said to Lester, \"While you're trying to remember where your wife is, would you like to join us for dinner?'' I shouldn't have had the fourth or fifth martini. Actually, the fifth was okay. It was the fourth I shouldn't have had.\n\nLester rose unsteadily. \"I remember now. We're having people for dinner.\"\n\nSusan said, \"You must get me the recipe.\"\n\nSusan was obviously irked at something. Poor Lester seemed muddled. He said, \"Yes, of course I can. Would you like to come along? I'll call.\"\n\nSusan replied, \"Thanks, but we have dinner plans.\"\n\nI didn't know if this was true or not, because Susan never tells me these things.\n\nLester wished us a good evening, and Susan told him to drive carefully.\n\nI stood and steadied myself against the wall. I smiled at Susan. \"Good to see you.\"\n\n\"How many of me do you see?'' she asked.\n\n\"I'm quite sober,'' I assured her, then changed the subject. I said, \"I see the Carlisles here. I thought we'd ask if they could join us for dinner.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Isn't she a friend of yours?'' I asked.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I thought she was. I rather like . . .''\u2014I couldn't remember his name\u2014\"her husband.\"\n\n\"You think he's a pompous ass.'' She added, \"We have dinner plans.\"\n\n\"With whom?\"\n\n\"I told you this morning.\"\n\n\"No, you didn't. With whom? Where? I can't drive.\"\n\n\"That's obvious.'' She took my arm. \"We're having dinner here.\"\n\nWe made our way through the house to the opposite wing and arrived at the largest of the dining rooms. Susan directed me toward a table at which sat the Vandermeers, of all people.\n\nIt was obvious to me that Martin's wife had also failed to inform him of the evening's plans.\n\nSusan and I sat at the round table with the white tablecloth and exchanged small talk with the Vandermeers. Sometimes I think that Eli Whitney got his idea of interchangeable parts from upper middle-class society where all the people are interchangeable. Everyone in that room could have switched tables all night, and the conversations wouldn't have missed a beat.\n\nI realized that my growing criticism of my peers was more a result of changes within me than any changes in them. What had once made me comfortable was now making me restless, and I was, quite frankly, concerned about the compromises and accommodations that had taken over my life in insidious ways. I was fed up with being the caretaker of Stanhope Hall, tired of everyone's obsession with the status quo, impatient with the small talk, annoyed at old ladies who walked into my office with ten million dollars in an old valise, and generally unhappy with what had once made me content.\n\nOddly enough, I didn't recall feeling that way the week before. I wasn't certain how this revelation came about, but revelations are like that; they just smack you across the face one day, and you know you've arrived at the truth without even knowing you were looking for it. What you do about it is another matter.\n\nI didn't realize it then, but I was ready for a great adventure. What I also didn't know was that my new next-door neighbor had decided to provide one for me.\n\n**_Seven_**\n\nSaturday morning passed uneventfully except that I had a slight headache brought on, no doubt, by the Vandermeers' hot air. Also, the Allards both had the flu, and I paid them a sick call. I made them tea in the gatehouse's little kitchen, which made me feel like a regular guy. I even stayed for half a cup, while George apologized six times for being sick. Ethel's usual surliness turns to a sort of maudlinism when she's ill. I like her better that way.\n\nI should mention that during the Second World War, George Allard went off to serve his country, as did all the able-bodied male staff at Stanhope Hall and, of course, the other estates. George once told me during a social history lesson that this exodus of servants made life difficult for the families who had managed to hold on to their huge houses through the Depression, and who still needed male staff for heavy estate work. George also tells me that higher wartime wages lured many of the servant girls away for defense work and such. George somehow associates me with this class of gentry and thinks I should feel retroactively saddened by the great hardships that the Stanhopes and others endured during the war. Right, George. When I picture William Stanhope having to lay out his own clothes every morning while his valet is goofing off on Normandy Beach, a lump comes to my throat.\n\nWilliam, by the way, did serve his country during this national emergency. There are two versions of this story. I'll relate Ethel's version: William Stanhope, through family connections, received a commission in the Coast Guard. Grandpa Augustus Stanhope, unable to make use of his seventy-foot yacht, _The Sea Urchin_ , sold it to the government for a dollar, as did many yacht owners during the war. _The Sea Urchin_ was outfitted as a submarine patrol boat, and its skipper turned out to be none other than Lieutenant (j.g.) William Stanhope. Ethel says this was not a coincidence. Anyway, _The Sea Urchin_ , with a new coat of gray paint, sonar, depth charges, and a .50-caliber machine gun, was conveniently berthed at The Seawanhaka Corinthian. From there, Lieutenant Stanhope patrolled up and down the Long Island Sound, ready to take on the German U-boat fleet, protecting the American way of life, and occasionally putting in at Martha's Vineyard for a few beers. And not wanting to take up government housing, William lived at Stanhope Hall.\n\nEthel is probably justified in her opinion that William Stanhope's wartime service symbolized the worst aspects of American capitalism, privilege, and family connections. Yet most of the upper classes, from all I've read and heard, did their duty, and many went beyond the call of duty. But Ethel excludes any realities that upset her prejudices. In this respect she is exactly like William Stanhope, like me, and like every other human being I've ever met, sane and insane alike. Needless to say, William does not regale his friends or family with war stories.\n\nAnyway, George returned from the Pacific in 1945 with malaria, and he still has episodes from time to time, but this day I was sure it was just the flu. I offered to call the doctor, but Ethel said cryptically, \"He can't help us.\"\n\nGeorge and Ethel had been married right before George shipped out, and Augustus Stanhope, as was the custom at the time, provided the wedding reception in the great house.\n\nA few years ago, during a chance conversation with an older client of mine, I discovered that Grandpa Augustus, who would have been in his fifties then, also provided Ethel with some degree of companionship while George was killing our future allies in the Pacific. Apparently this small investment of time and effort on Ethel's part paid dividends, the Allards being the only staff not let go over the years. Also, there was the generous gift of the gatehouse, rent-free for life. I often wondered if George knew that his master was dipping his pen in George's inkwell. But even if he did, George would still be convinced that it was his loyalty, rather than his wife's disloyalty, that was responsible for the old coot's generosity. Well, maybe. Good help is still harder to find than a good lay.\n\nI don't normally listen to gossip, but this was too interesting to resist. Besides, it's more in the category of social history than hot news.\n\nAs I drank my tea, I looked at Ethel and smiled. She gave me a pained grimace in return. Above her head on the wall of the small sitting room was a formal photograph of her and George, he in his navy whites, she in a white dress. She was a very pretty young woman.\n\nWhat interested me about this story was not that a lonely young war bride had had an affair with her older employer; what interested me was that Ethel Allard, the good Christian socialist, had done it for the lord of the manor and had perhaps blackmailed him, subtly or not so subtly.\n\nA place like this is rife with interlocking relationships that, if explored, would be far more damaging to the social structure than depression, war, and taxes.\n\nThe Allards, by the way, have a daughter, Elizabeth, who looks enough like George to put my mind at ease concerning any more Stanhope heirs. Elizabeth, incidentally, is a successful boutique owner\u2014a shopkeeper, like her maternal grandfather\u2014with stores in three surrounding villages, and Susan makes a point of sending her acquisitive friends to all of them, though she herself is not much of a shopper. I saw Elizabeth's name in the local newspaper once in connection with a Republican Party fund-raiser. God bless America, Ethel; where else can socialists give birth to Republicans and vice versa?\n\nI took my leave of the Allards and reminded them to call me or Susan if they needed anything. Susan, for all her aloofness, does have that sense of noblesse oblige, which is one of the few things I admire about the old monied classes, and she takes care of the people who work for her. I hope Ethel remembers that when the Revolution comes.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI spent the early afternoon doing errands in Locust Valley, then stopped at McGlade's, the local pub, for a beer. The usual Saturday crowd was there, including the pub's softball team, back from trouncing the florist's ten pathetic sissies, who were there also and had a different version of the game. There were a few self-employed building-trade contractors who needed a drink after giving estimates to homeowners all morning, and there were the weekend joggers who all seemed to have a suspicious amount of tread left on their hundred-dollar running shoes hooked around the bar rails. And then there were the minor gentry in their Lands' End and L. L. Bean uniforms, and the major gentry whose attire is difficult to describe, except to say you've never seen it in a store or catalogue. The old gentleman beside me, for instance, had on a pink tweed shooting jacket with a green leather gun patch, and his trousers were baggy green wool embroidered with dozens of little ducks. I was wearing the L. L. Bean uniform: Docksides, tan poplin trousers, button-down plaid shirt, and blue windbreaker. Many of us were perusing wife-authored \"to do'' lists as we sipped our beer, and our wallets, when opened for cash, revealed pink dry-cleaning slips. On the restaurant side, well-dressed women with shopping bags were chatting over cottage cheese and lettuce. It was definitely Saturday.\n\nGood pubs, like churches, are great equalizers of social distinctions; more so, perhaps, because when you approach the rail in a pub, you do so with the full knowledge that talking is not only permitted but often required.\n\nIn fact, as I was having my second beer, I saw in the bar mirror my plumber, leaning against the wall behind me. I went over to him and we talked about my plumbing problems. To wit: I have a cracked cast-iron waste pipe, and he wants to replace it with PVC pipe, at some expense. I think it can be soldered instead. He asked me about the procedure for adopting his second wife's son, and I gave him an estimate. I think we were too expensive for each other, and the conversation turned to the Mets. You can talk baseball here.\n\nI chatted with a few other acquaintances, then with the bartender and with the old gentleman with the pink tweed jacket, who turned out not to be major gentry but a retired butler from the Phipps' estate who was wearing the boss's castoffs. You used to get a lot of that around here, but I see less of it in recent years.\n\nIt was too nice a day to spend more than an hour in the pub, so I left, but before I did, I gave my plumber the name of an adoption attorney whose fees are moderate. He gave me the name of a handyman who could try a weld on the pipe. The wheels of American commerce spin, spin, spin.\n\nI got into my Bronco and headed home. On the way back, I passed my office and assured myself it was still there. I thought about the ten million in stocks stashed in the vault. It would not be a problem to have Mrs. Lauderbach\u2014that's my client's name\u2014sign the necessary papers for me to liquidate the stocks, and for me to hop on down to Rio for a very long vacation. And I didn't need Lester Remsen's help in this at all. But I've never violated a trust or stolen a nickel, and I never will. I felt very pious. What a day I was having.\n\nMy mood stayed bright until I approached the gates of Stanhope Hall, when my brow, as they say, darkened. I'd never really noticed it before, but this place was getting me down. The truth, once it grabs hold of you, makes you take notice of the little buzzings in your head. This was not your garden-variety midlife crisis. This was no crisis at all. This was Revelation, Epiphany, Truth. Unfortunately, like most middle-aged men, I had no idea what to do with the truth. But I was open to suggestions.\n\nI stopped at the gatehouse and looked in on the Allards, who were listening to the radio and reading. Ethel was engrossed in a copy of _The New Republic_ , which may have been the only copy in Lattingtown, and George was perusing the _Locust Valley Sentinel_ , which he's been reading for sixty years to keep abreast of who died, got married, had children, owed taxes, wanted zoning variances, or had a gripe they wanted to see in print.\n\nI picked up Susan's and my mail, which is delivered to the gatehouse, and riffled through it on my way out. Ethel called after me, \"There was a gentleman here to see you. He didn't leave his name.\"\n\nSometimes, as when the phone rings, you just know who's calling. And Ethel's stress on the word _gentleman_ told me that this was no gentleman. I asked, \"A dark-haired man driving a black Cadillac?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nEthel never says \"sir,'' so George chimed in, \"Yes, sir. I told him you were not receiving visitors today. I hope that was all right.'' He added, \"I didn't know him, and I didn't think you did.\"\n\nOr wanted to, George. I smiled at the image of Frank Bellarosa being told that Mr. Sutter was not receiving today. I wondered if he knew that meant \"get lost.\"\n\nGeorge asked, \"What shall I say if he calls again, sir?\"\n\nI replied as if I'd already thought this out, and I guess I must have. \"If I'm at home, show him in.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,'' George replied with that smooth combination of professional disinterest and personal disagreement with the master.\n\nI left the gatehouse and climbed back into the Bronco.\n\nI drove past the turnoff for my house and continued on toward the main house. Between my house and the main house, on Stanhope land, is the tennis court, whose upkeep Susan has taken on as her responsibility. Beyond the tennis court, the tree-lined lane rises, and I stopped the Bronco at the top of the rise and got out. Across a field of emerging wildflowers and mixed grasses, where the great lawn once stretched, stood Stanhope Hall.\n\nThe design of the mansion, according to Susan and as described in various architectural books that mention Stanhope Hall, was based on French and Italian Renaissance prototypes. However, the exterior is not European marble, but is built of good Yankee granite. Spaced along the front are attached columns or wall pilasters with Ionic capitals, and in the center of the house is a high, open portico with freestanding classical columns. The roof is flat, with a balustraded parapet running around the perimeter of the mansion's three massive wings. The place looks a bit like the White House, actually, but better built.\n\nThere were once formal gardens, of course, and they were planted on the descending terraces that surround the great house. Each year at this time the gardens still burst into bloom, wild with roses and laurel, yellow forsythia and multicolored azaleas, the survival of the fittest, a celebration of nature's independence from man.\n\nFor all the European detail, there are distinctly American features to the house, including large picture windows in the rear, a greenhouse-style breakfast room to capture the rising sun, a solarium on the roof, and an American infrastructure of steel beams, heating ducts, good plumbing, and safe electricity.\n\nBut to answer Lester Remsen's question, there is nothing architecturally significant or unique about this misplaced European palace. Had McKim, Mead, or White designed a truly new American house, whatever that might have been in 1906, then the landmark people and all the rest of the preservationists would say, \"There is nothing like this in the whole country.\"\n\nBut the architects and their American clients of this period were not looking into the future, or even trying to create the present; they were looking back over their shoulders into a European past that had flowered and died even before the first block of granite arrived on this site. What these people were trying to create or re-create here in this new world is beyond me. I can't put myself in their minds or their hearts, but I can sympathize with their struggle for an identity, with their puzzlement, which has troubled Americans from the very beginning\u2014Who are we, where do we fit, where are we going?\n\nIt occurred to me that these estates are not only architectural shams, but they are shams in a more profound way. Unlike their European models, these estates never produced a profitable stalk of wheat, a bucket of milk, or a bottle of wine. There was some hobby farming, to be sure, but the crops certainly didn't support the house and the servants and the Rolls-Royces. And no one who was hired to work the land here could have felt the sense of wonder and excitement that comes with the harvest and the assurance that the earth and the Lord, not the stock market, has provided.\n\nWell, what do I know about that? Actually, my ancestors were mostly farmers and fishermen, and fishing I do understand, but my ability to coax things from the ground is limited to inedibles, as Mr. Bellarosa pointed out. I recalled his red wagon filled with vegetable seedlings, purchased at top dollar from an upscale nursery, and I decided he was a sham, too.\n\nThis whole silly Gold Coast was a sham, an American anomaly, in a country that was an anomaly to the rest of the world. Well, no one ever said the truth would make you happy\u2014only free.\n\nOf course, there were other yet undiscovered truths, and there were other people's truths, but that was yet to come.\n\nI looked out at Stanhope Hall and beyond. The large gazebo, another American accoutrement, was visible on the back lawn, surrounded by overhanging sycamores, and in the distance was the English hedge maze, a ridiculous amusement for young ladies and their fatuous beaux, all of whom should have spent more time in the love temple and less time running around hedge mazes.\n\nThe land fell away beyond the hedges, but I could see the tops of the plum orchard, half of whose trees were now dead. The orchard, according to Susan, had originally been called the sacred grove, in the pagan fashion of nature worship. And in the center of the grove is the Roman love temple, a small but perfectly proportioned round structure of buff marble columns that hold up a curved frieze carved with some very erotic scenes. In the domed roof is an opening, and the shaft of sunlight and moonlight that comes through at certain hours illuminates two pink marble statues, one of a man or a god, and the other of a busty Venus, locked in a nude embrace.\n\nThe purpose of this place mystifies me, but there were a number of them built on the more lavish estates. I can only conjecture that classical nudity was acceptable; Greco-Roman tits and ass was not just art, it was one of the few ways to see T and A in 1906, and only millionaires could afford this expensive thrill.\n\nI don't know if young women, or even mature ladies, ventured into the plum grove to see this porn palace, but you can be sure that Susan and I make good use of it on summer evenings. Susan likes being a vestal virgin surprised by John the Barbarian while praying in the temple. She's been deflowered about sixty times, which may be a record.\n\nThe temple may be a sham, but it is a beautiful sham, and Susan is no virgin, and I'm an imperfect barbarian, but the heart-stopping orgasms are real, and real things happen to real people even in Disney World.\n\nI knew right then that despite my recent disenchantment with my enchanted world, I was going to miss this place.\n\nI got back into my Bronco and headed home.\n**_Eight_**\n\nLester Remsen showed up at my Locust Valley office on Monday afternoon to take care of Mrs. Lauderbach's ten-million-dollar problem. The actual figure according to Lester's research department was, as of three P.M. that day, $10,132,564 and a few cents. This included about sixty years of unpaid dividends on which, unfortunately, no interest was given.\n\nMrs. Lauderbach had a hairdresser's appointment and could not join us, but I had power of attorney and was prepared to sign most of the brokerage house's paperwork on her behalf. Lester and I went to the second-floor law library, which had been the study of the Victorian house on Birch Hill Road. We spread out our paperwork on the library table.\n\nLester commented, \"This is one for the books. Good Lord, you'd think she'd be interested in this.\"\n\nI shrugged. \"She had gray roots.\"\n\nLester smiled and we began the tedious paperwork in which I had less interest than Mrs. Lauderbach. I ordered coffee as we neared the end of the task. Lester handed me a document and I handed him one. Lester seemed not to be focusing on the task at hand, and he laid down the paper, stayed silent a moment, and said, \"She's how old? Seventy-eight?\"\n\n\"She was when we started.\"\n\nLester seemed to miss my drollness and asked, \"And you're also the attorney for her will?\"\n\n\"That's correct.\"\n\n\"Can I ask who her heirs are?\"\n\n\"You can ask, but I can't say.'' I added, however, \"She has three children.\"\n\nLester nodded. \"I know one of them. Mary. She's married to Phil Crowley. They're in Old Westbury.\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"I never knew the Lauderbachs had so much money.\"\n\n\"Neither did the Lauderbachs.\"\n\n\"Well, I mean, they always lived well. They used to own The Beeches, didn't they?'' He looked at Mrs. Lauderbach's address on a document. \"But they've moved to a house in Oyster Bay village.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"They sold The Beeches to an Iranian Jew, didn't they?\"\n\n\"I didn't handle that. But yes, they did. They got a fair price, and the new owners are maintaining the property quite well.\"\n\n\"Hey, I don't care if they're Iranian Jews.'' Lester smiled. \"Better than a Mafia don.\"\n\nBetter than twenty Lester Remsens. The Lauderbachs, incidentally, had used a large law firm with no connections to the gentry for the property closing on The Beeches. This is sometimes done when the old homestead is being sold to people with funny last names. I suppose I see the point, which is that local attorneys might not want to be involved in a property transaction that other clients and neighbors disapprove of. Well, that was true in the Lauderbachs' day, but recently the Gold Coast reminds me of a nation that is about to fall, and no one is pretending any longer that everything is all right; instead, everyone is grabbing whatever he can and fleeing for the airport. I don't know if I would have handled the closing if asked. It was probably worth ten thousand dollars for a day's work, and I personally have nothing against Iranian Jews or any other foreigners. But some of my clients and neighbors do.\n\nLester asked, \"You don't think Mr. Lauderbach _knew_ he had ten million in stocks?\"\n\n\"I don't know if he did, Lester. I didn't know or I'd have advised him to open an account with you.'' I added, \"There were plenty of other assets. It didn't matter. You can spend only so much in a lifetime. Ernest Lauderbach ran out of time before he ran out of money.\"\n\n\"But the _dividends_ should have been reinvested. They just sat there not collecting a dime. That's like giving Chase Manhattan and American Express interest-free loans.\"\n\nMoney that lies fallow upsets Lester. His children never had piggy banks. They had money market accounts.\n\nLester perused Ernest Lauderbach's will. \"Neither Mary nor the other two children, Randolf and Herman, inherited under this will?\"\n\n\"No, they didn't.'' It was Lester's right to examine the will to establish Mrs. Lauderbach's ownership to all the property. My father had drawn up the sixth and last edition of Ernest Lauderbach's last will and testament about ten years before, but the stock and bond assets were only identified as \"securities and other money instruments that I may hold at the time of my death.'' Clearly, no one, including the Lauderbachs' three children, knew precisely what was in the vault in the basement of the Oyster Bay house. I was fairly certain they still didn't know, or I'd have heard from all three of them and\/or their attorneys by now.\n\nLester inquired, \"Where are Herman and Randolf?\"\n\n\"Herman is retired in Virginia, and Randolf is a businessman in Chicago. Why?\"\n\n\"I'd like to handle their stock assets when they inherit. That's why.\"\n\nLester and I both knew that this conversation actually had to do with the possibility of making sure that Randolf, Herman, and Mary did _not_ inherit these stock assets. But I said, \"I'll recommend you to them if I'm satisfied with how this account is handled.\"\n\n\"Thanks. I suppose they know about this?'' He patted a pile of stock certificates.\n\nI ignored the question and its implications and said politely but firmly, \"Lester, regarding your handling of this account, do not play the market for Mrs. Lauderbach. Those are two perfectly good stocks. Just leave them in place and see that she gets her past and future dividend checks. If she needs money for estate taxes, I'll advise you, and we'll sell off some shares for Uncle Sam.\"\n\n\"John, you know I wouldn't churn this account for the commissions.\"\n\nLester, to be fair, is an ethical broker, or I wouldn't deal with him. But he's in an occupation whose temptations would give Jesus Christ anxiety attacks. Such was the case now, with ten million sitting on the mahogany table in front of him. I could almost see that little devil on his left shoulder, and the angel on his right, both chattering in his ears. I didn't want to interrupt, but I said, \"It doesn't matter, you know, who knows about this money, who needs it, who deserves it, or that Agnes Lauderbach doesn't give a rat's ass about it.\"\n\nHe shrugged and sort of changed the subject. \"I wonder why the Lauderbachs didn't hold on to The Beeches if they knew they had this kind of money.\"\n\nI replied, \"Not everyone _wants_ a fifty-room house and two hundred acres, Lester. It's a waste of money even if you've got money. How many bathrooms do you need?\"\n\nLester chuckled, then asked, \"Would you buy Stanhope Hall if you had ten million dollars?\"\n\n\"You mean five million, partner.\"\n\nLester smiled sheepishly and glanced at me to see if I was baiting him, then lowered his eyes, which swept across the paper-strewn table and rested on the piles of stock certificates. He asked, \"Or would you buy that sixty footer and sail off into the sunset?\"\n\nI was sorry I had confided in Lester. I didn't reply.\n\n\"Or think about getting Susan out of the guesthouse and back into the great house.'' There was a silence in the room, during which Lester was thinking of what he'd do with five million dollars, and I guess I was thinking of what I'd do with ten, since I had no intention of compounding a crime with the sin of sharing any of it with Lester Remsen.\n\nIt occurred to me that Lester is the type of person who is honest out of fright, but he likes to flirt with dishonesty to see how it feels to have balls, if you'll pardon the expression. And he likes to see how other people react to his enticements.\n\nLester spoke in a way that suggested he was speaking apropos of nothing. \"It's very easy, John, now that I see the paperwork and the actual certificates. And it's a big enough sum to make it worthwhile. And I don't think we even have to leave the country afterwards, if it's handled right. When the old lady dies, you'll have seen to it that nothing appears in her will regarding this.\"\n\nLester went on in this vein, never using bad words such as _federal tax evasion, steal, forge,_ or _fraud._ I listened, more out of curiosity than a need to be educated in crime by Lester.\n\nI don't know why _I_ am honest. I suppose it is partially a result of my parents, who were paragons of virtue if nothing else. And when I was growing up in the fifties, the message from the pulpit and in Sunday school and my private school had less to do with the world's ills and injustices, and more to do with how to behave correctly toward others. It was the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule, and believe it or not, young men and women were supposed to have personal mottos to live by. Mine was, \"I will strive each day to give more than I receive.'' I don't know where I got that, but it's a good way to go broke. But I must have lived by it once, maybe until I was eighteen. Maybe longer.\n\nYet millions of men and women of my generation were raised the same way, and some of them are thieves, and some much worse. So why am I honest? What is keeping me from ten million dollars and from the nearly naked ladies on Ipanema beach? That's what Lester wanted to know. That's what I wanted to know.\n\nI looked at the pile of stock certificates, and Lester interrupted his dissertation on how to safely steal ten million to inform me, \"No one cares anymore, John. The rules are out the window. That's not my fault or yours. It just is. I'm tired of being a sucker, of fighting by Marquis of Queensbury rules while I'm getting kicked in the groin, and the referee is being paid to look the other way.\"\n\nI made no reply.\n\nUntil very recently, one of the reasons for my honesty was my contentment with my life, the whole social matrix into which I fit and functioned. But when you decide you won't miss home, what keeps you from stealing the family car to get away? I looked at Lester, who held eye contact for a change. I said, \"As you once observed, money doesn't tempt me,'' which was the truth.\n\n\" _Why_ doesn't money tempt you?\"\n\nI looked at Lester. \"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Money is neutral, John. It has no inherent good _or_ evil. Think of it as Indian wampum. Seashells. It's up to you what you do with it.\"\n\n\"And how you get it.\"\n\nLester shrugged.\n\nI said, \"Maybe in this case, I think that taking money from a batty old lady is no challenge and beneath my dignity and my professional ability to steal from sharp people. Find something dangerous and we'll talk again.'' I added, \"I'll have the stocks delivered to your Manhattan office tomorrow by bonded courier.\"\n\nLester looked both disappointed and relieved. He gathered the paperwork into his briefcase and stood. \"Well . . . what would life be like if we couldn't dream?\"\n\n\"Dream good dreams.\"\n\n\"I did. _You_ should dream a little.\"\n\n\"Don't be a schmuck, Lester.\"\n\nHe seemed a little put off, so I guess I used the word right. Lester said coolly, \"Don't forget I need Mrs. Lauderbach's signature cards.\"\n\n\"I'll see her tomorrow, on her way to her lunch date.\"\n\nLester extended his hand and we shook. He said, \"Thanks for giving me this account. I owe you dinner.\"\n\n\"Dinner would be fine.\"\n\nLester left with a parting glance at the ten million dollars lying on the table.\n\nI carried the stock certificates downstairs and put them in my vault.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe remainder of the week, which was Holy Week before Easter, passed in predictable fashion. On Thursday evening, Maundy Thursday, we went to St. Mark's with the Allards, who were well again. The Reverend Mr. Hunnings washed the feet of a dozen men and women of the congregation. This ceremony, if you don't know, is in imitation of Christ's washing the feet of his disciples and is supposed to symbolize the humility of the great toward the small. I didn't need my feet washed, but apparently Ethel did, so up she went to the altar with a bunch of other people who I guess had volunteered for this ahead of time because none of the women had panty hose on and none of the men wore silly socks. Now, I don't mean to make fun of my own religion, but I find this ceremony bizarre in the extreme. In fact, it's rarely performed, but Hunnings seems to enjoy it, and I wonder about him. One Maundy Thursday, when I get enough nerve, I'm going to volunteer to have my feet washed by the Reverend Mr. Hunnings, and when I take my socks off, on each toenail will be painted a happy face.\n\nAnyway, after services, we had George, and Ethel of the clean feet, to our house for what Susan referred to as the Last Supper, being the last meal she intended to cook until Monday.\n\nFriday was Good Friday, and in recent years I've noticed that around here at least, people have adopted the European custom of not working on this solemn day. Even the Stock Exchange was closed, and so, of course, Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, whose Wall Street office is in lockstep with the Exchange, was shut down. Whether this new holiday is a result of the religious reawakening in our country or a desire for a three-day weekend, I don't know, and no one is saying. But in any event, I had earlier in the week declared the Locust Valley office closed for Good Friday and then surprised the staff and annoyed the Wall Street partners by announcing that the Locust Valley office would also observe Easter Monday as the Europeans do. I'm trying to start a trend.\n\nSusan and I, along with Ethel and George, went to St. Mark's for the three-o'clock service, which marks the traditional time when the sky darkened and the earth shook and Christ died on the cross. I remember a Good Friday when I was a small boy, walking up the steps of St. Mark's on a bright, sunny day that _did_ suddenly turn dark with thunderclouds. I recall staring up at the sky in awe, waiting, I guess, for the earth to shake. A few adults smiled at me, then my mother came out of the church and led me inside. But this day was sunny, with no dramatic meteorological or geological phenomena, and had anything of the sort occurred, it would have been explained on the six-o'clock weather report.\n\nSt. Mark's was filled with well-dressed people, and the Reverend Mr. Hunnings, looking resplendent in his Holy Week crimson robes, stuck to business, which was the death of Jesus Christ. There were no social messages in the sermon, for which I thanked God. Hunnings, incidentally, also gives us a guilt break on Easter Sunday and usually at Christmas, except then he goes on a bit about materialism and commercialism.\n\nAfter the austere service, Susan and I dropped off the Allards, parked the Jag, and took a long walk around the estate, enjoying the weather and the new blooms. I can picture how this place must have looked in its heyday\u2014gardeners and nurserymen bustling around, planting, trimming, cultivating, raking. But now it looks forlorn: too much deadwood and layers of leaves from twenty autumns past. It's not quite returned to nature, but the grounds and gardens, like much around here\u2014including my life\u2014are in that transitional stage between order and chaos.\n\nEdward and Carolyn were not coming home for Easter this year, having made travel plans with friends, and I suppose Susan and I, like many couples who have discovered their children are gone, were reflecting on a time when the kids were kids and holidays were family affairs.\n\nAs we walked up the drive toward Stanhope Hall, Susan said, \"Do you remember when we opened up the big house and had that Easter egg hunt?\"\n\nI smiled. \"We hid a hundred eggs for twenty kids, and only eighty eggs were found. There are still twenty eggs rotting in there somewhere.\"\n\nSusan laughed. \"And we lost a kid, too. Jamie Lerner. He was screaming from the north wing for half an hour before we found him.\"\n\n\"Did we find him? I thought he was still in there, living on Easter eggs.\"\n\nWe walked past the great house, hand in hand, onto the back lawn, and sat in the old gazebo. Neither of us spoke for a while, then Susan said, \"Where do the years go?\"\n\nI shrugged.\n\n\"Is anything wrong?'' she asked.\n\nThis question is fraught with all types of danger when a spouse asks it. I replied, \"No,'' which in husband talk means yes.\n\n\"Another woman?\"\n\n\"No,'' which in the right tone of voice means no, no, no.\n\n\"Then _what_?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nShe remarked, \"You've been very distant.\"\n\nSusan is sometimes so distant I have to dial an area code to get through to her. But people like that don't appreciate it when it's reversed. I replied with a stock husband phrase: \"It's nothing to do with you.\"\n\nSome wives would be relieved to hear that, even if it weren't true, but Susan didn't seem about to break into a grin and throw her arms around me. Instead, she said, \"Judy Remsen tells me that you told Lester you wanted to sail around the world.\"\n\nIf Lester were there, I would have punched him in the nose. I said sarcastically, \"Is that what Judy Remsen told you that I told Lester?\"\n\n\"Yes. Do you want to sail around the world?\"\n\n\"It sounded like a good idea at the time. I was drunk.'' Which sounded lame, so in the spirit of truth, I added, \"But I have considered it.\"\n\n\"Am I included in those plans?\"\n\nSusan sometimes surprises me with little flashes of insecurity. If I were a more manipulative man, I would promote this insecurity as a means of keeping her attention, if not her affection. I know she does it to me. I asked, \"Would you consider living in our East Hampton house?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because I like it here.\"\n\n\"You like East Hampton,'' I pointed out.\n\n\"It's a nice place to spend part of the summer.\"\n\n\"Why don't we sail around the world?\"\n\n\"Why don't _you_ sail around the world?\"\n\n\"Good question.'' Bitchy, but good. Time to promote insecurity. \"I may do that.\"\n\nSusan stood. \"Better yet, John, why don't you ask yourself what you're running from?\"\n\n\"Don't get analytical on me, Susan.\"\n\n\"Then let me tell you what's bothering you. Your children aren't home for Easter, your wife is a bitch, your friends are idiots, your job is boring, you dislike my father, you hate Stanhope Hall, the Allards are getting on your nerves, you're not rich enough to control events and not poor enough to stop trying. Should I go on?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"You're alienated from your parents or vice versa, you've had one too many dinners at the club, attractive young women don't take your flirting seriously anymore, life is without challenge, maybe without meaning, and possibly without hope. And nothing is certain but death and taxes. Well, welcome to American upper-middle-class middle age, John Sutter.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\n\"Oh, and lest I forget, a Mafia don has just moved in next door.\"\n\n\"That might be the only bright spot in the picture.\"\n\n\"It might well be.\"\n\nSusan and I looked at each other, but neither of us explained what we meant by that last exchange. I stood. \"I feel better now.\"\n\n\"Good. You just needed a mental enema.\"\n\nI smiled. Actually, I did feel better, maybe because I was happy to discover that Susan and I were still in touch.\n\nSusan threw her arm around my shoulders, which I find very tomboyish, yet somehow more intimate than an embrace. She said, \"I wish it _were_ another woman. I could take care of that damned quickly.\"\n\nI smiled. \" _Some_ attractive young women take me seriously.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm sure of that.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\nWe left the gazebo and walked on a path that led into a treed hollow that lay south of the mansion. I said, \"You're not always a bitch. And I don't dislike your father. I hate his guts.\"\n\n\"Good for you. He feels the same way about you.\"\n\n\"Excellent.\"\n\nWe continued our walk into the wooded hollow, Susan's arm still thrown over my shoulders. I'm not usually into self-pity or self-analysis, but sometimes you have to stop and think about things. Not only for yourself, but also so you don't hurt other people.\n\nI said, \"By the way, the Bishop stopped by last Saturday. George told him I wasn't receiving.\"\n\n\"George said that to Bishop Eberly?\"\n\n\"No, to Bishop Frank.\"\n\n\"Oh. . . .'' She laughed. \" _That_ Bishop.'' She thought a moment. \"He'll be back.\"\n\n\"You think so?'' I added, \"I wonder what he wanted.\"\n\nSusan replied, \"You'll find out.\"\n\n\"Don't sound so ominous, Susan. I think he just wants to be a friendly neighbor.\"\n\n\"For your information, I've called the Eltons and the DePauws, and they haven't heard from him or seen him.\"\n\nThe Eltons own Windham, the estate that borders Alhambra to the north, and the DePauws have a big colonial and ten acres, not actually an estate, directly across from Alhambra's gates. I said, \"Then it appears as if Mr. Bellarosa has singled us out for neighborly attention.\"\n\n\"Well, you met him. Maybe you said something encouraging.\"\n\n\"Hardly.'' And I still wondered how he knew who I was and what I looked like. That was upsetting.\n\nWe came out of the trees at a place where there was a small footpath, paved with moss-covered stone. I steered Susan toward the path and felt her resist for a moment, then yield. We walked up the stone path, which was covered by an old rose trellis, and at the end of the path was the charred ruin of the gingerbread playhouse. The remaining beams and rafters supported climbing ivy that had crept up from the stone fireplace chimney. The fireplace itself was intact with a mantel and a large black kettle still hanging from a wrought-iron arm. In true fairy-tale fashion, there was, and had been as I recalled before the fire, something sinister about the cute little cottage.\n\nSusan asked, \"Why did you want to walk here?\"\n\n\"I thought since you were analyzing _my_ head, _I'd_ like to know why you never come here.\"\n\n\"How do you know I don't?\"\n\n\"Because I've never seen you walk here, and I've never seen a hoofprint near this place.\"\n\n\"It's sad to see it this way.\"\n\n\"But we never came here _before_ the fire, never played our games here.\"\n\nShe didn't reply.\n\n\"I suppose I can understand not wanting to have sex in a playhouse with childhood memories.\"\n\nSusan said nothing.\n\nI walked up to what had been the front door, but Susan didn't follow. I could make out a flower box that had fallen from a window ledge, pieces of stained glass and melted lead, and the burned skeleton of a bed and mattress that had fallen through from the second floor. I asked, \"Well, are the memories good or bad?\"\n\n\"Both.\"\n\n\"Tell me the good ones.\"\n\nShe took a few steps toward the house, knelt, and picked up a shard of pottery. She said, \"I had sleepovers here in the summer. A dozen girls, up all night, giggling, laughing, singing, and deliciously terrified at every noise outside.\"\n\nI smiled.\n\nShe approached the house and surveyed the blackened timbers, which still emitted an odor ten years after the fire. \"Lots of good memories.\"\n\n\"I'm glad. Let's go.'' I took her arm.\n\n\"Do you want to know about the bad things?\"\n\n\"Not really.\"\n\n\"The servants used to come here sometimes and have parties. And sex.'' She added, \"I realized it was sex when I was about thirteen. They used to lock the door. I wouldn't sleep in that bed again.\"\n\nI didn't respond.\n\n\"I mean, it was _my_ house. A place that I thought belonged to me.\"\n\n\"I understand.\"\n\n\"And . . . one day . . . I was about fifteen, I came here and the door wasn't locked and I went inside and up the stairs to get something I'd left in the bedroom . . . and this couple was lying there, naked, asleep . . .'' She glanced at me. \"I guess I was traumatized.'' She forced a smile. \"Today, I don't know if a fifteen-year-old girl would be traumatized by that. I mean, how could they be? You see naked people on TV doing it.\"\n\n\"True.'' But I couldn't believe that still bothered her. There was more to it, and I sensed she was going to tell me what it was.\n\nShe stayed silent awhile before saying, \"My mother used to come here with someone.\"\n\n\"I see.'' I wondered if it was her mother that she'd seen in bed, and with whom.\n\nShe walked across the littered floorboards and stopped beside the burned bed. \"And I lost my virginity here.\"\n\nI didn't respond.\n\nShe turned toward me and smiled sadly. \"Some playhouse.\"\n\n\"Let's go.\"\n\nShe walked past me, onto the path between the rose bushes. I came up beside her. I said, \"Was it you who burned the place down?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nI didn't know what to say, so I said, \"Sorry.\"\n\n\"It's all right.\"\n\nI put my arm around her and said in a lighter tone, \"Did I ever tell you about that Good Friday when I was a kid and the sky suddenly darkened?\"\n\n\"Several times. Tell me how you lost your virginity.\"\n\n\"I told you.\"\n\n\"You told me three different versions. I'll bet I was your first lay.\"\n\n\"Maybe. But not my last.\"\n\nShe punched me in the ribs. \"Wise guy.\"\n\nWe walked in silence back through the hollow, and when I ran my fingers over her cheek, I discovered she was crying.\n\n\"Everything's going to be all right,'' I assured her.\n\n\"I'm too old for fairy tales,'' she informed me.\n\nAt Susan's suggestion we turned toward the plum orchard, the so-called sacred grove, and made our way toward the Roman love temple. More than half the plum trees were dead or dying, and each spring there were fewer blossoms, but still, the air was perfumed with their scent.\n\nWe came into the clearing where the round marble temple stood, and without speaking we mounted the steps and I swung open the big brass door.\n\nThe sun was low on the horizon and shone in on a slant through the opening in the domed roof, illuminating a section of the erotic carvings on the lintels. Susan walked across the marble floor and stood before the naked statues of Venus and the big Roman male. The statues of pink marble were seated side by side on an uncarved slab of black stone, and though they were in a partial embrace, about to kiss, the view from the waist down was of full frontal nudity. The man had forgotten his fig leaf, and his penis was in an excited state. As I said, this was all pretty risqu\u00e9 for 1906, and even today an erect penis in art is considered by some to be pornographic.\n\nAnyway, it is possible for a woman to sit in the lap of this virile male and achieve penetration. In fact, in Roman times during the Saturnalia festival, virgins actually deflowered themselves in this way, using, I believe, the statue of Priapus, whose member is always at the ready.\n\nYou must keep in mind that these statues and this love temple were commissioned by Susan's great-grandfather, Cyrus Stanhope, and I believe that randiness runs in some families. Certainly Susan has inherited an as yet unidentified gene for an overactive libido from both sides of her family, who, by most accounts, couldn't seem to keep their pants up or their skirts down.\n\nI told you, too, that Susan and I engage in some interesting sexual practices in this love temple, though not the aforementioned Roman practice of statuary rape, if you'll pardon my pun. I should also tell you that the two statues are slightly larger than life, and consequently the Roman gentleman's equipment is perhaps slightly larger than mine, but not by so much as to make me jealous.\n\nWell, anyway, there we were in this pagan temple on a Good Friday, recently returned from church, and from a moment of truth at the gazebo and an emotional episode at the playhouse. And to be honest, this confluence of events left me with the uncomfortable feeling that this might not be the time or place for romance.\n\nSusan, on the other hand, seemed more sure of what she wanted. She said, \"Make love to me, John.\"\n\nThat request in that form means we are not going to playact, but are going to make love as husband and wife. This also means that Susan is feeling insecure, or perhaps melancholy.\n\nSo I took her in my arms, and we kissed and, still kissing, sat on the wide ledge at the base of the statues in unconscious imitation of their pose. We kicked off our shoes and, still kissing, removed our clothes, helping each other undress until we were naked. I lay down on my back on the cool marble, and Susan straddled me with her knees, then rose up and came down on me. She worked her pelvis up and down and rocked back and forth, her eyes closed, her mouth open, moaning softly.\n\nI reached up and pulled her down to me and kissed her. She straightened her legs and stretched her body out over mine. We embraced and continued to kiss as her hips rose and fell.\n\nSusan's body went tense, then relaxed, and she continued to move her hips until she went rigid again, then went limp again. She did this three or four times until her breathing began to sound labored, but she continued on until she had yet another orgasm. She might have gone on until she passed out, which actually happened once, but I let myself come, and this brought on her final climax.\n\nShe lay with her head buried in my chest, her long red hair draped over my shoulders. I heard her whisper between deep breaths, \"Thank you, John.\"\n\nIt was pleasant lying there, Susan on top of me, our groins all warm and wet. I played with her hair, rubbed her back and buttocks, and we rubbed our feet together.\n\nI could see from the open dome that the sunlight was fading outside, and in fact the temple was darker now. But directly above me I could see the marble statues still locked in their eternal embrace, and from this perspective, their expressions and their whole demeanor looked more lustful and heated, as if their nine decades of frustration were about to explode into an act of sexual frenzy.\n\nWe must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, it was dark in the temple and I was cold. Susan stirred, and I felt her warm lips on my neck.\n\nI said, \"That's nice.\"\n\n\"Feel better?\"\n\n\"Yes,'' I replied. \"You?\"\n\n\"Yes.'' She added, \"I love you, John.\"\n\n\"I love you.\"\n\nShe got to her feet and said, \"Stand up.\"\n\nI stood and Susan took my shirt, put it on me and buttoned it, then put my tie on and tied it. Next came my shorts and my socks, then my trousers. She buckled my belt and zipped my fly. Having a woman undress me is very erotic, but only Susan has ever dressed me after sex and I find it a very loving and tender act. She put my shoes on and tied them, then brushed off my jacket and helped me into it. \"There,'' she said as she straightened my hair, \"you look like you just left church.\"\n\n\"Except my groin is sticky.\"\n\nShe smiled, and I looked at her standing in front of me stark naked. I said, \"Thank you.\"\n\n\"My pleasure.\"\n\nI tried to dress her, but I got the panties on backward and was having trouble with the bra fasteners. Susan said, \"John, you used to undress me in the dark with one hand.\"\n\n\"This is different.\"\n\nWe finally got Susan into her clothes and walked hand in hand back to the house in the dark. I said to her, \"You're right, you know. I mean your perceptive analysis of how I feel. I don't want to feel bored or restless, but I do.\"\n\n\"Maybe,'' she replied, \"you need a challenge. Perhaps I can think of something to challenge you.\"\n\n\"Good idea,'' I said, which turned out to be the stupidest thing I ever said.\n\n**_Nine_**\n\nI skipped church on Holy Saturday, having had enough of the Reverend Mr. Hunnings and the Allards. Susan played hooky, too, and spent the morning cleaning her stables with two college boys home on vacation. I don't do stables, but I did stop by with a cooler of soft drinks. As I pulled the Bronco up to the stable, I was struck by the awful smell of horse manure and the sounds of laughter and groans.\n\nZanzibar and Yankee were tethered to a post outside, under the huge, spreading chestnut tree, nibbling grass and oblivious to the humans slaving on their behalf. I think horses should clean their own stables. I used to like horses. Now I hate them. I'm jealous.\n\nOn the same subject, Susan, who can be cold as Freon to men her own age who show an interest in her, is very friendly to young men. This I'm sure is partly maternal, as she is old enough to be the mother of college-age children and in fact is. It's the part that is not maternal that annoys me. Anyway, they all seemed to be having a grand time in there shoveling shit.\n\nI pulled the cooler out of the rear of the Bronco and set it down on a stone bench.\n\nA pile of manure had risen on the cobbled service court in front of the stable, and this would find its way to the rose garden behind our house. Maybe that's why I don't stop and smell the roses.\n\nI opened a bottle of apple juice and drank, my foot propped on the bench, trying to strike a real-man pose in case anybody came out of the stable. If I had tobacco and paper I would have rolled one. I waited, but the only thing coming out of the stable was laughter.\n\nI surveyed the long, two-story stable complex. The stables are built of brick with slate roofs in an English country style, more matching the guesthouse than the main house. I suppose there's no such thing as beaux-arts stables with Roman columns. The stables had been built at the same time as the house, when horses were a more reliable and dignified means of transportation than automobiles. There were thirty stalls for the riding horses, the carriage horses, and the draft horses, and a large carriage house that probably held two dozen horsedrawn conveyances, including sleds and estate equipment. The second story was part haymow and part living quarters for the forty or so men needed to maintain the animals, buildings, tack, and carriages. The carriage house had become the garage by the 1920s, and the coachmen, grooms, and such had become chauffeurs and mechanics.\n\nSusan and I sometimes use the garage for the Jag, and George always parks his Lincoln there, as he is of the generation that believes in taking care of possessions. The gatehouse, guesthouse, and main house were built without garages, of course, because if one needed one's horse, carriage, or automobile, one just buzzed the carriage house. I have a buzzer marked CARRIAGE HOUSE in my kitchen, and I keep pushing it, but no one comes.\n\nAnyway, the stables are on Stanhope land, which presents a problem if the land is sold. The obvious solution to this is to construct a smaller wooden stable on Susan's property. I mean, we don't live in the great house; why should the horses live in the great stable? But Susan fears emotional trauma to her animals if they are forced to step down in life, so she wants at least part of the original stable moved, brick by brick, slate by slate, and cobble by cobble to her land. She wants this done soon, before the tax people start identifying assets. Her father has graciously given his permission to move all or part of the structure to her ten acres, and Susan has picked a nice tree-shaded patch of land with a pond for her precious horsies. All that remains to be done is to engage the Herculean Task Stable Moving Company and a hundred slaves to complete the job. Susan says she'll split the cost with me. I have to look at that prenuptial agreement again.\n\nI finished my apple juice and hooked my thumb in my belt, waiting for somebody to push a wheelbarrow full of feces out the door. I found a piece of straw and stuck it between my teeth.\n\nAfter a minute or so in this pose, I decided to stop being silly and just go in. But as I walked toward the main doors, a puff of hay flew out of the loft overhead and landed on me. It sounded as if they were having a hay fight. Good clean American fun. Pissed off beyond belief, I spun around, got into the Bronco, and slammed it into gear, making a tight U-turn in front of the main doors. I could hear Susan calling after me from the open loft as I drove right through the pile of manure in four-wheel drive.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThat afternoon, after a rational discussion regarding my childishness, we put on our tennis whites and walked down to the courts to keep a tennis date. It was warm for April, and after a few volleys while we waited for the other couple, Susan took off her sweater and warm-up pants. I have to tell you, the woman looks exquisite in tennis clothes, and when she fishes around in her panties for the second ball, the men on the court lose their concentration for a minute or two.\n\nAnyway, we volleyed for another ten minutes, and I was blasting balls all over the place, and Susan was telling me not to be hostile. Finally, she said, \"Look, John, don't blow this match. Calm down.\"\n\n\"I'm calm.\"\n\n\"If we win, I'll grant you any sexual favor you wish.\"\n\n\"How about a roll in the hay?\"\n\nShe laughed. \"You got it.\"\n\nWe volleyed a bit longer, and I guess I did calm down a bit, because I was keeping the balls in the court. I was not, however, a happy man. It's often little things, like Susan's horsing around in the hay, that sets you off on a course that can be vengeful and destructive.\n\nAnyway, our tennis partners, Jim and Sally Roosevelt, showed up. Jim is one of the Oyster Bay Roosevelts still living in the area. Roosevelts, Morgans, Vanderbilts, and such are sort of a local natural resource, self-renewable like pheasant and nearly as scarce. To have a Roosevelt or a pheasant on your property is an occasion of some pride; to have one or the other for dinner is, respectively, a social or culinary coup. Actually, Jim is just a regular guy with a famous name and a trust fund. More important, I can beat his pants off in tennis. Incidentally, we don't pronounce _Roosevelt_ the way you've heard it pronounced all your life. Around here, we say _Roozvelt_ , teeth clenched lockjaw style, two syllables, rhymes with \"Lou's belt.'' Okay?\n\nSally Roosevelt was n\u00e9e Sally Grace, of the ocean liner Graces, and Grace Lane, coincidentally, was named after that family, not after a woman. However, I'm certain that nearly all of Grace Lane's residents think their road is named after the spiritual state of grace in which they believe they exist. Aside from being a Grace, Sally is not bad to look at, and to get even for the hayloft incident, I flirted with her between sets. But neither she nor Susan, nor Jim for that matter, seemed to care. My shots started to get wilder. I was losing it.\n\nAt about six P.M., in the middle of a game, I noticed a black, shiny Cadillac Eldorado moving up the main drive. The car slowed opposite the tennis courts, which are partially hidden by evergreens. The car stopped, and Frank Bellarosa got out and walked toward the courts.\n\nJim said unnecessarily, \"I think someone is looking for you.\"\n\nI excused myself, put down my racket, and left the court. I intercepted Mr. Bellarosa on the path about thirty yards from the court.\n\n\"Hello, Mr. Sutter. Did I interrupt your tennis game?\"\n\n\"You sure did, greaseball. What do you want?'' No, I didn't actually say that. I said, \"That's all right.\"\n\nHe extended his hand, which I took. We shook briefly without playing crush the cartilage. Frank Bellarosa informed me, \"I don't play tennis.\"\n\n\"Neither do I,'' I replied.\n\nHe laughed. I like a man who appreciates my humor, but in this case I was willing to make an exception.\n\nBellarosa was dressed in gray slacks and a blue blazer, which is good Saturday uniform around here, and I was quite honestly surprised. But he also had on horrible white, shiny shoes, and his belt was too narrow. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, which is okay, but not tr\u00e8s chic anymore. There were no pinky rings or other garish jewelry, no chains or sparkly things, but he did have on a Rolex Oyster, which I, at least, find in questionable taste. I noticed this time that he had on a wedding ring.\n\n\"It's a nice day,'' said Mr. Bellarosa with genuine delight.\n\nI could tell the man was having a better day than I was. I'll bet Mrs. Bellarosa hadn't spent the morning thrashing around in the hayloft with two young studs. \"Unusually warm for this time of year,'' I agreed.\n\n\"Some place you got here,'' he said.\n\n\"Thank you,'' I replied.\n\n\"You been here long?\"\n\n\"Three hundred years.\"\n\n\"What's that?\"\n\n\"I mean my family. But my wife's family built this place in 1906.\"\n\n\"No kidding?\"\n\n\"You can look it up.\"\n\n\"Yeah.'' He looked around. \"Some place.\"\n\nI regarded Mr. Frank Bellarosa a moment. He was not the short, squat froggy type you sometimes associate with a stereotypical Mafia don. Rather, he had a powerful build, as if he lifted dead bodies encased in concrete, and his face had sharp features, dark skin, deep-set eyes, and a hooked Roman nose. His hair was blue-black, wavy, well-styled, gray at the temples, and all there. He was a few inches shorter than I, but I'm six feet, so he was about average height. I'd say he was about fifty years old, though I could look it up somewhere\u2014court records, for instance.\n\nHe had a soft smile that seemed incongruous with his hard eyes and with his violent history. Except for that smile, there was nothing in his looks or manner that suggested a bishop. I didn't think the guy was particularly good-looking, but my instincts told me that some women might find him attractive.\n\nFrank Bellarosa turned his attention back to me. \"Your guy\u2014what's his name . . . ?\"\n\n\"George.\"\n\n\"Yeah. He said you were playing tennis, but I could go on in and see if you were done. But that I shouldn't interrupt your game.\"\n\nMr. Bellarosa's tone told me he wasn't happy with George.\n\nI replied, \"That's all right.'' George, of course, knew who this man was, though we never discussed our new neighbor. George is the keeper of the gate and the keeper of the long-dead etiquettes, and if you were a lady or a gentleman, you were welcome to pass through the main gates. If you were a tradesman on business or an invited killer, you should use the service entrance down the road. I thought I should tell George to lighten up on Mr. Bellarosa. I asked, \"What can I do for you?\"\n\n\"Nothing. Just wanted to say hello.\"\n\n\"That's good of you. Actually it was I who should have paid a call on you.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah? Why?\"\n\n\"Well . . . that's the way it's done.\"\n\n\"Yeah? No one's stopped by yet.\"\n\n\"Now that's odd. Perhaps no one is sure you're there.'' This conversation was getting weird, so I said, \"Well, thanks for coming by. And welcome to Lattingtown.\"\n\n\"Thanks. Hey, you got a minute? I got something for you. Come on.'' He turned and motioned me to follow. I glanced back at the tennis court, then followed.\n\nBellarosa stopped at his Cadillac and opened the trunk. I expected to see George's body, but instead Bellarosa took out a flat of seedlings and handed them to me. \"Here. I bought too much. You really don't have a vegetable garden?\"\n\n\"No.'' I looked at the plastic tray. \"I guess I do now.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Yeah. I gave you a few of everything. I left these little signs on so you know what they are. Vegetables need good sun. I don't know about the soil around here. What kind of soil you got here?\"\n\n\"Well . . . slightly acid, some clay, but good loamy topsoil, glacial outwash\u2014\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Glacial . . . silty, pebbly in places\u2014\"\n\n\"All I see around here is trees, bushes, and flowers. Try these vegetables. You'll thank me in August.\"\n\n\"I thank you in April.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Put that down. Not on the car.\"\n\nI put the tray down on the ground.\n\nBellarosa pulled a clear plastic bag from the trunk, inside of which was a mass of purplish leaves.\n\n\"Here,'' he said. \"This is radicchio. You know? Like lettuce.\"\n\nI took the bag and examined the ragged leaves with polite interest. \"Very nice.\"\n\n\"I grew it.\"\n\n\"You must have warmer weather over there.\"\n\nBellarosa laughed. \"No, I grew it inside. You know, my place has this room\u2014like a greenhouse . . . the real estate lady said it . . .\"\n\n\"A conservatory.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Like a greenhouse, except it's part of the house. So I got that fixed up first thing in January. Every pane was broken, and the gas heater was gone. Cost me twenty thousand bucks, but I'm getting onions and lettuce already.\"\n\n\"Very expensive onions and lettuce,'' I observed.\n\n\"Yeah. But what the hell.\"\n\nI should tell you that Bellarosa's accent was definitely not Locust Valley, but neither was it pure Brooklyn. Accents being important around here, I've developed an ear for them, as have most people I know. I can usually tell which of the city's five boroughs a person is from, or which of the surrounding suburban counties. I can sometimes tell which prep school a person has gone to, or if he's gone to Yale as I have. Frank Bellarosa did not go to Yale, but occasionally there was something odd, almost prep school, in his accent if not his choice of words. But mostly I could hear the streets of Brooklyn in his voice.\n\nAgainst my better judgment, I asked, \"Where did you live before Lattingtown?\"\n\n\"Where? Oh, Williamsburg.'' He looked at me. \"That's in Brooklyn. You know Brooklyn?\"\n\n\"Not very well.\"\n\n\"Great place. Used to be a great place. Too many . . . foreigners now. I grew up in Williamsburg. My whole family is from there. My grandfather lived on Havemeyer Street when he came over.\"\n\nI assumed Mr. Bellarosa's grandfather came over from a foreign country, undoubtedly Italy, and I'm sure the old Germans and Irish of Williamsburg did not welcome him with hugs and schnitzels. When this continent was inhabited by Indians, the first Europeans had only to kill them to make room for themselves. The succeeding waves of immigrants had it a little rougher; they had to buy or rent. I didn't think Mr. Bellarosa was interested in any of these ironies, so I said, \"Well, I do hope you find Long Island to your liking.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I know Long Island. I went to boarding school out here.\"\n\nHe didn't offer any more, so I didn't press it, though I wondered what boarding school Frank Bellarosa could possibly have attended. I thought that might be his way of saying reform school. I said, \"Thanks again for the lettuce.\"\n\n\"Eat it quick. Just picked. A little oil and vinegar.\"\n\nI wondered if the horses would like it without oil and vinegar. \"Sure will. Well\u2014\"\n\n\"That your daughter?\"\n\nBellarosa was looking over my shoulder, and I glanced back and saw Susan coming down the path. I turned back to Bellarosa. \"My wife.\"\n\n\"Yeah?'' He watched Susan approaching. \"I saw her riding a horse one day on my property.\"\n\n\"She sometimes rides horses.\"\n\nHe looked at me. \"Hey, if she wants to ride around my place, it's okay. She probably rode there before I bought the place. I don't want any hard feelings. I got a couple hundred acres, and the horse shit is good for the soil. Right?\"\n\n\"It's excellent for roses.\"\n\nSusan walked directly up to Frank Bellarosa and extended her hand. \"I'm Susan Sutter. You must be our new neighbor.\"\n\nBellarosa hesitated a moment before taking her hand, and I guessed that men in his world did not shake hands with women. He said, \"Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Bellarosa. John told me he met you at the nursery a few weeks ago.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\nBellarosa maintained good eye contact, though I did see his eyes drop to Susan's legs for half a second. I wasn't altogether pleased that Susan hadn't put on her warm-up pants and that she was presenting herself to a total stranger in a tennis skirt that barely covered her crotch.\n\nSusan said to Bellarosa, \"You must forgive us for not calling on you, but we weren't certain if you were settled in and receiving.\"\n\nBellarosa seemed to ponder this a moment. This receiving business must have been giving him problems. Susan, I should point out, slips into her Lady Stanhope role when she wants to cause certain people to be uncomfortable. I don't know if this is defensive or offensive.\n\nBellarosa did not seem uncomfortable, though he seemed a little more tentative with Susan than he had been with me. Maybe Susan's legs were distracting him. He said to her, \"I was just telling your husband I saw you riding a horse on my place once or twice. No problem.\"\n\nI thought he was about to mention the scatological side benefits to himself, but he just smiled at me. I did not return the smile. This was indeed a horse shit day, I thought.\n\nSusan said to Mr. Bellarosa, \"That's very good of you. I should point out, however, that it is local custom here to allow for equestrian right of way. You may mark specific bridle paths if you wish. However, if the hunt is ever reinstated, the horses will follow the dogs, who are, in turn, following the scent. You'll be notified.\"\n\nFrank Bellarosa looked at Susan for a long moment, and neither of them blinked. Bellarosa then surprised me by saying in a cool tone, \"I guess there's a lot I don't understand yet, Mrs. Sutter.\"\n\nI thought I should change the subject to something he _did_ understand, so I held up the plastic bag. \"Susan, Mr. Bellarosa grew this lettuce\u2014radicchio, it's called\u2014in Alhambra's conservatory.\"\n\nSusan glanced at the bag and turned back to Bellarosa. She said, \"Oh, did you have that repaired? That's very nice.\"\n\n\"Yeah. The place is coming along.\"\n\n\"And these seedlings . . . ,'' I added, indicating the tray on the ground, \"vegetables for our garden.\"\n\n\"That's thoughtful of you,'' Susan said.\n\nBellarosa smiled at Susan. \"Your husband told me you eat flowers.\"\n\n\"No, sir, I eat thorns. Thank you for stopping by.\"\n\nBellarosa ignored the implied brush-off and turned to me. \"What's your place called? It's got a name, right?\"\n\n\"Yes,'' I replied. \"Stanhope Hall.\"\n\n\"What's that mean?\"\n\n\"Well . . . it's named after Susan's great-grandfather, Cyrus Stanhope. He built it.\"\n\n\"Yeah. You said that. Am I supposed to name my place?\"\n\n\"It has a name,'' I said.\n\n\"Yeah, I know that. The real estate lady told me. Alhambra. That's how I get my mail. There's no house number. You believe that? But should I give the place a new name or what?\"\n\nSusan replied, \"You may, if you wish. Some people do. Others keep the original name. Do you have a name in mind?\"\n\nFrank Bellarosa thought a moment, then shook his head. \"Nah. Alhambra's okay for now. Sounds Spanish though. I'll think about it.\"\n\n\"If we can be of any help with a name,'' Susan said, \"do let us know.\"\n\n\"Thanks. You think I should put up a sign with the name of the place? I see signs on some of the places. You guys don't have a sign.\"\n\n\"It's entirely up to you,'' I assured our new neighbor. \"But if you change the name, notify the post office.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Sure.\"\n\nSusan added\u2014baitingly, I thought, \"Some people just put their own names out front. But others, especially if they have well-known names, don't.\"\n\nBellarosa looked at her and smiled. He said, \"I don't think it would be a good idea to put my name out front, do you, Mrs. Sutter?\"\n\n\"No, I don't, Mr. Bellarosa.\"\n\nNow _I_ was getting uncomfortable. \"Well,'' I said, \"we'd better get back to our guests.\"\n\nBellarosa hesitated a moment, then said, \"I'm having a little Easter thing tomorrow. Some friends, a little family. Nothing fancy. Traditional Italian Easter foods.'' He smiled. \"I went to Brooklyn to get _capozella._ Lamb's head. But we got the rest of the lamb, too. About two o'clock. Okay?\"\n\nI wasn't sure I'd heard him right about the lamb's head. I replied, \"I'm afraid we've got another Easter thing to go to.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Well, see if you can drop by for ten minutes and I'll show you the place. Have a drink. Okay?'' He looked at Susan.\n\nShe replied, \"We will certainly try to join you. But if we can't, have a very joyous and blessed Easter.\"\n\n\"Thanks.'' Bellarosa shut the trunk and went to his car door. \"You mind if I drive around a little?\"\n\nSusan said, \"Not at all. That's a rather long car to try to turn on this lane, so go on up to the main house and turn in the circle.\"\n\nI knew if I wanted to annoy Susan I should tell Mr. Bellarosa that the old homestead was up for sale, but I figured we had enough to talk about for one day.\n\nBellarosa looked at us over the top of his car, and we looked back. It was a contest, or maybe the first skirmish in the clash of cultures, I thought. Susan and I were both raised never to be rude to social inferiors unless they presented themselves to you as equals. Then you could massacre them. But Mr. Frank Bellarosa was not trying to put on any airs or ask for honorary gentry status. He was what he was and he didn't care enough about us to pretend he was something else.\n\nI was reminded of my first impression of him, of a conqueror, curious about the effete society he had just trampled, maybe a little amused by the inhabitants, and certainly monumentally unimpressed by a culture that couldn't defend itself against people like Frank Bellarosa. This, I would learn later, was an accurate first impression and was, as I discovered from the man himself, part of the Italian psyche. But at that moment, I was just glad he was leaving. I knew, of course, I would see him again, if not to eat lamb's head together on Easter, then some other time in the near future. But I did not know, nor could I have possibly guessed, to what extent we three would bring ruin and disaster on one another.\n\nBellarosa smiled at us, and I was struck again by that gentle mouth. He said bluntly, \"I'm going to be a good neighbor. Don't worry. We'll get along.'' He ducked into his car and drove off up the sun-dappled lane.\n\nI handed Susan the bag of lettuce. \"Oil and vinegar.'' I added, \"You were a bit snooty.\"\n\n\"Me? How about you?'' She asked, \"Well, do you want to drop by for a quick lamb's ear or something?\"\n\n\"I think not.\"\n\nShe stayed silent a moment, then said, \"It just might be interesting.\"\n\nI said, \"Susan, you're strange.\"\n\nShe replied in a husky voice, \"Yeah? Ya think so?'' She laughed and turned back toward the tennis courts. I left the tray of seedlings on the ground and followed. \"Do you think I should plant vegetables this year?\"\n\n\"You'd better.'' She laughed again. \"This is bizarre.\"\n\nThe word was _scary_ , not _bizarre_ , and we both knew that. Not scary in the physical sense perhaps; we weren't going to get rubbed out for not showing up at Bellarosa's house or not planting his seedlings or even for being a little curt with him. But scary in the sense that the man had the power to have people who annoyed him rubbed out. And despite Susan's aloofness and what I hoped was my cool indifference toward the man, you did not deal with Frank the Bishop Bellarosa in the same way you dealt with the Remsens, the Eltons, or the DePauws. And the reason for that was not too subtle: Frank Bellarosa was a killer.\n\nSusan said, \"Maybe 'Casa Bellarosa.'\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"His place. Maybe I'll get a nice sign made as a housewarming gift. Something in mother-of-pearl. Casa Bellarosa.\"\n\nI didn't reply to what I thought was nearly an ethnic slur.\n\nSusan pulled a leaf of radicchio from the plastic bag and munched on it. \"A little bitter. It does need some oil or something. But very fresh. Want some?\"\n\n\"No, thank you.\"\n\n\"Should we have introduced Mr. Bellarosa to the Roosevelts? You know, like, 'Jim and Sally, may I present our newest friend and neighbor, Frank the Bishop Bellarosa?' Or would one say 'don Bellarosa,' to impress the Roosevelts?\"\n\n\"Don't be inane.'' I asked Susan, \"What did you think of him?\"\n\nShe replied without hesitation, \"He has a certain primitive charm and a self-assurance even in the face of my well-bred arrogance.'' She paused, then said, \"He's rather better looking than I'd imagined.\"\n\n\"I don't think he's good-looking.'' I added, \"And he dresses funny.\"\n\n\"So do half the tweedbags around here.\"\n\nWe walked back onto the court, where Jim and Sally were volleying. I said, \"Sorry.'' You should know that interrupting a tennis game for anything short of a death on the court is in bad taste.\n\nJim responded, \"Susan said that might be your new neighbor.\"\n\n\"It was.'' I picked up my racquet and took the court. \"Where were we?\"\n\nSally asked, \"Frank Bellarosa?\"\n\n\"I think it was my serve,'' I said.\n\nSusan said to Sally, \"We just call him Bishop.\"\n\nThree of us thought that was funny. I repeated, \"My serve, two\u2013love.\"\n\nSusan showed the Roosevelts the bag of radicchio and they all examined it as though it were Martian plant life or something.\n\n\"It's getting dark,'' I said.\n\n\"What did he want?'' Jim asked Susan.\n\nSusan answered, \"He wants us to eat this and plant a vegetable garden.\"\n\nSally giggled.\n\nSusan continued, \"And he wants to know if he's supposed to put a sign out front that says Alhambra. And,'' Susan added, \"he invited us over for Easter dinner.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!'' Sally squealed.\n\n\"Lamb's head!'' Susan exclaimed.\n\n\"Oh, for God's sake,'' I said. I've never seen a game delayed for conversation on the court except once at the Southampton Tennis Club when a jealous husband tried to brain the pro with his Dunlop Blue Max, but everyone got back to business as soon as the husband and the pro disappeared around the clubhouse. I said, \"My muscles are tightening. That's the game.'' I gathered my things and walked off the court. The other three followed, still talking, and I led the way back to the house.\n\nIt was still warm enough to sit in the garden, and Susan brought out a bottle of old port. For hors d'oeuvres there was cheese and crackers, garnished with radicchio, which even I found amusing.\n\nI drank and watched the sun go down, smelled the fresh horse manure in the rose garden, and tried to listen to the birds, but Susan, Sally, and Jim were chattering on about Frank Bellarosa, and I heard Susan using the words \"deliciously sinister,'' \"interestingly primitive,'' and even \"intriguing.'' The man is about as intriguing as a barrel of cement. But women see different things in men than men see in men. Sally was certainly intrigued by Susan's descriptions. Jim, too, seemed absorbed in the subject.\n\nIf you're interested in the pecking order on my terrace, the Stanhope and the Grace sitting across from me are considered old money by most American standards, because there wasn't much American capital around until only about a hundred years ago. But the Roosevelt sitting beside me would think of the Graces and Stanhopes as new money and too much of it. The Roosevelts were never filthy rich, but they go back to the beginning of the New World and they have a respected name and are associated with public service to their country in war and peace, unlike at least one Stanhope I could name.\n\nI told you about the Sutters, but you should know that my mother is a Whitman, a descendant of Long Island's most illustrious poet, Walt Whitman. Thus, in the pecking order, Jim and I are peers, and our wives, while rich, pretty, and thin, are a step down the social ladder. Get it? It doesn't matter. What matters now is where Frank Bellarosa fits.\n\nAs I listened to Susan and the Roosevelts talk, I realized they had a different slant on Frank Bellarosa than I did. I was concerned about Mr. Bellarosa's legal transgressions against society, such as murder, racketeering, extortion, and little things like that. But Susan, Sally, and even Jim discussed larger issues such as Mr. Bellarosa's shiny black car, shiny white shoes, and his major crime, which was the purchase of Alhambra. Susan, I think, acts and speaks differently when she's around people like Sally Grace.\n\nI was also struck by the fact that these three found some entertainment value in Mr. Frank Bellarosa. They spoke of him as if he were a gorilla in a cage and they were spectators. I almost envied them their supreme overconfidence, their assurance that they were not part of life's circus, but were ticket holders with box seats opposite the center ring. This aloofness, I knew, was bred into Sally's and Susan's bones from childhood, and with Jim, it just flowed naturally in his blue blood. I suppose I can be aloof, too. But everyone in my family worked, and you can only be so aloof when you have to earn a living.\n\nListening to Susan, I wanted to remind her that she and I were not ticket holders at this particular event; we were part of the entertainment, we were inside the cage with the gorilla, and the thrills and chills were going to be more than vicarious.\n\nAt my suggestion, the subject turned to the boating season. The Roosevelts stayed until eight, then left.\n\nI remarked to Susan, \"I don't see anything amusing or interesting about Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"You have to keep an open mind,'' she said, and poured herself another port.\n\n\"He is a criminal,'' I said tersely.\n\nShe replied just as tersely, \"If you have proof of that, Counselor, you'd better call the DA.\"\n\nWhich reminded me of the underlying problem: If society couldn't get rid of Frank Bellarosa, how was I supposed to do it? This breakdown of the law was sapping everyone's morale\u2014even Susan was commenting on it now, and Lester Remsen was convinced the rules were out the window. I wasn't so sure yet. I said to Susan, \"You know what I'm talking about. Bellarosa is a reputed Mafia don.\"\n\nShe finished her port, let out a deep breath, and said, \"Look, John, it's been a long day, and I'm tired.\"\n\nIndeed it had been a long day, and I, too, felt physically and emotionally drained. I remarked, unwisely, \"Hay fights take a lot out of a person.\"\n\n\"Cut it out.'' She stood and moved toward the house.\n\n\"Did we beat the Roosevelts or not?'' I asked. \"Do I get my sexual favor?\"\n\nShe hesitated. \"Sure. Would you like me to go fuck myself?\"\n\nActually, yes.\n\nShe opened the French door that led into the study. \"I'm certain you recall that we are due at the DePauws at nine for late supper. What one might call an Easter thing. Please be ready on time.'' Susan went into the house.\n\nI poured myself another port. No, I did not recall. What was more, I didn't give a damn. It occurred to me that if certain people found Frank Bellarosa not bad looking, \"deliciously sinister,'' \"interestingly primitive,'' \"intriguing,'' and worth an hour's conversation, then maybe those same people found me nice and dull and predictable. That, coupled with the hay fight earlier in the afternoon, got me wondering if Susan was getting a bit restless herself.\n\nI stood, took the bottle of port, and walked out of the garden and into the dark. I kept walking until I found myself some time later at the hedge maze. A bit under the influence by now, I stumbled into the maze, whose paths were choked with untrimmed branches. I wandered around until I was sure I was completely lost, then sprawled out on the ground, finished the port, and fell asleep under the stars. Screw the DePauws.\n\n**_Ten_**\n\nI could hear birds singing close by, and I opened my eyes but could see nothing. I sat up quickly in disoriented panic. I saw now that I was engulfed in a mist, and I thought for a moment that I had died and gone to heaven. But then I burped up some port and I knew I was alive, though not well. By stages I recalled where I was and how I'd gotten there. I didn't like any of the recollections, so I pushed them out of my mind.\n\nOverhead, the first streaks of dawn lit up a purple and crimson sky. My head felt awful, I was cold, and my muscles were stiff as cardboard. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. It was Easter Sunday, and John Sutter had indeed risen.\n\nI stood slowly and noticed the bottle of port on the ground and recalled using it as a pillow. I picked it up and took the final swallow from it to freshen my mouth. \"Ugh . . .\"\n\nI brushed off my warm-up suit and zipped the jacket against the chill. Middle-aged men, even those in good shape, should not wallow around on the cold ground all night with a snoot full of booze. It's not healthy or dignified. \"Oh . . . my neck . . .\"\n\nI coughed, stretched, sneezed, and performed other morning functions. Everything seemed to be working except my mind, which couldn't grasp the enormity of what I'd done.\n\nI took a few tentative steps, felt all right, and began pushing aside the branches of the hedge maze. I tried following the trail of footprints and broken twigs of the night before, but tracking is not one of my outdoor skills, and I was soon lost. Actually, I started out lost. Now I was missing in action.\n\nThe sky was getting lighter, and I could make out east from west. The exit from the maze was on the eastern edge of the hedges, and I moved generally that way whenever I could, but I found myself crossing my path again and again. Whoever laid out this labyrinth was some kind of sadistic genius.\n\nA full half hour after I'd begun, I broke out onto the lawn and saw the sun rising above the distant gazebo.\n\nI sat on a stone bench at the entrance to the maze and forced myself to think. Not only had I walked out on Susan and missed a social engagement, but I had also missed sunrise services at St. Mark's, and Susan and the Allards were probably frantic with worry by now. Well, maybe Susan and Ethel were not frantic, but George would be worried and the women, concerned.\n\nI wondered if Susan had bravely gone to the DePauws with regrets from her husband, or had she called the police and stayed by the phone all night? I guess what I was wondering was if anyone cared if I was dead or alive. As I was brooding over this, I heard the sound of hoofs on the damp earth. I looked up to see a horse and rider approaching out of the sun. I stood and squinted into the sunlight.\n\nSusan reined up on Zanzibar about twenty feet from where I stood. Neither Susan nor I spoke, but the stupid horse snorted, and the snort sounded contemptuous, which set me off, illogical as that may seem.\n\nI thought I would be filled with guilt and remorse when I saw Susan, but strangely enough, I still didn't care. I asked, \"Were you looking for me, or just out riding?\"\n\nIt must have been my tone of voice that kept her from a smart-aleck reply. She said, \"I was looking for you.\"\n\n\"Well, now that you've found me, you can leave. I want to be alone.\"\n\n\"All right.'' She began reining Zanzibar around and asked over her shoulder, \"Will you come to eleven-o'clock service with us?\"\n\n\"If I do, I'll drive my own car to church.\"\n\n\"All right. I'll see you later.'' She rode off, and Zanzibar broke wind. If I'd had my shotgun, I would have filled his ass with buckshot.\n\nWell, I thought, that was easy. I felt good. I began walking, loosening my muscles, then I jogged for a while, sucking in the cool morning air. What a beautiful dawn it was, and what a beautiful thing it was to be up with the sun and running through the ground mist, getting high on beta blockers and endorphins or something. I spent an hour cavorting, I guess you'd call it, gamboling about the acreage, with no goal or reason except that it felt good.\n\nI climbed a big linden tree at the rear edge of the property that overlooks The Creek Country Club. What a magnificent view. I stayed in the tree awhile, reliving this exquisite pleasure of childhood. With great reluctance I got down from the tree, then began jogging again. At about what I guessed was nine A.M., I was physically exhausted but as mentally alert as I'd been in a long time. I didn't even have a hangover. I pushed myself toward the line of white pine that separated the Stanhope property from Alhambra, sweat pouring from my body and carrying the toxins out with it.\n\nI ran through Alhambra's overgrown horse pasture, my heart pounding and my legs wanting to buckle and drop me to the earth. But I went on through the cherry grove and reached the classical garden where Susan and I had enacted our sexual drama.\n\nI collapsed on a marble bench and looked around. The imposing statue of Neptune still stood at the end of the mosaic reflecting pool, but there was now a bronze trident in his clenched fist. \"Look at that. . . .'' I saw, too, that the four fish sculptures were spouting water from their mouths and the water was collecting in a giant marble seashell, then spilling over into the newly cleaned reflecting pool. \"I'll be damned. . . .\"\n\nI stood and staggered over to the fountain, which had not worked in over twenty years. I dropped to my knees and washed my face in the seashell, then lapped up the cold water. \"Ahh . . . nice going, Frank.\"\n\nI gargled a mouthful of water and spit it up in a plume, in imitation of the stone fish. \"Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.\"\n\nI heard a noise and turned. Not thirty feet away, on the path that led from the house, stood a woman in a flowery dress and pink hat, with a white shawl over her shoulders. She saw me and stopped dead in her tracks. I could imagine the picture I presented, slobbering around the fountain with a filthy warm-up suit and tangled hair. I spat out a mouthful of water and said, \"Hello.\"\n\nShe turned and began walking quickly away, then looked back to see what I was up to. She was a woman in her mid-forties, full-figured, with blond hair that, even at this distance, looked bleached. Her makeup was not subtle, and I thought the purple eye shadow and hot-pink lip gloss might have been leftover Easter-egg dyes. Even in her Easter frock and bonnet she looked a little cheap and brassy. But she was well put together. I'm not a tit man, and my preference is for lithe, well-scrubbed, all-American types, like Susan. But having spent the morning alternating between atavistic and adolescent behavior, I was in the right mood to find something crudely sexual in this woman's primitive paint job, with her big breasts and buttocks. In some vague way she reminded me of the Venus statue in the love temple.\n\nShe was still glancing over her shoulder as she put distance between us. I thought I should identify myself so she wouldn't be frightened, but if she was part of the Bellarosa clan, it might be best if we didn't meet under these circumstances. I was about to stand and walk away, which is what an uninteresting attorney and gentleman would have done. But, recalling my recent success with Susan, I got on all fours and growled.\n\nThe woman broke into a run, losing her high heels.\n\nI stood and wiped my mouth with my sleeve. This was fun. It did occur to me that my behavior was not in the normal range, but who am I to make psychiatric evaluations? As I walked along the edge of the reflecting pool contemplating my next move, I noticed something else new. At the far end of the long, narrow pool was a white statue. As I drew closer, I saw that it was one of those cheap plaster saints with the sky-blue niches that you see on Italians' lawns, usually in conjunction with a pink flamingo or two.\n\nI saw now that it was a statue of Mary, her arms cradling the infant Jesus. I found the juxtaposition of this Christian icon across the pool from the pagan god rather curious. Here was this loving woman enveloping her child, and in the same setting staring at her, as it were, was this half-naked, virile god with upraised trident, the antithesis of the Judeo-Christian God of love.\n\nI was reminded of the first time I was in Rome and being surprised at how the two dominant strands of Italian culture\u2014pagan and Christian\u2014coexisted in art with no apparent contradictions. The tour guides seemed to have no theological or aesthetic problems with mixed motifs: for instance, a frieze of nubile nymphs and randy cupids adorning the same room that held a statue of _La Vergine._\n\nThe Italians, I decided then, were themselves pagan and Christian, like their art, both cruel and gentle, Roman and Catholic. It was as if the wrong religion had been grafted onto a country and a people who by temperament made good pagans and lousy Christians.\n\nIt occurred to me, too, that the same Frank Bellarosa who restored the trident to Neptune, who knew what that clenched fist needed, was also the Frank Bellarosa who felt a need to balance his world with this symbol of love and hope. This was a man who covered all his bases. Interesting.\n\nI heard a dog barking from the direction of the mansion, and I decided to wonder about all of this while moving rapidly away from the don's hit men. I may have been crazy, but I wasn't stupid.\n\nI headed in the direction of Stanhope Hall, moving as fast as I could, considering I hadn't had anything more substantial to eat than radicchio and cheese since Saturday's lunch. The barking dogs, two of them now, were closer.\n\nI put on a burst of speed, crossing the tree line at full tilt. I didn't slow up, however, figuring the dogs and the hit men, while not mounted gentry, would still surely cross into Stanhope land in hot pursuit.\n\nI saw the shallow pond near where Susan intended to move her stable and charged into it, half wading, half walking on water, until I reached the other side. What I lacked in stalking skills, I made up for in escape and evasion techniques.\n\nI kept running and I could hear the dogs yapping around the pond where they'd lost the scent. I had only assumed that the dogs were accompanied by men, but I wasn't certain until now when I heard the discharge of a shotgun behind me. My legs responded instinctively and began moving faster than my heart and lungs could take. I ran out of glucose, adrenaline, endorphins, and all that and collapsed on the ground. I lay perfectly still and listened.\n\nAfter a few minutes, I stood slowly and began walking softly through the brush. I intersected an old gravel road that led to the service gate on Grace Lane. I followed the road until I saw the guesthouse through newly budded cherry trees. I was pretty sure the shotgun boys wouldn't penetrate this far into the Stanhope estate, so I took my time getting to the house. As someone once said, there's nothing quite so satisfying as being shot at and missed. I felt terrific, on top of the world. My only regret was that I couldn't tell this story to anyone. What I needed, I realized, were friends who would appreciate this escapade. I would have told Susan, but she wasn't my friend anymore.\n\nI came into the house through the rose garden and saw by the clock in the study that I had apparently misjudged the time. It was past eleven, and Susan was gone. Again, I discovered that I didn't care. Finding out that you didn't care about things you used to care about was all well and good, but the next step was trying to find out what you _did_ care about.\n\nI went into the kitchen and saw a note on the table. It read: _Please remember to be at your aunt's at three._ I crumpled up the note. Screw Aunt Cornelia. I opened the refrigerator and grazed awhile, stuffing my mouth with whatever struck my fancy, leaving a mess of opened containers, wrappings, and half-eaten fruit. I grabbed a handful of blueberries, slammed the door, and went upstairs.\n\nPrimitive is one thing, but a hot shower is something else. I stripped, showered, and ate blueberries, but I didn't shave. I dressed casually in jeans, sweatshirt, and loafers without socks and got out of the house before Susan returned.\n\nI jumped into my Bronco and drove onto the old, overgrown path that once connected the guesthouse to the service road and subsequently, the service gate. These old estates had not only service entrances to the main house, but servants' stairways so that ladies and gentlemen never met staff on the stairs, and in addition, there was a system of roads or narrow tracks for deliveries, work vehicles, and such. These places were sort of forerunners to Disneyland, where armies of workers ran around on hidden roads, through tunnels and back doors, attending to every need, making meals appear like magic, cleaning rooms, and making gardens grow, always out of sight, like little elves.\n\nAnyway, I crossed the service road, drove along a footpath to the pond, and got out of the Bronco. I examined the footprints left in the ground, saw the paw marks at the muddy edge of the water, and found an eight-gauge shotgun cartridge that I put in my pocket. Satisfied that I hadn't been hallucinating on beta blockers, I got back into the Bronco and proceeded down the road toward the service gate in order to avoid Susan and the Allards if they were coming home from church. The service gate, which is never used anymore, was padlocked, but like a good maintenance man, I had a ring of keys in the Bronco for every keyhole on the Stanhope estate. I opened the padlock and gates and drove out onto Grace Lane a few hundred yards from the main gate.\n\nI headed north to avoid the Jag, which would be coming up from Locust Valley, meanwhile trying to figure out where to go. Errant husbands should have a destination, but few of them do, and they usually wander around in their cars, not wanting to go someplace where people will ask them how the missus is.\n\nI passed the gates of Alhambra on my left and noticed two gentlemen in black suits posted at the entranceway.\n\nI guess I was still royally ticked off about the events of the previous day, though I knew if I were to verbalize my complaints to a friend, he or she would not fully comprehend how the hayloft incident or the Bellarosa incident could have put me in high dudgeon. People never do. Of course I would say, \"There's more to it.'' And there was, but most of that was in my head, unconnected to the physical world, and no one but a shrink would sit still for my monologue on all the injustices of life and marriage.\n\nAnyway, I drove around awhile and wound up in Bayville, which is sort of a blue-collar town sitting on prime Long Island Sound real estate. This place is ripe for gentrification, but I think there's a village ordinance against BMWs and health food stores.\n\nThe main industries of the small village of Bayville are fishing, boatyards, nautical stores, and the dispensing of alcohol. You wouldn't expect to find so many gin mills in so small a place, but it's a matter of supply and demand. Some of the places are rough, some rougher, and the roughest is a place called The Rusty Hawsehole. A hawsehole, if you care, is the hole in the bow of a ship through which the anchor cable passes. I think the bars and restaurants on Long Island are scraping the bottom of the bilge for unused nautical names, but this place _looked_ like a rusty hawsehole, and it was open for Easter services. I parked the Bronco in the gravel lot between a pickup truck and four motorcycles and went inside.\n\nA waterfront gin mill at night has a degree of local color, exuberance, and _je ne sais quoi._ But on a Sunday afternoon, Easter Sunday at that, The Rusty Hawsehole was as depressing as the anteroom to a gas chamber.\n\nI found a stool at the bar and ordered a draft beer. The place was done up in standard nautical motif, but I wouldn't outfit a garbage scow from the junk on the walls and ceiling. I noticed that my fellow celebrants included three men and a woman in interesting black leather motorcycle attire, a few old salts whose skin had that odd combination of sun weathering and alcohol pickling, and four young men in jeans and T-shirts playing video games and alternating between catatonia and St. Vitus' dance. I don't think there was a full set of teeth in the house. I was aware that the dark corners and booths held more of the damned.\n\nI bought some bar snacks, the kind of stuff that should have warning labels, and munched away. The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club is a mile or so down the road from here, and in the summer the nautical gentry will visit places like The Rusty Hawsehole after a day of sailing. When one is safely back at one's country club, one will casually mention the visit, thus suggesting that one is a real man. But here I was in off-season, sipping suds and eating prole food, watching the blue haze of cigarette smoke float past the bar lights.\n\nI ordered another beer and six of those beef jerky sticks for dessert. Just when it seemed that no one was interested in me or offended by my presence, one of the leather gentlemen at the bend in the bar inquired, \"You live around here?\"\n\nYou have to understand that even in jeans and sweatshirt, unshaven, and with a Bronco outside, John Whitman Sutter was not going to pass for one of the boys, especially after I opened my preppie mouth. You understand, too, that there was deeper meaning in that question. I replied, \"Lattingtown.\"\n\n\"La-di-da,'' he responded musically.\n\nI'm honestly glad there is no class animosity in this country, for if there were, the leather gentleman would have been rude.\n\nHe asked, \"You lost or what?\"\n\n\"I must be if I'm in this place.\"\n\nEveryone thought that was funny. Humor goes a long way in bridging the gap between men of culture and cretins.\n\nLeather said, \"Your old lady kick you out or what?\"\n\n\"No, actually she's in St. Francis Hospital in a coma. Hit-and-run. Doesn't look good. The kids are with my aunt.\"\n\n\"Oh, hey, sorry.'' Leather ordered me a beer.\n\nI smiled sadly at him and went back to my beef jerky sticks. They're actually not bad, and if you chew them with a mouthful of bar nuts, it forms this pasty mass that absorbs beer. You swallow the whole wad. I learned that in New Haven. That's the way we say Yale. New Haven. It doesn't sound so snooty.\n\nI was due at Aunt Cornelia's for cocktails at three, as the note said. It was sort of a family reunion that we do every Easter at Aunt Cornelia's home, which is in Locust Valley, about a fifteen-minute drive from here. It was now a few minutes to two. Aunt Cornelia is my mother's sister, and she is the aunt, you may recall, who has some theories regarding red hair. Wait until she sees her favorite nephew, I thought, staggering in without tie or jacket, unshaven, and smelling of beer and bar nuts.\n\nSusan, to be fair, is good with my family. Not close, just good. Her family are few in number, not close to one another, and scattered far and wide. Perfect in-laws.\n\nAnyway, as I was contemplating another hour in this hole, a woman took the empty stool beside me. She must have come from the dark recesses, because the front door hadn't opened. I glanced at her and she gave me a big smile. I looked in the bar mirror, and our eyes met. She smiled again. Friendly sort.\n\nShe was about thirty but could have passed for forty. She was divorced and was currently living with a man who beat her. She worked as a waitress somewhere, and her mother took care of her kids. She had a few health problems, should have hated men, but didn't, played the Lotto, and refused to accept the fact that life was not going to get any better. She didn't say any of this, she didn't say anything, in fact. But the sort of people you find in The Rusty Hawsehole are like those fill-in-the-adjective games. You wonder sometimes how a fabulously wealthy nation can create a white underclass. Or maybe it's just that some people are born losers, and in the year 3000 in a colony on Mars, there will be a Rusty Hawsehole whose clientele will have bad teeth, tattoos, and leather space suits, and they will tell each other their life stories and complain about bad breaks and people screwing them. I heard two shoes hit the floor.\n\n\"My feet are killing me.\"\n\n\"Why is that?'' I asked.\n\n\"Oh, jeez, I worked all morning. Never even got to Mass.\"\n\n\"Where do you work?\"\n\n\"Stardust Diner in Glen Cove. You know the place?\"\n\n\"Sure do.\"\n\n\"I never saw you there.\"\n\nAnd you never will. \"Buy you a drink?\"\n\n\"Sure. Mimosa. Hate to drink before six. But I need one.\"\n\nI motioned to the bartender. \"Mimosa.'' I turned to my companion. \"You want a beef jerky?\"\n\n\"No, thanks.\"\n\n\"My name's John.\"\n\n\"Sally.\"\n\n\"Not Sally Grace?\"\n\n\"No, Sally Ann.\"\n\n\"Pleased to meet you,'' I said.\n\nHer mimosa came and we touched glasses. We chatted for a few minutes before she asked, \"What are you doing in a place like this?\"\n\n\"I think that's _my_ line.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"No, really.\"\n\nI suppose I was flattered by the question, my ego stroked by the knowledge that no one in that bar thought I belonged there even before they caught the accent. Conversely, I suppose, if any of these people were in The Creek, even in tweeds, I'd ask the same question of them. I replied to Sally, \"I'm divorced, lonely, and looking for love in all the wrong places.\"\n\nShe giggled. \"You're crazy.\"\n\n\"And my clubs are closed today, my yacht is in dry dock, and my ex-wife took the kids to Acapulco. I have my choice of going to a Mafia don's party, my aunt Cornelia's house, or here.\"\n\n\"So you came here?\"\n\n\"Wouldn't you?\"\n\n\"No. I'd go to the Mafia don's party.\"\n\n\"That's interesting.'' I asked, \"Are you by any chance a Roosevelt?'' _Roozvelt._\n\nShe laughed again. \"Sure. Are you an Astor?\"\n\n\"No. I'm a Whitman. You know Walt Whitman, the poet?\"\n\n\"Sure. _Leaves of Grass_. I read it in school.\"\n\n\"God bless America.\"\n\n\"He wrote that, too?\"\n\n\"Possibly.\"\n\n\"You're related to Walt Whitman?\"\n\n\"Sort of.\"\n\n\"Are you a poet?\"\n\n\"I try.\"\n\n\"Are you rich?\"\n\n\"I was. Lost it all on Lotto tickets.\"\n\n\"God, how many did you buy?\"\n\n\"All of them.\"\n\nShe laughed yet again. I was on. I swung my stool toward Sally. You could tell she had been attractive once, but the years, as they say, had not been kind. Still, she had a nice smile and a good laugh, all her teeth, and I'm sure a big heart. I could see she liked me and with a little encouragement would have loved me. A lot of my schoolmates were into fucking the poor, but I never did. Actually, I take that back. Around here, the local custom is that Wednesday night is maid's night out, and all the young bars on the Gold Coast were, and still are, I guess, filled with delicious Irish and Scottish girls over here on work visas. But that's another story. The point is, it's been a long time since I've been t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate with a working girl in a bar, and I wasn't quite sure how to act with Sally Ann. But I believe I should always be myself. Some people like twits. And besides, I was doing better with Sally Ann than with Sally Grace. And now, as of sunrise, I had the power. We chatted awhile longer, and she was giggling into her third mimosa, and the leather crew were starting to get suspicious about the wife-in-the-coma story.\n\nI caught a glimpse of the bar clock, which informed me that it was Miller time and three P.M. Given the choice between taking Sally Ann back to her place or going to Aunt Cornelia's, I'd rather do neither. \"Well, I should go.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . you in a hurry?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I am. I have to pick up the Earl of Sussex at the train station and get over to Aunt Cornelia's.\"\n\n\"Seriously . . .\"\n\n\"Can I have your number?\"\n\nShe demurred for half a second, then smiled coyly. \"I guess. . . .\"\n\n\"Do you have a card?\"\n\n\"Uh . . . let me see. . . .'' She rummaged through her bag and found her short stub of a waitress pencil. \"You want it on a card?\"\n\n\"A napkin will do.'' I pushed a dry one toward her, and she wrote her name and number on it. She said, \"I live here in Bayville. I can see the water from my place.\"\n\n\"I envy you.'' I put the napkin in my pocket with the shotgun shell. I might start a scrapbook. I said, \"I'll call you.'' I slid off the bar stool.\n\n\"I'm on nights for the rest of the month. Five to midnight. I sleep when I can. So try anytime. Don't worry about waking me. I have an answering machine anyway.\"\n\n\"Got it. See you.'' I left my change on the bar and exited The Rusty Hawsehole into the bright sunlight. There must be some place in this world for me, but I didn't think The Rusty Hawsehole was going to make the short list.\n\nI climbed into my Bronco. I had my choice now of don Bellarosa's or Aunt Cornelia's. I headed south along Shore Road, hoping, I guess, for some sort of divine intervention, like brake failure.\n\nAnyway, I found myself on Grace Lane and passed Stanhope Hall, whose gates were closed. The Allards, I suppose, were at their daughter's house, and Susan was already at my aunt's or, more interestingly, at Frank's house, eating sheep's nose and putting out a contract on me.\n\nI continued on and reached the beginning of the distinctive brick-and-stucco wall of Alhambra. I slowed down, then pulled off onto the shoulder opposite Alhambra's open gates. The two men in black suits were still there and they stared at me. Behind them, at the gatehouse, which was built into and part of the estate wall, was the Easter bunny. He was a rather large bunny, about six feet tall, not counting ears, and he held a big Easter basket, which I suspected was filled with colored hand grenades.\n\nI turned my attention back to the bunny's two helpers, who were still eyeing me. I had no doubt that one or both of these men\u2014don Bellarosa's soldiers\u2014had been pursuing me that morning.\n\nAlhambra's main entranceway, unlike Stanhope's, is a straight drive to the main house, which you can see perfectly framed by the wrought-iron gates and pillars. The drive itself is paved with cobbles instead of gravel, and it is lined with stately poplars. On the drive now, stretching all the way to the house, were automobiles mostly of the long, black variety, and it occurred to me that these people with their black cars and black clothes were ready for a funeral at a moment's notice.\n\nLooking at the scene across the street, I suspected that Frank Bellarosa knew how to throw a party. And I had the feeling that he did so in a manner that was in unconscious imitation of a Gatsby party, with everything a guest could want except the host, who watched his party from a distance.\n\nIn some bizarre way, Bellarosa's ostentatious Easter was a case of history repeating itself, according to the stories that are told of millionaires in the 1920s trying to outdo one another in bad taste. Otto Kahn, for instance, one of the richest men in the country, if not the world, used to hold Easter egg hunts on the six hundred acres surrounding his 125-room mansion in Woodbury. Guests included socialites and millionaires as well as down-and-out actors, writers, musicians, and Ziegfeld girls. To make the hunt interesting, each colorfully painted egg contained a one-thousand-dollar bill. This was a popular event and an original way to celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus Christ.\n\nI know in my heart that I would not have gone to Kahn's estate for the thousand-dollar bills\u2014about a year's salary for some people in the 1920s\u2014but I might have been tempted by the Ziegfeld girls.\n\nSimilarly, while sheep's head didn't make my mouth water, curiosity about Frank Bellarosa, his family, and extended \"family'' was getting the better of me. While I was weighing the pros and cons of passing through those gates, I noticed that one of the cons, obviously tired of keeping an eye on me, was motioning me to move on. As I am a shareholder in Grace Lane and was not interfering with Mr. Bellarosa's party in any way, I rolled down my window and gave the man what is sometimes known as the Italian salute.\n\nThe man, apparently overjoyed at my familiarity with Italian customs, returned my salute energetically with both hands.\n\nAbout this time, a limousine with dark windows came up beside me, then turned left into the gates and stopped. The windows went down, and one of the guards checked the passengers while the big bunny handed out goodies from his basket.\n\nI heard a sharp tap on my passenger-side window and turned quickly. A man's face peered through the window, and he was motioning me to roll it down. I hesitated, then reached over and cranked down the window. \"Yeah?'' I said in my best tough guy voice. \"Whaddaya want?'' I felt my heart speed up.\n\nThe man pushed his hand through the window and held out one of those badge cases with an ID photo in front of my face, then pushed the face to match through the window. \"Special Agent Mancuso,'' he said. \"Federal Bureau of Investigation.\"\n\n\"Oh . . .'' I took a deep breath. This was really too much, I thought. Unreal. Right here on Grace Lane. Mafia, six-foot Easter bunnies, errant husbands, and now this guy from the FBI. \"What can I do for you?\"\n\n\"You are John Sutter, correct?\"\n\n\"If you're the FBI, then I'm John Sutter.'' I assumed they'd run my license plate through Albany in the last few minutes, or perhaps months ago when Bellarosa had moved in.\n\n\"You probably know why we're here, sir.\"\n\nA few sarcastic replies passed through my mind, but I answered, \"I probably do.\"\n\n\"Of course you have every right to park here, and we have no authority to ask you to move.\"\n\n\"That's right,'' I informed him. \"This street is private property. My property.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.'' Mancuso had folded his arms on the windowsill of my Bronco, and his chin was resting on his forearm, his head tilted as though he were an old friend just chatting. He was a man of about fifty, with incredibly large white teeth, like a row of Chiclets. His skin was sallow, and his eyes and cheeks were sunken as if he weren't getting enough to eat. And he had gone bald in a bad way, with a bushy fringe and a tuft of curly hair left on his peak like a circus clown. I added, \"I'm not even sure you have a right to be here.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso winced as if I'd offended him, or maybe he smelled the beer nuts and beef jerky. \"Well,'' he said, \"I'm a lawyer and you're a lawyer and we could debate that intelligently some other time.\"\n\nI didn't know why I was being aggressive with the guy. Maybe I was still a little shook up about how he'd rapped on my window, and aggression was my response. Or maybe I was still in my primitive mode. Anyway, I realized I sounded as if I were a mouthpiece for the don. I calmed down a bit and said, \"So?\"\n\n\"Well, you see, we're taking pictures and your vehicle is in our line of sight.\"\n\n\"Pictures of what?\"\n\n\"You know.\"\n\nHe didn't offer and I didn't ask from where he or they were taking pictures, but it could only have been from the DePauw house, which sits about a hundred yards off Grace Lane on a rise, directly, as I said, across from Alhambra's gates. I found it interesting, but certainly understandable, that the DePauws, who are \"Support your local police state'' types, would join the forces of good against the forces of evil. Allen DePauw would, I'm sure, let the Feds set up a machine gun nest and supply the ammunition. Grace Lane was going through some changes.\n\nI looked up at the DePauws' big clapboard colonial, then turned toward Alhambra's gate. I supposed that as the cars swung into the drive, the FBI was photographing the license plates with a telephoto lens and probably even getting nice shots of the guests as they got out of their cars. I realized that I was not actually blocking the line of sight between the DePauws' house and the gates, and I thought there was more to this. I said, \"I was about to leave anyway.\"\n\n\"Thank you.'' Mancuso made no move to disengage himself from my vehicle. He said, \"I guess you're stopped here because you're curious.\"\n\n\"Actually, I was invited.\"\n\n\"Were you?'' He seemed surprised, then not so surprised. He nodded thoughtfully. \"Well, if you ever want to talk to us\"\u2014he produced a business card and handed it to me\u2014\"give me a call.\"\n\n\"About what?\"\n\n\"Anything. You going in there?\"\n\n\"No.'' I put the card in my pocket with the shotgun shell and cocktail napkin. Maybe a display case would be better.\n\n\"It's okay if you want to go in.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Mr. Mancuso.\"\n\nHe flashed his pearly whites. \"I mean, we understand your situation. Being neighbors and all.\"\n\n\"You don't know the half of it.'' I glanced back at Alhambra's gates and saw the two men and the Easter bunny talking among themselves and looking at us. On a day when even the rich people that I knew couldn't get help with dinner (unless they ate at the Stardust Diner), don Bellarosa could turn out two goons, a bunny, and probably more hired guns and help inside. I turned back to Mancuso, who was also missing Easter with his family, and asked a bit sarcastically, \"When can I expect Mr. Bellarosa to go away for a while?\"\n\n\"I can't comment on that, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\nI said, \"I am not pleased with this situation, Mr. Mancuso.\"\n\n\"Neither are we, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, arrest the guy.\"\n\n\"We're gathering evidence, sir.\"\n\nI felt my anger rising, and poor Mr. Mancuso, who represented the forces of official impotence, was going to get a piece of my civic mind. I snapped, \"Frank Bellarosa has been a known criminal for nearly three decades, and he lives a better life than you or I, Mr. Mancuso, and you are still gathering evidence.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Perhaps crime does pay in this country.\"\n\n\"No, it doesn't, sir. Not in the long run.\"\n\n\"Is thirty years a short run?\"\n\n\"Well, Mr. Sutter, if all honest citizens were as outraged as you seem to be, and assisted\u2014\"\n\n\"No, no, Mr. Mancuso. Don't give me that crap. I'm not a peace officer, a judge, or a vigilante. Civilized people pay taxes to the government as part of the social contract. The _government_ is supposed to get rid of Frank Bellarosa. I'll sit on the jury.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.'' He added, \"Lawyers can't sit on juries.\"\n\n\"I would if I could.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nI've spoken to a few federal types over the course of my career\u2014IRS agents, FBI men, and such\u2014and when they get into their \"Yes, sir, Mr. Citizen Taxpayer'' mode, it means that communication has ended. I said, \"Well, go back to your picture-taking.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir.\"\n\nI threw the Bronco into gear. \"At least the neighborhood is safe now.\"\n\n\"It usually is in these situations, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"Very ironic,'' I observed.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nI looked Mr. Mancuso in the eye and asked, \"Do you know what _capozella_ is?\"\n\nHe grinned. \"Sure. My grandmother used to try to make me eat it. It's a delicacy. Why?\"\n\n\"Just checking. _Arrivederci_.\"\n\n\"Happy Easter.'' He straightened up and all I could see now was his paunch. I hit the gas and released the clutch, throwing up some gravel as I headed up Grace Lane.\n\nThe lane ends in a turnaround in front of an estate called Fox Point, which backs onto the Sound. Fox Point may become a mosque, but more about that later.\n\nI drove around the circle and headed south on Grace Lane, passing Alhambra and the spot where Mr. Mancuso had stood. He was gone now, as I expected he would be, but I had such a strong sense that the whole day was hallucinatory that I pulled his card from my pocket and stared at it. I recalled retrieving the shotgun cartridge for the same reason, to establish physical evidence of something that had just happened. \"Get hold of yourself, John.\"\n\nI thought of Mr. Mancuso for a minute or two. Clown that he seemed, he was no fool. There was something quietly self-assured about him, and I rather liked the idea of an Italian on the case of another Italian. God knows, the establishment in Washington couldn't handle Bellarosa or his kind. The days of the erstwhile Elliot Ness were over, and Italian-American prosecutors and federal agents were having better luck with their felonious compatriots. In a sort of ironically historical twist, I thought, it was like the Roman senate hiring barbarian mercenaries to fight the barbarians. Satisfied with my analysis and nearly comforted by the chance meeting with the odd-looking Mr. Mancuso, I headed toward Aunt Cornelia's.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWithin ten minutes I was in the village of Locust Valley. Aunt Cornelia's house is a big Victorian on a quiet side street a few blocks from my office. The house has a turret, a huge attic, and a wraparound porch, the sort of home an Aunt Cornelia should live in, and I have fond childhood memories of the place. My aunt's husband, Uncle Arthur, is a retired failure: that is, he spent vast amounts of inherited income on ventures that went nowhere. But he never forgot the most important Wasp dictum: _Never touch the principal._ And so now, in retirement, the principal, handled by professionals, myself included, has grown and so has his income. I hope he stays out of business. His three sons, my brainless cousins, who have their father's flair for losing money, are made to repeat every morning, \"Never touch the principal.'' They'll be all right, and so will their witless children, as long as they never touch the principal.\n\nAunt Cornelia's street was lined with cars, because it was a street where everyone's aunt, grandmother, and mother lived; a place, to paraphrase Robert Frost, where when you had to go home for a holiday, any home on the block would do.\n\nI found a parking space and walked up to Aunt Cornelia's house. I stood on the porch awhile, took a deep breath, opened the front door, and entered.\n\nThe house was filled with people, all of them in some way or the other related to me and to each other, I suppose. I'm not good at the extended-family game, and I never know whom I'm supposed to kiss, whose kids belong to whom, or any of that. I'm always putting my foot in my mouth, asking divorced people how their spouses are, inquiring of bankrupt relatives how business is, and on more than one occasion, asking about the health of a parent who has been dead a few years. Susan, who is not related to any of these people except through me, knows everybody's name, their relationship to me, who died, who was born, and who got divorced, as if it were her job to make entries in the family Bible. I almost wished she were at my side now, whispering in my ear something like, \"That's your cousin Barbara, daughter of your aunt Annie and your deceased uncle Bart. Barbara's husband, Carl, left her for a man. Barbara is upset, but is taking it well, though she hates men now.'' Thus forewarned, I would be forearmed when I greeted Barbara, though there wouldn't be much to talk about except maybe women's tennis or something like that.\n\nAnyway, there they all were, holding glasses in their left hands, gums flapping, and my mind raced ahead to possible pitfalls. I said a few hellos, but managed to avoid any real conversation by moving quickly from room to room through large double doors in the big old house, as if I were on my way to the bathroom.\n\nI saw Judy and Lester Remsen, who always put in appearances at my family affairs, but for the life of me I can't find a single relative who knows how Lester is related to us. It may be just a terrible mistake on his part, and he may have realized it at some point but is afraid to stop coming to these things, thereby admitting he's been at the wrong family functions for thirty years.\n\nAs I slipped from room to room and out of conversational traps, I caught glimpses of my mother and father and of Susan, but I avoided them. I was acutely aware that I was underdressed and undergroomed. Even the kids were wearing pressed clothes and leather shoes.\n\nI found the bar, set up in the butler's pantry, and made myself a scotch and soda. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I was surprised when I turned to see my sister, Emily, who I had understood could not make it in from Texas. We embraced and kissed. Emily and I are close despite the years and miles that have separated us, and if there is anyone in this world I care about aside from Susan and my children, it is my sister.\n\nI noticed a man standing behind her and assumed it was her new beau. He smiled at me, and Emily introduced us. \"John, this is my friend, Gary.\"\n\nI shook hands with Gary, who was a handsome, suntanned, young man, about ten years younger than Emily. He spoke in a Texas drawl. \"It's a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"John. I've heard a lot about you.'' I glanced at Emily and saw she was radiant, younger looking than when I'd last seen her, aglow with a new sexual fire that made her eyes sparkle. I was truly overjoyed for her and she knew it. The three of us chatted for a minute, then Gary excused himself, and Emily and I slipped into the big storage room off the butler's pantry. Emily took my hand. \"John, I'm so happy.\"\n\n\"You look it.\"\n\nShe fixed her eyes on mine. \"Is everything all right with you?\"\n\n\"Yes. I'm on the verge of cracking up. It's marvelous.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"I'm a slut and you look like a bum. Mother and Dad are scandalized.\"\n\nI smiled in return. \"Good.'' My parents, as I've mentioned, are socially progressive, but when their own family is involved in some sort of iconoclastic behavior, my parents become keepers of the traditional values. I hesitate to use the word _hypocrites._\n\nEmily asked, \"Are you and Susan okay?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"She told me you were unhappy and she was concerned. I think she wanted me to speak to you.\"\n\nI stirred my scotch and soda, then sipped it. Susan knows that aside from herself, only Emily can speak to me intimately. I responded, \"Most of Susan's problems are of Susan's own making, and most of my problems are of my making. That's the problem.'' I added, \"I think we're bored. We need a challenge.\"\n\n\"So, challenge each other.\"\n\nI smiled. \"To what? A sword fight? Anyway, it's not serious.\"\n\n\"But of course it is.\"\n\n\"There's nobody else involved,'' I said. \"At least not on my part.'' I finished my drink and set the glass on a shelf. \"We still have a good love life.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you do. So take her upstairs and make love to her.\"\n\n\"Really, Emily.'' People who are in steamy relationships think they've found a new cure for all life's ills.\n\n\"John, she really is devoted to you.\"\n\nI can't get angry with Emily, but I said, with an edge in my voice, \"Susan is self-centered, self-indulgent, narcissistic, and aloof. She is not devoted to anyone but Susan and Zanzibar. Sometimes Yankee. But that's Susan, and it's all right.\"\n\n\"But she is in _love_ with you.\"\n\n\"Yes, she probably is. But she has taken me for granted.\"\n\n\"Ah,'' said the perceptive Emily. \"Ah.\"\n\n\"Don't 'ah' me.'' We both laughed, then I said seriously, \"But I'm not _acting_ different to get her attention. I really _am_ different.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"Well, I got drunk last night and slept outside, and I growled at a woman.'' Since Emily is my good friend, I was happy to tell her about my morning, and we were both laughing so hard, someone\u2014I couldn't see who\u2014opened the door a crack and peeked in, then shut it.\n\nEmily took my arm. \"Do you know that joke\u2014'What is a real man's idea of group therapy?' Answer, 'World War Two.'\"\n\nI smiled tentatively.\n\nShe continued, \"Beyond midlife crisis, John, and male menopause, whatever that is, is the desire to simply be a man. I mean in the most basic biological sense, in a way no one wants to speak about in polite company. To fight a war, or knock somebody over the head, or some surrogate activity like hunting or building a log cabin or climbing a mountain. That's what your morning was about. I wish my husband had let himself go once in a while. He started to believe that his paper shuffling was not only important, but terribly challenging. I'm glad you cracked up. Just try to make it a constructive crack-up.\"\n\n\"You're a very bright woman.\"\n\n\"I'm your sister, John. I love you.\"\n\n\"I love you.\"\n\nWe stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, then Emily asked, \"Does this new fellow next door, Bellarosa, have anything to do with your present state of mind?\"\n\nIt did, though I didn't completely understand myself how the mere presence of Frank Bellarosa on the periphery of my property was causing me to reevaluate my life. \"Maybe . . . I mean, the guy has broken all the rules, and he lives on the edge, and he seems at peace with himself, for God's sake. He's completely in control and Susan thinks he's interesting.\"\n\n\"I see, and that annoyed you. Typical male. But Susan also tells me he seems to like you.\"\n\n\"I guess.\"\n\n\"And you want to live up to his estimation of you.\"\n\n\"No . . . but . . .\"\n\n\"Be careful, John. Evil is very seductive.\"\n\n\"I know.'' I changed the subject. \"How long are you staying?\"\n\n\"Gary and I fly out early tomorrow. Come out and see us. We have a perfectly horrible shack near the water. We eat shrimps and drink Corona beer, we run on the beach and swat mosquitoes.'' She added, \"And make love. Bring Susan if you wish.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\nShe put her hand on my arm and looked me in the eye. \"John, you have to get out of here. This is the old world. No one lives like this in America anymore. This place has a three-hundred-year history of secret protocols, ancient grievances, and a stifling class structure. The Gold Coast makes New England look informal and friendly.\"\n\n\"I know all that.\"\n\n\"Think about it.'' She moved toward the door. \"Are you going to hide in here?\"\n\nI smiled. \"For a while.\"\n\n\"I'll bring you a drink. Scotch and soda?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\nShe left and returned in a minute with a tall glass filled with ice and soda water and a whole bottle of Dewar's. She said, \"Don't leave without saying good-bye.\"\n\n\"I may have to.\"\n\nWe kissed and she left. I sat on a stool and drank, surveying the room filled with table linens, silver pieces, crystal, and other objects from what we call a more genteel age. Maybe Emily was right. This world was half ruin and half museum, and we were all surrounded by the evidence of former glory, which is not a psychologically healthy thing, or good for our collective egos. But what lies out there in the American heartland? Dairy Queens and Kmarts, pickup trucks and mosquitoes? Are there any Episcopalians west of the Alleghenies? Like many of my peers, I've been all around the world, but I've never been to America.\n\nI stood, braced myself, and made another foray into the caldron of boiling family blood.\n\nI walked upstairs where I knew there would be fewer people and went into the turret room, which is still a playroom for kids as it was when I was a child. There were, in fact, ten children in there, not playing make-believe as I had done, but watching a videotape of a gruesome shock-horror movie that one of them must have smuggled in. \"Happy Easter,'' I said. A few heads turned toward me, but these children had not yet learned intelligible speech and were picking up points on how to become ax murderers.\n\nI shut off the television and removed the videotape. No one said anything, but a few of them were sizing me up for the chain saw.\n\nI sat and chatted with them awhile, telling them stories of how I had played in this very room before it had a television. \"And once,'' I said to Scott, age ten, \"your father and I made believe we were locked in here and it was the Tower of London and all we had was bread and water.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Well . . . it was pretend.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Anyway, we made paper airplanes with messages written on them, asking for help, and we sailed the planes out the window. And someone's maid found one and thought it was for real, and she called the police.\"\n\n\"Pretty stupid,'' said Justin, age twelve. \"She must have been Spanish.\"\n\nA little girl informed Justin, \"They can't even read English, you dope.\"\n\n\"The maid,'' I said with annoyance, \"was black. There were a lot of black maids then and she read English and she was a very concerned woman. Anyway, the police came, and Aunt Cornelia called us downstairs to talk to them. We got a good lecture, then when the police left, we got punished by being locked up for real, in the root cellar.\"\n\n\"What's a root cellar?\"\n\n\"She locked you up? For what?\"\n\n\"Did you ever get even with the maid?\"\n\n\"Yes,'' I replied, \"we cut off her head.'' I stood. \"But enough about last Easter.'' No one caught the subtle humor. \"Play Monopoly,'' I suggested.\n\n\"Can we have the tape back?\"\n\n\"No.'' I walked out into the hallway with the videotape, sadder but wiser.\n\nI felt like sitting in the root cellar again, but as I made the turn in the hallway, I ran into Terri, a stunning blonde, married to my cousin Freddie, one of Arthur's brainless sons. \"Well, hello,'' I said. \"Where are you heading?\"\n\n\"Hello, John. I'm checking on the kids.\"\n\n\"They're fine,'' I informed her. \"They're playing doctor and nurse.\"\n\nShe gave me a tight smile.\n\n\"Have _you_ had your complete physical yet?'' I inquired.\n\n\"Behave.\"\n\nI walked over to a door across from the stairs and opened it. \"I was on my way to the attic. Would you like to join me?\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"There are beautiful old gowns up there. Would you like to try some on?\"\n\n\"How's Susan?\"\n\n\"Ask Susan.\"\n\nTerri seemed a little nervous, but I couldn't tell if she was annoyed or considering the possibilities. I closed the attic door and moved toward the staircase. \"I guess we're too old for make-believe.'' I started down the stairs, slowly.\n\n\"What's that?'' she asked, pointing to the videotape in my hand.\n\n\"Trash. It's going in the garbage.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . those damned kids. . . .'' She added, \"I'm glad you took it away from them.\"\n\n\"That's my job. Uncle Creep.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"I wish Freddie would do that once in a while.\"\n\n\"It may be a lost cause. But it's our duty to civilization to try.\"\n\n\"Yes.'' She looked at me and smiled. \"You're very casual today, John.\"\n\n\"I'm having an identity crisis, and I don't know how to dress for it.\"\n\n\"You're crazy.\"\n\n\"So what?'' I stared at her.\n\nShe didn't reply, and I could see the hook was in, and all I had to do was reel up. This, you have to understand, is a woman who is used to men sniffing and drooling around her and has about fifty polite and impolite ways of handling it. But now she was just standing there, looking defenseless and ready for my next move. I started feeling guilty or something, so I said, \"See you later.\"\n\n\"John, could I talk to you about a will? I think I need a will.\"\n\n\"You do if you don't have one.\"\n\n\"Should I call you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm in the city Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Locust Valley Monday and Friday. We'll have lunch.\"\n\n\"All right. Thanks.\"\n\nI went down the wide winding staircase, my feet barely touching the steps. I was on. I was magnetic, charismatic, interesting. I believed it, and that made it so. And I didn't even need my thousand-dollar cashmere sport jacket or my ninety-dollar Herm\u00e8s tie. I had power over men and women. Children next. I wanted to tell Susan, but maybe I should keep my mouth shut and see if she noticed.\n\nI also knew I should quit while I was ahead, before I got cornered by old people who are very good at scoping out a room, sizing up their prey, and making telepathically coordinated moves until they've got you cornered.\n\nI dashed for the front door, pretending not to notice two male cousins who were calling my name. A lot of people are named John.\n\nI got outside, bounded down the porch steps, and hurried down the street, stopping only long enough to throw the videotape down a storm drain. I jumped into the Bronco and drove off.\n\nIt was twilight, and I drove slowly with the windows down, breathing in the cool air.\n\nI like to drive, because it is one of the few times I am unreachable. I have no car phone with answering machine, call-waiting, and call-forwarding, no CB, no car fax, ticker tape, telex, or beeper. Only a fuzz buster.\n\nI do have an AM radio, but it's usually locked into the U.S. Weather Service marine forecast out of Block Island. I like weather reports because they are useful information, and you can check the accuracy for yourself. And the guys who deliver the marine forecast talk in a monotone, and they don't make jokes, like the idiots on regular radio or TV. They report an approaching hurricane in the same tone of voice they tell you it will be sunny and mild.\n\nI turned on the weather station, and the voice recapped the day's weather without telling me what a nice day it had been for the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue. I learned that cumulonimbus clouds were on the way and that heavy rains were expected for Monday morning, with winds from the northeast at ten to fifteen knots, and there were small-craft advisories. We'll see.\n\nI drove for another hour or so, but traffic was starting to get heavy, so I headed home. Sunday evenings have never been a good time for me, and under the best of circumstances I'm moody and turn in early.\n\nSusan came home after I'd settled into bed with the lights out. She asked, \"Can I get you anything?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Are you feeling well?\"\n\n\"I'm very well.\"\n\n\"Your mother and Aunt Cornelia were wondering if there was anything wrong with you.\"\n\n\"Then they should have asked me, not you.\"\n\n\"You avoided them. Your father was disappointed he didn't have a chance to speak to you.\"\n\n\"He's had over forty years to speak to me.\"\n\n\"Do you want to speak to me?\"\n\n\"No, I want to snore. Good night.\"\n\n\"Emily passes on her best wishes. Good night.'' Susan went downstairs.\n\nI lay very still and looked up at the dark ceiling, feeling about as good as I'd felt in a long time, and about as bad as I'd ever felt in my life. What had happened to me in the last few days, I thought, was both apostasy and apotheosis; I had abandoned my old faith, and in the process had acquired new godlike powers. Well, that might be overstating the case, but certainly I wasn't the same man I had been a few weeks ago.\n\nAfter a few minutes of metaphysics, I closed the door on the day. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, and I imagined myself out on the ocean at night, alone with my boat, the waves breaking over the bow, and the sails filled with wind. It was a good feeling, but I knew that ultimately, when the storm broke, I could not handle the helm and the sails alone. Wondering what to do about that, I fell asleep.\n**_Eleven_**\n\nMonday, Easter Monday, it rained as predicted, and the winds were indeed from the northeast, blowing in over Cape Cod and across the Sound, a bit of leftover winter.\n\nI had risen at dawn and discovered that Susan had slept elsewhere, probably in a guest room. I showered and threw on jeans and a sweater, then headed into Locust Valley where I had breakfast at a coffee shop.\n\nI lingered over my coffee and read the _New York Post_ for the first time in ten years. An interesting paper, sort of like beef jerky for the mind.\n\nI ordered a coffee to go, left the coffee shop, and drove the few blocks in the rain to my office. I went upstairs to my private office, which had once been the second-floor sitting room, and I built a fire in the fireplace. I sat in my leather wingback chair, put my bare feet up on the fender, and read a copy of _Long Island Monthly_ as I sipped coffee from the paper cup. There was an article in the magazine about getting your East End house ready for Memorial Day, the official start of summer fun and sun. This, of course, reminded me that I had a place to go if I went into self-imposed exile or was declared persona non grata in Stanhope land.\n\nMy summer house in East Hampton is a cedar-shingled true colonial, built in 1769, surrounded by wisteria and fruit trees. I own that house with Susan\u2014it is mine, hers, and the bank's.\n\nMy ancestors on my father's side were original settlers on the eastern end of this island, arriving from England in the 1660s when this New World was indeed very new. I actually have in my possession an original land grant given to one Elias Sutter by Charles II in 1663. That land encompassed about a third of Southampton Township, now one of the most exclusive beach communities on the East Coast, and if the Sutters still owned it, we'd all be billionaires.\n\nThat far eastern strip of this island, jutting out into the Atlantic, is a strikingly beautiful landscape, geographically different from the Gold Coast, but in some ways bound to it by family connections, money, and social similarities. More important, it is far less populated out there, and the nature nuts are in control. You can hardly put up a mailbox without filing an environmental impact statement.\n\nThis ancient connection to the eastern tip of Long Island has always interested me as an abstract footnote to my own life, but until now it has had little impact on my thinking. Lately, however, I've been wondering if the time has come to live in Sutter land rather than Stanhope land.\n\nI tried to picture myself a country lawyer, my stocking feet on the desk in some storefront office, pulling in maybe thirty thousand a year and joining the rush down to the docks when the bluefish were running.\n\nI wonder if Susan would live out there year-round. She would have to board her horses, but the riding there is spectacular, the public trails running through the Shinnecock Hills, right down to the Atlantic Ocean and along the white sand beach. Maybe that's what we needed to get ourselves together.\n\nI sometimes like to come to the office on a day off and catch up on things, but I've never before used the office as a refuge from domestic problems. I put the magazine down, closed my eyes, and listened to the crackling fire and the wind and rain. Absolutely delightful.\n\nI heard the front door open. I had left it unlocked in case any of the more enthusiastic troops wanted to put in a few hours or, like myself, just get away from home. I heard the door shut, then heard footsteps in the foyer. We have a dozen people working here: six secretaries, two paralegals, two junior partners, and two new law clerks, both young women who will take the bar exam this summer. One of the budding new attorneys is Karen Talmadge, who will go far because she is bright, articulate, and energetic. She is also beautiful, but I mention that only in passing.\n\nI hoped that the footsteps I'd heard were Karen's because there were a few interesting legal concepts I wanted to discuss with her. But in the next instant, I realized that it didn't matter if it was her, my wife, my homely secretary, sexy Terri, or my little nieces and nephews with axes and chain saws. I just wanted to be alone. No sex or violence.\n\nI listened and realized that the footsteps were slow and heavy, unlike a woman's tread. Perhaps it was the mailman or a deliveryman or even a client who didn't know I had made Easter Monday a new holiday. Whoever was down there was walking around, going from room to room, looking for someone or something.\n\nI thought I should go down and investigate, but then I heard the bottom step squeak, and a voice called out, \"Mr. Sutter?\"\n\nI put the coffee down and stood.\n\n\"Mr. Sutter?\"\n\nI hesitated, then replied, \"I'm up here.'' The heavy footsteps ascended the stairs, and I said, \"Second door to your left.\"\n\nFrank Bellarosa, wearing a shapeless raincoat and a gray felt hat, came through the door into my office. \"Ah,'' he said, \"there you are. I saw your Jeep outside.\"\n\n\"Bronco.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Do you have a few minutes? I got some things I want to talk to you about.\"\n\n\"We're closed today,'' I informed him. \"It's Easter Monday.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Hey, you got a fire. Mind if I sit?\"\n\nI sure did, but I motioned to the wooden rocker facing my chair across the hearth, and Mr. Bellarosa took off his wet hat and coat and hung them on the clothes tree near the door. He sat. \"You religious?'' he asked.\n\n\"No, Episcopalian.\"\n\n\"Yeah? You take this day off?\"\n\n\"Sometimes. Business is slow.'' I picked up the poker and happened to glance at Bellarosa, whose eyes, I saw, were not on me or the fire, but on the heavy, blunt object in my hand. The man had very primitive instincts, I thought. I poked the logs in the fire, then with no abrupt movements, put the poker back. I had the urge to ask Bellarosa if this was a stickup, but I didn't want to strain our new relationship with bad humor. I said instead, \"Do _you_ have the day off?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Yeah.\"\n\nI sat in my chair opposite him. \"What sort of business are you in?\"\n\n\"That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.'' He crossed his legs and tried rocking a few times as if he'd never sat in a rocker before. He said, \"My grandmother had one of these. Used to rock, rock, rock, all day. She walked with two canes, you know, before they had those walker things, and sometimes if you were trying to get past her to get into the kitchen, she'd swat you with one of the canes.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I never asked her.\"\n\n\"I see.'' I regarded Mr. Bellarosa a moment. He was wearing basically the same outfit as on Saturday, but the colors were sort of reversed; the blazer was gray and the slacks were navy blue, the shoes were now black, and the turtleneck was white. More interestingly, I could see his shoulder holster.\n\nHe looked at me and asked, \"You ever have trouble with trespassers?\"\n\nI cleared my throat. \"Once in a while. Nothing serious. Why?\"\n\n\"Well, there was a guy on my property yesterday morning. Scared the hell out of my wife. My . . . gardeners ran him off.\"\n\n\"People sometimes like to walk on the estates. You get the vandalism at night with the kids.\"\n\n\"This was no kid. White guy, about fifty. Looked like a derelict.\"\n\n\"Really? Did he actually do anything to frighten your wife?\"\n\n\"Yeah. He growled at her.\"\n\n\"My goodness. Did you call the police?\"\n\n\"Nah. My gardeners chased him with the dogs. But he went onto your place. I woulda called you, but you're unlisted.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I'll keep an eye out.\"\n\n\"Good. Now my wife wants to move back to Brooklyn. Maybe you can tell her this is a safe place.\"\n\n\"I'll call her.\"\n\n\"Or stop by.\"\n\n\"Perhaps.'' I sat in the wing chair and stared at the crackling fire. _Fifty_? She must be half blind. I hope so.\n\nThe wind had picked up, and the rain was splashing against the windowpanes. We sat in silence awhile, while one of us contemplated the purpose of this visit. Finally, Mr. Bellarosa asked, \"Hey, you ever get those vegetables in the ground?\"\n\n\"Not yet. But I did eat the radicchio.\"\n\n\"Yeah? You like it?\"\n\n\"Very much. I hope you gave me some to plant.\"\n\n\"Oh, sure. It's marked. You got radicchio, you got basil, you got green peppers, and you got eggplant.\"\n\n\"Do I have olives?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"No. Olives grow on a tree. The trees are hundreds of years old. You can't grow them here. You like olives?\"\n\n\"For my martini.\"\n\n\"Yeah? I'm growing figs, though. I bought five green and five purple. But you got to cover the trees in the winter here. You wrap them with tar paper and stuff leaves around them so they don't freeze.\"\n\n\"Really? Is gardening your hobby?\"\n\n\"Hobby? I don't have hobbies. Whatever I do, I do for real.\"\n\nI was sure of that. I finished my coffee and threw the paper cup in the fire. \"So\u2014\"\n\n\"Hey,'' said Frank Bellarosa, \"you missed a good time yesterday. Lots of good people, plenty to eat and drink.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry we couldn't be there. How was the lamb's head?\"\n\nHe laughed again. \"The old people eat that. You got to have things like that for them or they think you're getting too American.'' He thought a moment, then added, \"You know, when I was a kid, I wouldn't eat squid or octopus or any of that real greaseball stuff. Now I eat most of it.\"\n\n\"But not lamb's head.\"\n\n\"No. I can't do that. Jeez, they pluck the eyes out and cut the tongue off and eat the nose and cheeks and brains.'' He chuckled. \"I just ate the lamb chops. What do you people have for Easter?\"\n\n\"Headless spring lamb, with mint jelly.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but you know something? In this country, I see the kids getting more interested in the old ways. I see it with my nieces and nephews and my own kids. At first they don't want to be Italian, then they get more Italian when they get older. You see it with the Irish, the Polacks, the Jews. You notice that?\"\n\nI hadn't noticed that Edward or Carolyn were dancing round the maypole or eating kippered herrings, but I had noticed that some ethnic groups were doing the roots thing. I don't entirely disapprove as long as there are no human sacrifices involved.\n\n\"I mean,'' Bellarosa continued, \"people are looking for something. Because maybe American culture doesn't have some things that people need.\"\n\nI looked at Frank Bellarosa with new interest. I never thought he would be a complete idiot, but neither did I think that I would hear words such as \"American culture'' from him. I asked, \"You have children?\"\n\n\"Sure. Three boys, God bless 'em, they're healthy and smart. The oldest guy, Frankie, is married and lives in Jersey. Tommy is in college. Cornell. He's studying hotel management. I got a place in Atlantic City for him to run. Tony is at boarding school. He goes to La Salle, where I went. All my kids went there. You know the place?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do.'' La Salle Military Academy is a Catholic boarding school for boys, out in Oakdale on the south shore of Long Island. I have Catholic friends who have or had sons there, and I attended a fund-raiser there once. Its campus is on the Great South Bay and was once an estate, one of the few on the Atlantic side of this island, and belonged, I believe, to an heir to the Singer sewing machine fortune. \"A very fine school,'' I said.\n\nBellarosa smiled, proudly, I thought. \"Yeah. They made me learn there. No bullshit there. You ever read Machiavelli? _The Prince_?\"\n\n\"Yes, I did.\"\n\n\"I can quote whole pages of it.\"\n\n_And_ , I thought, _you can probably write the sequel to it._ I had heard rumors, and now it was confirmed, that boys with certain types of family connections, such as Mr. Bellarosa's, were alumni of this school. On a somewhat higher level, there were a number of leaders from certain Latin American countries who were La Salle graduates, including General Samoza, formerly of Nicaragua. This same school had also produced men who had made their marks in politics, law, the military, and the Catholic clergy. An interesting school, I thought, sort of the Catholic version of the Eastern Establishment Wasp prep school. Sort of. I asked, \"Didn't White House Chief of Staff John Sununu go there?\"\n\n\"Yeah. I knew the guy. Class of '57. I was '58. Knew Peter O'Malley, too. You know him?\"\n\n\"Dodgers' president?\"\n\n\"Yeah. What a place that was. They break your balls there, the good Christian Brothers. But maybe not so much anymore. The whole fucking country got soft. But they broke my balls back then.\"\n\n\"I'm sure it did you some good,'' I said. \"Perhaps you'll be rich and famous someday.\"\n\nHe went along with the joke and replied, \"Yeah. Maybe if I didn't go there, I would've wound up in jail.'' He laughed.\n\nI smiled. Certain things about Frank Bellarosa were making sense now, including his nearly intelligent accent, and, I guess, his nickname, the Bishop. A Catholic military school had always struck me as a contradiction in terms, but I suppose on one level there was no contradiction. \"So,'' I asked, \"were you a soldier?\"\n\nBellarosa replied, \"If you mean an army soldier, then no.\"\n\n\"What other kind of soldier is there?'' I asked innocently.\n\nHe looked at me, and his lips pursed in thought a moment before he replied, \"We are all soldiers, Mr. Sutter, because life is war.\"\n\n\"Life is conflict,'' I agreed, \"but that's what makes it interesting. War is something else.\"\n\n\"Not the way I handle conflicts.\"\n\n\"Then maybe you should take up conflict as a hobby.\"\n\nHe seemed to ponder that, then smiled. \"Yeah.'' He returned to the subject of his alma mater. \"I had six years at La Salle, and I got to appreciate military organization, chain of command, and all that. That helped me in my business.\"\n\n\"I suppose it would,'' I agreed. \"I was an army officer and I still find myself applying things I learned in the military to my business and my life.\"\n\n\"Yeah. So you see what I mean.\"\n\n\"I do.'' So there I was, having an almost pleasant chat with the head of New York's most powerful crime family, talking about food, kids, and school days. It seemed a relaxed conversation, despite my innuendos regarding his business, and I admit the man was an okay guy, not in the least slimy, stupid, or thuggish. And if the conversation were being taped and played back to a grand jury or at a cocktail party, there would be a few yawns. But what did I expect him to talk about? Murder and the drug trade?\n\nThere was a chance, I thought, that he didn't want anything more than to be a good neighbor. But as a lawyer, I was skeptical, and as a socially prominent member of the community, I was on my guard. No good could come of this, I knew, yet I was reluctant to end the conversation. Yes, Emily, evil is seductive. Looking back on all of this, I can't say I didn't know or wasn't warned. I asked him, \"And did the religious part of La Salle's curriculum leave as lasting an impression on you as the military aspect?\"\n\nHe thought a moment, then replied, \"Yeah. I'm scared shitless of hell.\"\n\nI remembered the Virgin at the end of his reflecting pool. I said, \"Well, that's a start.\"\n\nHe nodded, then looked around my office, taking in the wood, the hunting prints, the leather, and the brass, probably thinking to himself, \"Wasp junk,'' or words to that effect. He said, \"This is an old law firm.\"\n\n\"Yes.'' I supposed he thought if the furniture was old, the firm was old, but I had underestimated his interest in me, because he added, \"I asked around. My lawyer knew the name right away.\"\n\n\"I see.'' I had the outlandish thought that he was going to make me an offer for the place, and decided that two million would be fair.\n\n\"Anyway,'' he said, \"here's the thing. I'm buying a piece of commercial property on Glen Cove Road, and I need a lawyer to represent me at contract and closing.\"\n\n\"Are we talking business now?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Start the clock, Counselor.\"\n\nI thought a moment, then said, \"You just indicated you have a lawyer.\"\n\n\"Yeah. The guy who knew your firm.\"\n\n\"Then why don't you use him for this deal?\"\n\n\"He's in Brooklyn.\"\n\n\"Send him cab fare.\"\n\nBellarosa smiled. \"Maybe you know _him._ Jack Weinstein.\"\n\n\"Oh.'' Mr. Weinstein is what is known as a mob lawyer, a minor celebrity in late twentieth-century America. \"Can't he handle a real estate transaction?\"\n\n\"No. This is one smart Jew, you know? But real estate is not his thing.\"\n\n\"What,'' I asked sarcastically, \"is his thing?\"\n\n\"A little of this, and a little of that. But not real estate. I want a Long Island guy, like you, for my Long Island business. Somebody who knows the ropes out here with these people.'' He added, \"I think you know all the right people, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n_And,_ I thought, _you, Mr. Bellarosa, know all the wrong people._ I said, \"Surely you have a firm that represents your commercial interests.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I got a regular law firm in the city. Bellamy, Schiff and Landers.\"\n\n\"Didn't they handle your closing on Alhambra?\"\n\n\"Yeah. You checked that out?\"\n\n\"It's public record. So why don't you use them?\"\n\n\"I told you, I want a local firm for local business.\"\n\nI recalled the conversation I had with Lester Remsen regarding the Lauderbach estate, and I said to Bellarosa, \"My practice is rather select, Mr. Bellarosa, and to be blunt with you, my clients are the type of people who believe that an attorney is known by the company he keeps.\"\n\n\"Meaning what?\"\n\n\"Meaning I could lose clients if I took you on as a client.\"\n\nHe didn't seem offended, merely doubtful that I knew what I was talking about. He said with pointed patience, \"Mr. Sutter, Bellamy, Schiff and Landers is a very upright firm. You know them?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"They don't have a problem with my business.\"\n\n\"This is not New York City. We do things differently here.\"\n\n\"Yeah? That's not what I'm finding out.\"\n\n\"Well, you just found out that we do.\"\n\n\"Look, Mr. Sutter, you have a Manhattan office. Run my business out of there.\"\n\n\"I can't do that.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I told you, my clients . . . no, actually, I personally do not wish to represent you, and you know why.\"\n\nWe both sat in silence a moment, and several things ran through my mind, none of them pleasant. It's generally not a good policy to argue with people who are armed, and I hoped that was the end of it. But Frank Bellarosa was not used to taking no for an answer. And in that respect, he wasn't much different from most American businessmen. He knew what he wanted and he wanted to get to yes, while I wanted to stay at no.\n\nHe crossed his legs and pulled at his lower lip, deep in thought. Finally, he said, \"Let me explain the deal, then if you decide no, we shake hands and stay friends.\"\n\nI didn't recall the exact moment when we became friends, and I was upset to learn that we had. Also, I did not want to hear about the deal, but I couldn't be any more blunt without being insulting. Normally, I'm a lot smoother in these situations, but in some curious way, it was Frank Bellarosa himself who had caused me to change my style. Specifically, I blamed him in part for my fight with Susan, though he didn't know that, of course. And the fight had led to one thing after another, culminating in the new John Sutter. Hooray. And while I could appreciate a man like Frank Bellarosa now, I wasn't going to work for him. In fact, I found it easier to tell him to buzz off. I said, \"I can recommend a firm in Glen Cove that would probably handle your business.\"\n\n\"Okay. But let me ask your opinion about this deal first. Just neighborly advice. No formal agreement, no paperwork, and don't bill me.'' He smiled. \"I'm buying the old American Motors showroom on Glen Cove Road. You know it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Prime property. Good for something. Maybe a Subaru dealership. Maybe Toyota. Some Jap dealership or other. Do you think that would be good?\"\n\nAgainst my better judgment, I gave him my opinion. \"I personally don't buy Japanese, and most of the people I know around here don't either.\"\n\n\"Is that so? Glad I asked. You see what I mean? You know the territory, and you're honest. Anybody else woulda just seen dollar signs.\"\n\n\"Maybe. I'll give you another piece of free advice, Mr. Bellarosa\u2014you don't just buy property and decide what kind of car dealership you want to put in there. These dealerships are tightly controlled, with territories and all sorts of other requirements that you may not be able to meet. You must know that.\"\n\n\"You're asking me if I know about territories?'' He laughed. \"Anyway, I can get whatever dealership I want.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\"\n\n\"That is so.\"\n\nI should introduce Mr. Bellarosa to Lester, but they probably wouldn't like or trust each other. They did, however, have that one thing in common: they wanted you to believe that everyone was doing it, doing it, doing it. I honestly believe that there is not as much corruption in this country as there is the perception of corruption, and it is that perception that a man like Frank Bellarosa uses to demoralize and ultimately corrupt businessmen, lawyers, police, judges, and politicians. But I wasn't buying it.\n\n\"So,'' he continued, \"I'm offering six million for the land and the building. You know the property. Is that about right?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure what the market is at the moment,'' I said, \"but I had the impression you had already struck a deal and just needed an attorney at the closing.\"\n\n\"Well, yes and no. There's always room to negotiate, right? The owners have some better offers, but I made my best offer, and I have to show them that my best offer is _their_ best offer.\"\n\n\"That's a novel approach to business.\"\n\n\"Nah. I do it all the time.\"\n\nI studied Bellarosa's face, and he smiled at me, then said, \"I don't want to screw the guy, but I don't want to get screwed either. So let's say six is fair. So what do you get? A point? That's sixty thousand, Mr. Sutter, for a few days' work.\"\n\nThis is what you call a moment of truth. But there had been a lot of them in the last few weeks. Stealing ten million from an old lady was illegal and immoral. Earning sixty thousand dollars legally from a crook was borderline. I said, \"I thought we agreed I was giving you free neighborly advice.\"\n\n\"We also agreed you would listen to the deal.\"\n\n\"I listened. Tell me how you can get any car dealership you want.\"\n\nHe waved his hand in dismissal of my petty concerns and said, \"There is no problem with the real estate end of this deal. It's straight. Trust me on that.\"\n\n\"Okay, I trust you.'' I leaned toward him. \"But maybe the source of the money for this deal is not so straight.\"\n\nHe looked at me, and I could see I had pushed his patience a bit too far. He said coolly, \"Let the government worry about that.\"\n\nI couldn't argue with that, because I had made a similar point with Mr. Mancuso only yesterday. I stood. \"I sincerely appreciate your confidence in me, Mr. Bellarosa, but I suggest you use Cooper and Stiles in Glen Cove. They will have no problem with the deal or the fee.\"\n\nBellarosa stood also and gathered his coat and hat. He said, apropos of nothing, \"I've been reading up on the soil here. It's that glacial outwash you said.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"I put in a grape arbor. Concord table grapes from upstate. They do good here according to the book.\"\n\n\"The book is right.\"\n\n\"But I want to do a wine grape. Anybody around here grow wine grapes?\"\n\n\"Mostly out east. But the Banfi Vintners in Old Brookville have been successful with chardonnay. You should talk to them.\"\n\n\"Yeah? You see what I mean?'' He tapped his forehead. \"You're a smart man, Mr. Sutter. I knew that. No Jap cars, chardonnay grapes.\"\n\n\"No charge.\"\n\n\"I'll give you a case of my first wine.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Bellarosa. Just don't sell any wine without tax stamps.\"\n\n\"Sure. What do you think of Saabs?\"\n\n\"Good choice.\"\n\n\"How about Casa Bianca? White House. Instead of Alhambra.\"\n\n\"Sort of common. Sounds like a pizza place. Work on that.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Give my regards to Mrs. Sutter.\"\n\n\"I certainly will. And my best regards to your wife, and I hope she has gotten over her upset.\"\n\n\"Yeah, you know women. You talk to her, okay?\"\n\nI opened the door for Mr. Bellarosa and we shook hands. He left with two parting words. \"See ya.\"\n\nI closed the door behind him. \"Yeah.\"\n\nI went to the window and watched him walk across Birch Hill Road through the rain.\n\nThe village of Locust Valley is not all upper middle class, and there is another side of the tracks. And when I was thirteen, before I went up to St. Paul's, I had the opportunity to know some tough guys. The odd thing, as I recall, was that many of them thought I was an okay guy for a twit. One of them, Jimmy Curcio, a killer-in-training if ever there was one, used to shake my hand every opportunity he got. The little monster was irrepressible in his friendliness, and one time, I now remember, he was standing in the schoolyard with a group of his capos and foot soldiers around him, and as I was passing by, he tapped his forehead and said to them, \"That's a smart guy.\"\n\nI watched Frank Bellarosa approach his Cadillac and was not surprised to see a chauffeur\u2014maybe I should say a wheelman or bodyguard\u2014jump out and open the rear door for him. Vanderbilts and Roosevelts may drive their own cars these days, but not don Bellarosa or his kind.\n\nI turned from the window, went back to the fire, and poked at it. Actually, I _am_ a smart guy. And Frank Bellarosa, I was learning, was smarter than I had thought. I suppose I should have known that stupid people don't get that far and live that long in his business.\n\nThe real estate deal, I thought, may have been for real, but it was also bait. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. We're both smart guys.\n\nBut why me?\n\nWell, if you think about it, as he obviously had done, then it made good business sense. I mean, what a team we would make: my social graces, his charisma, my honesty, his dishonesty, my ability to manage money, his ability to steal it, my law degree, his gun.\n\nIt was something to think about, wasn't it?\n\n**_Twelve_**\n\nI rattled around the big old house on Birch Hill Road all day, ignoring the ringing phone, watching the rain, and even doing some work.\n\nNo one else, except the mailman, came by, and I was irrationally annoyed that my employees had actually taken the day off on my made-up holiday. I would have written a nasty memo to the staff, but I can't type.\n\nAt about five P.M., the fax machine dinged, and I walked over to it out of idle curiosity. A piece of that horrible paper slithered out, and I read the handwritten note on it:\n\n_John,_\n\n_All is forgiven. Come home for cold dinner and hot sex._\n\n_Susan_\n\nI looked at the note a moment, then scribbled a reply in disguised handwriting and sent it to my home fax:\n\n_Susan,_\n\n_John is out of the office, but I'll give him your message as soon as he returns._\n\n_Jeremy_\n\nJeremy Wright is one of the junior partners here. I suppose I was pleased to hear from Susan, though it was not I who needed forgiving. I wasn't the one rolling around in the hay with two college kids, and I wasn't the one who thought Frank Bellarosa was good-looking. Also, I was annoyed that she would put that sort of thing over the fax. But I _was_ happy to see that she had regained her sense of humor, which had been noticeably lacking recently, unless you count the laughing from the hayloft.\n\nAs I was about to walk away from the fax machine, it rang again and another message came through:\n\n_Jerry,_\n\n_Join me for dinner, etc.?_\n\n_Sue_\n\nI assumed, of course, that Susan had recognized my handwriting. I replied:\n\n_Sue,_\n\n_Ten minutes._\n\n_Jerry_\n\nOn the way home, I saw that the sky was clearing rapidly with wisps of black cirrus sailing across a sunny sky as the southerlies brought the warm weather back. Long Island is not a large land mass, but the weather on the Atlantic side can be vastly different from the Sound side, and the East End has its own weather patterns. All of this weather is subject to change very quickly, which makes life and boating interesting.\n\nI turned the Bronco into Stanhope's gateway and waved to George, who was on a ladder cutting some low branches on a beech tree.\n\nAs I headed toward my house, I tried to put myself in the right postbellum, precoital mood.\n\nSusan swung open the door, wearing nothing at all, and called out, \"Jerry!'' then put one hand over her mouth and the other over her pubic region. \"Oh . . . !\"\n\n\"Very funny.\"\n\nDinner was indeed cold\u2014a salad, white wine, and half-frozen shrimp. Susan has never taken to cooking, but I don't fault her. It's a wonder she knows how to turn on the oven considering she never even saw Stanhope Hall's downstairs kitchen until she was twenty. But dinner was served in the nude, so what could I complain about?\n\nSusan sat on my lap at the dinner table and fed me icy shrimp with her fingers, poured wine into my mouth, and dabbed my face with a napkin. She didn't say much and neither did I, but I had the feeling everything was all right. It's quite pleasant to eat with a naked woman on your lap, especially if the meal isn't so good. I said, \"Well, so much for the cold dinner. What's for dessert?\"\n\n\"Me.\"\n\n\"Correct.\"\n\nI stood with her in my arms.\n\nShe shook her head. \"Not here. I want to make love on the beach tonight.\"\n\nSome women change partners for variety; Susan likes to change the scenery and costumes.\n\n\"Sounds fine,'' I said, though, in truth, I would have preferred a bed, and I would have preferred it in the next two minutes.\n\nAnyway, Susan dressed and we took the Jag. I drove and put the sunroof back and let in the spring air. It was getting on to that moody time of the day, twilight, when the long shadows make a familiar world look different. \"Do you want to go to the beach now?'' I asked.\n\n\"No. After dark.\"\n\nI drove generally south and west toward the sinking sun, through a lovely landscape of rolling hills, shaded lanes, meadows, ponds, and pockets of woodland.\n\nI tried to sort the events of the last few weeks, which compelled me into the wider subject of my life and my world. There still exists here, less than an hour's drive from midtown Manhattan, this great stretch of land along the northern coast of Long Island, which is almost unknown to the surrounding suburbanites and nearby city dwellers. It is a land that at first glance seems frozen in time, as though the clocks had stopped at the sound of the closing bell on October 29, 1929.\n\nThis semi-mythical land, the Gold Coast, is bordered on the north by the coves, bays, and beaches of the Long Island Sound, and on the south by the postwar housing subdivisions of the Hempstead Plains: the Levittowns, the tract housing, the \"affordable homes,'' built in cookie-cutter fashion, ten and fifteen thousand at a clip where the famous Long Island potato fields once lay, a fulfillment of the postwar promise to provide \"homes fit for heroes.\"\n\nBut here on the Gold Coast, development has come more slowly. Great estates are not potato fields, and their passing takes a bit longer.\n\nI said to Susan, \"The interesting Mr. Bellarosa dropped by my office today.\"\n\n\"Did he?\"\n\nShe didn't pick up on the word _interesting_ , or if she did, she let it slide. Women rarely rise to the bait when the subject is jealousy. They just ignore you or look at you as if you're crazy.\n\nWe drove in silence. The sky had completely cleared, and the sunlight sparkled off the wet trees and roads.\n\nThe Gold Coast, you should understand, encompasses not only the northern coastline of Long Island's Nassau County, but by local definition includes these low hills that run five to ten miles inland toward the plains. These hills were left by the retreat of the last Ice Age glacier, some twenty thousand years ago, and are in fact the terminal moraine of that glacier. I will explain that to Mr. Bellarosa one of these days. Anyway, when the Stone Age Indians returned, they found a nice piece of real estate, abundant with new plant life, game, waterfowl, and fabulous shellfish. Nearly all the Native Americans are gone now, their population probably equaling that of the remaining estate owners.\n\nFinally, curiosity got the best of Susan, and she asked, \"What did he bring you this time? Goat cheese?\"\n\n\"No. Actually, he wanted me to represent him on a real estate deal.\"\n\n\"Really?'' She seemed somewhat amused. \"Did he make you an offer you couldn't refuse?\"\n\nI smiled, despite myself, and replied, \"Sort of. But I did refuse.\"\n\n\"Was he annoyed?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure.'' I added, \"It sounded like a legitimate deal, but you never know with these people.\"\n\n\"I don't think he would come to you with anything illegal, John.\"\n\n\"There is white and there is black, and there are a hundred shades of gray in between.'' I explained the deal briefly, then added, \"Bellarosa said that he had made his best offer, and he had to show the owners that it was _their_ best offer. That sounds a little like strong-arming to me.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you're overly sensitive to the situation.\"\n\n\"Well, the deal aside, then, I have to consider my reputation.\"\n\n\"That's true.\"\n\n\"My fee for the contract and closing would have been about sixty thousand dollars.'' I glanced at Susan.\n\n\"The money is irrelevant.\"\n\nI suppose if your name happens to be Stanhope, that's true. And that perhaps is the one luxury of the rich that I envy: the luxury to say no to tainted money with no regrets. I, too, indulge myself in that luxury though I'm not rich. Maybe it helps to have a wife who is.\n\nI considered telling Susan about my Easter morning at Alhambra, but in retrospect, the whole incident seemed a bit foolish. Especially growling at that woman. I did, however, want Susan to know about Mr. Mancuso. I said, \"The FBI is watching Alhambra.\"\n\n\"Really? How do you know that?\"\n\nI explained that while I was out driving, I happened to see an Easter bunny and two goons at the gates to Alhambra. Susan thought that was funny. \"So,'' I said, \"I pulled over for a minute, and this man, Mancuso, approaches me and identifies himself as an FBI agent.'' I didn't mention that I was considering going to Mr. Bellarosa's Easter thing.\n\n\"What did this man say to you?\"\n\nI related my brief conversation with Mr. Mancuso as we drove past the Piping Rock Country Club. The day had turned out fine weatherwise and otherwise, and there was that fresh smell in the air that comes after a spring rain.\n\nSusan seemed intrigued with my story, but I resisted the temptation to embellish it for entertainment purposes and concluded, \"Mancuso knew what _capozella_ was.\"\n\nShe laughed.\n\nI turned my attention back to the road and the scenery. Not far from here is a huge rock, cleaved in half, with the halves sitting on each side of a tall oak, in the Indian fashion of burial sites. On the rock are engraved these words:\n\nHERE LIES THE LAST OF THE MATINECOC\n\nThe rock is in the churchyard of the Zion Episcopal Church, and at the base of the oak is a metal plaque that says PERPETUAL CARE.\n\nSo after thousands of years in these woods and hills, that is all that is left of the Matinecocs, swept away in a few decades by an historical event that they could neither resist nor comprehend. The Colonists came, the Dutch and the English\u2014my forebears\u2014and left their marks on the maps and on the landscape, building and naming villages and roads, renaming ponds and streams and hills, though sometimes letting the ancient Indian names stand.\n\nBut today, ironically, these place-names evoke few memories of Indians or Colonists, but are inextricably associated with that brief fifty years called the Golden Age. So if you say Lattingtown or Matinecoc to a Long Islander, he will think of millionaires and mansions, and more specifically perhaps the Roaring Twenties and the final frenetic days of that Golden Age and the Gold Coast.\n\n\"What are you thinking about?'' Susan asked.\n\n\"About the past, about what it must have been like, and I was wondering if I would have liked living in a great house. Did you like it?\"\n\nShe shrugged.\n\nSusan and her brother, Peter, as well as her mother and father, had lived in Stanhope Hall while her grandparents were alive. You can get a lot of generations comfortably in one house if it has fifty rooms and as many servants.\n\nAfter Susan's grandparents died, both in the mid-1970s, the inheritance taxes that existed then effectively closed down Stanhope Hall as a fully staffed estate, though Susan's father and mother continued on there until the price of heating oil quadrupled, and they headed off to a warmer climate. I asked again, \"Did you _like_ it?\"\n\n\"I don't know. It was all I knew. I thought everyone lived like that . . . as I got older, I realized that not everyone had horses, maids, gardeners, and a nanny.'' She laughed. \"Sounds stupid.'' She thought awhile. \"But without sounding all psychobabbly, I would have liked to have seen more of my parents.\"\n\nI didn't respond. I had seen enough of her parents, William and Charlotte, during the years they played lord and lady of Stanhope Hall. Susan's grandparents, Augustus and Beatrice, were alive when we first married and moved into Susan's wedding gift\u2014deeded solely in her name as I have indicated. Her grandparents were old then, but I had the impression they were decent people, concerned for the welfare of their dwindling staff, but never really coming to terms with the dwindling money.\n\nI asked Susan once, in perhaps a tactless moment, where the Stanhope money had originally come from. She had replied, truthfully I think, \"I don't know. No one as far as I know ever actually _did_ anything for it. It just existed, on paper, in big ledger books that my father kept locked in the den.\"\n\nSusan can be somewhat vague about money like many of these people. I suppose the definition of old money is money whose origins, whereabouts, and amounts are only dimly understood. But from 1929 through the Depression, the war, and the ninety-percent tax rates of the forties and fifties, there was less and less of this paper, and it finally vanished as mysteriously as it had first appeared.\n\nSusan, as I indicated, is not poor, though I don't know how much she is worth. But neither is she fabulously wealthy as her grandparents were. I asked her, \"How do you feel about a man like Bellarosa being an illegal millionaire, while most of the Stanhope money was lost through legal taxation?\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"My grandfather used to say, 'Why shouldn't I give half my money to the American people? I got all of it from them.'\"\n\nI smiled. \"That's very progressive.'' On the other hand, some of the rich managed their assets and tax planning with far more care than the Stanhopes, and they are still rich, albeit in a quieter way. Others of the rich around here, the Astors, Morgans, Graces, Woolworths, Vanderbilts, Guests, Whitneys, and so on, were so unbelievably buried in money that nothing short of a revolution would put a dent in their fortunes.\n\nI said, \"Do you ever feel you were cheated? I mean, if you were born, let's say, eighty years ago, you would have lived your life like an empress.\"\n\n\"What good does it do to think about it? None of the people I know who are in my circumstances think like that.\"\n\nIt's true that Susan doesn't talk much about life at Stanhope Hall. It's considered bad form among these people to bring up the subject of estate life with outsiders, and even spouses can be outsiders if they don't have an estate in their past. Sometimes, however, the rich and former rich can be prompted to talk if they don't think you're being judgmental or taking notes for publication. I inquired, \"Did you have a groom and stableboy for the horses?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThe \"yes'' came out sounding like, \"Of course, you idiot. Do you think I mucked out the stables?'' I then asked, \"Did your grandparents see many of the old crowd? Did they entertain?\"\n\nShe nodded. \"There were a few parties.'' She volunteered, \"Grandfather would invite a hundred or so people at Christmas, and they would all dance in the ballroom. In the summer, he would have one or two parties out on the terrace and under tents.'' She added, \"The old crowd would sometimes gather in the library and go through photo albums.\"\n\nWe drove in silence awhile. There wasn't much more I was going to get out of Susan.\n\nGeorge Allard is a better source of information whenever I get interested in the subject of the old Gold Coast. George's stories are mostly anecdotal, such as the one about Mrs. Holloway, who kept chimpanzees in the sitting room of Foxland, her estate in Old Westbury. From George, you can piece together what life was like between the world wars, whereas Susan's stories are mostly childhood memories of a time when the party was long over. George will sometimes tell me a story about Susan as a child that he thinks is funny, but that I find is a clue to my wife's personality.\n\nSusan, by all accounts, was a precocious, snotty little bitch who everyone thought was bright and beautiful. That hasn't changed much, but the extroverted young woman I first met has become increasingly moody and withdrawn over the years. She lives more in her own world as the world around her closes in. I would not describe her as unhappy, but rather as someone who is trying to decide if it's worth the effort to be unhappy. On the other hand, she is not unhappy with me, and I think we're good for each other.\n\nRegarding our current lifestyle, like many other people around here, we enjoy the good life, though as I said, we live among the ruins of a world that was once far more opulent. Susan, I should point out, can afford to provide us with more hired help, gardeners, maids, even a stableboy (preferably an old gent), but by mutual and silent agreement we live mostly within my income, which, while extravagant by most American standards, does not allow for live-in servants in this overpriced part of the world. Susan is a good sport about doing some house and garden chores, and I don't feel insecure or inadequate regarding my inability to move into Stanhope Hall and hire fifty servants.\n\nSusan asked me, \"What beach do you want to make love on?\"\n\n\"One without razor clams. I had a serious accident once.\"\n\n\"Did you, now? That must have been before my time. I don't remember that. What was her name?\"\n\n\"Janie.\"\n\n\"Not Janie Tillman?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You'll have to tell me about it later.\"\n\n\"All right.'' In our pursuit of fidelity within a twenty-year-old marriage, Susan and I, in addition to the historical romances, sometimes talk about a premarital lover as part of our foreplay. I read in a book once that it was all right to do this, to get the juices going, but afterward, as you're both lying there, one partner is usually sullen and the other is sorry he or she was so graphic. Well, if you play with fire to get heat, you can also get burned.\n\nI asked, \"What did you do today?\"\n\n\"I planted those vegetables that what's-his-name gave us.'' She laughed.\n\n\"In the rain?\"\n\n\"Don't they like the rain? I planted them in one of the old flower terraces in front of Stanhope Hall.\"\n\nI thought old Cyrus Stanhope, as well as McKim, Mead, and White, must be spinning in their graves.\n\nI turned into an unmarked road that I don't think I was ever on before. A good many of the roads on the North Shore are unmarked\u2014some say on purpose\u2014and they seem to go nowhere and often do.\n\nA modern map of this area would not show you where the great estates are; there is no Gold Coast version of the Hollywood Star Map, but there did once exist privately circulated maps of this area that showed the location of the estates and their owners' names. These maps were for use by the gentry in the event your butler handed you an invitation reading something like, \"Mr. and Mrs. William Holloway request the pleasure of your company for dinner at Foxland, the seventeenth of May at eight o'clock.\"\n\nAnyway, I have one of these old estate maps in my possession. Mine is dated 1928, and I can see on it the location of all the estates, great and small, in that year along with the estate owners' names written in. I said to Susan, \"You never met the original owners of Alhambra, did you? The Dillworths?\"\n\n\"No, but they were friends of my grandparents. Mr. Dillworth was killed in World War Two. I think I remember Mrs. Dillworth, but I'm not sure. I do remember when the Vanderbilts lived there in the fifties.\"\n\nIt seemed to me that the large Vanderbilt clan had built or bought half the houses on the Gold Coast at one time or another, allowing realtors to say of any great house with fifty-percent accuracy, \"Vanderbilts lived here.'' I asked, \"Then the Barretts bought it?\"\n\n\"Yes. Katie Barrett was my best friend. But they lost the house to the bank or the tax people in 1966, the year I went to college. They were the last owners until you-know-who.\"\n\nI nodded, then said to Lady Stanhope, baitingly, \"My grandfather once told me that the coming of the millionaires to Long Island was not looked on very favorably by the people who had been here for centuries before. The old Long Island families, such as my own, thought these new people\u2014including the Stanhopes\u2014were crass, immoral, and ostentatious.'' I smiled.\n\nSusan laughed. \"Did the Sutters and Whitmans look down on the Stanhopes?\"\n\n\"I'm certain they did.\"\n\n\"I think you're a worse snob than I am.\"\n\n\"Only with the rich. I'm very democratic with the masses.\"\n\n\"Sure. So, how will we treat Mr. Bellarosa? As a crass, unprincipled interloper, or as an American success story?\"\n\n\"I'm still sorting it out.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll help you, John. You're as relieved as I am that Alhambra will not become a hundred little haciendas, which is very selfish but understandable. On the other hand, you'd have rather had someone next door whose crimes were not so closely associated with his fortune.\"\n\n\"There are people out there who earn their money honestly.\"\n\n\"I know there are. They live in Levittown.\"\n\n\"Very cynical.\"\n\nSusan changed the subject. \"I heard from Carolyn and Edward today.\"\n\n\"How are they?'' I asked.\n\n\"Fine. They missed us at Easter.\"\n\n\"It seemed different without them,'' I said.\n\n\"Easter certainly was different this year,'' Susan pointed out.\n\nI let that alone. As for my children, Carolyn is a freshman at Yale, my alma mater, and I still can't get used to the fact that Yale has women there now. Carolyn went to St. Paul's, also my alma mater, and that's even harder to picture. But the world is changing, and for women, perhaps, it's a slightly better place. Edward is a senior at St. Paul's, which appeals to my male ego, but he's been accepted at Susan's alma mater, Sarah Lawrence. I suppose I should be happy that my children have chosen their parents' schools, but how my daughter has wound up at Yale and my son at Sarah Lawrence is beyond me. In Carolyn's case, I think she is making a statement. Edward's motives, I'm afraid, are a bit more base; he wants to get laid. I think they'll both succeed. I said, \"I came home every holiday when I was at school.\"\n\n\"So did I, except one Thanksgiving I'd rather not discuss.'' She laughed, then added seriously, \"They grow up faster now, John. They really do. I was so sheltered, I honestly didn't know a thing about sex or money or travel until I was ready to go to college. That's not good either.\"\n\n\"I suppose not.'' Susan actually went to a local prep school, Friends Academy here in Locust Valley, an old and prestigious school run by Quakers. She lived at home and was driven to school in a chauffeured car. Many of the rich around here favor the austere atmosphere of Friends for their children, hoping, I suppose, that their heirs will learn to enjoy simple pleasures in the event the market crashes again. Indeed we all try to raise our children as if _our_ past experiences are important for _their_ future, but they rarely are. Anyway, I'm glad Susan learned austerity between nine A.M. and three P.M. on school days. It may come in handy.\n\nSusan said, \"Your mother called. They're back in Southampton.\"\n\nMy parents are not the type to call to announce their movements. They once took a trip to Europe, and I didn't know about it until months afterward. Obviously, there was more to the phone call.\n\nSusan added, \"She was curious about your Easter behavior. I told her you were just having a few bad days.\"\n\nI grunted noncommittally. My mother, Harriet, is a rather cold but remarkable woman, very liberated for her day. She was a professor of sociology at nearby C.W. Post College, which was once the estate of the Post family of cereal fame. The college has always been somewhat conservative, drawing its student body from the surrounding area, and Harriet was usually in some sort of trouble for her radical views in the 1950s.\n\nShe didn't have to work, of course, as my father did well financially, and there were people at Post who wished she didn't work. But by the 1960s, the world had caught up to Harriet, and she came into her own, becoming one of the campus heroes of the counterculture.\n\nI can remember her when I was home from St. Paul's and Yale, running all over the place in her VW Beetle, organizing this and that. My father was liberal enough to approve, but husband enough to be annoyed.\n\nTime, however, marches on, and Harriet Whitman Sutter got old. She now disapproves of four-letter words, loose sex, drugs, and sons who don't shave or wear ties at Easter. And this is the same lady who approved of co-ed streaking. I said to Susan, \"I'll call her tomorrow.\"\n\nSusan and my mother get along, despite their social and economic differences. They have a lot more in common than they know.\n\nWe slipped back into a companionable silence, and I turned my attention back to the scenery. It seemed to me that a traveler who put down his road map and looked out his window as he drove along these country lanes would not mistake his surroundings for some west-of-the-Hudson backwater, but would in some socially instinctive way know that he had entered a vast private preserve of wealth.\n\nAnd as this traveler's car navigated the bends and turns of these tree-lined roads, he might see examples of Spanish architecture, like Alhambra, half-timbered Tudor manors, French ch\u00e2teaux, and even a white granite beaux-arts palace like Stanhope Hall, sitting in the American countryside, out of time and out of place, as if the aristocracy from all over Western Europe for the last four hundred years had been granted a hundred acres each to create an earthly nirvana in the New World. By 1929, most of Long Island's Gold Coast was divided into about a thousand great and small estates, fiefdoms, the largest concentration of wealth and power in America, probably the world.\n\nAs we drove along a narrow lane, bordered by estate walls, I saw six riders coming from the opposite direction. Susan and I waved as we passed, and they returned the greeting.\n\nShe said, \"That reminds me, I want to move the stable now that the good weather is here.\"\n\nI didn't reply.\n\n\"We'll need a sideline variance.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"I checked. The stable will be within a hundred yards of you-know-who's property.\"\n\n\"Damn it.\"\n\n\"I have the paperwork from Village Hall. We need plans drawn up, and we'll have to get you-know-who to sign off on it.\"\n\n\"Damn it.\"\n\n\"No big deal, John. Just send it to him with a note of explanation.\"\n\nIt's hard to argue with a woman to whom you want to make love, but I was going to give it my best shot. \"Can't you find another place for the stable?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"All right.'' The idea of asking Frank Bellarosa for a favor didn't appeal to me in the least, especially after I had just told him to take his business elsewhere. I said, \"Well, it's your property and your stable. I'll get the paperwork done, but you take care of you-know-who.\"\n\n\"Thank you.'' She put her arm around me. \"Are we friends?\"\n\n\"Yes.'' But I hate your stupid horses.\n\n\"John, you look so good when you're naked. Now that the weather is warm, can I paint you outdoors in the nude?\"\n\n\"No.'' Susan has four main passions in life: horses, landscape painting, gazebos, and sometimes me. You know about the horses and about me. The Gazebo Society is a group of women who are dedicated to the preservation of the Gold Coast's gazebos. Why gazebos? you ask. I don't know. But in the spring, summer, and fall, they have these elaborate picnic lunches in various gazebos, and they all dress in Victorian or Edwardian clothes, complete with parasols. Susan is not a joiner, and I can't fathom why she hangs around with these ditsy people, but the skeptic in me says the whole thing is a front for something. Maybe they tell dirty jokes, or exchange hot gossip, or aid and abet marital infidelities. But maybe they just have lunch. Beats me.\n\nAs for the landscape painting, this is for real. Susan has gained some local notoriety for her oils. Her main subject is Gold Coast ruins, in the style of the Renaissance artists who painted the classical Roman ruins, with the fluted columns entangled with vines, and the fallen arches, and broken walls overgrown with plant life: the theme being, I suppose, nature reclaiming man's greatest architectural achievements of a vanished Golden Age.\n\nHer most famous painting is of her horse, stupid Zanzibar, who if nothing else is a magnificent-looking animal. In the painting, Zanzibar is standing in the moonlight of the crumbling glass palm court of Laurelton Hall, the former Louis C. Tiffany mansion. Susan wants to do a painting of me, in the same setting, standing naked in the moonlight. But though Susan is my wife, I'm a little shy about standing around naked in front of her. Also, I have the bizarre thought that I will come out looking like a centaur.\n\nAnyway, Susan's clients are mostly local nouveau riche who live in those tract mansions that cover the old estate grounds. These clients buy everything that Susan can paint and pay three to five thousand dollars a canvas. Susan does two or three landscapes a year and supports her two horses with the money. Personally, I think she could do another two or three and buy me a new Bronco.\n\n\"Why won't you pose in the nude for me?\"\n\n\"What are you going to _do_ with the picture?\"\n\n\"Hang it over the fireplace. I'll give you another three inches and we'll have a cocktail party, and you'll be surrounded by admiring women.'' She laughed.\n\n\"Get hold of yourself.'' I headed in the direction of Hempstead Bay, where there are a few secluded beaches, on most of which I've had at least one sexual experience. There's something about the salt air that gets me cranked up.\n\nI thought about Susan's paintings of the old estates and wondered why she chose to record and preserve this crumbling world in oil, and how she makes it look so alluring on canvas. It struck me that a painting of an intact mansion would be dull and ordinary, but there _was_ an awful beauty to these fallen palaces. On the lands of these estates one can still see marble fountains, statuary, imitation Roman ruins such as Alhambra's, a classical love temple such as we have at Stanhope, gazebos, children's fantasy playhouses such as Susan's, teahouses, miles of greenhouses, pool pavilions, water towers built to look like watchtowers, and balustraded terraces overlooking land and sea. All of these lonely structures lend a whimsical air to the landscape, and it seems as if someone had built and abandoned a storyland theme park many years ago. Susan's paintings make me see these familiar ruins in a different way, which, I suppose, is the mark of a good artist. I asked her, \"Have you ever painted a man in the nude?\"\n\n\"I'm not telling.\"\n\nI noticed the gates to the old Foxland estate ahead, now part of the New York Technical University. A number of these larger estates have become schools, conference centers, and rest homes. A few intact estates are owned by the county, as Lester and I discussed, and some of these have been restored for visitors, instant museums of a period in American history not quite dead yet.\n\nAmong the most enduring and useful structures of this Golden Age are the gatehouses and the staff cottages for gardeners, chauffeurs, and other servants who did not traditionally live in the great house. These quaint quarters are now occupied by former servants whose masters were good enough to deed them away or give them rent free\u2014as in the case of the Allards\u2014as a reward for past service, or occupied by people who have bought or rented them. They are quite desirable as homes or artist studios, and a stone gatehouse such as Stanhope's can sell for several hundred thousand dollars. If the Allards ever move on to their final, final reward, William Stanhope will sell the gatehouse.\n\nAn estate's guesthouse is an even more desirable home for a modern upper-middle-class family\u2014perhaps because there are no working-class associations. It is in Stanhope's guesthouse, of course, where Susan and I live, which might be appropriate for me, but is a long step down for her.\n\nAs we came to another new subdivision, Susan said, \"Sometimes I can't remember the names of the old estates or their locations or what they were called, unless the builder uses the same name for his development.'' She nodded toward the new homes going up in an open horse meadow surrounded by wrought-iron fencing. \"What was that place called?'' she asked.\n\n\"That was part of the Hedges, but I can't remember the last owner's name.\"\n\n\"Neither can I,'' she said. \"Is the house still there?\"\n\n\"I think it was torn down. It was behind those blue spruces.\"\n\n\"That's right,'' Susan agreed. \"It was an English manor house. The Conroys owned it. I went to school with their son, Philip. He was cute.\"\n\n\"I think I remember him. Sort of a twit with terminal acne.\"\n\nSusan punched my arm. \"You're the twit.\"\n\n\"I have clear skin.'' We headed due west now, and as the last rays of the sun came through the windshield, I put the visor down. Sometimes these rides are pleasant, sometimes they aren't. I asked, \"Have you thought about moving?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Susan . . . I give this place another ten years and you won't recognize it. The Americans are coming. Do you understand what I mean?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"The hamburger chains, shopping malls, twenty-four-hour convenience stores, pizza parlors\u2014they're here already. There will come a day when there won't be a secluded beach left for us to make love on. Wouldn't you rather remember everything as it was?\"\n\nShe didn't reply and I knew it was no use trying to introduce reality into her world.\n\nIn some ways, this place reminds me of the post-Civil War South, except that the decline of the Gold Coast is not the result of military operations, but of a single economic catastrophe followed by a more subtle class war. And whereas the ruined plantations of the Old South were spread over a dozen states, the ruins of this fabled world are contained within an area of about ninety square miles, comprising about a third of the total area of this county.\n\nMost of this suburban county's massive population of a million and a half people are contained in the southern two-thirds, and very close by are New York's teeming eight million. These facts\u2014the numbers, the history, the present realities of population, taxes, and land development\u2014color our world and explain, I hope, our collective psyches and our obsession with wanting to freeze a moment in time, any moment in time except tomorrow.\n\nI glanced again at Susan, who had her eyes closed now. Her head was still tilted back, and those magnificent pouty lips seemed to be kissing the sky. I was about to reach out and touch her when she seemed to sense my look or perhaps my thoughts, and she laid her hand on my thigh. She said, \"I love you.\"\n\n\"And I love you.\"\n\nSusan caressed my thigh, and I shifted in my seat. I said, \"I don't think I can make it to the beach.\"\n\n\"To the beach, my man.\"\n\n\"Yes, madame.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe sun had set now, and here and there I could make out the lights of a big house through the newly budded trees. I got my bearings and headed north through the village of Sea Cliff, then west to Garvie's Point, the former estate of Thomas Garvie, and the site of an old Indian camping ground, now returned again to nature as a wildlife preserve and an Indian museum, which was sort of ironic, I guess.\n\nThe park was closed, but I knew a way in through the adjoining Hempstead Harbor Yacht Club, where we parked the car.\n\nI took a blanket from the trunk, and Susan and I held hands as we made our way down to the beach, a narrow strip of sand and glacial rock that lay at the base of a low cliff. The beach was nearly deserted except for a group of people a hundred yards farther up who had built a fire.\n\nThere was no moon, but the sky was starry, and out on Hempstead Bay, powerboats and sailing craft headed into the yacht club or continued south toward Roslyn Harbor.\n\nIt had gotten noticeably cooler, and a land breeze rustled through the trees at the top of the cliff. We found a nice patch of sand that the outgoing tide had deposited between two large rocks at the cliff 's base. It was a well-sheltered spot, and we spread out the blanket and sat looking at the water.\n\nThere is something about the beach after dark that is both calming and invigorating, and the majesty of the sea and the vast sky makes anything you say sound feeble, yet any movement of the body seems graceful and divinely inspired.\n\nWe undressed and made love under the stars, then lay wrapped in each other's arms in the lee of the cliff and listened to the sound of the wind through the trees above us.\n\nAfter a while, we dressed and walked along the beach, hand in hand. Across the bay I could see Sands Point, once home to the Goulds, the entire Guggenheim clan, August Belmont, and one of the Astors.\n\nWhen I walk this beach and look across to Sands Point, I think of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Jay Gatsby, the location of whose mythical house is the subject of some local theories and literary essays. My own theory, shared by some others, is that Gatsby's house was Falaise, Harry F. Guggenheim's home in Sands Point. The colossal house that Fitzgerald described sounds like Falaise, including the coastline and high bluffs of Sands Point. Falaise is a county museum now, dark at night, but if it were lit in all its glory, I would be able to see it from here.\n\nAnd on this side of the bay, up the beach on the next point of land, there is a big white colonial house which still stands and which I am certain is that of Gatsby's lost love, Daisy Buchanan. The long pier behind Daisy's house is not there any longer, but locals confirm that it existed, and the haunting green light at the end of the pier that Gatsby would stare at from his mansion across the water\u2014well, I've seen it from my boat on summer nights, and Susan has seen it, too\u2014a spectral glow that seems to float above the water where the pier must have ended.\n\nI'm not sure what that green light meant to Jay Gatsby nor what it symbolized beyond the orgiastic future. But for me, when I see it, my worries seep away into the sea mist, and I feel as I did as a child one summer night many years ago when from my father's boat I watched the harbor lights playing off the sparkling waters of Hempstead Bay. When I see the green light, I am able to recall that innocent hour, that perfect, tranquil night with its sea smells and soft breezes, and the sound of gentle swells lapping against the swaying boat, and my father taking my hand.\n\nSusan, too, says the green light can bring on a transcendental moment for her, though she won't or can't describe it precisely.\n\nBut I want to tell my children about this; I want to tell them to find their green light, and I wish that for one magic hour on a summer's evening, a weary nation would pause and reflect, and each man and woman would remember how the world once looked and smelled and felt and how nice it was to draw such supreme comfort and security by the simple act of putting one's hand into the hand of a father or mother.\n\nThe green light that I see at the end of Daisy's vanished pier is not the future; it is the past, and it is the only comforting omen I have ever seen.\n\n**_Thirteen_**\n\nBy Wednesday, I had gotten the necessary paperwork together to apply to the Village of Lattingtown for a building permit to erect a stable on Susan's property. I did not specifically state that the stable to be built already existed on Stanhope property, as the Stanhopes, of course, owe the village, the township, and the county a lot of money, and I suppose that the part of the stables that we were going to chop off and spirit away could be considered an asset on which there are tax liens. But if it's legal to tear down structures to save taxes, I guess it's legal to move them to property on which the taxes are paid, and will, in fact, go up because of the stables. I honestly don't know how anyone functions in this society without a law degree. Even I, Harvard Law, class of '69, have trouble figuring out legal from illegal, as the laws pile up faster than garbage in the county dump.\n\nAnyway, I also drew up the petition for the variance on which we needed Mr. Frank Bellarosa's autograph. Over dinner that Wednesday night, I said to Susan, \"It is customary, as you know, to hand carry the petition to our neighbor and chat for a while about what we intend to do.\"\n\nSusan replied, \"I'll take it over.\"\n\n\"Fine. I'd rather not.\"\n\n\"It's my stable. I'll take care of it. Would you please pass me the meat loaf?\"\n\n\"Meat loaf? I thought it was bread pudding.\"\n\n\"Whatever.\"\n\nI passed whatever it was to Susan and said, \"I suggest you go to Alhambra tomorrow during the day, so perhaps you can meet and deal with Mrs. Bellarosa, who I'm sure is not allowed to go to the bathroom without asking her husband's permission, but who can pass the petition on to Il Duce, who can ask his _consiglieri_ what to do.\"\n\nSusan smiled. \"Is that what you suggest, Counselor?\"\n\n\"Yes, it is.\"\n\n\"All right.'' She thought a moment. \"I wonder what she's like.\"\n\nI thought she might be like a busty blonde, which is why I was sending Susan and not me. \"Could you pass me . . . that over there?\"\n\n\"That's spinach. I think I cooked it too long.\"\n\n\"I'll just have the wine.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe next day, Susan called me at my New York office and informed me, \"There was no one home, but I left the papers at the gatehouse with a young man named Anthony, who seemed to comprehend that I wanted them delivered to don Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"All right.'' I asked, \"You didn't say 'don Bellarosa,' did you?\"\n\n\"No. Anthony did.\"\n\n\"You're kidding.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not. And I want George to call us don and donna from now on.\"\n\n\"I think I'd rather be called Sir John. See you about six-thirty.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThat evening, over one of Susan's special dinners\u2014steak _au poivre_ with fresh spring asparagus and new potatoes, delivered hot from Culinary Delights\u2014I remarked, \"I'd call Bellarosa, but he's unlisted.\"\n\n\"So are we. But I wrote our phone number on my calling card.\"\n\n\"Well . . . I suppose that's all right.'' Susan has calling cards, by the way, that say simply: _Susan Stanhope Sutter, Stanhope Hall._ This may sound to you like a useless and perhaps even pretentious thing to carry around, but there are still people here who use these cards, leaving them on a silver tray in the foyer after a visit. If the master and mistress are not at home, or are not receiving, the calling card\u2014or visiting card, as it is also called\u2014is left with the gatekeeper, maid, or nowadays anyone who's around to take it. Mr. Frank Bellarosa, for instance, should have left his calling card with George when he first learned I was not receiving. I have calling cards, too, but only because Susan got them printed for me about twenty years ago. I've used four of them socially and a lot of them under wobbly table legs in restaurants.\n\nAs I was contemplating the importance of calling cards in modern society, the telephone rang. \"I'll get it,'' I said. I picked up the extension on the kitchen wall. \"Hello.\"\n\n\"Hello, Mr. Sutter. Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"Hello, Mr. Bellarosa.'' I glanced at Susan, who had taken the opportunity to transfer my asparagus to her plate.\n\nBellarosa said, \"I'm looking at this thing here that your wife dropped off.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You gonna build a stable?\"\n\n\"Yes, if you have no objections.\"\n\n\"What do I care? Am I going to smell the horse shit?\"\n\n\"I don't think so, Mr. Bellarosa. It's quite a distance from your house but near your property line, so I need what is called a sideline variance.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"Yeah.'' Susan was finished with my asparagus and was eating my steak now. She doesn't have that much of an appetite for her own cooking. \"Stop that.\"\n\n\"Stop what?'' asked Bellarosa.\n\nI turned my attention back to the phone. \"Nothing. So, if you have no objections, would you sign that petition and mail it in the envelope to the village? I would appreciate that.\"\n\n\"Why do you need my okay to do that?\"\n\n\"Well, as I said, the new structure would be within a hundred yards of your property line, and the law\u2014\"\n\n\"Law?'' exclaimed Mr. Bellarosa as if I'd used a dirty word. \"Fuck the law. We're neighbors, for Christ's sake. Go ahead. I'll sign the thing.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\n\"I'm looking at these plans you sent along, Mr. Sutter. You need somebody to build this thing?\"\n\n\"No, I sent you those plans because the . . . the rules require that I show you the plans\u2014\"\n\n\"Yeah? Why? Hey, this thing is brick and stone. I could help you out there.\"\n\n\"Actually . . . we're moving an existing stable.\"\n\n\"Yeah? That thing I saw the other week when I was there? That's where the horses are now?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You moving that whole fucking thing?\"\n\n\"No, only part of it. You'll see by the plans\u2014\"\n\n\"Why? You could build a nice new thing for less.\"\n\n\"That's true. Hold on.'' I covered the mouthpiece and said to Susan, \"Frank says we can build a nice new thing for less, and put down that fucking potato.\"\n\n\"Language, John.'' She popped the last potato into her mouth.\n\nI turned back to the telephone. \"The stables that you saw, Mr. Bellarosa, have some historical and architectural value,'' I explained, wondering why I was bothering, and getting a bit annoyed that he'd drawn me into this conversation.\n\n\"So,'' asked Mr. Bellarosa, \"you got somebody to move that thing or not?\"\n\n\"Actually, not yet. But there are some good restoration firms in the area.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Listen, I have about a hundred greaseballs working over here trying to get this place fixed up. I'm gonna send the boss around to you on Saturday morning.\"\n\n\"That's very kind of you, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Hey, no problem. These guys are good. Old World craftsmen. You don't find guys like that in this country. Everybody here wants to wear a suit. You want to move a brick stable? No problem. These guys could move the Sistine Chapel down the block if the Pope gave them the go-ahead.\"\n\n\"Well\u2014\"\n\n\"Hey, Mr. Sutter, these wops _live_ cement. That's how they learn to walk\u2014with a wheelbarrow. Right? The boss's name is Dominic. He speaks English. I personally guarantee his work. These guys don't fuck up. And the price is going to be right. Saturday morning. How's nine?\"\n\n\"Well . . . all right, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Glad to help out. Just sign this thing, right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Go have your dinner. Don't worry about it. It's done.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\n\"Sure thing.\"\n\nI put the phone in the cradle and went back to the table. \"No problem.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"Is there anything left to eat?\"\n\n\"No.'' Susan poured me some wine. \"What was he saying at the end there?\"\n\n\"He's sending Dominic here to look at the job.\"\n\n\"Who's Dominic?\"\n\n\"Anthony's uncle.'' I sipped my wine and thought about this turn of events.\n\nSusan asked, \"Do you feel awkward now that you wouldn't take his business?\"\n\n\"No. I have a professional life and a private life. Professionally I won't deal with him; privately I'll deal with him only when I have to as a neighbor. Nothing more.\"\n\n\"Is that true?\"\n\nI shrugged. \"I didn't ask him to send Dominic over. Mr. Frank Bellarosa is making it difficult for us to snub him.\"\n\n\"He must like you. When he was in your office, did you get the impression he liked you?\"\n\n\"I suppose. He thinks I'm smart.\"\n\n\"Well, you are.\"\n\n\"Sure. If I were smart, I never would have let you talk me into moving that stable, paying for half of it, and getting involved with Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"That's true. Maybe you're not so smart.\"\n\n\"What's for dessert?\"\n\n\"Me.\"\n\n\"Again? I had that last night.\"\n\n\"Tonight I have whipped cream on it.\"\n\n\"And a cherry?\"\n\n\"No cherry.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn Saturday morning, Dominic arrived punctually at our back door at nine A.M. He had parked his truck on the main drive and walked the last hundred yards to our house in a light drizzle. He refused offers of coffee or a hat, so Susan and I showed him to the Bronco and we drove to the stables.\n\nDominic was a man in his late forties, built something like a gorilla that lifts weights. He wore green work clothes, and his skin was already very sun-darkened for April. I still wasn't sure he spoke English or if he just pretended to. Susan speaks a little Italian and tried it out on Dominic, who kept looking at me as if he wanted me to translate or tell her to shut up.\n\nAnyway, we all stood in the drizzle while Dominic gave the stable a cursory inspection.\n\nSusan tried to make sure he understood we only wanted the central part moved, not the long wings or the carriage house. \"And we want this cobblestone moved, too,'' she said, \"those stone troughs, the wrought-iron work, the slate roof. And it has to be put together the same way over there.'' She pointed off in the distance. \" _Intatto, tutto intatto. Capisce?_ Can you do that?\"\n\nHe looked at her as though she'd just questioned his manhood.\n\nI said to Dominic, \"We will take pictures of the stable from all angles.\"\n\n\"Yes,'' Susan said. \"I don't want it to wind up looking like the Colosseum, Dominic.\"\n\nHe smiled for the first time.\n\n\"How much?'' I asked. That's my line.\n\nDominic pulled a scrap of a brown paper bag from his pocket, wrote a number on it, and handed it to me.\n\nI looked at his written estimate. It wasn't exactly itemized, containing only one number as it were, but the number was about half what I thought it should be. There are, as I've discovered over the years, many forms of bribes, payoffs, and \"favors.'' This was one of them. But what could I do? Susan was intent on this and so apparently was Frank Bellarosa. I said something to Dominic that I thought I'd never say to a contractor. I said, \"This is too low.\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"I gotta no overhead, I gotta cheap labor.\"\n\nSusan didn't bother to look at the number. She asked him, \"When can you start?\"\n\n\"Monday.\"\n\n\"Monday of what year?'' she inquired.\n\n\"Monday. Monday. Day after tomorra, missus. Three weeks, we finish.\"\n\nOf course this seemed like a homeowner's fantasy come true, which it was. I said to Dominic, \"We'll think about it.\"\n\nDominic looked at me, then said something odd. He said, \"Please.'' He cocked his head in the direction of Alhambra.\n\nHe didn't exactly make a cutting motion across his throat, but I had the distinct impression that if Dominic went back to great Caesar without my okay, he was in trouble. I glanced at Susan, who seemed to be missing the subtleties here.\n\nSusan said to me, \"Oh, John, I'm not in the mood to shop around. If it's too low, give him a bonus.'' She laughed. \"Monday, John. _Capisce?\"_\n\nAgainst all my better instincts, I said to Dominic, \"All right.\"\n\n\" _Molto bene_ ,'' Susan said.\n\nDominic looked happy to be working for us for peanuts. I said to him, \"You want a check now?\"\n\nHe waved his hand. \"No, no. We worka for Mr. Bellarosa. You talka ta him. Okay?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\nDominic said, \"You taka you horses to Mr. Bellarosa stable whila we work.\"\n\nSusan shook her head. \"We have many other stables here.'' She motioned with her hand.\n\n\"But missus, Mr. Bellarosa stables all cleana for you. We maka lotta noise here with the jacka hammas. . . .'' He demonstrated using a jackhammer and reproduced the noise quite well. _Dadadadada._ He added, \"No gooda for you horses.\"\n\nThat clinched it for Susan and she said, \"I'll take them over Monday.\"\n\nWe got into the Bronco, and I drove back to where Dominic's truck sat in the main drive. I left Susan in the car and walked Dominic to the truck. I asked him, \"Is Mr. Bellarosa home?\"\n\nHe nodded.\n\n\"When you get to his house, tell him to call me.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\nI took my wallet out and handed Dominic my calling card. He examined both sides, obviously looking for a phone number. I guess the man never saw a calling card. \"Mr. Bellarosa has my number,'' I explained. \"Just give him the card and tell him to call me now.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\nI took a hundred dollars from my wallet and gave it to Dominic, who shoved it into his pocket without examining either side. \"Thanka you too much.\"\n\nWe shook hands. \"See you Monday.'' I walked back to the Bronco and drove it up to the house. Susan and I went in through the back way to the kitchen. I showed her the scrap of paper and said, \"Bellarosa is subsidizing this job.\"\n\nShe glanced at the piece of paper. \"How do you know that?\"\n\n\"After fifteen years of getting quotes for work here and having your father tell me it's too much, I know prices.\"\n\nSusan, who was in a good mood, wasn't about to be baited. She smiled, and said, \"As St. Jerome wrote, 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth.'\"\n\nThere are certain advantages to a classical education, and spouting fourth-century Roman saints to make a point with your spouse may be one of them. I replied, \"As a wiser man said, 'There ain't no such thing as a free lunch.'\"\n\nI poured two cups of coffee, and the phone rang. I answered it. \"Hello.\"\n\n\"Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"Mr. Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"You all squared away there?'' he asked.\n\n\"Maybe,'' I replied. \"But I don't think he can bring the job in for that price.\"\n\n\"Sure he can.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Cheap labor, low overhead, and your materials.\"\n\nI glanced at Susan, who was watching me closely, then said to Bellarosa, \"All right. Whom do I pay?\"\n\n\"You pay me. I'll take care of the boys.\"\n\nThe last thing I wanted was to have one of my checks drawn to Frank the Bishop Bellarosa. \"I'll give you cash,'' I said.\n\nHe replied, \"I take cash for a lot of things, Mr. Sutter, but I thought people like you want a record of everything.\"\n\nNot everything, Frank. I responded, \"It's still legal to pay in cash in this country. I _will_ need a paid bill, from Dominic, on contractor's letterhead.\"\n\nBellarosa laughed. \"Now I got to get letterheads printed up for the guy. That's how you get into overhead.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you can get a rubber stamp for his brown paper bags.\"\n\nBellarosa was in a merry mood and laughed again. \"Okay. You need something to show capital improvement for the government if you sell or something, right? Okay. No problem. Hey, what are these cards your wife and you got with nothing on them?\"\n\n\"They have our names on them,'' I said. \"That's how you know they're ours.\"\n\n\"Yeah. But then it just says Stanhope Hall. Where's the phone number, the zip, and all that?\"\n\n\"They're calling cards,'' I informed him.\n\n\"I don't understand.\"\n\n\"Neither do I. It's an old custom.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"Anyway,'' I continued, back on the subject, \"I just wanted to let you know that Dominic seems very professional and was very pleasant to deal with.'' So don't kill him.\n\n\"Good. He knows his bricks and cement. It's in the blood. You know? You seen the Baths of Caracalla? That stuff impresses me. They don't build like that anymore. Two thousand years, Mr. Sutter. You think this shit around here is going to be around in two thousand years?\"\n\n\"We'll see. Also, about the horses, thank you for the offer, but we'll have them boarded while\u2014\"\n\n\"Nah. Why throw your money away? I got a stable here. It's all ready, and it's nice and close by for you. I boarded out my dog once and it died.\"\n\n\"But we both went to boarding school,'' I reminded him, \"and we're still alive.\"\n\nHe thought that was very funny. I don't know why I feel compelled to use my razor-sharp wit on him. Maybe because he laughs.\n\nHe was still laughing as he said, \"Hey, I got to tell my wife that one. Okay, look, Mr. Sutter, I want you to know I got no hard feelings about the other thing. Business is business, and personal is personal.\"\n\n\"That's true.'' I looked at Susan, who was reading the local non-newspaper at the kitchen table. I said to Bellarosa, \"My wife and I would like to thank you for your help in this and for signing the variance petition.\"\n\n\"Hey, no problem. I noticed that thing was in your wife's name.\"\n\nI hesitated, then replied, \"This is her property. My estate is in the shop for repairs.\"\n\nHa, ha, ha. I hoped he was writing these down. Then, being about fifty-percent certain the phone was tapped, and Mr. Mancuso or someone like him was listening in, I said distinctly, \"If the job goes over cost, I insist on paying the difference. I will not accept a low bid, even as a personal favor, Mr. Bellarosa, because you owe me no favors, and I owe you no favors, and it would be good if we didn't get into owing favors.\"\n\n\"Mr. Sutter, you gave me some good advice the other day. I don't see no bill, so that was a favor. I'm repaying the favor.\"\n\nI knew that I should watch my words, not only because of Mr. Mancuso, but because of Mr. Frank Bellarosa, who, like myself, makes his living with the spoken word, and who would not hesitate to use anything I said against me later. I asked him, \"Are we all evened up on favors?\"\n\n\"Sure. If you let me keep the horse shit for my garden. Hey, I got a calling card\u2014NYNEX. But I don't understand your calling card. I'm looking at it. What's it do?\"\n\n\"It's . . . it's hard to explain. . . .'' By now, of course, I was sorry I had played my silly joke with Dominic. But Susan actually started it. I said, \"It's like a . . . like a handshake.\"\n\nThere was another silence as he processed this. He said, \"Okay. My best regards to your wife, and you have a good day, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"And you, too, Mr. Bellarosa.'' I hung up.\n\nSusan looked up from her newspaper. \"What is like a handshake?\"\n\n\"A calling card.\"\n\nShe made a face. \"That's not quite it, John.\"\n\n\"Then _you_ explain it to him.'' I remained standing and picked up my coffee mug from the table. \"I don't like this.\"\n\n\"You made the coffee.\"\n\n\"This _situation_ , Susan. Are you mentally attending?\"\n\n\"Don't get snotty with me. You use too many pronouns and too few antecedents. I've told you that.\"\n\nI felt a headache coming on.\n\nSusan said in a kinder tone, \"Look, I understand your misgivings. I really do. And I am in complete agreement that you should not do any legal work for that man. However, we can't help but have some social interaction with him. He's our next-door neighbor.\"\n\n\"Next-door? We live on two-hundred-acre estates. People in Manhattan don't even know the people in the next apartment.\"\n\n\"This is not Manhattan,'' she informed me. \"We know all our neighbors here.\"\n\n\"That's not true.\"\n\n\"I know them.'' Susan stood and poured herself more coffee. \"Also, I don't want to give him or anyone the impression we are . . . well, bigoted. What if he were black and we were snubbing him? How would that look?\"\n\n\"He's not black. He's Italian. He's arrived. So now we can snub him because we don't like him, not because of his race or religion. That's what makes this country great, Susan.\"\n\n\"But you do like him.\"\n\nThere was a silence in the kitchen, and I could hear that damned regulator clock tick-tocking.\n\n\"I'm your wife, John. I can tell.\"\n\nI said finally, \"I don't dislike him.'' I added, \"But he's a criminal, Susan.\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"So people say. But if he weren't a criminal, would you like him?\"\n\n\"Possibly.'' I'm not a bigot or too much of a snob. Half my friends are Catholic. Some are Italian. The Creek is half Catholic. In fact, many of the racial, religious, and ethnic barriers around here have tumbled, which is good because in some odd way these new people have brought a new vitality to a dying world, like a blood transfusion. But as I said, you can assimilate only so much new blood, and the new blood, to continue the analogy, has to be compatible.\n\nIn my world, certain types of occupations are okay, and some are not. Also, golf, tennis, boating, and horses are taken seriously, whereas theater, concerts, fine arts, and such are okay, but not taken seriously unless one happens to be Jewish. It is still mostly a Wasp world in form and substance, if not in actual numbers.\n\nCatholics and Jews are okay, you understand, if they act okay. Harry F. Guggenheim, one of the wealthiest men in America in his day, a friend of Charles Lindbergh, a staunch Republican and a Jew, was okay. The Guggenheim family opened the door through which other Jews have passed.\n\nBefore the last war, Catholics with French names such as the Belmonts and Du Ponts were okay, Irish Catholics were okay if they said they were Scotch-Irish Protestants, and Italians were okay if they were counts or dukes or had names that sounded as if they could be.\n\nThese days, Italians, Slavs, Hispanics, and even blacks are accepted, though on an individual basis. The new people, the Iranians, Arabs, Koreans, and Japanese, are still hanging out there in limbo, and no one seems to know if they're going to be okay or not.\n\nBut what I do know is this: Frank the Bishop Bellarosa of Alhambra is not okay.\n\nI said to Susan, \"It's not personal, it's business. His business.\"\n\n\"I understand.'' She added, \"I'm discovering that he's quite famous. Everyone knows who he is. We have a celebrity next door.\"\n\n\"Lucky us.'' I finished my coffee. \"By the way, if you should ever have occasion to speak to him on the phone, remember that his telephone conversations are probably being recorded by various law enforcement agencies.\"\n\nShe looked at me with surprise. \"Is that true?\"\n\n\"I'm not certain, but it's a strong possibility. However, since neither of you will be discussing drug buys or contract murders, I only mention that so you don't say anything that could embarrass you if it were played back someday.\"\n\n\"Such as what?\"\n\n\"How do I know? Such as explaining what a calling card is, or discussing a new name for Alhambra. Something like that.\"\n\n\"I see. All right.'' She thought a moment. \"I never even thought of his phone being tapped. I'm so naive.\"\n\nSusan uses that expression once in a while, and I suppose in the ways of the world, this sheltered little rich girl is naive. But when it comes to people, she is sharp, discerning, and confident. That's her upper-class breeding.\n\nShe asked me, \"Did you get his telephone number?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Should I get it?\"\n\n\"He'll give it to us when he wants us to have it.\"\n\n\"When will that be?\"\n\n\"When he wants us to have it.\"\n\nSusan stayed silent a moment, then asked me, \"What does he want, John?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. Respectability, maybe.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Maybe he still wants me for a lawyer.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,'' Susan responded loyally. \"You're a good attorney.\"\n\n\"But there must be more to it,'' I admitted.\n\n\"There certainly must be,'' Susan replied. She smiled. \"Maybe he wants your soul.\"\n\nThat turned out to be true, and he wasn't even satisfied with that.\n**_Fourteen_**\n\nThe next few weeks passed uneventfully, unless you consider the moving of a big brick stable an event. Susan had shot a roll of film that Monday morning, before the disassembly began, making sure to include Dominic and a dozen of his compatriots in many of the pictures. I still have those photos, and it is obvious that Susan, who is in some of the shots with those big laborers, was having as good a time as they were. There must be something about stables that sparks her libido.\n\nAnyway, it was May, and everything was in bloom. Susan's vegetable garden had survived the early planting, the cold rains, and the wildflowers that still considered the terraced garden their turf, if you'll pardon the pun.\n\nI fully expected Mr. Bellarosa to stop by one day to check on his laborers, but Susan said he never came around as far as she or the Allards knew, and if he had, she added, he'd forgotten to leave his calling card. Also, Bellarosa never telephoned, day or evening, and I was beginning to think I had overestimated his interest in us.\n\nSusan, of course, had to drive to Alhambra to get to her horses each day, but she said she never saw the don or his wife. Susan had become quite friendly, however, with Anthony, who was apparently the full-time gatekeeper, to use a nice word for a Mafia foot soldier. Susan also reported that the Alhambra stables were in bad repair but recently cleaned, and one of Bellarosa's grounds keepers helped her with watering, feeding, and such. I, myself, felt no need to ride or feed horses, and avoided Alhambra.\n\nAnother work crew from the don's estate had already dug and poured footings to accommodate the stable, which was now a growing pile of brick and slate near the pond. Bellarosa's men and vehicles used the service entrance and service roads, of course, and we saw little of them unless we took ourselves to the job sites. And the more I saw of this work\u2014ten to twenty men, eight to ten hours a day, six days a week\u2014the more I realized I had gotten too good a deal on the price. But in some husbandly way, I was happy to make my wife happy. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not shifting the blame for this whole episode to her. We are partners in life, and we are each aware of our responsibilities to each other, to ourselves, and for our actions. In fact, people like us are locked into cages of responsibilities and correct actions, which, while offering protection, also make us easy prey to people who understand that we can't get out of the cage.\n\nGeorge Allard, I should mention, was not happy about the stable business, nor did I think he would be. But he never said anything critical, of course, he just asked me questions like, \"Do you think we can plant shrubbery to fill in the empty space between the two stable wings, sir?\"\n\nNot a bad idea. With the main section of the structure gone\u2014the most architecturally interesting part\u2014the two long wings looked forlorn, almost institutional. I might send a picture to William Stanhope of the result of his half-assed gift to his daughter, and pass on George's suggestion of shrubs so that this place will still show well to prospective buyers. Not that I care, but George does, and it's my job.\n\nGeorge, incidentally, bugged the workers and hung around the job, picking up their paper trash and beer cans, and generally being a nuisance. Susan told me that she once saw one of the men playfully measuring George with a ruler as two other men were digging a \"grave.'' These were, indeed, the don's men.\n\nAnyway, I rarely went to the job site, though when I did, everyone was polite and respectful. The Italians, I find, are heavily into respect, and I guess any friend of the Padrone's is due respect. Susan visited the job at least once a day, and I had the feeling her visits were welcome. She has an easygoing manner with working men, the opposite of the Lady Stanhope routine she pulls on near peers. I watched from a distance once as she moved around the job site, and the men looked at her as if she were hot antipasto. Italian men are not terribly subtle. Many women would feel intimidated by a dozen bare-chested laborers. Susan, you know, enjoys it.\n\nAnyway, one morning during the week, I walked to the stables to see what progress was being made. There were a half dozen men there already, though it wasn't yet eight A.M.\n\nI watched as the men removed the last of the bricks, painstakingly chipped off the old mortar, and loaded them carefully onto a flatbed truck. What remained now of the middle section of the stables was the old wooden stalls, which would be broken up and carted away, and the cobblestone floor, which would be laid in the reconstructed stable. Also, to the left was the exposed tack room, and to the right was the blacksmith shop, looking very odd with no walls or roof, and with its anvil, furnace, and bellows sitting now outdoors. I hadn't seen the blacksmith shop in fifteen years or more, and no one had used it for at least seventy years.\n\nOverhanging the roofless shop was the old chestnut tree. I don't know if a chestnut tree near a blacksmith shop is simply tradition, or if its spreading branches had the practical purpose of providing shade for the smithy in the summer. In either case, blacksmiths built their shops under the spreading chestnut tree. But in this land of make-believe, I know that Stanhope's architects first placed the stable where they wanted it, then transplanted the giant chestnut tree in front of the blacksmith's door. Tradition, Gold Coast style.\n\nBut, anyway, I saw now that the tree was not leafed out as it should have been by this time of year. It was, in fact, dying, as if, I thought, it understood now that the last seventy years had not been simply a pause, but the end. Well, perhaps I was in a mystical mood that May morning, but the tree had looked fine last summer, and I'm good at spotting tree problems. I wish I were as good at spotting my own problems.\n\nI walked over to one of the men and asked, \"Dominic?\"\n\nThe man pointed in the general direction of Stanhope Hall, so I started off toward the mansion. As I came to the rise in the main drive, Stanhope Hall came into view, and I could see Dominic standing in front of the three-story-high portico, looking up at the house, with his hands on his hips.\n\nI hesitated to make the two-hundred-yard trek, especially in suit and tie, and with a ten A.M. appointment in the city, but something told me to see what Dominic was up to.\n\nHe heard me approaching on the gravel drive and came part way to meet me. \"Hello,'' I said. \"You like this house?\"\n\n\" _Madonna_ ,'' he replied. \"It's magnificent.\"\n\nComing from a native-born Italian and a master mason, I took that as a high compliment. I asked, \"Do you want to buy it?\"\n\nHe laughed.\n\n\"Cheap,'' I added.\n\n\"Cheapa, no cheapa, I no gotta the money.\"\n\n\"Me neither. Is it well built?'' I inquired.\n\nHe nodded. \"It's beautiful. All carva granite. Fantastic.\"\n\nOf course, Dominic may have had only an artistic interest in the house, but I wondered how he even knew it was back here. I looked him in the eye. \"Perhaps Mr. Bellarosa would like to buy it.\"\n\nHe shrugged.\n\n\"Is Mr. Bellarosa at home?\"\n\nDominic nodded.\n\n\"Did he ask you to look it over?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, you tell him it will last two thousand years.'' I put my hand on Dominic's shoulder and turned him around as I pointed. \"Go through that grove of plum trees and you will see a Roman temple. You know Venus?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"She's in the temple.'' I added, \"She has magnificent tits and a fantastic ass.\"\n\nHe laughed a bit uncomfortably and glanced at me.\n\nI patted his back. \"Go on. It is very beautiful, very Roman.\"\n\nHe looked skeptical, but shrugged and started off toward the sacred grove. I called after him, \"And take a walk in the hedge maze.\"\n\nI headed back up the drive and paused at the terraced garden that Susan had chosen for her vegetables. The seedlings were six to eight inches high now, the rows free of weeds and wildflowers. At the base of the terrace's marble retaining wall, I saw a large empty fertilizer bag. Susan was tending her garden well.\n\nI continued back toward my house. I wasn't completely surprised that Frank Bellarosa would be interested in Stanhope Hall. It was, after all, an Italianate house, something that would strike his fancy and fit his mental image of a palazzo more so, perhaps, than the stucco villa of Alhambra.\n\nBut Stanhope Hall is about three times the size of Alhambra, and I couldn't conceive of Bellarosa's having enough money to abandon his new house and start over again. No, I'm not naive, and I know how much money is in organized crime, but only a fraction of it can surface.\n\nFor the past few weeks, I've been sending my New York secretary to the public library to gather information on Mr. Frank Bellarosa. From the newspaper and magazine articles that she has come back with, I've pieced together a few interesting facts about the reputed boss of New York's largest crime family. To wit: He recently moved into a Long Island estate. But I knew that. I also discovered that he owns a limousine service, and several florists that I suppose he keeps busy with funerals. He owns a trash-hauling business, a restaurant supply company, a construction company, with which I assumed I was doing business, and the HRH Trucking Company, who are the recorded owners of Alhambra.\n\nThese enterprises, I suppose, are where the legitimate money comes from. But I strongly suspect, as does the DA, that Frank Bellarosa is a partner in, or owner of, several other enterprises that are not registered with the Better Business Bureau.\n\nBut could he buy Stanhope Hall? And if he did, would he live there? What was this guy up to?\n\nI got back to my house and took my briefcase from the den. As it was getting late, and parking at the station was tight, I asked Susan for a ride to the train.\n\nOn the way there, she asked, \"Anything wrong this morning?\"\n\n\"Oh . . . no. Just deep in thought.\"\n\nWe reached the train station in Locust Valley with a few minutes to spare.\n\nSusan asked, \"When will you be home?\"\n\n\"I'll catch the four-twenty.'' This is commuter talk and means that, barring a major Long Island Railroad horror show, I'd be at the Locust Valley station at 5:23. \"I'll catch a cab home.'' This is husband talk for, \"Will you pick me up?\"\n\n\"I'll pick you up,'' Susan said. \"Better yet, meet me at McGlade's and I'll buy you a drink. Maybe even dinner if you're in a better mood.\"\n\n\"Sounds good.'' Susan was all lovey-dovey the last few weeks, and I didn't know if that was a result of my Easter crack-up or because her dream of uniting her stables with her property was coming true. I used to understand the opposite sex when I was younger, about five or six years old, but they have become less understandable over the last forty years. I said, \"Your garden looks good.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I don't know why we never planted vegetables before.\"\n\n\"Maybe because it's easier to buy them in cans.\"\n\n\"But it's exciting to watch them grow. I wonder what they are?\"\n\n\"Didn't you mark them? They were marked on the flats.\"\n\n\"Oh. What should I do?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I guess they know what they are. But I can tell you, you got radicchio, you got basil, you got green peppers, and you got eggplant.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Trust me.'' I heard the train whistle. \"See you.'' We kissed, and I left the car and walked onto the platform as the train pulled in.\n\nOn the journey into Manhattan, I tried to sort things out that were not making sense. Bellarosa's silence for one thing, while welcome, was slightly unnerving in some odd way.\n\nBut then I thought of those stories of Mussolini keeping the crowds waiting for hours and hours in the hot Italian sun until they were delirious with fatigue, and half insane with anticipation. And then, as the sun was setting, he would arrive, and the crowd would weep and throw flowers and shout themselves hoarse, their frenzy mounting into near hysteria.\n\nBut they were Italians. I am not. If Bellarosa was playing a psychological game, he was playing it with the wrong person.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAs it turned out, I didn't have long to wait before Il Duce decided to show himself.\n\nThe train was on time, and at 5:23 I stepped onto the platform at Locust Valley, walked across Station Plaza, and entered McGlade's. This is a good Irish pub on weekends, a businessman's lunch place during the week, and on Monday to Friday, from about five to seven P.M., it is sort of a decompression chamber for strung-out commuters.\n\nSusan was at the bar having a drink with a woman whom she introduced to me as Tappy or something, a member of the Gazebo Society who was waiting for her husband, who had apparently missed his train. By the look of the woman, her husband had been missing trains since about three P.M. There are always more than a few women in this place around this time who seem to be waiting for husbands who can't seem to catch trains. Some of these ladies do sometimes go home with some husband or another. Anyway, I made a mental note to do some research on the Gazebo Society.\n\nSusan and I excused ourselves and moved to a high-backed booth that she had reserved. Susan had on a very nice clingy, red, knit dress that I thought was a little too dressy for early evening at McGlade's Pub, but I supposed that she didn't want to underdress with me in a three-piece pinstripe, and she did look good across the table.\n\nAs we were finishing our simple but tasteless dinner, I said, \"The chef must have your recipe for mashed potatoes.\"\n\nShe smiled. \"Thank you. But I thought these were a little raw and lumpy.\"\n\nThat's what I meant, but I said, \"Well, I'm going to have dessert tonight.\"\n\n\"Good. How about cannoli and some espresso?\"\n\n\"They don't have that in an Irish pub,'' I pointed out.\n\n\"And maybe a little sambuca.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, Susan. No, no, no.\"\n\n\"Yes. Anna Bellarosa called me this afternoon. She would like us there for coffee. About eight. I said yes.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you call me?\"\n\n\"Because you would have said no, no, no.\"\n\nI realized what the dress was all about now. \"I am not going.\"\n\n\"Oh, look, John, this is better than doing dinner or some beastly Easter thing with lamb parts and a house full of _paesanos_.\"\n\n\"Full of what?\"\n\n\"Let's go and get it over with. It's easier than being evasive for the next few years.\"\n\n\"No, it isn't.\"\n\n\"John, his men are moving our stable.\"\n\n\"Your stable, to your land.\"\n\n\"We are at a distinct disadvantage. Be civil.\"\n\n\"I am not going to be bullied, bribed, or embarrassed into accepting a social invitation.'' I added, \"I have a _briefcase_ full of work tonight.'' I patted the briefcase beside me.\n\n\"Do it for me.'' She pursed those magnificent pouty lips. \"Please.\"\n\n\"I'll think about it.'' I grumbled and looked at my watch. It was seven-fifteen. I called the waitress over and ordered a double scotch. We sat in the booth, me nursing my scotch and my resentment, Susan chatting about something or other. I interrupted her in midsentence. \"Does Anna Bellarosa wear glasses?\"\n\n\"Glasses? How would I know? I couldn't tell over the phone.\"\n\n\"That's true.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Just wondering.'' I added, \"I thought I saw her someplace and wondered if she would recognize me. I saw her in town. I think she's a blonde with big hooters.\"\n\n\"Big what?\"\n\n\"Sunglasses.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . how could you know . . . ? I'm confused.\"\n\n\"Me, too.'' I went back to my scotch. I replayed the fountain incident in my mind a few times and decided that there was a fifty-fifty chance she would recognize me in my pinstripes. I made a mental note not to get down on all fours and spit water.\n\nFinally, at seven-thirty, I said to Susan, \"I've been doing some background research on Mr. Bellarosa. He did do time once, back in '76. Two years for tax fraud. And that is what you call the tip of the iceberg.\"\n\nSusan responded, \"He paid his debt to society.\"\n\nI nearly choked on my ice cube. \"Are you serious?\"\n\n\"I heard that line in an old movie once. It sounded good.\"\n\n\"Anyway, it is _alleged_ that Mr. Bellarosa is involved in drug distribution, extortion, prostitution, bid rigging, bribery, murder conspiracy, and so on, and so forth. Additionally, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Mr. Alphonse Ferragamo, is investigating allegations that Mr. Frank Bellarosa personally murdered a man. So, do you still want to go to his house for coffee?\"\n\n\"John, I absolutely _must_ see what they've done to Alhambra.\"\n\n\"Will you be serious a moment?\"\n\n\"Sorry.\"\n\n\"Listen to me, or read my lips. Ready? I am a law-abiding citizen, and I will not abide criminals.\"\n\n\"I hear you. Now listen to me, or read my lips. Ready? Tax fraud? Bill Turner, one year, suspended sentence. Bid rigging? Dick Conners, your former golfing partner, two years for highway bid rigging. Drugs? I'll name you eight users with whom we socialize. And who is that lawyer you used to sail with who embezzled clients' funds?\"\n\nProperly chastised, I bowed my head into my scotch and finished it. \"All right, Susan, so moral corruption is rampant. It just doesn't seem so bad when it's done by the right sort of people.'' I chuckled to show I was joking.\n\n\"What a pompous ass you are sometimes. But at least you know it.\"\n\n\"Yes.'' I stayed silent for a while and listened to the ambient sounds of the nearby bar. The shell-shocked commuters were straggling out, and the singles had not yet arrived for the mating game. It was the quiet hour. Tabby or Tappy, I noticed, was still waiting for her husband, who, if he existed at all, was probably on a business trip out of town. Like all married people, I have often considered what it would be like to be single again.\n\nThis thought, for some reason, made me recall my cousin-by-marriage, the delicious Terri, wife of the brainless Freddie, who had indeed called about her will, and we have arranged a lunch date in the city next week. Around here, when you have a suburban office and a suburban client, yet still meet in the city for lunch, then there's more going on than lunch. However, I had already resolved to stick to business with Terri. But someday, my idiotic flirtations are going to get me in trouble. Beryl Carlisle is another case in point. I've seen her at The Creek a few times since I cast lustful looks at her last month. When I see her now, she looks at me as if she wants me to look at her lustfully again. But I'm fickle. And loyal. No Terris for me, no Beryls, no Sally Anns, and no Sally Graces. My wife is the only woman that keeps my interest up. Also, I'm chicken.\n\nSomebody had put money in the jukebox, and his or her preference was for fifties tunes. The sound of The Skyliners, singing \"Since I Don't Have You,'' filled the nearly empty bar. The song brought back memories of a time that I supposed was more innocent, certainly less frightening.\n\nI reached across the table and took Susan's hand. I said, \"Our world is shrinking and changing around us, and here we are in the hills like some sort of vanquished race, performing the old rituals and observing the ancient customs, and sometimes, Susan, I think we're ludicrous.\"\n\nShe squeezed my hand. \"Here's another Saint Jerome for you\u2014'The Roman world is falling, but we will hold our heads erect.'\"\n\n\"Nice one.\"\n\n\"Ready to go?\"\n\n\"Yes. Do I kiss his ring?\"\n\n\"A handshake will be sufficient.'' She added, \"Think of the evening as a challenge, John. You need a challenge.\"\n\nThis was true. Challenge and adventure. Why can't some men be content with a warm fire and a hot wife? Why do men go to war? Why did I go to Alhambra to visit the dragon? Because I needed a challenge. In retrospect, I should have stayed in McGlade's and challenged Susan to a videogame of Tank Attack.\n\n**_Part III_**\n\nWide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction.\n\n\u2014Matthew 7:13\n\n**_Fifteen_**\n\nAlhambra. We were late but not fashionably so. Just ten minutes. I was driving Susan's Jaguar and I pulled up to the wrought-iron gates, which were closed. There was one of those post-mounted speakers near my window, and I pushed the call button. No one spoke to me through the speaker, but the gates began slowly swinging open. Technology is eerie. But it has allowed us to live tolerably well without our maids, cooks, charwomen, and other helpful humans. And now it gives us some of the security and convenience once provided by gatekeepers and estate managers.\n\nBut Mr. Frank Bellarosa had both technology and servants, for as I drove the Jag through the open gates, a large Homo sapiens appeared in my headbeams. I stopped, and the figure moved toward my window, his knuckles dragging along the ground. It was a human male of about thirty, dressed in a dark silk shirt open to his navel, which revealed so much hair that I could see why he couldn't button it. Over his shirt he wore a dark sports jacket, which did not cover his shoulder holster when he leaned into the car.\n\nThe man had an unpleasant face with matching expression. He said to me, \"Can I help ya?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Da Suttas ta see da Bellarosas.\"\n\nHe spotted Susan and smiled. \"Oh, hello, Mrs. Sutta.\"\n\n\"Hello, Anthony.\"\n\n\"Shoulda recognized ya car.\"\n\n\"That's all right.\"\n\n\"Mr. Bellarosa's waitin' for ya.\"\n\nThis was all going on a few inches from my face, but as I didn't exist, it didn't matter. Before Susan and Anthony had quite finished with their conversation, I hit the gas and the Jag bounced over the cobblestones. I asked Susan, \"Come here often?\"\n\n\"He's nicer than he looks.\"\n\n\"But is he paper trained?'' I proceeded slowly up the drive. I like the sound of Michelins bouncing over cobble. It sounds like you've arrived before you stop the car.\n\nAlhambra's drive is about a quarter-mile long, straight, as I said, and flanked by tall, statuesque Lombardy poplars, all leafed out now and perfectly pruned. Between the poplars were new garden lights that cast a soft amber glow over thousands of newly planted flowers. Ahead, I could see Alhambra's white stucco walls and red tile roofs looming larger. Jaded as I am, I always get a thrill when I drive up to one of the great houses at night. Their entranceways were designed to impress kings and millionaires and to intimidate everyone else. Unfortunately, the Bellarosas did not know about the custom of turning on the lights in all the front rooms when guests were expected, so the house looked dark and foreboding as we approached, except that the front door and the forecourt were lit.\n\nI was not in the best of moods as you may have gathered, so despite the fact that I was impressed so far, I said, \"I can see why Bellarosa would buy this place. It looks like Villa di Greaseball.\"\n\n\"Don't use that word.\"\n\n\" _He_ uses it.\"\n\n\"I don't care,'' she said. \"Anyway, Spanish architecture is fine if it's done right. _Vanderbilts_ lived here, John.\"\n\n\"Vanderbilts lived _everywhere_ , Susan.'' I pulled into the circular forecourt in the middle of which was a new three-tiered marble fountain from which water spouted and cascaded, lit by multicolored lights. \"Early Italian catering hall.\"\n\n\"Cut it out, John.\"\n\nI parked the car near the fountain, and we got out and walked across the cobblestones toward the front door. I stopped and turned back toward the drive we had just come up. The view out to the road with the line of poplars running down toward the gate was also very imperial. Despite my reservations about the abundance of colored lights, it was nice to see this great estate coming alive again. \"Not bad,'' I proclaimed. Beyond the gates and across Grace Lane, I could see the DePauws' stately colonial on the hill. I waved.\n\n\"To whom are you waving?'' asked Susan.\n\n\"To Mr. Mancuso,'' I replied.\n\n\"Who? Oh. . . .'' She stayed silent for some time, then asked, \"Are you ready?\"\n\n\"I suppose.'' I turned back toward the house. I could see that the stucco was being repaired and there was scaffolding on the south wing. Several skids of red roofing tile sat in the forecourt, and on the grass were cement pans and wheelbarrows. I asked Susan, \"Do you know how Italians learn to walk?\"\n\n\"No, John. Tell me.\"\n\n\"They push wheelbarrows.'' It didn't sound as funny as when Bellarosa said it.\n\nSusan asked, \"How can they push wheelbarrows if they can't walk?\"\n\n\"No, you're not getting it. You see . . . never mind. Listen, I want you to get a headache at nine-forty-five.\"\n\n\"You're giving me a headache now.'' She added, \"And why do I always have to get a headache? People are beginning to think I have a terminal disease. Why don't you say your hemorrhoids are acting up at nine-forty-five?\"\n\n\"Are we having a tiff?\"\n\n\"No, you're going to behave.\"\n\n\"Yes, madame.\"\n\nWe walked up the white limestone steps to a massive arched oak door with wrought-iron strap hinges.\n\nSusan indicated one of the stone columns that held up the portico. \"Did you know that these are genuine Carthaginian columns?\"\n\n\"I've heard.\"\n\n\"Incredible,'' she said.\n\n\"Plunder,'' I replied. \"You millionaires plundered the Old World to adorn your houses.\"\n\n\"That is what money is for,'' Lady Stanhope informed me. \"You may recall that every marble fireplace in Stanhope Hall is from a different Italian palace.\"\n\n\"Yes, I remember that palace in Venice with the missing mantelpiece.'' I pulled the bell chain. \"Well, time for dessert.\"\n\nSusan wasn't attending. She was intrigued with the Carthaginian columns and ran her hand over one of them. She said reflectively, \"So, two thousand years after Frank Bellarosa's ancestors plundered Carthage, Frank Bellarosa and the plunder reunite a half world away.\"\n\n\"That's very philosophical, Susan. But let's stick to the subject of vegetables and cement tonight.\"\n\nSusan whispered to me, \"If you play your cards right tonight, Counselor, you may be a _consigliere_ before the evening's done.\"\n\n\"I am not amused,'' I informed her.\n\n\"Well, then, if he pinches my ass, I want you to slug him.\"\n\n\"If he pinches _my_ ass, I'll slug him. Your ass is your business, darling.'' I pinched her behind, and she jumped and giggled as the heavy oak door swung open to reveal don Bellarosa himself. He was smiling. \" _Benvenuto a nostra casa_.\"\n\n\" _Grazie_ ,'' Susan replied, smiling back.\n\n\"Come in, come in,'' said Mr. Bellarosa in plain English.\n\nI shook hands with my host on my way in, and Susan got a kiss on both cheeks, Italian style. This was going to be a long night.\n\nWe entered a cavernous colonnaded vestibule, a sort of palm court or atrium as they say now. The floor of the court was red quarry tile, and all around the court were pink marble columns that held up stucco arches. Without gawking, I could see a second tier of columns and arches above the first, from which protruded wrought-iron balconies. All the lighting was indirect and dramatic, and covering the entire court was a dome of glass and iron filigree. More interesting, I thought, was that on both levels of the colonnade, hung amid the flowering plants and the potted palms, were dozens of cages in which were brightly plumed tropical birds, squawking and chirping away. The whole thing seemed to me a cross between a public aviary in Rio de Janeiro and an upscale florist shop in a Florida mall.\n\nMr. Bellarosa, always the subtle and self-effacing gentleman, said, \"Hell of a front hall, right?\"\n\n\"It's beautiful,'' Susan said breathlessly.\n\nBellarosa looked at me expectantly.\n\nI inquired, \"How do you get the bird shit out of the cages up there?\"\n\nSusan threw me a mean look, but Frank explained. It had to do with a thirty-foot ladder on wheels that he'd had specially built. Very interesting.\n\nBellarosa looked me over. \"You're all dressed up.\"\n\nI realized he had never seen me in my Brooks Brothers' armor, and lest he think I had dressed for him, I said, \"I came directly from work.\"\n\n\"Ah.\"\n\nBellarosa, I should mention, was dressed casually in gray slacks and a white polo shirt, which accented a new tan. I snuck a look at his shoes and saw he was wearing sandals with socks. As if this wasn't bad enough, the socks were yellow. I wanted to draw Susan's attention to Bellarosa's feet but didn't have the opportunity. Around here, incidentally, when we have people to our home, the men usually wear tie and jacket to make sure they're not comfortable. The women wear whatever women wear. In this case, I found that I was slightly annoyed about the clingy red dress. But, she looked good in red, and I was both proud and jealous.\n\nBellarosa had turned his attention to Susan and asked, \"How's the barn coming?\"\n\n\"The . . . it's coming apart quite well,'' Susan replied. \"But can they put it back together?\"\n\nBellarosa laughed politely. Haw, haw. He said, \"Dominic knows his stuff. But he might sneak in a few Roman arches on you.\"\n\nThey shared a laugh. Haw, haw. Ha, ha.\n\n\"Come on,'' said Mr. Bellarosa, motioning for us to follow. \"Why are we standing here?\"\n\nBecause you made us stand here, Frank.\n\nWe followed our host to the left through one of the archways of the palm court and entered a long, empty room that smelled of fresh paint. Bellarosa stopped and asked me, \"What is this room?\"\n\n\"Is this a test?\"\n\n\"No, I mean, I can't figure it out. We got a living room, we got a dining room, we got rooms, rooms, rooms. What's this?\"\n\nI looked around. \"Not a bathroom.\"\n\nSusan interjected, \"It's . . . actually _this_ is the dining room.\"\n\nBellarosa looked at her. \"You sure?\"\n\n\"Yes. I was in this house when the last family lived here.\"\n\n\"That stupid decorator . . . then what's the room over there?'' He pointed through an archway.\n\n\"That is the morning room,'' Susan informed him.\n\n\"Morning room?\"\n\nI could have had fun with that one, but I left it alone.\n\n\"It doesn't matter,'' Susan assured him. \"These old houses are used in different ways now. Whatever works best for you.\"\n\n\"Except,'' I said helpfully, \"you can't cook in the bathroom, or go to the bathroom in\u2014\"\n\n\"John,'' Susan interrupted, \"we get the idea, darling.\"\n\nWe followed Mr. Bellarosa through the newly discovered dining room, then through the archway that led to the morning room. It was a rather large room, right off the butler's pantry, which in turn led to the kitchen. Bellarosa seemed not in the least embarrassed to be entertaining us in the morning room\u2014sometimes called the breakfast room\u2014since, until very recently, he thought it was the dining room. But to be fair, I could see how a peasant might get confused. He pulled out two chairs at one end of a long dining table. \"Sit,'' he commanded.\n\nWe sat. Mr. Bellarosa went to a sideboard from which he took a tray of cordials and crystal glasses that he set on the table in front of us. \"Here. Help yourselves. Don't be shy. I'll be back in five minutes.\"\n\nHe went through a swinging door into the butler's pantry, and I watched his retreating back as he headed for the kitchen. The door swung closed. Five, four, three, two, one\u2014\n\n\"John, you were a bore.\"\n\n\"Thank you.'' I examined one of the bottles. \"Sambuca, my dear?\"\n\n\"Behave. I'm serious.\"\n\n\"All right. I don't want to get us killed.'' I poured us both a glass of sambuca. There was a plate of coffee beans on the tray, and I dropped a bean into each glass. I raised my glass to Susan. \"Cheers.\"\n\n\" _Centanni_.\"\n\nWe drank. I asked, \"What was that about the Cosa Nostra?\"\n\n\" _Nostra casa_ , John. Our house. Welcome to our house.\"\n\n\"Oh. Why didn't he say so?'' I looked around the room as I sipped my cordial. The room was oriented to the south and east like most morning rooms to catch the rising sun at breakfast. Nowadays, this room in a mansion is used for almost all family meals as it is usually located close to the kitchen, but I suspected the Bellarosas ate in the kitchen and did their formal entertaining in the breakfast room, or perhaps the basement.\n\nThe south and east walls of the room were all windows, and as I was looking out, colored floodlights suddenly came on, illuminating the newly reclaimed gardens in hues of red, blue, and green. I said to Susan, \"The motion detectors must have picked up an approaching hit squad. If you hear gunshots, hit the floor.\"\n\n\"John.\"\n\n\"Sorry.\"\n\n\"And keep your voice low, please.\"\n\nI grunted and poured two more. I like sambuca. It reminds me of penny licorice sticks. I surveyed the rest of the room. The furnishings were a sort of dark, formal Mediterranean, I guess, and seemed to go with the rest of the house.\n\nSusan, too, was evaluating the place and commented softly, \"Not bad. He said they had a decorator, but they're not using anyone around here, or I'd know about it.\"\n\n\"That's why they're not using anyone around here, Susan, or you'd even know Mrs. Bellarosa's bra size.\"\n\nShe smiled. \"Well, whoever they're using doesn't know a dining room from a breakfast room.\"\n\n\"But you straightened that out in your tactful way,'' I said.\n\nShe laughed. \"What was I supposed to say?\"\n\nI shrugged and poured my second or third. I was mellowing out a bit and decided to stop baiting Susan, who was nearly blameless for our being there. I asked her, \"Did anyone buy this place after the Barretts left?\"\n\n\"No. It just sat vacant.'' She stayed silent a moment, then added, \"In my junior year when I was home for spring break, Katie Barrett called me from the city. I hadn't heard from her in years. I met her at Locust Valley station and drove her here. We walked around for a long while, talking about when we were kids. It was sort of sad.\"\n\nI didn't say anything.\n\nSusan continued, \"Then, a few years later, this place was infested with squatters. Some sort of hippie commune. They lived here without water or electricity, and in the winter they burned whatever wood they could find in the fireplaces. Everyone on Grace Lane complained, but the police took their time about getting them out.\"\n\nI nodded. The sixties were sort of a test to see how much anarchy the system could take, and as it turned out, the system backed off.\n\nSusan added, \"I remember my father was angry with the police. He told them that the bank didn't take so long to get the Barretts out and they owned the place.\"\n\nAgain I nodded. There was certainly a moral there, and it had something to do with authority versus power, with voluntary compliance versus come and get me, pigs. Frank understood that. I said, \"Well, maybe the police will run Mr. Bellarosa off.\"\n\n\"Not if he pays his taxes, John.\"\n\n\"True.'' I guess I came into the picture here after the hippies, and I recall that Alhambra was used a few times for designer showcases. Although I never availed myself of the opportunity to see what these strange people do to the great houses, I've been told by other men that interior decorators with cans of mauve paint and rolls of iridescent wallpaper could do more damage to a vacant mansion than a hundred vandals.\n\nI recalled, also, that in the middle and late seventies there were a few charity functions held at Alhambra, either in the house or on the half-acre patio in the summer. If the plumbing still works in these old mansions, and if the Long Island Lighting Company is paid up front for turning on the juice, then these houses can be rented from the bank or the county on a short-term basis for charity events, tours, designer showcases, movie sets, and such. So homes that once held Vanderbilts, Astors, and the like are now available to anyone with a few bucks and a need for floor space.\n\nSusan once went to one of these charity things without me\u2014a Save the Beluga Caviar Sturgeon benefit or something\u2014but this was the first time I'd ever actually been inside Alhambra, though I knew that in the last fifteen years or so, it had really fallen apart\u2014its plumbing gone, windows broken, roof leaking\u2014becoming unfit for interior decorators and even the charity ball crowd, who will usually dance and eat anywhere for a good cause.\n\nIn most respects, Alhambra's history is not much different from a few dozen other great houses that I know of. I asked Susan, \"Didn't you tell me you were here right before Bellarosa bought this place?\"\n\n\"Yes, last autumn with Jessica Reid, the realtor, and a few other ladies. We were just snooping around. Jessica had a key, though you didn't need one because half the padlocks were broken.\"\n\n\"I guess none of you bought the place.\"\n\n\"It was really in awful condition. There were squirrels in the house, and birds had built nests all over.\"\n\n\"There are still birds in the house.\"\n\n\"Well, anyway, it was sad, you know, John, because I remember it as a happy, loving home when the Barretts lived here. But now it's coming alive again. It's amazing what a few hundred thousand dollars can do.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is, which is nothing. Try a few million. And he's not done yet. Maybe this place will be what brings down the don. Join the home improvement club, Frank. Bottomless pit.\"\n\n\"See, you two have something in common already.\"\n\n\"Yes. He told me that Mrs. Bellarosa wants to move the reflecting pool six feet to the left.\"\n\n\"John.\"\n\n\"Sorry.'' I had another drink. Maybe the sambuca wasn't mellowing me. Maybe it makes people mean. I glanced at my watch. More than five minutes had gone by, and I was beginning to wonder if Bellarosa was pulling his Mussolini routine. Then I noticed a telephone on a small stand across the room. It was an elaborate instrument with several lines, one of which was lit. The don was dialing and dealing.\n\nI looked around the room again and saw now above the sideboard a cheaply framed print. It was Christ, his arms outstretched, with a bright-red heart\u2014a stylized exoskeletal organ\u2014shining from his breast. At the bottom of the print were the words _Sacred Heart of Jesus._ I drew Susan's attention to the picture.\n\nShe studied it a moment, then observed, \"It looks very Catholic.\"\n\n\"Looks like a pistol target.\"\n\n\"Don't be blasphemous.'' Susan turned back to me. \"You see, they're religious people. A religious person wouldn't be mixed up with''\u2014she lowered her voice to a whisper\u2014\"with drugs, prostitution, or any of that.\"\n\n\"I never thought of that,'' I said dryly.\n\nI must admit that despite my cavalier attitude, I was a bit concerned about meeting Mrs. Bellarosa. Not that I'd done anything particularly offensive or threatening\u2014I'd just growled at her on my hands and knees\u2014but that might be hard to explain if she called me out on it. Or worse yet, she might be the hysterical type. I had a mental picture of her screaming and pointing at me. \"Frank! Frank! He's the one! He's the one! Kill him!\"\n\nThat wouldn't get us off on the right foot at all. I realized I shouldn't have come here, but I knew I would probably bump into Mrs. Bellarosa eventually. Though if enough time had been allowed to pass, she might forget what I looked like, or I could grow a mustache.\n\nWith that thought, an idea came to me. As nonchalantly as I could, I took my reading glasses out of my breast pocket and put them on. I pulled a few bottles toward me and began reading the labels.\n\nOut of the corner of my eye, I saw Susan looking at me. She asked, \"Interesting?\"\n\n\"Yes. Listen to this. 'Capella is a unique liqueur, produced from the nicciole, which is a native Italian nut. Capella is produced and bottled in Torino\u2014'\"\n\n\"Are you drunk?\"\n\n\"Not yet.'' I poured another sambuca for both of us.\n\n\"That's enough.\"\n\n\"He said not to be shy.\"\n\nWe drank in silence a few more minutes. The light on the telephone was out now, but then the phone rang once and was picked up somewhere, and a line button stayed lit. I pictured the don in the kitchen, supervising coffee and dessert while he was doing business on the phone, writing names on the wall of people to be killed.\n\n\"Are you going to keep your glasses on?\"\n\nI turned back to Susan. \"Yes.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Why is it that you never painted this place?'' I asked, sort of changing the subject.\n\nShe seemed momentarily confused by the sudden shift but replied, \"I suppose it was too sad. But I did take a roll of color slides when I was here with Jessica. Mostly of the palm court. You should have seen what it looked like.\"\n\n\"Tell me.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll show you the slides. Why are you wearing\u2014\"\n\n\"Tell me what it looked like when you were here.\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"Well . . . the glass dome was broken, and water had gotten in. There was _grass_ growing on the floor, lichen mushrooms, moss on the walls, and ferns growing out of cracks in the stucco. An incredibly good study of ruin and decay.'' She added, \"I thought I might paint it from the slides.\"\n\nI looked at her. \"I do not want you selling them a painting.\"\n\nShe replied, \"I thought I'd give it to them as our housewarming gift.\"\n\nI shook my head.\n\n\"They would appreciate it, John. Italians love art.\"\n\n\"Sure.'' I cocked my head toward the Sacred Heart of Jesus print on the wall. \"Listen, Susan, that is much too extravagant. It could take you months to complete a canvas. And you _never_ gave one away before. Not even to family. You charged your father six thousand dollars for the painting of the love temple.\"\n\n\"He commissioned it. This is a different situation. I _want_ to paint Alhambra's palm court as a ruin. Also, we came here empty-handed, and finally, we owe him a big favor for the stable.\"\n\n\"No, I'm all evened up with him on favors\u2014I gave him free advice. And I'll give you some free advice\u2014don't get involved.\"\n\n\" _I_ don't feel we have repaid the favor, and if I want to\u2014\"\n\n\"What happened to the Casa Bellarosa sign in mother-of-pearl? Better yet, why don't you bake them a cake? No\u2014maybe that's not a good idea. How about a bushel of horse manure for his garden?\"\n\n\"Are you finished?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nBut before we could have a fight, Mr. Frank Bellarosa burst through the swinging door, rear end first, carrying a big electric coffee urn. \"Okay, here's the coffee.'' He set the urn on the sideboard and plugged it in. \"We got espresso, too, if anybody wants.'' He took the seat at the head of the table and poured himself a glass of capella. \"You try this yet?'' he asked me.\n\n\"No,'' I replied, \"but I know that it's made from the nicciole nut.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Like a hazelnut. How'd you know that?\"\n\nI smiled at Susan and answered Bellarosa. \"I read the label.\" \"Oh, yeah.'' He took some roasted coffee beans out of the dish and dropped two into Susan's glass and two into mine. He said, \"You either put no beans in, or you put three. Never more and never less.\"\n\nDamned if I was going to ask him why, but Susan bit. \"Why?'' she asked.\n\n\"Tradition,'' Bellarosa replied. \"No\u2014superstition,'' he admitted with a soft chuckle. \"The Italians are very superstitious. The three beans are for good luck.\"\n\n\"That's fascinating,'' Susan said.\n\nActually, it was bullshit. I asked Bellarosa, \"Are you superstitious?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"I believe in good luck and bad luck. Don't you?\"\n\n\"No,'' I replied, \"I'm a Christian.\"\n\n\"What's that got to do with it?\"\n\n\"Everything,'' I informed him.\n\n\"Yeah?'' He thought a moment, then said, \"Yeah, I know what you're saying. But with the Italians, you got evil omens, evil signs, good omens, three coins in the fountain, three beans in the sambuca, and all that stuff.\"\n\n\"That's pagan,'' I said.\n\nHe nodded. \"Yeah. But you got to respect it. You just don't know.'' He looked at me. \"You just don't know.'' He changed the subject. \"Anyway, I got no cappuccino. I bought a beautiful machine direct from a restaurant when I was in Naples a few months ago. I had it shipped, but I think it got swiped at Kennedy. The guy in Naples says he sent it, and I believe him, so I asked around Kennedy, and nobody knows nothing. Right? And the Feds complain about organized crime there. You think organized crime steals coffee machines? No. I'll tell you who steals there\u2014the _melanzane_.'' He looked at Susan. _\"Capisce?\"_\n\n\"The eggplants?\"\n\nBellarosa smiled. \"Yeah. The eggplants. The blacks. And the Spanish, and the punk airport rent-a-cops. _They_ steal. But whenever there's a problem anyplace, it's organized crime, organized crime. Wrong. It's _dis_ organized crime that's screwing up this country. The hopheads and the crazies. _Capisce?\"_ He looked at both of us.\n\nI was, finally, at a loss for words after this bizarre monologue, so what could I say but, \"Capish.\"\n\nBellarosa laughed. \"Ca-peesh. Have another.'' He filled my glass with sambuca, and I tried the word again, but this time in my mind. _Capisce._\n\nSusan, who as I said is a little naive in some ways, asked the head of New York's largest crime family, \"Did you report the theft to customs?\"\n\n\"Sure.'' Bellarosa chuckled. \"That's all I need. Right? The papers get hold of that story and they'd laugh me out of town.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?'' Susan asked.\n\nBellarosa shot me a glance, then said to Susan, \"They think I steal from the airport.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see. That _would_ be ironic.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Ironic.'' Bellarosa sipped his capella delicately. \"Ah. Very nice.'' He looked at Susan. \"My wife's coming. She has to make sure everything is perfect. I said to her, 'Relax. These are our neighbors. They're good people.'\" He looked at me. \"But you know how women are. Everything's a big deal. Right?\"\n\n\"No comment,'' I replied wisely. Just then the swinging door opened. I adjusted my eyeglasses and prepared to stand, but it was not Mrs. Bellarosa. It was a homely young woman in a plain black dress and a maid's apron, carrying a tray. She placed the tray on the sideboard, then set the table with cups and saucers, silverware, napkins, and such. She turned and left wordlessly, with no bow, curtsy, or even an Italian salute.\n\nBellarosa said, \"That's Filomena. She's from the other side.\"\n\n\"The other side of what?'' I inquired.\n\n\"The other side. Italy. She doesn't speak much English, which is all right with me. But these _paesan'_ pick it up fast. Not like your Spanish. You wanna get ahead in this country, you gotta speak the language.'' He added, \"Poor Filomena, she's so ugly she could never marry an American boy. I told her if she stayed with me three years and didn't learn English, I'd give her a dowry and she could go back to Naples and get herself a man. But she wants to stay here and be an American. I'll have to find somebody blind for her.\"\n\nI looked at Bellarosa. This was indeed the don, the _padrone,_ in his element, running people's lives for them, being both cruel and generous.\n\nSusan asked him, \"Do you speak Italian?\"\n\nHe made a little motion with his hand. _\"Cos\u00ed, cos\u00ed.''_ He added, \"I get by. The _Napoletan'_ understand me. That's what I am. _Napoletano._ But the _Sicilian_ '\u2014the Sicilians\u2014who can understand them? They're not Italian.'' He asked Susan, \"Where did you learn Italian?\"\n\n\"Why do you think I know Italian?\"\n\n\"Dominic told me.'' He smiled. \"He said to me\u2014in Italian\u2014'Padrone, this American lady with red hair speaks Italian!'\" Bellarosa laughed. \"He was amazed.\"\n\nSusan smiled. \"Actually, I don't speak it well. It was my language in school. I took it because I majored in fine arts.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Well, I'm going to test you later.\"\n\nAnd so we chatted for another ten minutes or so, and I'd be lying if I told you it wasn't entertaining. The man knew how to hold court and tell stories, and although nothing of any importance or even intelligence was said, Bellarosa was lively and animated, using more hand gestures and facial expression in ten minutes than I use in a year. He filled everyone's glass with sambuca, then changed his mind and insisted we try amaretto, which he poured into fresh glasses while he continued to talk.\n\nThis was a man who obviously enjoyed life, which, I suppose, was understandable for a person who knew firsthand how suddenly it could be cut short. I asked him bluntly, \"Do you have bodyguards here in the house, or just Anthony out there?\"\n\nHe looked at me and didn't reply for a long time, then answered, \"Mr. Sutter, a man of wealth in this country, as in Italy, must protect himself and his family against kidnapping and terrorism.\"\n\n\"Not in Lattingtown,'' I assured him. \"We have very strict village ordinances here.\"\n\nBellarosa smiled. \"We have a very strict rule, too, Mr. Sutter, and maybe you know about it. The rule is this\u2014you never touch a man in his own house or in front of his family. So nobody in this neighborhood should worry about things like that. Okay?\"\n\nThe conversation had turned interesting. I replied, \"Perhaps you can attend the next village meeting and assure everyone for the record.\"\n\nBellarosa looked at me but said nothing.\n\nFeeling reckless, I pushed on. \"So then, why do you have security here?\"\n\nHe leaned toward me and spoke softly. \"You asked me what I learned at La Salle. I'll tell you one thing I learned. No matter what kind of peace treaties you got, you post a twenty-four-hour guard. That keeps everybody honest, and makes people sleep better. Don't worry about it.'' He patted my shoulder. \"You're safe here.\"\n\nI smiled in return and pointed out helpfully, \"You've got double protection, Mr. Bellarosa, compliments of the American taxpayer. _Capisce?\"_\n\nHe laughed, then snorted. \"Yeah. They watch the front gate, but I watch my ass.'' He inquired, \"So, you know about that, do you, Mr. Sutter? How'd you know about that?\"\n\nI was about to reply, but I felt a kick in the ankle. A kick in the ankle, of course, does not mean \"You're being so charming and witty, my dear, please go on.\"\n\nSusan asked our host, \"Can I help Mrs. Bellarosa in the kitchen?\"\n\n\"No, no. She's okay. She makes a big deal. I'll tell you what she's doing now, because I know. She's stuffing cannoli. You know, when you buy them already stuffed, they sometimes get soggy, even in the good bakeries. So my wife, she gets the shells separate, and she gets the cream or makes it herself, and she stuffs, stuffs, stuffs. With a spoon.\"\n\nSusan nodded, a bit uncertainly, I thought.\n\nIt sort of surprised me, I guess, that this man was so artless and ingenuous, and that his wife was in the kitchen of their mansion stuffing pastry with a spoon. He wasn't putting on any airs for the Sutters, that was for sure. I didn't know if I was touched or annoyed.\n\nAnyway, the door opened again, and in came a full-bodied blonde, carrying a huge tray, heaped with enough pastries to feed a medium-size Chinese city. I could barely see the woman's face, but her arms were stretched way out so that the pastry could clear her breasts, and I knew in a flash it must be Mrs. B. I stood, and so did Bellarosa, who took the tray from the woman and said, \"This is my wife, Anna.'' He put the tray on the table. \"Anna, this is Mr. and Mrs. Sutter.\"\n\nAnna brushed her hands on her hips and smiled. \"Hello.'' She and Susan shook hands, then she turned to me.\n\nOur eyes met, our hands touched, our lips smiled, her brow wrinkled. I said, \"I'm very pleased to meet you.'' She kept looking at me, and I could almost hear the old synapses making connections between her narrowed eyes. Click, click, click. She asked, \"Didn't we meet or something?\"\n\nIt was the \"or something'' that caused me some anxiety. \"I think I saw you in Loparo's,'' I said, mentioning the name of the Italian market in Locust Valley in which I wouldn't be caught dead.\n\n\"Yeah,'' she agreed without conviction. \"No,'' she changed her mind. \"No . . . I'll think of it.\"\n\nIf I were a real man, I would have ripped off my glasses, jumped on the floor, and revealed my true identity. But I didn't see what good could come of that.\n\n\"Why are we all standing?'' asked Mr. Bellarosa, who also couldn't understand why we had stood around in the palm court. \"Sit, sit,'' he commanded. We sat and he poured his wife an amaretto. We all made small talk.\n\nMrs. Bellarosa was sitting directly across the table from me, which I didn't like, but it gave me the advantage of watching for signs that she was beginning to recall her terrifying Easter morning. If you're interested, she was wearing what I think are called hostess pajamas. They were sort of an iridescent orange, but the color kept changing every time she moved. She wore huge triangular gold earrings, which, if connected to a shortwave radio, could have picked up Naples. Around her neck was a gold cross sort of nestled in her cleavage, and for some reason I was reminded of Christ of the Andes. Also, five out of her ten fingers held gold rings, and on each of her wrists were gold bangles. If she fell into the reflecting pool, I wondered, would the gold sink her right to the bottom, or would the buoyancy of those two big lungs keep her afloat?\n\nI should say something about her looks. She was not unattractive. It depends on what you like. The makeup was overdone, but I could see she had fair skin for an Italian woman. Her eyes were hazel, her full lips were painted emergency-exit red, and her hair, as I said, was bleached blond. I could see the dark roots. She seemed pleasant enough, smiled easily, and had surprisingly graceful gestures. She also wore a nice perfume.\n\nI don't know what a Mafia don's wife should look like, since you never see one in public or on the news, but I guessed that Anna Bellarosa was better looking than most. Sometimes, when I'm in my male-chauvinist-pig mode\u2014which, thank God, is infrequent\u2014I try to imagine if I would go to bed with a woman I have just met. So, I looked at Anna Bellarosa.\n\nWhen I was in college, there were five classifications for a woman's looks, based on the maximum light you would want on in the bedroom. There were the three-way-bulb women\u2014100-watt, 70-watt, and 30-watt. After that you had your nightlight-only women, and finally all-lights-out.\n\nAnna Bellarosa saw me looking at her and smiled. She had a nice smile. So, I figured, with the number of drinks I'd already had, I'd probably turn on the 70-watt bulb.\n\nFrank Bellarosa proposed a toast: \"To our new neighbors and new friends.\"\n\nI drank to that, though I had my fingers crossed under the table. Sure I'm superstitious.\n\nWe chatted awhile, and Susan made a big deal over the pile of pastry, then complimented the Bellarosas on all the work they were doing on Alhambra. We tossed around a few new names for the estate, and I suggested Casa Cannoli. Frank Bellarosa inquired about Susan's vegetable garden, and Anna asked me if I wanted to take off my coat and tie. I certainly did not. And so it went for ten or fifteen minutes, breaking the ice as they say, until finally Frank Bellarosa said, \"Hey, call me Frank. Okay? And my wife is Anna.\"\n\nSusan, of course, said, \"Please call me Susan.\"\n\nIt was my turn. I said, \"John.\"\n\n\"Good,'' said Frank.\n\nI've never been on a first-name basis with a Mafia don, and I was just thrilled. I couldn't wait to get to The Creek with the news.\n\nMrs. Bellarosa stood and served coffee from the urn. We all helped ourselves to the pastry. The coffee and pastry were superb. No complaints there.\n\nThe conversation turned to children, as it usually does with parents, whether they be kings and queens, or thieves and whores. Parenting is the great equalizer, or more optimistically, a common human bond. I loosened up a bit, partly because of Mrs. Bellarosa's presence, but partly because I felt oddly at ease.\n\nAnna Bellarosa told us all about her three sons in detail, then added, \"I don't want them in the family business, but Tony\u2014that's the one at La Salle\u2014wants to be in business with his father. He idolizes his father.\"\n\nFrank Bellarosa said, \"I got into the family business through my uncle. My father said, 'Stay out of that business, Frank. It's not good for you.' But did I listen? No. Why? I thought my uncle was a hero. He always had money, cars, clothes, women. My father had nothing. Kids look for what you call role models. Right? I think back now, and my father was the hero. He broke his tail six days a week to put food on the table. There were five kids and things were tough. But all around us was money. In America you see too much money. The country is rich, even stupid people can be rich here. So people say, 'Why can't I be rich?' In this country if you're poor, you're _worse_ than a criminal.'' He looked at me and repeated, \"In America if you're poor, you're _worse_ than a criminal. You're nobody.\"\n\n\"Well,'' I said, \"some people would still rather be poor but honest.\"\n\n\"I don't know nobody like that. But anyway, my oldest guy, Frankie, he's got no head for the family business, so I sent him to college, then set him up in a little thing of his own in Jersey. Tommy is the one in Cornell. He wants to run a big hotel in Atlantic City or Vegas. I'll set him up with Frankie in Atlantic City. Tony, the one at La Salle, is another case. He wants in.'' Bellarosa smiled. \"The little punk wants my job. You know what? If he wants it bad enough, he'll have it.\"\n\nI cleared my throat and observed, \"It's not easy to bring up kids today with all the sex, violence, drugs, Nintendo.\"\n\n\"Yeah. But sex is okay. How about your kids?\"\n\nSusan replied, \"Carolyn is at Yale, and Edward is graduating from St. Paul's in June.\"\n\n\"They gonna be lawyers?\"\n\nSusan replied, \"Carolyn is pre-law. Edward is somewhat vague. I think because he knows he will inherit a good deal of money from his grandparents, he has lost some of his motivation.\"\n\nI've never heard Susan say this to anyone, not even me, and I was a bit annoyed at her for revealing family secrets in front of these people. But I suppose the Bellarosas were so far beyond our social circle that it didn't matter. Still, I felt I had to say something in Edward's defense. I said, \"Edward is a typical seventeen-year-old boy. His main ambition at the moment is to get\u2014is girls.\"\n\nBellarosa laughed. \"Yeah.'' He asked, \"He's graduating college at seventeen?\"\n\n\"No,'' I replied. \"St. Paul's is a prep school.'' Talking to these people was like reinventing the wheel. I asked Bellarosa, \"Did you go to La Salle on scholarship?\"\n\n\"No. My uncle paid. The uncle who took me into the family business. One less mouth to feed for my old man.\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\nAnna had another wifely complaint. \"Frank spends too much time at work. He's not enjoying his new house. Even when he's home, he's on the phone, people come here to talk business. I'm always telling him, 'Frank, take it easy. You're going to kill yourself.'\"\n\nI glanced at Bellarosa to see if he appreciated the irony of that last remark, but he seemed impassive. For about half a second I thought I had made a terrible mistake and that Mr. Frank Bellarosa was just an overworked entrepreneur.\n\nSusan chimed in, \"John doesn't keep long office hours, but he brings home a _briefcase_ full of work every night. Though he does take Saturdays off, and of course he won't work on the Sabbath.\"\n\nBellarosa said to Susan, \"And he took Easter Monday off. Wouldn't talk business with me.'' He looked at me. \"I know a couple of Protestants. They don't work Sundays neither. Catholics will work on a Sunday. What if you had a real big case in court on Monday?\"\n\n\"Then,'' I informed him, \"I work on Sunday. The Lord wouldn't want me to make a fool of myself in front of a Catholic or Jewish judge.\"\n\nHa, ha, ha. Haw, haw, haw. Even I smiled at my own wit. The sambuca was finally working its magic.\n\nBellarosa, in fact, picked up the bottle and poured some into my coffee, then everyone's coffee. \"This is the way we drink it.\"\n\nThe coffee had steamed my glasses a few times, and I wiped them with my handkerchief without taking them off, which caused Susan to look at me with puzzlement. Anna Bellarosa, too, gave me a few curious looks. So far, the conversation had not touched on the unfortunate occurrence at Alhambra on Easter morning, and I hoped that Frank Bellarosa had forgotten his request that I speak to his wife about how nice and safe this area was. But Susan asked Anna, \"Do you miss Brooklyn?'' and I knew where that was going.\n\nAnna glanced at her husband, then replied, \"I'm not allowed to say.'' She laughed.\n\nBellarosa snorted. \"These Brooklyn Italian women\u2014I tell you, you can move them to Villa Borghese, and they still bitch about being out of Brooklyn.\"\n\n\"Oh, Frank, _you_ don't have to sit home all day. You get to go back to the old neighborhood.\"\n\n\"Listen to her. Sit home. She's got a car and driver and goes to Brooklyn to see her mother and her crazy relatives whenever she wants.\"\n\n\"It's not the same, Frank. It's lonely here.'' A little light bulb popped on in her head. I saw it, but before I could change the subject, she said, \"How about Easter morning?'' She looked at me. \"I was walking out back on Easter morning, out near the pool we got out there, and this man''\u2014she shuddered\u2014\"this maniac is there, on his hands and knees like an animal, growling at me.\"\n\n\"Really?'' I asked, adjusting my glasses.\n\n\"My goodness!'' Susan exclaimed.\n\nAnna turned to Susan. \"I ran and lost my shoes.\"\n\nFrank said, \"I told John about that. He said he never heard of anything like that before. Right, John?\"\n\n\"Right, Frank.'' I asked, \"So, your son Frankie lives in New Jersey?\"\n\nSusan asked Anna, \"Did you call the police?\"\n\nAnna glanced at her husband again and replied, \"Frank doesn't like to bother with the police.\"\n\n\"I got my own security here,'' Bellarosa reminded us. \"There's nothing to worry about.\"\n\nAnna complained, \"It's scary here at night when Frank's away. It's too quiet.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,'' I suggested, \"you can get a recording of Brooklyn street noises.\"\n\nAnna Bellarosa smiled uncertainly, as if this weren't a bad idea.\n\nBellarosa said to me, \"When you try to make them happy, or you try to compromise with them, they think you're a faggot.\"\n\nI glanced at Susan to see how she reacted to that statement and saw she was smiling. I should point out that Susan is not a feminist. The women's movement is considered by women of Susan's class to be a middle-class problem that needs middle-class solutions. Women of Susan's class have owned property, entered into contracts, and gone to college for so many generations that they don't fully comprehend what all the fuss is about. As for equal pay for equal work, they're very sympathetic to that, as they are to starving children in Africa, and have about as much firsthand knowledge of the one as they do of the other. Maybe they will have a charity ball for underpaid female executives. Anyway, I mention this because many women would be somewhat offended by Frank Bellarosa's offhanded sexist remarks. But Susan Stanhope, whose family was one of the Four Hundred, is no more offended by a man such as Frank Bellarosa making sexist remarks than I would be offended by Sally Ann of the Stardust Diner telling me that all men were alcoholics, women beaters, and liars. In other words, you had to consider the source.\n\nAnyway, Bellarosa made another pronouncement, this one, I guess, to balance his misogynist remarks. He said, \"Italian men can't compromise. That's why their women are always mad at them. But Italian women respect their men for not compromising. But when Italian men don't agree with each other on something, and they won't compromise, then there's a problem.\"\n\nFollowed, I thought, by a quick solution, like murder. I asked, \"So Frankie's in New Jersey?\"\n\n\"Yeah. I helped him buy into a thing in Atlantic City. None of my sons is ever going to work for nobody. Nobody's going to be over them. They got to have men under them. Either you're your own boss in this world, or you're nobody. You're your own boss, right?\"\n\n\"Sort of.\"\n\n\"Nobody says nothing when you come in late, right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"So, there you are.\"\n\nAnd there I was, off the subject of Easter morning. It was easy to change subjects with Mr. Bellarosa, who seemed to have no agenda for social conversation but switched subjects in midsentence the moment something else popped into his head. Business, I knew, was another matter. I knew the type. And I also knew that Mrs. Bellarosa was not going to bring up the subject of the Easter monster again.\n\nAnd so we talked for the next hour. We finished the urn of coffee\u2014about twenty cups\u2014and the second bottle of sambuca. The pile of pastry had dropped about six inches. I had, early in the evening, discovered that refusing food or drink was futile. _\"Mangia, mangia,\"_ said Mrs. Bellarosa, laughing, stopping just short of shoving pastry in my mouth. \"Drink, drink,'' commanded Mr. Bellarosa, filling cups and glasses with any liquid within his reach.\n\nI went to the bathroom three times and each time considered throwing up in the toilet bowl, to purge myself, Roman style. When in Rome, to paraphrase St. Ambrose, use the vomitorium as the Romans do. But I couldn't bring myself to do that.\n\nOn one of my returns from the bathroom, I saw that Mrs. Bellarosa had disappeared, probably into the kitchen, and Susan and Frank were sitting at the table alone. Before she saw me, I heard Susan say the words \"palm court'' and feared she was making her pitch to paint the palm court. But when I sat down, she seemed to change the topic and said to me, \"I was telling Frank about our trip to Italy a few years ago.\"\n\n\"Were you?\"\n\nMrs. Bellarosa returned with Filomena, who was carrying a platter of chocolates. I sat down, trying not to get a whiff of the chocolates or of anything on the table. I asked Mrs. Bellarosa for some club soda, and she said something to Filomena, who left and returned with a bottle of something called Pellegrino and a glass. I had a glass of the mineral water, belched discreetly, and felt better.\n\nAs the conversation continued without my participation, I regarded Anna Bellarosa. She was deferential toward her husband, which was, of course, what her prenuptial agreement called for. But now and then she showed some Italian fire, and the don backed off. From what I gathered during the conversation, and the dynamics I observed between them, Anna Bellarosa, as the wife of don Bellarosa, had the status of a queen and the rights of a slave. And as the mother of his children, she was the _madonna_ , revered like Mary for the fruit of her womb. Anna Bellarosa had borne three sons, suckled them, saw to their religious education, then let go of them when the father was ready to take charge of their lives, and perhaps in the case of Tony, of the boy's death. How very different this family was from my own.\n\nI noticed, too, that Anna Bellarosa, despite her good humor and easy laugh, had sad, faraway eyes, as if, I thought, decades of worry had dimmed the sparkle that must once have accompanied the laugh.\n\nBellarosa stood abruptly, and I thought the evening was over, but he said, \"Anna, show Susan around the house. She wants to see the place. John, come with me.\"\n\nThe four of us made our way into the dining room, and Bellarosa informed his wife, \" _This_ is the dining room. Where we were is the _morning_ room. For breakfast. I want you to ask Susan what all these rooms are. She knows this place. You give each other a tour. Okay?\"\n\nWe all went into the palm court, and Frank took my arm and led me to the staircase. He said to his wife, \"We'll meet you later in the living room. Leave the greenhouse for me to show.'' He corrected himself, \"The conservatory. Right?\"\n\nI caught Susan's eye, and she smiled at me, as if to say, \"See, you're having a good time.'' I know that look. What I couldn't understand was why Susan seemed to be having such a good time. The nine-forty-five headache had not materialized, and being a macho man, I didn't want to complain about my nonexistent hemorrhoids, or admit honestly that I was tired and my Anglo-Saxon stomach was churning with Irish pub food and Italian dessert. So I let my buddy, Frank, steer me up the stairs.\n\nWe both navigated the winding steps without difficulty, and I saw that Bellarosa held his alcohol as well as I did. We got to the second level and walked around the mezzanine that ran in a horseshoe shape above three sides of the palm court. Every twenty feet or so we passed a heavy oak door, and finally Bellarosa stopped at one of them and opened it. \"In here.\"\n\n\"What's in here?\"\n\n\"The library.\"\n\n\"Are we going to read?\"\n\n\"No, we're going to have a cigar.'' He motioned me inside.\n\nAgainst my better judgment, I stepped through the door into the dimly lit room.\n\n**_Sixteen_**\n\nFrank Bellarosa pointed to a black leather armchair. \"Sit.'' I sat. I removed my reading glasses and put them in my breast pocket. Bellarosa took the chair opposite me. I hadn't thought that he was carrying a gun, and in fact saw no reason why he should in his own house. Nor did I see any place he could be packing it under his close-fitting shirt and pants. But when he crossed his legs, I saw the bulge of an ankle holster under his right cuff. He noticed that I noticed and said, \"I'm licensed.\"\n\n\"Me, too.\"\n\n\"You licensed to carry?\"\n\n\"No. To drive. But I don't drive in my house.\"\n\nHe smiled.\n\nIt's very difficult to get a pistol license in New York State, and I wondered how Frank the Bishop Bellarosa had managed it. I asked him, \"New York?\"\n\n\"Yeah. I got a little hunting place in an upstate county. They don't ask a lot of questions up there. I can carry anyplace in the state, but not in the city. You need a special license in the city, and they won't give me one. But that's where I need a gun. Right? The fucking crazies carry. They got a license? No. But I can't take the chance of a gun rap. So I walk around the city clean, so any two-bit junkie can take down Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\nHow unfair. I said, \"How about your bodyguards?\"\n\n\"Oh, sure. But it's not the same as having your own piece. Sometimes the bodyguards take a dive on you. And sometimes they got a new boss the night before, and you don't know about it. _Capisce?\"_\n\n\"Oh, yes. I didn't realize all the stress in your business.\"\n\n\"Hey. You don't want to know.\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\nBetween us was a low table on which was a box of real Havana cigars. Bellarosa opened the box and held it out toward me.\n\n\"I don't smoke.\"\n\n\"Come on. Have a cigar.\"\n\nI took a cigar. In truth, all Wasp lawyers know how to have a cigar, because it's part of certain rituals. I took the cigar out of its metal tube and punctured the end with a silver pick that Bellarosa handed me. Bellarosa lit me up with a gold table lighter, then lit himself up. We puffed billows of smoke into the room. I asked, \"Aren't these illegal?\"\n\n\"Maybe. We'd trade with the devil in hell if we needed fire. But cigars we don't need, so fuck Cuba. Right? Horseshit.\"\n\nSo much for world events. Now, the local news. \"This is your office?\"\n\n\"Yeah. When I first saw it, it was all painted pink and white. Even the wood floor was painted. The real estate lady liked it. She said decorators did it for some kind of show.\"\n\n\"A designer showcase,'' I informed him.\n\n\"Yeah. Every fucking room looked like some fairies got loose with paintbrushes.\"\n\nI looked around. This was the library that Susan had once told me about, the one that had existed in an English manor house and had been purchased by the Dillworths in the 1920s. The shelves were all dark oak, filled with books, though I was certain they were not from the original library. There was a fireplace on one wall, and on the opposite wall were double doors that led out to the balcony from which I'd seen the light when I was riding here in April. In the center of the large room was an oak desk with a green leather top. Behind the desk in a large alcove, sort of a secretary's station, I could make out a word processor, copy machine, telex, and fax. The Mafia had gone high tech.\n\nBellarosa said, \"It cost me five large to get the paint stripped off this room. Then another five for the books. Books go for ten bucks a foot.\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"There's five hundred feet of bookshelf. Books are ten bucks a foot. So that's five large . . . five thousand.'' He added, \"But I had a few books of my own.\"\n\nI guess you can talk money here. I observed, \"That saved you a few bucks.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I had my school books.\"\n\n\"Machiavelli.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Yeah. And Dante. Saint Augustine. You ever read that guy?\"\n\n\"Yes. Have you read Saint Jerome?\"\n\n\"Sure. His collected letters. I told you, those Christian Brothers made me learn.'' He jumped out of his chair, went to a shelf, located a book, and opened it. \"Here's Saint Jerome. I like this. Listen.'' He quoted, \"'My country is prey to barbarism, and in it men's only God is their belly, and they live only for the present.'\" He shut the book. \"So what's new? Right? People don't change. If this guy wasn't a priest, he would've said, 'Their belly and their cock.' Men follow their cocks around and that's how they ruin their lives. You gotta think with your head, not your cock. You got to think of the future before you stick it someplace it don't belong.\"\n\n\"Easier said than done.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Yeah.'' He looked at his books. \"Sometimes I sit here at night with one of these old school books. Sometimes I think I should've been a priest. Except for . . . you know . . . my cock.'' He added, \"Women. Jesus Christ, they drive me nuts.\"\n\nI nodded in sympathy. \"You aren't a real bishop then?\"\n\nHe laughed again and put the book back. \"No. My uncle used to call me his bishop because my head was all full of this stuff from La Salle. He used to say to his friends, 'This is my nephew, the bishop.' Then he'd make me recite something in Latin.\"\n\n\"You speak Latin?\"\n\n\"Nah. Just some stuff I learned by memory.'' He went to a serving cart and took a decanter and two brandy snifters from it and put them on the coffee table. He sat again and poured a dark fluid into the glasses. \"Grappa. You ever have this?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"It's like brandy, but worse.'' He raised his glass to me.\n\nI picked up my glass, we clinked, and I poured it down. I should have listened to Bellarosa's veiled warning about grappa. I can drink anything, but this was something else. I felt my throat burn, then my stomach heaved, and I thought I was about to blow the coffee hour all over the cigars. Through watery eyes I saw Bellarosa watching me over the rim of his glass. I cleared my throat. \" _Mamma mia_. . . .\"\n\n\"Yeah. Sip it.'' He finished his grappa and poured himself another, then held the bottle toward me.\n\n\"No, thanks.'' I tried to breathe, but the cigar smoke was thick. I put my cigar out, stood, and went out onto the balcony.\n\nBellarosa followed, with his cigar and his glass. He said, \"Nice view.\"\n\nI nodded as I breathed the clear night air. My stomach settled down.\n\nHe pointed off in the distance with his cigar. \"What's that place? You can't see it at night. It's like a golf course.\"\n\n\"Yes. Exactly like a golf course. That's The Creek.\"\n\n\"Greek?\"\n\n\"Creek. A country club.\"\n\n\"Yeah? They play golf there?\"\n\n\"Yes. On the golf course.\"\n\n\"You play golf?\"\n\n\"A bit.\"\n\n\"I can't see that game. How's it fun?\"\n\nI thought a moment, then replied, \"Who said it was?'' I added, \"They have skeet shooting, too. Do you shoot?\"\n\nHe laughed.\n\nI thought it was time to let Frank Bellarosa know I was a real man. I said, \"I'm not bad with a shotgun.\"\n\n\"Yeah? I fired a shotgun once.\"\n\n\"Skeet or birds?'' I inquired.\n\nHe stayed silent a moment, then replied, \"Birds. Ducks.'' He added, \"I don't like shotguns.\"\n\n\"How about rifles?'' I asked.\n\n\"Yeah. I belong to a club in the city. The Italian Rifle Club. It's a social club. You probably heard of it.\"\n\nIndeed I had. An interesting establishment in Little Italy, some of whose members had never fired a sporting rifle in their lives, but who found the rifle range in the basement convenient for pistol practice. I asked, \"What type of rifle do you own?\"\n\n\"I don't remember.\"\n\nI tried to recall how the Colombian drug king was murdered. Pistol, I think. Yes, five bullets in the head from close range.\n\n\"You feel better?'' he asked me.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Good.'' Bellarosa sipped his grappa, smoked his contraband cigar, and surveyed his kingdom. He pointed again with the cigar. \"I found a fountain over there and a statue of Neptune. That's where that guy scared the hell out of Anna. You ever seen that?\"\n\n\"Yes. I've ridden all over this land.\"\n\n\"That's right. Anyway, I fixed that whole place up. The pool, the fountain, the statue. I put a statue of the Virgin there, too, and had the whole thing blessed by a priest friend of mine. You gotta see it.\"\n\n\"The priest blessed the statue of Neptune?\"\n\n\"Sure. Why not? Anyway, there was these Roman ruins there, too. Broken columns and all. The landscape guy said it was built like that. That right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Why did they build a ruin?\"\n\n\"That was popular once.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nI shrugged. \"Maybe to remind themselves that nothing is forever.\"\n\n\"Like, _sic transit gloria mundi_.\"\n\nI looked at him. \"Yes. That's it.\"\n\nHe nodded thoughtfully and drew on his cigar.\n\nI gazed out over Alhambra's acres. A half moon was high in a brilliantly clear sky, and a soft breeze blew in from the Sound, bringing with it the smell of the sea, as well as the perfume of May flowers. What a night.\n\nBellarosa, too, seemed to appreciate the moment. \"Brooklyn. Fuck Brooklyn. I go to Italy when I want to get away. I got a place in Italy, outside of Sorrento.\"\n\n\"I've been to Sorrento. Where is your place?\"\n\n\"I can't say. You know? It's a place where I might have to go someday. Only five people know where it is. Me, my wife, and my kids.\"\n\n\"That's smart.\"\n\n\"Yeah. You got to think ahead. But for now, I like it here. Brooklyn's finished.\"\n\nSo was the Gold Coast, but that wasn't so apparent to Frank Bellarosa, who didn't comprehend that he was part of the problem.\n\nHe added, \"We had a nice house in Brooklyn. An old brownstone. Five stories. Beautiful. But it was attached, and the yard was too small to have a big garden. I always wanted land. My grandparents were peasants. It's their old farm that I bought from the people who owned it. But I let the people farm the land for free. I keep the farmhouse. It's white stucco like this, with a red roof. But smaller.\"\n\nWe both stayed silent a moment, then he said, \"You got a whole temple over there. Dominic said you showed him the temple. You got Venus over there.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You people pagans over there?'' He laughed.\n\n\"Sometimes.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I'd like to see that temple.\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"I'd like to see the inside of the big mansion.\"\n\n\"Do you want to buy it?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Half a million.\"\n\n\"I know that.'' He added, \"You could have said more.\"\n\n\"No, I couldn't, because the price is half a million. With ten acres.\"\n\n\"Yeah? How about the whole place?\"\n\n\"About twenty million for the land.\"\n\n_\"Madonn'!_ You got oil on that place?\"\n\n\"No, we got dirt. And there's not much of that left around here. Why would you want another estate?\"\n\n\"I don't know . . . maybe build houses on the land. Can I make money if I build houses?\"\n\n\"Probably. You should be able to make a profit of five or six million.\"\n\n\"What's the catch?\"\n\n\"Well, you have to get permission to subdivide the property.\"\n\n\"Yeah? From who?\"\n\n\"Zoning people. But the neighbors and the environmentalists will hold you up in court.\"\n\nHe thought awhile, and I knew he was trying to figure out who had to be paid off, who had to be offered his best deal, and who had to be actually threatened. I said, \"My wife's parents own the estate. Do you know that?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"That doesn't include my house, and there is a stipulation in any contract that my gatekeeper and his wife live in the gatehouse rent free until they die. But the estate does come with the statue of Venus and she has nice tits.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"I heard.'' He added, \"I'll think about it.\"\n\n\"Fine.'' I thought about William Stanhope sitting down with a Mafia don at the house closing, and I decided I wouldn't take a fee for the pleasure of handling that. Actually, I wouldn't handle it. I still have to live around here. William and Charlotte visit friends here now and then, attend weddings and funerals, and all that. They have kept their Creek membership and on occasion stay in one of The Creek's cottages that are used by retired gentry who return from time to time. But if Frank Bellarosa bought Stanhope Hall, William and Charlotte would never again set foot on the Gold Coast. I liked this possibility, despite my reservations about being surrounded by mafiosi and FBI agents with cameras. I asked Bellarosa, \"How did you happen to find Alhambra?\"\n\n\"I got lost.'' He laughed. \"I was on the expressway, going to a restaurant in Glen Cove. I had to meet a guy there. My stupid driver takes the wrong exit, and we're all over the place trying to find Glen Cove. I notice all these big houses, and we go up the road here and I'm pissed. But then I see the gates of your place there, and I tell the jerk to slow down. Then I see this place, and the house reminds me of the big villas near the water in Sorrento. You know? I can see that the place don't look lived in, so after my lunch thing, I go to a real estate office. I don't know where this place is, but I explain what it looks like. You know? So it takes a week for this dumb real estate lady to get back to me, but she sends me a picture. 'Is this it?' Yeah, so I call her. How much? She tells me. It's owned by the bank, and the tax people got to be taken care of, or something. The bank just wants to dump it. So I pay the bank, pay the taxes, and some people named Barrett get some money, and I'm out about ten mill. _Madonna mia._ But I like the poplar trees. Then I show it to my wife, and she don't like it. Jesus Christ\u2014\"\n\n\"You mean you bought this place without your wife seeing\u2014?\"\n\n\"Yeah. So I say to her, 'I like it, so you better learn to like it.' She starts in, 'It's a wreck, Frank! It's filthy, Frank!' Fucking women can't picture what things are going to look like. Right? So I get the greaseballs on the place and they bust their asses all winter and I take Anna out and she's crying all the way out. But I figure, soon as she sees it, she'll stop crying. But no, she still hates it. It's too far from her crazy mother and her crazy sisters. 'Where's the stores, Frank? Where's the people?' Blah, blah, blah. Fuck the stores, fuck the people. Right?'' He looked at me. \"Right?\"\n\n\"Right. Fuck 'em.\"\n\n\"Right.'' He finished his grappa and drew on his cigar, then flipped the ash over the balustrade. \" _Madonn'_ , they drive you nuts. She misses her church. She used to walk to church three, four times a week and talk to the priests. They were all Italian. Some of them were from the other side. The church here is very nice. I went a few times. Saint Mary's. You know the place? But the priests are all Micks and one Polack, and she won't talk to them. You believe that shit? A priest's a priest, for Christ's sake. Right?\"\n\n\"Well . . .\"\n\n\"So what I want is, I want Susan to show Anna the ropes around here. You know? Take her around, meet some people. Maybe you'll show me that place over there. The Creek. If I like it, I'll join up.\"\n\nMy stomach heaved again. \"Well\u2014\"\n\n\"Yeah. It just takes time. You talk to Susan.\"\n\nI had a maliciously bright thought. \"Susan belongs to the Gazebo Society. She can take Anna to the next meeting.\"\n\n\"What the hell is that?\"\n\nGood question, Frank. I explained about the Victorian clothes and the picnic hampers.\n\n\"I don't get it.\"\n\n\"Me neither. Let Susan explain it to Anna.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Hey, look down there.'' He pointed with the stub of his cigar.\n\nI looked down at the expansive Spanish patio, lit with amber post lights.\n\n\"You see that? Next to the barbecue? That's a pizza oven. I had that built. I can make pizza right out there. I can bake ziti, I can heat stuff up. Whaddaya think?\"\n\n\"Very practical.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\nI glanced at Bellarosa. He had put his glass on the ledge and had ground out his cigar. He had his arms folded across his chest now as he surveyed the huge patio, the size of a piazza, below him. He caught me looking at him and laughed. \"Yeah. Like this.'' He thrust his chin out in a passable impersonation of Mussolini. He looked at me. \"Is that what you're thinking? Frank Bellarosa thinks he's Il Duce. Right?\"\n\n\"No comment.\"\n\nHe thrust his hands into his pockets. \"You know, all Italians want to be Il Duce, Caesar, the boss. Nobody wants to be under nobody else. That's why Italy is so fucked up, and that's why people like me have people like Anthony around. Because every wop with a gun, a grudge, and fifty cents' worth of ambition wants to knock off the emperor. _Capisce?\"_\n\n\"Do you trust Anthony?\"\n\n\"Nah. I don't trust nobody but family. I don't trust my _paesanos_. Maybe I can trust you.\"\n\n\"And you sleep well at night?\"\n\n\"Like a baby. I told you, nobody has an accident in their own house.\"\n\n\"But you carry a gun in your own house.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"Yeah.'' He stayed silent awhile, then said, \"I got some problems lately. I take precautions. I've got to get the bugs worked out of the security here.\"\n\n\"But you just said your house is sacrosanct.\"\n\n\"Yeah. But you got your Spanish now, and you got your Jamaicans, your Asians. They got to learn the rules here. They got to learn that when you're in Rome, you do as the Romans do. Who said that? Saint Augustine?\"\n\n\"Saint Ambrose.\"\n\nHe looked at me and our eyes met. Here was a man, I suddenly realized, who had a major problem.\n\nHe said, \"Let's go inside.'' He went back into the library and sat in his chair. He poured himself another grappa as I sat across from him.\n\nMy eyes fell on the school books on the shelf behind him. I couldn't make out the titles, but I was reasonably certain that most of the great thinkers, philosophers, and theologians of Western culture were up there, and that Frank Bellarosa had absorbed their words into his impressionable young mind. But he had apparently missed the essential message of the words, the message of God, of civilization, and of humanity. Or worse, he understood the message and had consciously chosen a life of evil, just as his son was going to do. How utterly depressing. I said to him, \"Well, thanks for the drink.'' I looked at my watch.\n\nHe seemed not to hear me and sat back in his chair, sipping his drink, then said, \"You probably read in the papers that I killed a guy. A Colombian drug dealer.\"\n\nThis was not your normal Gold Coast brandy-and-cigars talk and I didn't know quite how to respond, but then I said, \"Yes, I did. The papers made you a hero.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Shows how fucked up we are. I'm a fucking hero. Right? I'm smart enough to know better.\"\n\nIndeed he was. I was impressed.\n\nHe said, \"This country is running scared. They want a gunslinger to come in and clean up the fucking mess. Well, I'm not here to do the government's job for them.\"\n\nI nodded. That was what I had told Mr. Mancuso.\n\nBellarosa added, \"Frank Bellarosa works for Frank Bellarosa. Frank Bellarosa takes care of his family and his friends. I don't want anybody thinking I'm part of the solution. I'm definitely part of the problem. Don't you ever think otherwise.\"\n\n\"I never did.\"\n\n\"Good. Then we're off on the right foot.\"\n\n\"Where are we going?\"\n\n\"Who knows?\"\n\nI picked up my glass and sipped at the grappa. It didn't taste any better. I said, \"Alphonse Ferragamo doesn't think you're a hero.\"\n\n\"No. That son of a bitch has a hard-on for me.\"\n\n\"Maybe you embarrass him. I mean as an Italian American.\"\n\nBellarosa smiled. \"You think that's it? Wrong. You got a lot to learn about Italians, my friend. Alphonse Ferragamo has a _personal_ vendetta against me.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nHe thought a moment, then said, \"I'll tell ya. I made a fool out of him in court once. Not me personally. My attorney. But that don't make a difference. This was seven, eight years ago. Ferragamo was the U.S. prosecutor on my case. Some bullshit charge that wouldn't hold. My guy, Jack Weinstein, got the jury to laugh at him, and Alphonse's balls shrunk to little nicciole\u2014hazelnuts. I told Weinstein he fucked up. You don't do that to an Italian in public. I knew I'd hear from Ferragamo again. Now the jackass is the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, and I got to live with him or move.\"\n\n\"I see.'' And all this time I thought Alphonse Ferragamo was a dedicated public servant. In truth, I didn't completely believe Frank Bellarosa's analysis of Ferragamo's motives. Thinking that I'd heard enough, I said, \"I have an early day tomorrow.\"\n\nBellarosa ignored this and said, \"Ferragamo can't get anything on me, so he tells the papers that I hit this Colombian guy, Juan Carranza.\"\n\nMy eyes rolled a bit. I said, \"I really can't believe that a U.S. Attorney would frame you.\"\n\nHe smiled at me as though I were simpleminded. \"Not to frame me, Counselor. You really got a lot to learn.\"\n\n\"Do I?\"\n\n\"Yeah. You see, Ferragamo wants to get the Colombians on my case. _Capisce?_ He wants them to do his dirty work.\"\n\nI sat up in my chair. \"Kill you?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Yeah.\"\n\nI found this even harder to believe. I said, \"Are you telling me that the U.S. Attorney is trying to get you murdered?\"\n\n\"Yeah. You don't believe that? You a Boy Scout or what? You salute the flag every morning? You people got a lot to learn.\"\n\nI didn't reply.\n\nBellarosa leaned toward me. \"Alphonse Ferragamo wants my ass _dead._ He don't want my ass in court again. He is a very pissed off _paesan_ '. _Capisce?_ He stewed for eight fucking years waiting for his chance to get even. And if I get hit by the Colombians, Ferragamo will make sure everybody on the street knows he was behind it. Then he's happy and he has his balls back.'' He looked me in the eye. \"Okay?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"Not everyone thinks like you do. Why don't you give the guy credit for just doing his job? He thinks you killed somebody.\"\n\n\"Bullshit.'' He leaned back and twirled his glass.\n\n\"I have to go.\"\n\n\"No. Just sit there.\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\nHe looked at me and I looked back. I finally saw don Bellarosa for a second or two. But then Frank was sitting there again. It must have been the light. He said, \"Let me finish, Counselor. Okay? You're a smart guy, but you don't have the facts. Hey, I don't care if you think I hit this Colombian guy. But there's two, three, four sides to everything. A smart guy like you sees two sides, maybe three. But I'll show you another side, so when you walk out of here, you'll be a better citizen.'' He smiled. \"Okay?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"Okay. So when those assholes in Washington made Ferragamo the U.S. Attorney here, they knew what they were doing, for a change. They got it all figured out, those smart guys in the Justice Department. They want the Colombians to hit me, then my friends start hitting the Colombians, and the undertakers are happy, and the Feds are happy. The _melanzane_ are not happy because now they have to go back to cheap wine because the white stuff is cut off while the stiffs are piling up. Understand? This talk make you uncomfortable?\"\n\n\"No\u2014\"\n\n\"So the next time you talk to Mancuso out there, you tell him what I just told you. Mancuso is okay for a cop. He's got nothing against me personally, and I got nothing against him. We treat each other with respect. He believes in the law. I respect him for that even if it's stupid. He don't want a shooting war out there on the streets. He's a very responsible man.\"\n\n\"You want me to pass on this conversation to Mancuso?\"\n\n\"Sure. Why not? Let him go to Ferragamo and tell him that Bellarosa is onto his game.\"\n\n\"You've been reading too much Machiavelli.\"\n\n\"You think so?\"\n\n\"Are you suggesting that not only Ferragamo, but the U.S. Attorney General and the Justice Department in Washington are in on a conspiracy to have you murdered and provoke a gang war?\"\n\n\"Sure. Why do you think Alphonse is still here? It's so fucking obvious what he's up to with this Carranza shit. If Justice don't yank the guy out of here or tell him to cool it, then Justice is in on it. Right?\"\n\n\"Your logic\u2014\"\n\n\"Then with the two biggest players blasting away at each other, the Feds take care of the Jamaicans and the other _melanzane_ down there in the islands. Then they go for the Asians. Divide and conquer. Right?\"\n\nI shrugged. \"I do house closings.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Let's say you buy what I'm saying. How do you feel about it as a good citizen?\"\n\nWhat I felt was distressed to think that the forces of law and order in this country were so desperate that they had to stoop to Bellarosa's level to get rid of Bellarosa. But I said, \"As a good citizen, I would be . . . angry to think the government would provoke a dangerous gang war.\"\n\n\"Sure. But you kinda like the idea. Right? The spics and the wops finally knocking each other off?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Bullshit.\"\n\n\"No comment.'' I asked, \"Why don't you go to the newspapers if you believe what you're saying?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Sure.\"\n\n\"They'd print it.\"\n\n\"You bet your ass they would. They print it when I fart. But you don't go public with your problems in my business. You shoot your mouth off to the press, and you piss off _everybody_ , including your friends who don't even admit there's such a thing as the Mafia. You start talking to the press about your enemies, and your friends will kill you.\"\n\n\"Why are you telling me this?\"\n\n\"Because you're a lawyer.\"\n\n\"I'm not _your_ lawyer.'' I added, \"Anyway, it's not a lawyer you need. You need bodyguards.'' Or a psychiatrist.\n\n\"Yeah. But I need some outside advice. I listened to my friends, my counselors, to Jack Weinstein. Now I want to hear from somebody who sees things different from the people around me.\"\n\n\"You want my advice? Retire. Go to Sorrento.\"\n\n\"You don't retire in the business. Did any of the Caesars retire? You can't set everything straight with the people you pissed off, you can't raise the dead, you can't go to the government and say, 'I'm sorry, and I'm paying the taxes I cheated on and giving back all the businesses I bought with the illegal money.' You can't let go of the tiger, because he'll turn and eat you. You got to stay on the tiger and keep the power in your hands.\"\n\n\"No. You can go to Sorrento.\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"Maybe I like what I do. Keeps me busy.\"\n\n\"You like the power.\"\n\n\"Sure. Sorrento is for when I'm old. When I'm tired of power, business, women. I got a few years yet.\"\n\n\"Maybe not.\"\n\nHe looked at me. \"I don't run. The spics are not running Frank Bellarosa off. The Feds are not running Frank Bellarosa off. _Capisce?\"_\n\n\"Now I do.\"\n\nWe both sat there a few minutes. I had the impression he was waiting for me to say something, to come up with some advice. As an attorney, I'm in the advice business, but I'm not predisposed to giving free and friendly advice. I said, \"Are we finished?\"\n\n\"Almost. Here's the thing. Ferragamo can't be shooting his mouth off to the press that I'm a suspect in the murder of Juan Carranza, and let it go like that. Right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"He's got to follow up with a grand jury investigation.\"\n\n\"Correct.\"\n\n\"So, what I'm thinking is I want you to handle this for me.\"\n\n\"If I wouldn't handle a real estate deal for you, why would I represent you in a criminal matter?\"\n\n\"Because one thing is money, the other is justice.\"\n\nHe didn't choke on that last word, but I almost did. I shook my head. \"I don't handle criminal matters. I'm not qualified.\"\n\n\"Sure you are. You're a lawyer.\"\n\n\"What kind of evidence is Ferragamo going to present to a grand jury to get you indicted?\"\n\n\"He don't have shit. But you ever hear that expression\u2014'a New York grand jury will indict a ham sandwich'? You hear that?\"\n\n\"Yes.'' New York grand juries are sort of like Star Chambers; twenty-three upright citizens sit in secret sessions, and the person under investigation is not present and neither is his attorney. So, without any evidence except what is presented by the government, the grand jury usually votes to indict. It was a safe bet to say that Frank Bellarosa would be indicted. I said, \"You think Ferragamo is just harassing you with this indictment?\"\n\n\"Yeah. A regular jury won't convict me, because Ferragamo's got no evidence for them. So Frank Bellarosa versus the United States is not getting to trial. But meanwhile, Ferragamo's calling press conferences. He loves fucking press conferences. He's telling everybody that the Mafia is pushing out the Colombians, the Jamaicans, blah, blah, blah. That's bullshit. We all got our own thing. Then he says, 'Bellarosa personally hit Juan Carranza to show them spics a lesson!' Understand? So the Colombians get their balls in an uproar\u2014they get all macho. Christ, they're worse than Italians. Now they want to settle this _mano a mano._ Carranza was a big man with them. Okay, so now I got to worry about my own people, too. Understand? Because they don't want a fucking bloodbath, because they're all fat and soft. The South Americans are hungry and hard. They're the new guys and they work harder. They don't have the fucking brains they were born with, but they manage to get things done. Okay, maybe they're too stupid to get at me. You know? So what do they do? They go to my friends and they say, 'Hey, let's settle this before Frank goes to trial, before people start getting hurt. We all got enough problems and we don't need this shit with Bellarosa.' So maybe my guys say, 'We'll take care of Frank.' You see? The sons-of-bitches would give me up to save their own asses. Even though they know I didn't hit Carranza. Ten, twenty years ago, an Italian would say to a spic, 'Fuck you. Get out of here before I feed you your balls for lunch.' But things are different now. There's a whole new world out there. Understand?\"\n\nThat, I understood. Now I discover that even the Mafia are having trouble adapting to this new New World. I said, \"That's absolutely fascinating, Frank. And I don't really see any way out for you.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Maybe something will come into your head. I need a very upright lawyer to go talk to Ferragamo. He's the key. He's got to call one of his press conferences and say that he has new evidence about who hit Carranza, or say he's got no evidence at all. You talk to him about that.\"\n\n\"But maybe I don't believe your side of this.\"\n\n\"You will when you see Ferragamo's face after you tell him I know what he's up to.\"\n\nBellarosa, I realized, was a man who believed in his instincts. He would not need hard evidence, for instance, before he ordered the murder of someone he suspected of disloyalty. Like a primitive tribunal, all that Bellarosa required was the look of guilt, perhaps a word or phrase that seemed somehow wrong. And in the case of Alphonse Ferragamo, Frank Bellarosa first figured out a motive, then presumed the man guilty of the crime. I don't deny the value of instinct\u2014I hope I use my instincts in court, and police use instinct every day on the streets. But Frank Bellarosa, whose good instincts had kept him free and alive, perhaps put too much faith in his ability to spot danger, tell friends from enemies, and to read people's minds and hearts. That was why I was sitting there; because Bellarosa had sized me up in a few minutes and decided I was his man. I wondered if he was right.\n\nBellarosa continued, \"The New York State Attorney General, Lowenstein, don't even want a piece of this case. I hear from some people close to him that he thinks it's bullshit. What's that tell you, Counselor?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure, and I still don't do criminal work.\"\n\n\"Hey, you might have fun. Think about it.\"\n\n\"I'll do that.\"\n\n\"Good.'' He settled back in his chair. \"Hey, I'm doing that real estate deal next week. I got that firm in Glen Cove you said. They gave me this guy Torrance. You know him? He any good?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Good. I don't want no screwups.\"\n\n\"Real estate contracts and closings are fairly simple if you pay attention to detail.\"\n\n\"Then you should've done it, Counselor.\"\n\nI regarded Bellarosa a moment. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or just considered me a fool. I said, \"We've been through that.\"\n\n\"Yeah. But I want you to know you're the first guy who ever turned down that kind of money from me.\"\n\n\"That's discouraging.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Well, people have turned down outright bribes. But never a legitimate fee. It was legit.\"\n\n\"We've been through that, too.\"\n\n\"Yeah. About the grand jury thing, I know you don't drop for money, but I'll pay you a flat fifty for talking to Ferragamo and another fifty if a grand jury isn't convened.\"\n\n\"If I did criminal work, I'd get three hundred an hour, double for courtroom time. I don't take cash rewards if you're not indicted or convicted, and I don't give the money back if you are.\"\n\nBellarosa smiled at me, but it was not a nice smile. \"I gotta tell you, some of your wisecracks are funny, some are not.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"You got balls.\"\n\n\"I know that, too.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"I got too many guys around me kissing my ass, and any one of them would stick a knife in my back.\"\n\n\"I feel sorry for you.\"\n\n\"Hey, it's part of life.\"\n\n\"No, it isn't.\"\n\n\"My life. But I also got guys around me who respect me. People who don't kiss my ass, but kiss my hand.\"\n\n\"Does anybody _like_ you?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"I don't really give a shit.\"\n\n\"Work on that, Frank.\"\n\nHe looked at me and said, \"Something else I gotta tell ya. Your people been here three hundred years you said. Right? So you figure everybody who got here after you is uninvited company or something. But my family in Italy goes back a thousand years in that town outside Sorrento. Maybe they go back two thousand years to Roman times. Maybe one of my ancestors was a Roman soldier who invaded England and found your people wearing animal skins and living in mud houses. _Capisce?\"_\n\n\"I understand enough history to appreciate the glory of Italian civilization, and you may well take pride in that heritage. But what we're discussing at the moment, the Mafia, is not one of Italian civilization's greatest contributions to Western culture.\"\n\n\"That's a matter of opinion.\"\n\n\"Well, it's most people's opinion.\"\n\nBellarosa seemed deep in thought for a full minute, then said, \"Okay. Now you got to make a big decision, because you're jerking me around and yourself around. So you stand up, you turn around, and you go out that door. You get your wife and you leave, and you'll never hear from me again. Or, you have a drink with me.\"\n\nSo. All I had to do was stand up and leave. Then why was I still sitting? I regarded Frank Bellarosa a moment. What had I learned in the last few hours? Well, I'd learned that Bellarosa was not only smart, but also more complex than I would have imagined. Also, to give Susan credit for an accurate first impression, Bellarosa was interesting. So, maybe this was Susan's gift to me; this was my challenge. I picked up my glass. \"What's this made of?\"\n\n\"Grape. It's like brandy. I told you.\"\n\nWe touched glasses, we drank.\n\nHe stood. \"Let's go find the women.''\n\n**_Seventeen_**\n\nWe left the library, and as we walked along the mezzanine, I said, \"Why don't you go right to the Colombians and explain that you're being set up?\"\n\n\"Caesar does not go to the fucking barbarians and explain things. Fuck them.\"\n\nI could see that my straightforward Anglo-Saxon logic was not what the situation called for, but I said, \"A Roman emperor _did_ go to Attila the Hun to talk peace.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I know that.'' We started down the sweeping stairs, and Bellarosa said, \"But what good did it do him? Made him look bad, and Rome got attacked anyway. Look, when people go for your balls, they're saying you got balls. As soon as they think you got no balls, they treat you like a woman. You might as well be dead.\"\n\n\"I see.'' Obviously my first advice as _consigliere_ wasn't cutting it. I said, \"But Ferragamo is banking on that. He knows you won't go to the Colombians.\"\n\n\"This is true. Only another wop could have understood that.\"\n\n\"So? If you won't meet with the Colombians yourself, send somebody.'' _But not me._\n\n\"Same thing. Forget it.\"\n\nWe walked across the palm court. I found this interesting as an intellectual challenge and on that basis would have liked to come up with a solution. But I also realized there was more to my interest in his problems than a mental exercise. I said, \"Tell the Colombians to come to you. Demand a meeting on your terms.\"\n\nHe turned to me and smiled. \"Yeah? Maybe they'll come. But any way you cut that, it's me going to them to ask them for a break. Fuck them. If they think they're big enough to take me on, let them try. Maybe they need a lesson in respect.\"\n\n_Mamma mia_ , this guy was tough. I recalled what he had said in my office. Life is war. And what he had said in the morning room. Italian men don't compromise. That about covered it. But I had a last solution. \"Find out who killed Carranza and deliver the guy to the State Attorney General, Lowenstein.\"\n\n\"I don't do cop work.\"\n\n\"Then deliver him to the Colombians.'' I can't believe I said that.\n\n\"I can't do that.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because I already know who killed Carranza. The cops killed him. The fucking DEA\u2014the Drug Enforcement Agency. They put five slugs in his head\u2014mob style, like they say.\"\n\n\"How do you know that?\"\n\n\"I know the guys who did it. And it was no vigilante thing, if you're thinking they're good guys. It was no vendetta for a DEA guy who got hit in Colombia. They iced Carranza because he screwed them on a deal.\"\n\nGod, this _was_ depressing. What a world this man lived in. Right here, in America. Of course I'd read about it. But it's not the same as hearing it live. I asked, \"Why don't the Colombians know this?\"\n\n\"Because they're stupid. They got no contacts, they got no sources. They're fucking outlaws. I got all kinds of sources\u2014press sources, police sources, political sources, court sources.'' Bellarosa stopped walking and put his hand on my shoulder. \"You know, the thing that the government calls the Mafia\u2014the Sicilians, the Neapolitans\u2014we've been in America for a hundred years. Christ, we're part of the establishment. That's why we're fat ducks now for the assholes in the Justice Department. But let me tell you something. Compared to these new people, we're nice guys. We play the fucking game. We don't hit cops, we don't hit judges, we don't go into people's houses and massacre families. We make contributions to the right people, we give to the Church, we provide services. If you run this kind of thing right, it don't have to be messy. You take your South Americans and your _melanzane_ from the islands, they go right for the guns. Half of these assholes are on the junk they sell. But does Ferragamo go after these dangerous people, these crazies? No. The shithead wastes everybody's time and money going after his _paesanos_ , because he can get to them, because he understands them. And he's got ambitions, this man. He wants to make a name. _Capisce?_ And he knows we won't take him out. Is Ferragamo good for the public, the taxpayers? No. Well, fuck him. Maybe some _melanzane_ will slice his throat for his watch someday. Meanwhile, we do business like nothing's wrong. Let him or the Colombians make the first move. Right?\"\n\n\"You're absolutely right.\"\n\n\"Good. Let's go talk to the women.'' He took my arm and led me between two columns, then through an archway into the living room.\n\nThe room was about eighty feet long and half as wide, with a beamed cathedral ceiling. The walls were white stucco and the windows were arched. Unfortunately, this was not the living room. It was just too big, even for a great house. This must once have been the ballroom. At the far end was a grouping of chairs where Susan and Anna sat, looking very tiny and alone.\n\nBellarosa and I walked the eighty feet to the furniture, and I remembered to put my glasses back on. I sat before Bellarosa could say \"Sit.'' Bellarosa remained standing.\n\nSusan addressed Bellarosa. \"The house is beautiful.\"\n\nBellarosa smiled. \"Yeah.\"\n\nSusan asked both of us, \"What were you two talking about all that time?\"\n\nI replied, \"Machiavelli.\"\n\nShe smiled at Bellarosa. \"John's not much of a talker. But he pays attention.\"\n\n\"Your husband's a smart man.\"\n\nSusan beamed proudly. Well, no, actually, she crossed her legs and sat back.\n\nAnna addressed her lord and master. \"Susan knew the people who lived here before. The Barretts. Susan used to sleep in the guest room.\"\n\nBellarosa smiled at Susan. \"It's yours if you have a fight with your husband.\"\n\nSusan smiled in return. Why wasn't I smiling?\n\nAnna said to Frank, \"Susan knows some of the history here, Frank. The real estate lady wasn't lying about the Vanderbilts.\"\n\n\"She lied about the plumbing,'' Bellarosa said.\n\nAnna had more news. \"This isn't the living room, Frank.\"\n\n\"Jesus Christ.\"\n\n\"It's a ballroom.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"And the room where we got the TV is the drawing room.'' She looked at Susan. \"Tell him what that is.\"\n\nSusan explained, \"That's the room to which guests withdraw after dinner. But it's fine as a TV room.\"\n\nAnd so Susan gave the Bellarosas a crash course in great-house floor plans. Interestingly, however, she did it with some humor and self-effacement as if it were all very silly, thus not making the Bellarosas feel that they were vulgar half-wits who had no business living in a house they couldn't understand. This was a new Susan.\n\nMeanwhile, I tried to figure out how I started the evening in an Irish pub and ended it as part of the Bellarosa family. Obviously none of this was happening. I'd wake up at Locust Valley station, get off the train, and try it again.\n\nBellarosa said to Susan, \"Come on. I'll show you my pride and joy. The conservatory.\"\n\nThis didn't seem to include me, so I remained seated as Susan stood. Lady Stanhope and Squire Bellarosa walked off. I turned to Anna, and we smiled at each other.\n\nShe shook her finger at me. \"I _know_ you from someplace.\"\n\n\"Have you ever been to Plato's Retreat?\"\n\n\"No. . . .\"\n\n\"I have a familiar face. Or maybe you saw my picture in the post office or the newspapers.\"\n\n\"You in the papers?\"\n\n\"The local paper sometimes.'' I added, \"I recognized your husband, for instance, the first time I saw him in person. I felt I knew him from seeing him so many times on TV and in the papers.\"\n\nShe looked embarrassed, and I felt just a bit sorry I'd said that. Henceforth, I would assume that Anna Bellarosa was a civilian and I would treat her as such unless I found out otherwise.\n\nShe said, \"Maybe this move was good for us. Maybe Frank will meet nice people here, like you and Susan.'' She lowered her voice. \"I don't like some of the people Frank has to do business with.\"\n\nLittle did she know I might be one of them. I was not altogether surprised that Frank the Bishop Bellarosa's wife thought he was a good man who only needed a few good people to get him on the path to salvation. She did not have a clue about her husband's commitment to villainy and perhaps outright evil.\n\nWe made small talk for a few minutes, and as we spoke, I removed my glasses and looked her right in the eyes. She hesitated a second or two, then I think it was starting to come to her. I expected her to jump up and run the eighty feet out of the room. But she must have rejected as absurd whatever had popped into her tiny brain, and she went back to her chatting.\n\nNormally, if left alone with a woman in this sort of situation, I'd do a little mild flirting, just to be polite, or to show I was still alive down where my oxford shirt ended. Sometimes, too, I flirt because I am honestly filled with lust. But I'd sworn off flirting, at least until the start of next Lent. And even if I hadn't sworn off, I wasn't going to screw around with Caesar's wife. Poor Anna, she probably hadn't been propositioned since Frank got his first gun. Still, I did stare at her mountainous bumpers, and she smiled openly at me.\n\nTo be honest, after Frank, Anna was a bit of a snooze. She was sweet, even a little funny, but I'd had enough Brooklyn English for one night. I wanted to go.\n\nAnna leaned toward me and lowered her voice again. \"John?\"\n\n\"Anna?\"\n\n\"I want to ask you something.\"\n\nThe top part of the hostess pajamas, in case I hadn't mentioned it, was kind of loose and open. So when she leaned toward me, like it or not, I could see where those tremendous hooters lived. _Mamma mia_ , those tits weighed more than Susan.\n\n\"John . . . this is a silly question, but . . .\"\n\n\"Yes?'' I tried to maintain eye contact.\n\nHer hand went to the cross dangling free over her cleavage, and she fingered it. \"I asked Susan, and she said no . . . but are there any stories about ghosts?\"\n\n\"Ghosts?\"\n\n\"Ghosts. You know? In this house. Like you hear with the big old houses. Like on TV . '' She looked at me as she continued to play with the cross.\n\n\"Oh. . . .'' I thought a moment, then remembered a ghost story. I said, \"Well, there is a story that I've heard . . . but it's really not worth repeating.\"\n\nHer free hand reached out and touched mine. \"Tell me.\"\n\n\"Well . . . all right. Some years ago, it seems there was a governess here who looked after the two Barrett children, Katie and . . . Miles. The governess, an attractive young woman, came to suspect that Katie was . . . well, possessed by the ghost of the former governess, a woman named Miss Jessel\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh!'' She squeezed my hand. \"No!\"\n\n\"Yes. And to make matters worse, Miles was possessed by the ghost of the former estate manager, an evil man named Peter.\"\n\nAnna's eyes grew wider. \"Oh, John! Do you think . . . I mean, that the man I saw . . . could that have been . . . ?\"\n\nI never thought of that. Why not? Better him than me. I said, \"Well, Peter, I understand, was about my age, my build\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh, my God.\"\n\n\"Maybe I shouldn't go on.\"\n\n\"No. Go on. I have to know.\"\n\n\"All right. Well, from what I've been told, the governess made a startling deduction. She was convinced that the dead estate manager, Peter, and the dead governess, Miss Jessel, were continuing their mortal sexual affair through the possessed bodies of the young sister and brother.\"\n\n\"No!'' She released my hand and made a quick sign of the cross, then fell back in her chair. \"In this house? Where? Which room?\"\n\n\"Well . . . the guest room.'' I didn't want a fainter on my hands, so I said, \"I think that's enough. And I don't believe any of it\u2014\"\n\n\"No, John. Tell me the rest. Tell me!\"\n\nSo, ever the good guest, I continued, \"There were some people who thought that the new governess was actually having an affair with the boy, Miles, who was of course only the innocent vehicle for the evil Peter. Others said the governess was also having a lesbian affair with Katie, who of course was Miss Jessel\u2014\"\n\n\"You mean that the governess was . . . and the two children were . . . ? Susan's friend, Katie Barrett, and her brother . . . and the governess . . . ?\"\n\n\"Who knows?'' Indeed, having read _The Turn of the Screw_ twice, I still couldn't figure out who was doing it with whom. But somewhere in all that constipated Victorian gibberish was a fine sex-horror story. I said to Anna, \"I don't know how much, if any, of what I heard is true, but I know that the Barretts left suddenly in 1966 and never returned. The house has not been lived in until''\u2014organ crescendo, please\u2014\"until now. But don't tell Susan I told you this, as it still upsets her.\"\n\nShe nodded her head as she tried to catch her breath. My, she had actually grown pale. \"Yes . . . I won't . . . John, are they still here?\"\n\n\"The Barretts?\"\n\n\"No, the _ghosts_.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . I don't know.'' I was feeling a wee bit like a bad boy, so I added, \"I doubt it. They were only interested in sex.\"\n\n\"My God. . . .'' She made the sign of the cross again and informed me, \"We had a priest here to bless the house before we moved in.\"\n\n\"There you go. Nothing to worry about. Can I get you some sherry? Grappa?\"\n\n\"No. I'm okay.'' She continued to hold on to her cross, blocking my view of Joy Valley.\n\nI glanced at my watch. About twenty minutes had passed since Susan and Frank had taken a walk, and I was beginning to get a little annoyed.\n\nI sat back and crossed my legs. Anna and I exchanged a few words, but the woman was clearly upset about something. Finally, a bit impatient with her silliness, I said sternly, \"A Christian does not believe in ghosts.\"\n\n\"How about the Holy Ghost?\"\n\n\"The Holy Spirit. That's different.\"\n\n\"We used to say the Holy Ghost.\"\n\nThis was a little frustrating. I said, \"Well, get the priests back. Let them check it out.\"\n\n\"I will.\"\n\nFinally, Susan and Frank returned. Susan said to me, \"You should see the conservatory. It's bursting with flowers and tropical plants, palms, and ferns. It's gorgeous.\"\n\n\"No zucchini?\"\n\nBellarosa explained, \"I got all the vegetables outside now. My gardener grows all the houseplants and stuff in there. He switches everything around. Rotates stuff. You know?\"\n\nSusan and Frank sat. It was time for plant chat, and I tuned out. I replayed the balcony scene in my mind, then the library scene. The entire episode was so far removed from my experience, even as an attorney, that it had not fully sunk in yet. But I did have the feeling that Bellarosa and I had made some sort of arrangement.\n\nA large, ornate tall-case clock in the far corner struck the hour, and twelve loud chimes echoed through the ballroom, stopping the conversation. I took the opportunity to say, \"I'm afraid we've overstayed our visit.'' This is Wasp talk for \"Can we get the hell out of here?\"\n\nBellarosa said, \"Nah, if I wanted you to leave, I woulda said so. So what's your rush?\"\n\nI informed everyone, \"My hemorrhoids are bothering me.\"\n\nMrs. Bellarosa, who seemed to have gotten over her ghost jitters, said sympathetically, \"Oh, that can drive you nuts. I had that with all my pregnancies.\"\n\n\"So did Susan.'' I stood, avoiding Susan's icy glare.\n\nEveryone else stood, and we followed the Bellarosas out of the ballroom. I did a little soft-shoe routine to try to make Susan smile. She finally cracked a smile, then punched me in the arm.\n\nWe crossed the palm court, and I did a bird call, a yellow finch, which I'm good at, and all the caged birds began chirping and squawking.\n\nBellarosa glanced back at me over his shoulder as he walked. \"That's pretty good.\"\n\n\"Thank you.'' I felt another punch in the arm.\n\nWe stood at the front door, all ready to do the good-night routine, but Susan said, \"I would like to give you both a housewarming gift.\"\n\nI hoped she had opted for the cake, but no, she said, \"I paint Gold Coast houses, and\u2014\"\n\n\"She gets nine hundred a room,'' I interjected, \"but she'll do any room in the house for free.\"\n\nSusan continued, \"I do oil paintings of the ruins. I have photos of this palm court when it was in ruins.'' She explained and ended by saying, \"I have the slides, but I need to do some work here for three-dimensional perspective, proportion, and different lighting.\"\n\nPoor Mrs. Bellarosa seemed confused. \"You want to paint it like it was when I first saw it? It was a wreck.\"\n\n\"A ruin,'' Susan corrected. Susan is very professional when she's in her artiste mode.\n\nFrank chimed in. \"Sure. I get it. Like those pictures we saw in the museum in Rome, Anna. All these Roman ruins with plants growing out of them, and sheeps and people with mandolins. Sure. You do that?\"\n\n\"Yes.'' Susan looked at Anna Bellarosa. \"It will be beautiful. Really.\"\n\nAnna Bellarosa looked at her husband. Frank said, \"Sounds great. But I got to pay you for it.\"\n\n\"No, it's my gift to you both.\"\n\n\"Okay. Start whenever you want. Door's open to you.\"\n\nIt seemed to me that Frank had some prior knowledge of this, and I would not have put it past Susan to have done an end run around me and Anna Bellarosa. Susan gets what Susan wants.\n\nI moved to the door. \"Well, it's been a very enjoyable and interesting evening,'' I said, going into my standard good-bye.\n\n\"Yeah,'' Frank agreed.\n\nSusan did her line. \"Anna, you _must_ give me your recipe for cannoli cream.\"\n\nI felt my stomach heave again.\n\nMrs. Bellarosa replied, \"I got no recipe. I just make it.\"\n\n\"How wonderful,'' Susan said, then finished her speaking part. \"I don't know _when_ I've had so much fun. We _must_ do this again. Come to us next time.\"\n\nActually, Susan sounded sincere.\n\nAnna smiled. \"Okay. How about tomorrow?\"\n\n\"I'll call you,'' Susan said.\n\nFrank opened the door. \"Take it easy going home. Watch out for the fuzz.'' He laughed.\n\nI shook hands with my host and kissed Anna on the cheek. Anna and Susan kissed, then Frank and Susan kissed. Everyone was taken care of, so I turned toward the door, then stopped, took a calling card from my wallet, and left it on a plant table.\n\nSusan and I walked to her car. Susan wanted to drive, and she got behind the wheel. She swung the car around in the forecourt, and we waved to the Bellarosas, who were still at the door. Susan headed down the drive.\n\nWe usually don't say much to each other after a social evening, sometimes because we're tired, sometimes because one or the other of us is royally ticked off about something, like flirting, close dancing, sarcastic remarks, and so on and so forth.\n\nAs we approached the gates, they swung open, and Anthony stepped out of the gatehouse. He waved as we went by. Susan waved back. She turned right, onto Grace Lane. Finally, she spoke. \"I had a nice evening. Did you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nShe looked at me. \"Was that a yes?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Good. Then you're glad you went?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nShe turned into the open gates of Stanhope Hall and stopped the car. Unlike the Bellarosas, we don't have electric gates, so I got out, closed the gates, and locked them. The gatehouse was dark, of course, as the Allards turn in early. It is at this point that I sometimes announce my preference to walk the rest of the way home. This is usually followed by spinning wheels and flying gravel. George sweeps and rakes it out in the morning.\n\n\"Are you coming?'' Susan called out from the car. \"Or not?\"\n\nNations sometimes go to war. Married couples live in a state of perpetual war, broken occasionally by an armed truce. _Don't be cynical, Sutter._ \"Coming, dear.'' I got back into the car, and\n\nSusan drove slowly up the unlit drive. She said, \"You didn't have to leave your calling card.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Well . . . anyway, what were you and Frank talking about all that time?\"\n\n\"Murder.\"\n\n\"Anna is rather nice. A bit . . . basic, perhaps, but nice.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Frank can be charming,'' Susan said. \"He's not as rough as he looks or talks.\"\n\nWanna bet?\n\n\"I think Anna liked you, John. She was staring at you most of the evening.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Do you think she's attractive?\"\n\n\"She has Rubenesque tits. Why don't you paint her naked, dancing around the palm court?\"\n\n\"I don't paint naked women.'' She stopped the car in front of our house, we got out, I unlocked the door, and we went inside. We both headed into the kitchen, and I poured club soda for us. Susan asked, \"Did you discuss any business?\"\n\n\"Murder.\"\n\n\"Very funny.'' She asked, \"Did you and Anna figure out where you'd seen each other before?\"\n\n\"Yes. Locust Valley. The pharmacy. Hemorrhoid remedies.\"\n\n\"You're quick, John.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\n\"Why were you wearing your reading glasses? Quick now.\"\n\n\"So Frank wouldn't hit me.\"\n\n\"Excellent. You're crazy, you know.\"\n\n\"Look who's talking.\"\n\nSusan finished her club soda and headed for the door. \"I'm exhausted. Are you coming up?\"\n\n\"In a minute.\"\n\n\"Good night.'' She hesitated, then turned to me. \"I love you.\"\n\n\"Thank you.'' I sat at the table, watched the bubbles in my club soda, and listened to the regulator clock. \"Murder,'' I said to myself. But he didn't commit _that_ murder. I believed him. He has committed a dozen felonies, probably including murder. But not _that_ murder.\n\nAs I've said, I'd had a premonition that Frank Bellarosa and I would one day go beyond vegetable chatter. But that was as far as my prophecy went. From here on\u2014from the moment I sat there and had that last drink with him instead of leaving\u2014I was on my own.\n\nLooking back on that evening, I recalled that if Susan had told me she had a terrible evening and wanted to avoid the Bellarosas, then I would have done just that. But, incredibly, Lady Stanhope was going to do a painting of Alhambra that would put her into almost daily contact with don and donna Bellarosa. I suppose I should have foreseen the dangers inherent in this situation, and perhaps I did, but instead of demanding of Susan that she withdraw her offer to do a painting, I said nothing. Obviously, we were both responding to Bellarosa's unwanted attention for our own reasons; me, because I saw a challenge and because I wanted to show Susan that her husband was not just a dull attorney and was perhaps a little sinister himself, and Susan because . . . well, I didn't know why then, but I found out later.\n\nSo, it was a juxtaposition of events\u2014the hayloft incident, the tennis court incident, and the Sutters' post-winter ennui\u2014that had combined with Frank Bellarosa's proximity and his own problems to draw us together. These things happen, as unlikely as it seems, and if ever there was a case to be made for sticking with your own kind, this was it.\n\nBut that's all hindsight. That evening, my mind was cloudy, and my good judgment was influenced by my need to prove something. It goes to show you, you shouldn't stay out too late during the week.\n**_Part IV_**\n\nWe will now discuss in a little more detail the Struggle for Existence.\n\n\u2014Charles Darwin  \n_The Origin of Species_\n\n**_Eighteen_**\n\nWe did not have the Bellarosas to our house the next evening as Anna suggested. In fact, as far as I knew, we had no immediate plans to see them again. Susan is the social secretary in our house and keeps a leather-bound calendar as her mother did. The Stanhopes did, at one time, have an actual social or private secretary, and I suppose the art has been passed down. I'm not very good at social planning, so I suppose I've allowed Susan to take full charge. I don't even think I have veto power anymore, as you might have noticed. So, regarding the Bellarosas, I was waiting for word from my resident Emily Post.\n\nSusan had begun her painting of Alhambra's palm court, and that fact, plus the fact that her horses were still there, took Susan to Alhambra nearly every day. Susan, by the way, had decided on oils instead of water, so I knew this was going to be about a six-week project.\n\nSusan Stanhope Sutter and Mrs. Anna Bellarosa seemed to be forming a tentative relationship, perhaps even a genuine friendship according to Susan. This relationship, I was certain, was encouraged by Frank Bellarosa, who not only wanted his wife to have friends in the area, but also wanted her to get off his back about the move from Brooklyn to this dangerous frontier.\n\nSusan barely mentioned Frank, and I never inquired after him. If I pictured him at all in this threesome, it was as a busy man who watched Susan set up her easel for a few minutes, jollied the two women along, and kept to himself for the rest of the day\u2014or more likely, got into his limo and disappeared into the great city for a day of lawbreaking.\n\nIt is very difficult, I imagine, to run a large crime empire, especially since the emperor cannot say much over the telephone or, similarly, cannot send detailed instructions by fax or telex. Personal contact, the spoken word, handshakes, facial expressions, and hand gestures are the only way to run an underground organization, whether it be political or criminal. I recalled that the Mafia supposedly had its origins as an underground resistance organization during some foreign occupation of Sicily. I could certainly believe that, and that would explain why they were such a long-running hit in America. But maybe their act was getting a little old as the second millennium drew to a close. Maybe.\n\nSusan said to me one evening, \"I saw the strangest thing next door.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I saw a man kiss Frank's hand.\"\n\n\"Why is that strange? My junior partners kiss my hand every morning.\"\n\n\"Be serious, please. I'll tell you something else. Everyone who enters that house is taken into the coatroom and searched. I can hear that sound that a metal detector makes when it goes off.\"\n\n\"Are you searched?\"\n\n\"Of course not.'' She asked, \"Why is he so paranoid?\"\n\n\"He's not. People really are out to get him. Why don't you understand that?\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose I do. But it just seems so bizarre . . . I mean, right next door.\"\n\n\"Has Mr. Mancuso spoken to you yet?\"\n\n\"No. Will he?\"\n\n\"Perhaps.\"\n\nBut other than that brief conversation, there wasn't much mention of Frank, as I said.\n\nRegarding Anna, Susan was more current. She told me that Anna did not ride horses, play tennis, sail, or engage in any athletic activities. This did not surprise me. Susan tried to get Anna on Yankee, but Anna wouldn't even go near the snorting beast. Anna Bellarosa, however, was interested in painting, as it turned out. According to Susan, Anna watched and asked questions about what Susan was doing. Susan encouraged her to get an easel and paints and offered to give her lessons, but Anna Bellarosa seemed as reluctant to paint as she was to ride, or to try anything new, for that matter. As fond as Susan seemed of the woman, I had the impression she was a bit exasperated by Anna's timidness. I informed Susan, \"Her reason for existence is cooking, cleaning, sex, and child care. Don't cause her any anxiety.\"\n\n\"But I have the feeling that her husband would like her to develop new skills.\"\n\nSo would _your_ husband, Susan. Like cooking and housekeeping. In truth, I'd rather have a Susan than an Anna as my lifelong companion, but if I could combine the best qualities of both women, I'd have the perfect wife. But then what would I have to complain about?\n\nSusan also informed me that Anna had a lot of questions about \"how you do things around here.'' But I think these were more Frank's questions than Anna's.\n\nRegarding the haunting of Alhambra, Susan mentioned to me a few days after she began her canvas that Anna had gone to Brooklyn by limousine one morning and returned a few hours later with two priests. \"They all looked pretty grim,'' Susan said. \"They went around splashing holy water all over the place, and Anna was crossing herself eight times a minute.'' Susan added, \"I sort of pretended not to notice, but it was hard to ignore them. Anna said they were blessing the house, but I think there was more to it than that.\"\n\n\"They're very superstitious people,'' I said. \"You didn't upset her with any of your ghost stories, did you, Susan?\"\n\n\"No, of course not. I told her there are no ghosts in Alhambra.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm sure she feels better now that the house is all sprinkled.\"\n\n\"I hope so. They gave me the shivers.\"\n\nAnyway, there is a silver lining in every dark cloud, and in this case the silver lining was Italian food. Not that Susan was learning how to cook\u2014no, she can no more cook than I can levitate. But she was bringing home a portion of the Bellarosas' evening fare almost every night: Tupperware containers heaped with ravioli, baked ziti, eggplant parmigiana, fried zucchini, and other things with unpronounceable names. I had really struck pay dirt here, and I actually looked forward to dinner at home for the first time in twenty years.\n\nSusan also brought home tomato seedlings and zucchini plants to add to her garden of radicchio, basil, green peppers, and eggplant. She never mentioned this to me, but I saw the new plants one day while I was out walking. Also, all the vegetables were now marked, correctly, I think, so we knew what we were rooting for (pardon the pun). Apparently, too, Susan had picked up some pointers from someone on vegetable gardening, because everything looked healthy, and by the end of May it seemed as though we might have a bumper crop. Stanhope Hall would now be a self-sustaining fiefdom, at least in regard to certain vegetables, and all its inhabitants\u2014all four of us if you count the Allards\u2014would be delivered from the ravages of scurvy and night blindness.\n\nSo far, to be honest, the changes in my life that had come about as a result of the cultural contact with the neighboring fiefdom, to continue the metaphor, were for the better. The clash of cultures had not materialized in any significant way, but there was time for that.\n\nI had no doubt that I had established a personal relationship with Frank Bellarosa, but I was not certain of the nature of that relationship; or if I did know, I wasn't letting on to anyone, myself included, what it was. And whatever it was, it seemed to be on hold, because by the end of that month, I had not heard a word from him, directly or indirectly.\n\nAs for any business relationship with him, I considered that whole episode in his library as a bit of madness. Surely he must have regretted taking me into his confidence, which was probably why I hadn't heard from him. I mean, he certainly didn't think that he had retained me as his attorney. Right?\n\nOn the last Wednesday in May, Susan went to a meeting of the Gazebo Society, held at the old Fox Point waterfront estate at the end of Grace Lane. She mentioned this to me after the fact, and when I asked her if she had invited Anna Bellarosa, she said she had not and offered no explanation.\n\nI knew that this relationship with the Bellarosas was going to be a problem, and I had tried to tell that to Susan. But Susan is not the type who thinks ahead. Everyone, I suppose, had friends, neighbors, or family with whom they'd rather not be seen in public. Much of that feeling is subjective; your goofiest cousin, for instance, may be a hit at your cocktail party. But with the Bellarosas, it was not a matter of my perception or interpretation as to their social acceptability; it was just about everyone's judgment. Yes, we would get past the front door at The Creek or Seawanhaka, and we would be shown to a table and even waited on. Once.\n\nSo, if in fact the Sutters and the Bellarosas were going to get together for dinner or drinks in public, I would be well advised to pick a restaurant out of the area (but even that was fraught with danger, as I myself discovered about a year ago when I was having dinner on the South Shore with a client, female, young, beautiful, who liked to touch when making a point, and in walked the damned DePauws. But that's another story).\n\nAnyway, I suppose the four of us could go to Manhattan if we had to have dinner. The city is supposed to be anonymous, but it seems I'm always running into someone I know in Midtown.\n\nAlso, there seems to be some sort of odd connection between Mafia dons dining out and Mafia dons being murdered, splattering blood all over innocent people and that sort of thing. This may seem a bit paranoid, but it's happened often enough to be a real possibility, and for me to plan for; thus, if I were dining out with the don, I would seriously consider wearing an old suit.\n\nI believe Bellarosa when he tells me that the Mafia still maintains high, professional standards of murder, and in fact innocent people usually suffer no more than a stomach upset at these traditional dinner-hour murders. And of course, the dinner or what's left of it is always on the house for spectators as well as participants in the rubout. The murder, naturally, has to be committed _in_ the restaurant to qualify for a freebie; not outside the front door as happened a while ago in front of one of New York's best steak houses. Hearing shots fired outside does not get you off the hook for the bill, unless you faint. On a more serious note, civilians have gotten caught in the crossfire, and there was at least one tragic case of mistaken identity some years ago when two suburbanite gentlemen were gunned down by accident in a Little Italy restaurant in front of their wives.\n\nSo, to sup or not to sup? Considering what Frank himself said about the U.S. Attorney, Alphonse Ferragamo, trying to provoke a gang war, I would opt for Chinese take-out. But what if my crazy wife asks them out to dinner? All things considered, I don't know if it would be worse to dine with the Bellarosas at The Creek and face social ostracism, or to go to Manhattan for a jittery dinner at a nice little place that Frank insists on showing us, where the food is great, the owner is a _paesano_ , and everyone sits at banquettes with their backs to the wall.\n\nWell, of course there are other options, and I don't mean to suggest that two headstrong people such as Frank and Susan could get me to do something I don't want to do. If the situation arises, I will insist on having Frank and Anna to our house for a quick drink and coffee to go.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nA few days before the Memorial Day weekend, Dominic and his crew put the finishing touches on the stable. All in all, it was a masterful job of demolition and reconstruction. It was actually a bit eerie to see a familiar landmark disappear, then reappear in the same shape and form, in a new location. Dominic and his husky elves could indeed move the Sistine Chapel down the block if they had the Pope's okay. And if they had the don's okay, they could move my house onto Alhambra's patio. I was almost afraid to go on vacation.\n\nAnd so that glorious day arrived when Zanzibar and Yankee came home. I suggested tricolored bunting and garlands of flowers, but Susan ignored my suggestions and kept the ceremony simple and dignified, with only Dominic in attendance. I figured he was there to collect his money, but when I asked for the bill, he just jerked his thumb toward Alhambra. I gave him a bonus of five hundred dollars in cash for his men, and he seemed very happy for his men and looked as if he couldn't wait to distribute it.\n\nAnyway, I sent a note over to Frank via Susan, but another week passed and still no bill. Now I owed the guy drinks and a chunk of cash, not to mention the fact that I was eating well.\n\nSusan says that Italian food makes her passionate, and I, too, had noticed that our sex life, always good, had gotten better. Maybe Mrs. B. had found the right combination of Italian herbs and spices. One evening, over one of these Alhambra take-out dinners, I said to Susan, \"My God, your tits are growing. Get the recipe for this ravioli.\"\n\n\"Don't be a wiseass, John.'' She added, \"You've put on a needed inch yourself, and I don't mean your waist.\"\n\nTouch\u00e9. But anyway, I think our increased sexual appetites were more psychological than culinary in origin, and perhaps a result of the perfect spring weather, which always makes my sap run hot, to use a tree metaphor. But who knows? When you're middle aged, whatever works is right. Suffice it to say, Susan and I were getting it on in the bedroom and kitchen. We weren't doing as well in the other rooms, however, as Susan, always somewhat distant, seemed now distracted, as if she had something on her mind. So I asked her one day, \"Is something bothering you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Things.\"\n\n\"Things? Like the recent outbreak of violence in Kurdistan?\"\n\n\"Things around here. Just things.\"\n\n\"Well, the children will be home in June, and in July I'll be on half schedule, and in August we'll go to East Hampton.\"\n\nShe shrugged.\n\nRemembering the immortal words of Frank Bellarosa on the subject of accommodating women, I said, \"Why don't you go back to Brooklyn?\"\n\nAnyway, I thought that with the stable moved and the horsies home at last, Susan's visits to Alhambra would taper off, but I had the impression she was still there quite a bit. I mean, I'm not around that much during the day, but whenever I called home, she was not there, and my messages on the answering machine went unanswered.\n\nAlso, George, the ever-faithful servant, would sometimes intercept me on my way to my house and say things like, \"Mrs. Sutter hasn't been in all day or I would have asked her . . .'' followed by an inane question. George is not subtle, though he thinks he is. Obviously, he disapproved of any relationship with the Bellarosas. George is more royal than the king, holier than the bishop, and a bigger snob than any Astor or Vanderbilt I've ever met. A lot of the old servants are like that, trying to make their younger masters and mistresses act more like their fathers and mothers, who were, of course, paragons of virtue, gentlemen and ladies of refined manners, and so forth. Servants have very selective memories.\n\nThe point is, George was not happy with us, and I knew that eventually, when he'd had a couple of stiff ones, he would say something to his cronies on the other estates, and the gossip would work its way up the social ladder. Well, if anything got back to me, I'd let George know how he'd kept his job and house all these years. No, I wouldn't. I liked George. And he liked Susan and me. But he _was_ a gossip.\n\nAs for Ethel, I couldn't get a fix on her opinion of the Bellarosas or our relationship with them. She seemed noncommittal, almost nonjudgmental for a change. I suspect that this was because she couldn't fit the Bellarosas into her theory of class struggle. Socialist doctrine, I think, is somewhat vague on the subject of criminals, and Ethel gets most of her opinions from nineteenth-century radicals who believed that the oppressive capitalist system created crime and criminals. So, perhaps Ethel was wrestling with the idea that Frank Bellarosa was a victim of free enterprise rather than one of its beneficiaries. If Ethel and I agree on anything, it is probably Mark Twain's observation that \"there is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress.\"\n\nAnyway, there was one day when I was in the city and I had to reach Susan to ask her if she could come into Manhattan to join me for dinner with two out-of-town clients, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, who had dropped in unexpectedly, and who are old friends of her parents. I called home and left two messages on Susan's machine, then as my rendezvous time with the Petersons approached, I called the gatehouse and spoke to Ethel. She informed me that Mrs. Sutter had taken Zanzibar to Alhambra in the morning and had not returned, to the best of her knowledge. So, what would you do if your gatekeeper's wife informed you that your spouse had taken the stallion to the neighboring estate? One should, of course, send a servant to fetch one's spouse, and this is what Ethel offered to do; that is, to send George next door. Or, she suggested, I might call Alhambra to see if Mrs. Sutter was actually there. I said it wasn't important, though of course it must be if I were calling the gatehouse. I hung up with Ethel, called Susan's phone again, and left a final, rather curt message regarding my dinner date and the name of the restaurant.\n\nThe fact was, I still didn't have the Bellarosas' phone number, and Susan said she didn't either. I had noticed, when I was at Alhambra, and Susan confirmed, that none of the telephones there have the phone numbers written on the instruments. This was good security, of course, and I'd seen that in other great houses, as a precaution against the occasional servant, repairman, or the like jotting down the phone numbers of the rich and famous.\n\nLate that evening, upon returning home after my dinner with the Petersons (Susan had not shown up at the restaurant), I said to Susan, \"I was trying to get in touch with you today.\"\n\n\"Yes, I got the messages on my machine and from Ethel.\"\n\nI _never_ ask \"Where were you?'' because if I did, then she would start asking \"Where were _you_?''\u2014which leads to \"Who were you with and what were you doing?'' What could be more lower-middle-class than asking your spouse to account for his or her day or evening? That's probably how Sally Ann got her first black eye. But I did say, \"I would like to be able to reach you if you are at Alhambra. Would you prefer that I send George over, or should you ask the Bellarosas for their telephone number?\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"I don't have any reason to call them. I suppose you could just send George.\"\n\nI think Susan was missing my point. I responded, \"George is not always available. Perhaps you can get the Bellarosas' phone number, Susan. I'm sure you will have _some_ reason to call them someday.\"\n\n\"I don't think so. I just come and go as I please. If I have to leave a message, I leave it with Anthony, Vinnie, or Lee.\"\n\n\"Who, may I ask, are Anthony, Vinnie, and Lee?\"\n\n\"You've met Anthony\u2014the gatekeeper. Vinnie is the other gatekeeper. They both live in the gatehouse. Lee is Anthony's friend. She lives in the gatehouse also. It has three bedrooms.\"\n\n\"Lee is a woman. I see. And what does poor Vinnie do for a friend?\"\n\n\"Vinnie has another friend, Delia, who comes by.\"\n\nThe idea of Grace Lane's location being known by people whose origins were in Brooklyn was somewhat disturbing. I was at the point where I could almost tolerate Mafia dons and their peers in black limousines, but hit men, gun molls, and other riffraff were another matter. I said, \"I don't like the idea of a bordello down the street.\"\n\n\"Oh, John. Really. What do you expect Anthony and Vinnie to do? Guard duty gets lonely. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off, seven days a week. They split it up. Lee keeps house.\"\n\n\"That's interesting.'' What was even more interesting, I thought, was that Lady Stanhope seemed to find these Damon Runyon characters _simpatico._ But I, narrow-minded, upper-middle-class John Sutter, was not so tolerant. I suggested, \"Perhaps we should introduce Anthony, Vinnie, Lee, and Delia to the Allards, and they can exchange professional tips on gatekeeping.\"\n\nGetting no response, I went back to my main point and said, \"But surely, Susan, on a dark and stormy night, it might be easier to call Alhambra than to go to the gatehouse and interrupt something.\"\n\n\"Look, John, if you want the phone number, you ask for it. How were the Petersons?\"\n\n\"They were very sorry they missed you.'' The question of the telephone number was now in my court, where it would stay. Do you see what I mean about Susan's unreasonableness? _Stubbornness_ might be a better word. It's the red hair. Really it is.\n\nAnyway, regarding the Bellarosas' phone number, I didn't really want it, except for those rare occasions when I needed to reach Susan, who seemed to have become part of the royal court at Alhambra. But the fact that Bellarosa hadn't called, written, sent word, or divulged his phone number to me confirmed in my mind that we had no lawyer\/client relationship, either implied or inferred. And the next time he called me, I resolved that I would tell him that in no uncertain terms. Unfortunately, Fate, which had always been kind to me in the past, was pissed off at me for some reason and intervened again to push me into Bellarosa's deadly embrace.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI was busy at work, especially in my Manhattan office. My practice has as much to do with money as it does with law. Or to be more precise, my clients want to know how to legally keep their money out of the hands of the government. This spirited contest between the taxpayer and the Internal Revenue Service has been going on since the very moment Congress passed the income tax amendment in 1913. In recent years, because of people like me, the taxpayer has actually won a few rounds.\n\nThe result of this prolonged conflict has been the creation of a large and thriving tax industry, of which I and my firm are important players. My clients are mostly people or heirs to people who were hit hard in 1929, and those who recovered faced income tax rates that reached ninety percent by the 1950s. Many of these people, sophisticated in other ways, were unprepared for the onslaught of income redistribution from Washington. Some, in an idiotic display of guilt and altruism, even saw it as just and fair, like Susan's grandfather, who was prepared to give half his money to the American people. But when it got to be more than half, some of these socially progressive millionaires began to feel the pinch. It also became obvious that the few dollars of tax money that did get down to the people were getting to the wrong people for the wrong reasons.\n\nAnd so, in a less sophisticated age, even those of my firm's clients who knew how to make money in the worst of times didn't know how to keep it from the government in the best of times. But they've seen the light, and they don't intend for this to happen again, for this is the age of greed, and of looking out for Number One. And through a process of social Darwinism, we have all evolved into specialized species who can smell the danger of a new tax law hatched on Capitol Hill all the way to Wall Street.\n\nThese people, my clients, hire me to be certain that they are not going to go to jail if they or their financial planners come up with a clever way to beat a tax. It's all legal, of course, and I wouldn't be involved with it if it weren't. The motto around here is this: _To evade taxes is illegal; to avoid taxes is legal._ And, I might add, a civil right and moral obligation.\n\nSo, for instance, when the new tax law swept away the old Clifford Trust for children, some bright guy like me (I wish it had been me) came up with something called a pseudo-Clifford Trust, which accomplished the same objective of transferring tax-free money to the little heirs and is so clever and complicated that the Internal Revenue Service is still trying to figure out a way to plug up the loophole. It's a game\u2014maybe even a war. I play it well, and I also play it clean and straight. I can afford to; I'm smarter than the other side, and if anyone in the IRS were as bright as I am, they'd be working for me.\n\nAnyway, though I play it straight, I sometimes wind up in tax court with a client to settle a difference of opinion. But no client of mine has ever faced criminal charges for tax fraud unless he's lied to me about something or held something back. I try to keep my clients as honest as I am. When you cheat at poker, life, or taxes, you've taken the honor and fun out of winning, and ultimately you've cheated yourself out of the finest pleasure in life: beating the other guy fair and square. That's what I was taught in school.\n\nGranted, the other side doesn't always play fair, but in this country you always have the option of yelling \"foul,'' and going to court. Maybe if I lived in another country with no honest and independent judiciary, I wouldn't fight fair. I am, after all, talking about survival, not suicide. But here, in America, the system still works, and I believe in it. At least I did up until eleven A.M. that morning. By noon, I had entered another stage of my life as an endangered species, trying to quickly evolve a few more specialized survival skills and stay out of jail myself. But more about that in a moment.\n\nSo there I was, sitting in my Wall Street office on that pleasant May morning, buried in work. My summer schedule generally consists of four-day weekends at my summer house in East Hampton during July, then I spend the whole month of August there. On the days in July that I do work in Manhattan or Locust Valley, I knock off early, and Susan and I sail out of the yacht club and stay out until dark, or when the mood strikes us, we stay on the water until dawn, which is beautiful.\n\nSusan and I have six or seven really good sex scenarios for the boat. Sometimes I'm a shipwrecked sailor and Susan pulls me aboard, nearly naked, of course, and nurses me back to health. In the rough-trade department, I'm a pirate who slips aboard at night and finds her in the shower, or undressing for bed. Then there's the stowaway drama in two acts, where I discover her hiding in the hold and administer appropriate corporal punishment as maritime law allows. I personally like the one where I'm a lowly deckhand and Susan is the yacht owner. She orders me around, sunbathes in the nude, and makes me perform demeaning acts, which I won't go into here. The point is, I look forward to sex on the high seas, and so I run, run, run through the treadmill of spring, my arms outstretched toward the Glorious Fourth.\n\nI know this sounds as if I take it pretty easy from the Fourth of July to Labor Day, but I earned it. Also, I use the time to do my own taxes, which I put on extended deadline every year.\n\nI mention this because as I was sitting in my office thinking about my summer house and my taxes, my secretary, Louise, buzzed me. I picked up my phone. \"Yes?\"\n\n\"There is a Mr. Novac on the line from the Internal Revenue.\"\n\n\"Tell him to call me in September.\"\n\n\"He says it is most important that he speak to you.\"\n\nI replied with annoyance, \"Well, find out what case or client it refers to, pull the file, and tell him to hold.'' I was about to hang up with Louise when she said, \"I asked him that, Mr. Sutter. He won't say. He says he must speak to you _personally_.\"\n\n\"Oh. . . .'' I thought I knew what this was about. But why would the IRS call _me_ about Frank Bellarosa? Then I thought it might be Mr. Mancuso of the FBI calling undercover. But that didn't seem right. Frank Bellarosa had introduced a new dimension into my life, so naturally a call such as this took on a Bellarosa coloring, and it was not a pretty rose tint. I said to Louise, \"Put him through.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.'' I heard a click, then a mealymouthed male voice, which I immediately took a disliking to, said, \"Mr. John Sutter?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"My name is Stephen Novac, a revenue agent with the IRS.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"I'd like to stop up and discuss some matters with you.\"\n\n\" _What_ matters?\"\n\n\"Serious matters, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"Concerning what and whom?\"\n\n\"I'd rather not say over the phone.\"\n\n\"Why not?'' I asked lightly. \"Are your phones tapped by the Taxpayers' Revolt Committee?'' I waited for a polite chuckle, but there was none. Not good. I also waited for the word \"sir,'' but didn't hear that either. I pulled my calendar toward me. \"All right, how about next Wednesday at\u2014\"\n\n\"I'll be there in half an hour, Mr. Sutter. Please be there and allow an hour for my visit. Thank you.\"\n\nThe phone went dead. \"What nerve\u2014'' I buzzed Louise. \"Clear my calendar until noon. When Mr. Novac shows up, keep him waiting fifteen minutes.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nI stood, walked to the window, and looked down on Wall Street. Money. Power. Prestige. Corporate grandeur and layers of insulation against the world. But Mr. Stephen Novac, of the IRS, had done in fifteen seconds what some people couldn't do in fifteen days or weeks; he had breached all the fortifications and would be sitting in my office on the very same morning he'd called. Incredible.\n\nOf course I knew by the tone of the man's voice and by his arrogance that this must be a criminal matter. (If it turned out to be a civil case, I'd throw him out the window.) So the question remained, which criminal was Mr. Novac coming to see me about? Bellarosa? One of my clients? But Novac would not be that arrogant if he were looking for my cooperation. Therefore, he was not looking for my cooperation. Therefore . . .\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAt eleven-fifteen, Mr. Stephen Novac was shown into my office. He was one of those people whose telephone voice exactly matched his looks.\n\nAfter the mandatory limp handshake, Mr. Novac showed me his credentials, which identified him as a special agent, not a revenue agent as he'd said. A special agent, in case you haven't had the opportunity to meet one of these people, is actually with the IRS Criminal Investigation Division. I said to him, \"You misrepresented yourself over the telephone.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\nI told him how so and added, \"You're speaking to an attorney, Mr. Novac, and you've gotten yourself off on the wrong foot.'' Of course, the man was royally pissed off and would now take every opportunity to stick it to me. But I had the feeling he was going to do that anyway. \"Sit,'' I commanded.\n\nHe sat. I remained standing and looked down at him. That's my little power play. Mr. Novac was about forty, and anyone still in the IRS after all those years was definitely a career officer, a pro. Sometimes they send kids over, spanking new CPAs or attorneys with the ink still wet on their diplomas, and I chew them up and spit them out before they even open their briefcases. But Stephen Novac looked cool, slightly smug, the way any cop is when he knows he has the full weight of the law in his badge case. He seemed not at all impressed with his surroundings, not intimidated by all the accoutrements of rooted, generational jurisprudence. This was not going to be pleasant. \"What can I do for you, Mr. Novac?\"\n\nHe crossed his legs and took a small notebook out of his pocket. He perused it without replying.\n\nI had the urge to throw him out the window, but they'd just send another one. I regarded Novac a moment. He had on an awful gray poplin cotton suit, the sort of thing that prisons issue when they set you free. He wore shoes that actually had gum soles, and the uppers were made of a miracle synthetic that could be safely cleaned with Brillo. His shirt, his tie, socks, watch, even his haircut, were all bargain basement, and I found myself irrationally offended by the man because of the air of sensible frugality about him. Actually, I hate a man who won't splurge on a good suit.\n\nWhat I really didn't like about Novac, of course, was that he was in my office to ruin my life. At least he could have come better dressed.\n\n\"Mr. Novac,'' I said, \"can I help you find something in that book?\"\n\nHe looked up at me. \"Mr. Sutter, you bought a house in East Hampton in 1971 for $55,000. Correct?\"\n\nInnocuous as that question may seem to you, it was not the question I wanted to hear. I replied, \"I bought a house in East Hampton in the early 1970s for about that price.\"\n\n\"All right. You sold it in 1979 for $365,000. Correct?\"\n\n\"That sounds about right.'' Best investment I ever made.\n\n\"There was, then, a net long-term capital gain on the transaction of $310,000. Correct?\"\n\n\"No. There was a _gross_ gain of $310,000. There's a difference between net and gross, Mr. Novac. I'm sure they taught you that in school, even if the IRS doesn't know the difference.'' _Easy, Sutter._\n\nHe looked at me. \"What, then, was your net capital gain?\"\n\n\"You subtract capital improvements and other costs from the gross, and that's what we call the net in the world of private enterprise.\"\n\n\"And how much was that, Mr. Sutter?\"\n\n\"I have no idea at this moment.\"\n\n\"Neither do we, Mr. Sutter, since you never reported a dollar of it.\"\n\n_Touch\u00e9, Mr. Novac._ I replied aggressively, \"Why should I report it as income? I bought another house in East Hampton for over $400,000. Therefore, the capital gain, whatever it is, was deferred. Would you like me to show you the pertinent section of the tax code?\"\n\n\"Mr. Sutter, you had eighteen months according to the law at that time to roll over the gain\u2014to purchase a house with the proceeds of the house you sold in order to defer the capital gain. You waited _twenty-three_ months before you bought the house on Berry Lane in East Hampton, in January of 1981. Therefore, a tax event took place, and you should have computed and paid taxes on your capital gain.'' He added, \"You failed to report a significant amount of income.\"\n\nThe man was right, of course, which was why he was still sitting there and not being tossed bodily out into the hall. But lest you think I am a crook, there is an explanation. I said to Mr. Novac, \"My intention was to _build_ a house. The law, you may have heard, allows twenty-four months to roll over the capital gain if you build instead of buy.\"\n\nMr. Novac replied, \"But the house you bought and still own on Berry Lane was not built by you. It was an existing house, according to my research.\"\n\n\"Yes. I had a binder on a piece of land on which I was going to build my house, but the seller reneged at the last moment. I began an action against him, but we settled. There are court records to substantiate that. So, as you can see, Mr. Novac, my intention to build a new house was aborted. The clock was ticking, and I knew I could not find land and begin construction to satisfy the government's inane tax rules, which I think are an intrusion into my rights as a free citizen to make economic decisions based on _my_ needs and not the government's. Therefore, Mr. Novac, being thwarted in my intention to build, I quickly bought an existing house\u2014the one on Berry Lane, which is quite nice, and if you're ever in East Hampton, drive by.'' I added, \"To avoid taxes is legal, to evade taxes is illegal. I avoided. Thank you for stopping by on government time. I like to see how my tax money is spent.'' I walked to the door and opened it, adding, \"I'll send you the pertinent records and court papers regarding the land deal that fell through, so you don't have to dig them up out in East Hampton. Please leave your card with my secretary.\"\n\nBut Mr. Novac was not on his way out the open door. He remained seated and said, \"Mr. Sutter, you did not fulfill the requirements to buy a house within eighteen months. Therefore, a _tax event_ took place at that point in time. There is nothing you can do or say retroactively to change that tax event.'' He added, \"You have broken the law.\"\n\nNow, you have to understand how these people think. Mr. Novac was certain that I had committed not only a crime under the ever-changing tax code, but that I had sealed my fate for eternity when a _tax event_ took place without my notifying the government of it. Truly the angels in heaven were weeping for me all these years. Confess, said Mr. Novac, repent and you will be absolved of this sin before we burn you at the stake. No, thanks. I closed the door so as not to upset Louise and moved toward Mr. Novac, who stood his ground, or more precisely remained on his ass. \"Mr. Novac,'' I began at low volume, \"in this great nation of ours, a citizen is innocent until proven guilty.'' Turning up the volume now: \"This is the central principle of our system of justice, a pillar of our civil liberties. Yet the Internal Revenue Service demands of American citizens that they supply proof of their innocence. Wrong, Mr. Novac. Wrong.'' Full volume. \"If you have proof of my guilt, I demand to see it. Now!\"\n\nHe kept his cool, refusing to be baited or drawn into a shouting match, which was what I wanted for the record. He was a pro. \"Mr. Sutter,'' he said, \"like it or not, in matters of civil tax delinquency, the burden of proof is on you.\"\n\n\"All right,'' I said coolly, \"then listen carefully. It was my _intention_ , which I can demonstrate in tax court, to _build_ a house. Interestingly, the new tax law allows twenty-four months to build _or_ buy a house in order to avoid a capital gains tax. So you see, Mr. Novac, nothing is carved in stone, least of all the tax code, which is rewritten by little elves every night. So there you have my position in this case, Mr. Novac. I have nothing further to say, but if you want to fill the remainder of the hour I have allotted to you, you can sit there and read the United States Tax Code while I work.\"\n\nMr. Novac got the message and stood. \"Mr. Sutter, by your own admission, and based on my research, you are liable for capital gains taxes, plus interest and penalties.'' Mr. Novac took a piece of paper from his pocket, scanned it, and said, \"By my calculations, if you cannot show receipts and canceled checks for capital improvement deductions, then the capital gain in the year you sold your house was $310,000. Taking into account the tax structure at that time, plus the interest and penalties\u2014negligence penalties, failure-to-file penalties, and a civil fraud penalty\u2014you owe the United States $314,513.\"\n\nNow I wished I was sitting. I took a deep but discreet breath. This was the moment Mr. Novac had been waiting for\u2014perhaps for months\u2014and I was not going to give him anything to savor about it. I said, \"And I still come up with zero.\"\n\nHe handed the paper to me, but I refused to take it, so he left it on my desk. Mr. Novac said, \"Your _intention_ to legally avoid the tax is irrelevant.\"\n\n\"Wrong,'' I replied. \"In a civil tax case, my intent is very relevant. Where did you go to school?'' Mr. Novac only smiled, which made me uneasy. I continued, \"And don't expect me to agree to a negotiated settlement. My position is that I owe no taxes.'' I added, \"And if you try to seize any of my assets, I will block you and sue you.'' This threat, unfortunately, was so hollow that Mr. Novac openly smirked. The IRS has nearly total power to take things from you, and you have to go to court to get them back. I added, \"I'm calling my congressman as well.\"\n\nMr. Novac seemed not impressed. He informed me, \"Normally, Mr. Sutter, I would accept your explanation for the error if you would accept my figures. But as you are an educated man, a tax attorney at that, then the IRS is taking the position that this was not an error or oversight, but a case of premeditated tax evasion. Fraud. I must advise you at this time that, in addition to the civil penalties, _criminal_ charges are being contemplated.\"\n\nI could smell that coming, and when a cop says \"criminal charges,'' I don't care who you are, how much money you have, or how many law degrees are hanging on your wall, your heart does a thump. I actually know a few men with more power and money than I have who were sent away for a while, as they say. I know two who have come back and they are not the same men. I looked Mr. Novac in the eye. \"Grown men do not wear cotton suits.\"\n\nFor the first time, Mr. Novac showed some emotion; he turned red, but not, I'm afraid, with embarrassment over his poor attire. No, he was really pissed off now. He got his color under control and said, \"Please prepare for a full audit of all your tax returns from 1979 to the present, including this year's return, which you have not yet filed. Have all your documentation and records available for an auditor, who will contact you this afternoon. If you do not voluntarily turn over these records, we will subpoena them.\"\n\nMy tax records were in Locust Valley, but I'd worry about that this afternoon. Now I know what it feels like to be mugged. I walked to my door and opened it. \"And no one in the Free World wears synthetic leather shoes, Mr. Novac. You must be a spy.\"\n\n\"I am a vegetarian,'' he explained, \"and will not wear leather.\"\n\n\"Then for God's sake, man, have the decency to wear canvas tennis shoes or rubber galoshes, but not _plastic_. Good day.\"\n\nHe left without another word, and as I was closing the door behind him, a word popped into my mind and I called out, \"Schmuck!'' Louise almost dropped her dentures. I slammed the door shut.\n\nDespite my cool, patrician exterior, I was somewhat disturbed over the prospect of coughing up about a third of a million dollars plus spending time in a federal prison. I poured a glass of ice water from a carafe, went to the window, and opened it, letting in some of the last breathable air that still exists at this altitude in Manhattan.\n\nSo, there it was; the Great Upper-Middle-Class Nightmare\u2014a tax slip-up in six figures.\n\nNow listen to me feel sorry for myself. I work my butt off, I raised two children, I contribute to society and to the nation, I pay my taxes . . . well, apparently not all of them, but most of them . . . and I served my country in time of war when others found ways to avoid their national duty. This is not fair.\n\nNow listen to me build up rage. The nation is overrun with drug dealers and Mafia dons who live like kings. Criminals own the streets, murderers walk free, billions are spent on welfare, but there's no money to build jails, congressmen and senators do things that would put me behind bars, and big corporations get away with tax scams of such magnitude that the government would rather compromise than fight. And they call _me_ a criminal? What the hell is wrong here?\n\nI got myself under control and looked down into the street. Wall Street, the financial hub of the nation from which radiated the spokes of power and money that held up the rim of the world. And yet there was this perception out in the hinterlands that Wall Street was un-American, and the movers and shakers who inhabited it were parasites. Thus, Mr. Novac entered Wall Street with a generally bad attitude, and I suppose I didn't do much to change his mind. Maybe I shouldn't have remarked on his plastic shoes. But how could I have possibly resisted? I mean, I learned _something_ at Yale. I smiled. I was feeling a little better.\n\nNow listen to me think rationally. The criminal charge would be difficult to prove, but not impossible. A jury of my peers, drawn from my friends at The Creek, would surely find me not guilty. But a federal jury, constituted in New York City, might not be so sympathetic. But even if I could avoid or beat the criminal charges and fines, I was probably on the hook for . . . I looked at the paper on my desk . . . $314,513, which was actually more than the entire so-called profit on the sale of the house. That is a lot of money, even for a successful Wall Street lawyer. Especially an honest one.\n\nAlso, Susan theoretically was on the hook for half of that. Though we file separate tax returns because of her complicated trust fund income, and because that is what our marriage contract stipulates we do, half the East Hampton house is hers, and she should have picked up half the supposed capital gain. But of course, even in this age of women's equality, Novac was talking jail to me, not Susan. Typical.\n\nAnyway, thinking rationally, I knew I should call the Stanhopes' law firm and advise them of this problem. They'd probably go to the IRS and offer to help screw me in exchange for immunity for their little heiress client. You think marrying into a super-rich family is all fun and profit? Try it. Anyway, the next thing I had to do was have one of the partners here handle my tax case\u2014you can't be objective when it's your own money\u2014and then I should think about actually retaining a criminal attorney for myself.\n\nThis last thought led me into a word association, like this: Criminal = Bellarosa.\n\nI thought about my buddy, Frank, for a moment. Mr. Bellarosa went to jail once in his larcenous life, and that was for tax evasion. But obviously Bellarosa is still committing tax fraud, since he's certainly not declaring his income from drugs, prostitution, gambling, hijacking, or whatever else he does on the side.\n\nSo I stood there looking down on Wall Street, feeling sorry for myself, feeling angry at the injustices of life, and really pissed off at the thought of all the criminals who were not hassled today by the government.\n\nIt was just then, I suppose, that a strange thing began to happen to me: I started to lose faith in the system. Me, a champion of the system, a cheerleader for law and order, a patriot and a Republican for God's sake\u2014suddenly I felt alienated from my country. I suppose this is a common reaction for an honest man and a good citizen who is thrown into the same category as Al Capone and Frank Bellarosa. I suppose, too, to be honest, that this had been brewing for some time.\n\nI recalled Frank Bellarosa's words: _You a Boy Scout or something? You salute the flag every morning?_\n\nWell, I did. But then I realized that all my years of good citizenship would only count toward a favorable presentencing report to the judge.\n\nMy logic\u2014no, my survival instincts\u2014told me I needed to stop being a good citizen if I wanted to be a free citizen. So, voluntary compliance or come and get me, pigs? _Come and get me, pigs._\n\nI knew, of course, the one man who could really help me, and I wished I had his telephone number right then.\n\n**_Nineteen_**\n\n\"Give unto Caesar that which is Caesar's,'' quoteth Frank Bellarosa. \"But,'' he added, \"never more than fifteen percent of your net.\"\n\nI give my clients similar advice, but I recommend seventeen percent of the adjusted gross, and I charge for my time. So, I suppose, does Frank Bellarosa, in a manner of speaking.\n\nIt was Friday evening, and I was at my usual table in the cocktail lounge of The Creek. It was crowded, and everything was as I described it on an earlier Friday evening, except that sitting across from me was the Bishop.\n\nWithout even looking around, I could feel eyeballs bouncing between me and my friend Frank. Lester Remsen was at the next table, and with him were Randall Potter and Allen DePauw, who you may recall was providing the government with a forward observation post across the road from Alhambra.\n\nThe Reverend Mr. Hunnings was also there, sitting with three other men at the corner table near the big picture window, a sports jacket thrown over his golfing clothes and a glass of red wine in his hand. Episcopalian and Catholic clergy, I've noticed, drink mostly red wine in public, which I suppose is okay for the image, because red wine is served at the altar, unlike cold beer.\n\nAt another nearby table, which apparently was reserved for people with Dutch blood, were Jim Roosevelt, Martin Vandermeer, and Cyril Vanderbilt, the latter I guess having come over from Piping Rock for a night of slumming.\n\nThe place was getting more crowded, and in the words of an old rock-Zen lyric, everybody there was there. Plus some. I had the bizarre thought that the word had gotten out that Sutter had brought Bellarosa up to the club, and everyone had turned out to watch. No, no. It was just a typical Friday night.\n\nFrank snapped his fingers at old Charlie, a former dining-room waiter, who after having served his one-millionth meal was put out to pasture in the cocktail lounge where he could drink, smoke, talk, and take it easy like the club members. Charlie, of course, ignored the snapped fingers, and Frank snapped again and called out, \"Hey!\"\n\nI winced and said, \"I'll get us drinks.'' I stood and walked to the bar.\n\nGustav, the bartender, had my martini going before I reached the rail. I said to him, \"And a rye and ginger ale.'' Gustav's smirk told me what he thought of that drink.\n\nLester came up beside me, and I supposed he had been delegated with a few pokes in the ribs to approach me. \"Hello, John,'' said Lester.\n\n\"Hello, Lester,'' said John.\n\n\"Who's that fellow you're with?\"\n\n\"That's Antonio Pugliesi, the world-renowned opera singer.\"\n\n\"It looks like Frank Bellarosa, John.\"\n\n\"Remarkable resemblance.\"\n\n\"John . . . this is not good.\"\n\nThe rye and ginger came, and I signed for the drinks.\n\nLester went on, \"What's this all about, John?\"\n\n\"He's my neighbor.'' I added, \"He wanted to come up here.'' Which was the truth. It certainly wasn't my idea. But I found that I was annoyed with Lester for questioning me on the subject.\n\nLester inquired, \"Are you staying for dinner?\"\n\n\"Yes, we are. Susan and Mrs. Bellarosa will be here shortly.\"\n\n\"Look . . . John, as a member of the club board, and as your friend\u2014\"\n\n\"And my cousin.\"\n\n\"Yes . . . that, too . . . I think I should tell you that some people here tonight are unhappy, uncomfortable.\"\n\n\"Everyone looks happy and comfortable.\"\n\n\"You know what I mean. I understand the position you're in, and I suppose drinks are all right, every once in a great while.'' He added _sotto voce_ , \"Like we do with some minorities. And even lunch now and then is all right. But not dinner, John, and not with the women.\"\n\n\"Lester,'' I replied curtly, \"you tried to involve me in fraud, forgery, and embezzlement just a few months ago. So why don't you get off your high horse and go fuck yourself.'' I took the drinks and returned to my table.\n\nAs I sipped my martini, I found that my hand was a bit unsteady.\n\nFrank stirred his highball. \"You forgot the cherry.\"\n\n\"I'm not a fucking waiter.\"\n\nFrank Bellarosa, as you might imagine, is not used to being spoken to like that. But that being the case, he didn't know what to say and just stirred his drink.\n\nI was not in the best of moods, as you may have guessed. I think that having a fight with an IRS man is the mood-altering equivalent of having a fight with your wife. I inquired of Mr. Bellarosa, \"So, what would _you_ do? Pay the guy off? Threaten to blow his brains out?\"\n\nBellarosa's eyes widened as though he were shocked by what I'd said, and I found that almost comical. Bellarosa replied, \"You never, _never_ hit a federal agent.\"\n\n\"If you met Mr. Novac, you'd make an exception.\"\n\nHe smiled but said nothing.\n\nI asked, \"So, should I bribe him?\"\n\n\"No. You're an honest man. Don't do nothing you don't usually do. It don't work.'' He added, \"Anyway, the guy's probably wired and thinks you are, too.\"\n\nI nodded. In truth, I'd find it less repugnant to shoot Mr. Novac than offer him a bribe.\n\nI regarded Frank Bellarosa, dressed in his standard uniform of blazer and turtleneck. He must have seen that outfit in a clothing ad with a mansion in the background and decided to stick with it, changing only the colors. The blazer was green this time, and the turtleneck canary yellow. In itself, the outfit would not draw much attention because after the tweed season around here most of the Wasps break out their silly summer colors and look like tropical birds until Labor Day. At least Bellarosa hadn't walked in wearing a gray, iridescent sharkskin suit. I said to him, \"Ditch the Rolex, Frank.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Some people can get away with it, you can't. Get a sports watch, and get some penny loafers or Docksides. You know what they are?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\nI didn't think he did. I finished my martini, got Charlie's attention without snapping my fingers, and ordered another round. \"And a maraschino cherry for this gentleman.\"\n\n\"Would the gentleman like a green or red cherry, sir?'' Charlie asked me, as if I'd brought my bulldog in and ordered him a saucer of milk.\n\n\"Red!'' Bellarosa barked.\n\nCharlie shuffled off.\n\nA number of women had shown up to sit with or collect their husbands, and I noticed Beryl Carlisle now, at a table with her spouse, what's-his-name. She was in profile, and I watched her awhile, sucking on a drink stirrer. She did it well. She looked toward me, as if she knew right where I was, and we exchanged tentative smiles, sort of like, \"Are we at it again?\"\n\nBellarosa looked at Beryl, then at me. \"That's a nice piece of goods there. I think she's got wet pants for you.\"\n\nI was happy to get a second opinion on this, but I informed him, \"We don't talk sex here.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"No? Whaddaya talk here? Money?\"\n\n\"We talk business but never money.\"\n\n\"How the hell do you do that?\"\n\n\"It's not easy. Listen, I want the name of your tax lawyer, Frank. Not the one you used when you went up for two years, the one you use now who's keeping you out of jail.\"\n\nThe drinks came and Bellarosa dangled the horrible dyed cherry by its stem and bit it off.\n\n\"Your tax lawyer,'' I prompted.\n\nHe chewed on the cherry. \"You don't need no lawyer. Lawyers are for when you gotta go to court. You got to head this off.\"\n\n\"Okay. How?\"\n\n\"You got to understand _why_ before you know how.\"\n\n\"I understand _why._ I don't want to fork over three hundred thousand dollars and go to jail for a few years. That's why.\"\n\n\"But you got to understand _why._ Why you don't want to do that.\"\n\n\"Because it was an honest mistake.\"\n\n\"No such thing, pal.\"\n\nI shrugged and went back to my martini. I glanced around the room, sort of taking attendance. I caught a few people looking away, but a few, such as Martin Vandermeer and the good Father Hunnings, held eye contact in an unpleasant way. Beryl, on the other hand, gave me a wider smile as if we were on the right track again. I had the feeling that if Beryl Carlisle was, as Bellarosa grossly suggested, secreting, then it had something to do with my proximity to Mr. Bellarosa. Beryl is one of those women who was once wild, married safe, has safe affairs, but still loves the bad boys. I guess I was now the best of both worlds for her; kind of a preppie thug.\n\nI looked back at Bellarosa. I guess we were at an impasse until I figured out the why thing. I tried to recall some of his philosophy of life as imparted to me at Alhambra. I said, \"Novac has it in for me personally, that's why. I screwed his wife once and left her in a motel up in the Catskills during a snowstorm.\"\n\nBellarosa smiled. \"Now you're getting closer.'' He scooped up some of those awful pretzel goldfish from a bowl on the table and popped them in his mouth. I had intended to write to the club manager about pretzel goldfish, but after tonight, I'd be well advised not to complain about anything.\n\nBellarosa swallowed the goldfish and said to me, \"Okay, let me tell you how I see it. In this country, this very nice democracy we got here, people don't understand that there's a class war going on all the time. You don't believe that about your country? Believe it, pal. All history is a struggle between three classes\u2014high, middle, and low. I learned that from a history teacher at La Salle. You understand what the guy was saying?\"\n\nI guess so, Frank. I went to Yale, for God's sake. I asked him, \"Where does the criminal class fit in?\"\n\n\"Same shit. You don't think there's different classes of criminals? You think I'm the same as some _melanzane_ crack pusher?\"\n\nActually, I sort of did, but now that he put it in historical and economic terms, I guess I didn't. Maybe I had more in common with Frank Bellarosa than I did with the Reverend Mr. Hunnings, for instance, who didn't like me or my money. I said, \"My gatekeeper's wife, Ethel, believes in class struggle. I'll get you together with her someday. Should be fun.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I don't think you buy this. Okay, it's not like in Europe with all the crazy political parties and all the crazy talk, but we got it anyway. Class struggle.\"\n\n\"So that's why Novac is out to get me? He's a commie?\"\n\n\"Sort of. But he don't even know he is.\"\n\n\"I should have known when he told me he was a vegetarian.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Also, you got another war going on which is just as old as the class war\u2014you got a war between the jackasses in the government and the smart people outside the government. The jackasses in the government want the poor and stupid people to think they care about them. _Capisce?_ So you know where that leaves guys like you and me? Protecting our balls with one hand and our wallets with the other. Right?\"\n\nThe man was right, of course. But when I tell my clients the same thing, I say it differently. Maybe that's why they don't always get it.\n\nBellarosa went on. \"And it's not true that the IRS don't care about you, that you're just a number to them. That would be fucking terrific if it was true, but it ain't. They care about you in a way that you don't want them to care.\"\n\nI replied, \"But some of what they do, Frank, is not malicious or philosophically motivated. It's just random, stupid bureaucracy. I know. I deal with them every day. I don't think the IRS or Novac is out to get me personally.\"\n\n\"It don't _start_ that way. It starts when they go after your _kind_ of people. And that ain't random or stupid, pal. That's _planned._ And if it's planned, it's _war._ Then, when a guy like Novac gets on your case, it always turns personal.'' He asked, \"Did you piss him off?\"\n\nI smiled. \"A little.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Mistake number one.\"\n\n\"I know that.\"\n\n\"Look, Counselor, Novac is a five-number guy, good for maybe thirty, forty a year. You do maybe ten times that. It's like with me and Ferragamo. Same thing. Thing is, they got the badges, so you don't insult them to their face.\"\n\n\"The man annoyed me.\"\n\n\"Yeah. They do that. Look, Novac didn't go into the IRS to protect your money. He went in there with an attitude, and if you knew what that attitude was, you'd shit.\"\n\n\"I know that.\"\n\nBellarosa leaned across the table toward me. \"Novac has power, see? Power to make a guy like you, and yeah, even me, squirm. And he gets his rocks off doing that, because he's got no power no place else\u2014not at the bank, not in his office, maybe not even at home with his wife and kids. What kind of power you got at home when you bring in thirty thousand a year?'' Bellarosa looked me in the eye. \"Put yourself in Novac's shoes for a day.\"\n\n\"God, no. He wears synthetic leather.\"\n\n\"Yeah? See? So go live in his shit house or his shit apartment, worry about the price of clothes for once in your life, the price of groceries, and lay awake at night and think about college tuition for your kids, and if you're gonna get a bad report from your boss, or if the government is going to spring for a raise this year. Then go pay a call on Mr. John Sutter in his fancy fucking office and tell me how you're going to act with him.\"\n\nMy Lord, I almost felt sorry for Stephen Novac. \"I understand all that, but I want to know\u2014\"\n\n\"Yeah, you got to understand first who you're dealing with, and understand this\u2014they like to pick on very visible people. People like me and yeah, people like you. Guys whose tax problems are gonna make the news. You know why?\"\n\n\"Yes, Frank. I do taxes for a living. The IRS likes to make the news so they can scare the hell out of a few million other taxpayers who they can't call on in person. That makes people pay their taxes.\"\n\n\"They don't give a _shit_ about collecting taxes for the government. You still don't get it. They care about scaring the hell out of people. That's power. And that's jealousy, too. A guy like Novac don't have the balls to get rich like you and me, but he's got the brains to be pissed at not being rich. That's a dangerous man.\"\n\nI nodded. Bellarosa really did sound like Machiavelli in modern translation.\n\n\"Take a guy like Ferragamo,'' Bellarosa continued. \"He pretends like it's all justice, democracy, equality, and caring about the poor and the victims of crime and all that shit. Wrong. That ain't what it's about, pal. It's about fucking _power._ It's jealousy, it's personal, and it's all covered up with nice sounding _bullshit._ Hey, I could take you to streets in Brooklyn where there's more crime in one block than there is in this whole fucking county. Do you see Ferragamo down there? Do you see Mancuso down there? You see Novac there asking those pimps and drug dealers if they filled out their tax return? And I'll tell you this, Counselor, it don't matter if you led your whole life like _I_ did, or like _you_ did. When they decide to stick it up your ass with a felony, we're both looking at the same five or ten years, and maybe more. You get time off for good behavior _after_ you're inside, not before. _Capisce?_ And I'll tell you something else you don't want to hear. When _you_ look at a jury, they look back and size you up, and you try to look innocent and friendly. When _I_ look at a jury, half of them think I fixed the other half, and all of them think they're gonna get blown away if they vote guilty. _That_ is power, pal. I got it; you don't. Nobody fucks with me. And here's another news flash for you: If you think the government ain't after your ass because of what you do, because you're a fancy tax guy beating them at their own game, then you still don't get it. Think about it.\"\n\nI'd already thought about that one and patriotically dismissed it. I said, \"You've got this all figured out.\"\n\n\"I got most of it figured out. I'm still working on some of it.'' He leaned back in his chair and finished the goldfish. \"So now you know _why._ Now you got to talk to Mr. Melzer. He'll tell you how.\"\n\nI let a few seconds pass, then realized I had to ask, \"Who is Mr. Melzer?\"\n\n\"He was on the other side once. A big shot with the IRS. Now he's in private consulting. You know? And now he's rich from selling the enemy's secrets. He knows the jackasses personally. Understand? I met him too late for me. But maybe he can do the right thing for you.\"\n\nI thought a moment. There were, indeed, a few renegades out there selling guns to the Indians. But I would never recommend one of them to my clients. From what I knew, they operated in a sort of gray area, trading on personal relationships in the IRS, maybe even paying bribes and blackmailing former coworkers, for all I knew. Their clients never knew, which was part of the deal. No, John Sutter, Mr. Straight, would not recommend a renegade IRS man to his clients, even if it was legal. It wasn't _ethical._\n\nI must have looked undecided, skeptical, or perhaps disappointed, because Bellarosa said, \"Mr. Melzer will guarantee you, right up front, that you won't be indicted. No criminal charges, no jail.\"\n\n\"How can he guarantee that?\"\n\n\"That's his business, my friend. You want to fight this your way, you go ahead. You want to fight it with Melzer, with an up-front guarantee that you'll never see the inside of a federal pen, then let me know. But you got to act quick before the jackasses get too far along for Melzer to settle things his way.\"\n\nI looked at Bellarosa. He, in effect, was personally guaranteeing me that I wasn't going to jail. I might still be out a third of a million dollars, but I wasn't going to be writing checks to the IRS in the warden's office. What did I feel? Relief? Gratitude? A closeness to my new pal? You bet I did. \"Okay. Melzer.\"\n\n\"Good. He'll get ahold of you.'' Bellarosa looked around the room again. \"Nice place.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"They take Catholics, right? Italians?\"\n\n\"Yes, they do.\"\n\n\"My sons can come here if I'm a member?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How's the food?\"\n\n\"Not as good as Anna's.\"\n\nHe laughed, then looked at me for a few long seconds. \"So you help me join up. Okay?\"\n\n\"Well . . . you need three seconding sponsors. Understand?\"\n\n\"Yeah. I belong to clubs. You find them. I don't know anybody here.\"\n\nI saw this coming. \"I'll tell you, Frank, even if I could do that, you won't get past the membership committee.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Why?\"\n\nWhy seemed to be the question of the evening. \"You know why.\"\n\n\"Tell me.\"\n\n\"Okay, because this is one of the most exclusive and prestigious clubs in America, and they don't want a . . . how do you describe yourself? I mean for real, Frank?\"\n\nHe didn't reply, so I helped him. \"A Mafia don? Head of an organized crime family? What are you going to put on the application? What did you put on your tax return last year? Gangster?\"\n\nAgain he made no reply, so I said, \"Anyway, this is one institution you can't coerce with threats, money, or political connections. I've got more chance of becoming a Mafia don than you've got of becoming a member of this club.\"\n\nBellarosa thought about that a moment, and I could see he wasn't pleased with this information, so I gave him more good news. \"You're not even welcome here as a guest. And if I take you here again, I'll be playing golf on the public course, and I'll have to do my skeet shooting in the basement of the Italian Rifle Club.\"\n\nHe finished his drink and sucked up some ice cubes, which he crushed with his teeth, sending a shiver down my spine. \"Okay,'' he said finally. \"So you do me another favor sometime.\"\n\nI had no doubt about that. I replied, \"If it's legal and possible, I'll do you a favor.\"\n\n\"Good. I just thought of a favor. You represent me with this murder rap. As a favor.\"\n\nCheckmate. I took a deep breath and nodded.\n\n\"Good. I don't pay for favors.\"\n\n\"I don't charge for them.\"\n\nBellarosa smiled. \"But I'll cover your expenses.\"\n\nI shrugged. For a terrible moment, I thought Bellarosa was going to extend his hand to me across the table. I had this bizarre vision of a photo in the club newsletter, captioned: _Mafia don and prominent attorney make deal at Creek._ But he didn't want to shake, thank the Lord, and I changed the subject, saying, \"I owe you money for the stable.\"\n\n\"Yeah. What did Dominic tell you?\"\n\nI told him Dominic's estimate but added, \"It must have gone over that.\"\n\n\"These greaseballs work cheap for the first few years. Then they learn a little English, and they see what's going on here, and they start screwing the customers like everybody else.'' He added, \"That's the American dream.\"\n\nNot quite. I said, \"Those guys didn't even make minimum wage.\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"So what? They ain't gonna learn if you feel sorry for them and give them more. People got to be responsible for their own fuck-ups. Right?\"\n\n\"Yes, but I think you subsidized the job. I think you're trying to get me in your debt.\"\n\nHe didn't reply to that but asked, \"You satisfied with the job and the price?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"End of story.\"\n\n\"Whom do I pay?\"\n\n\"You pay me. Stop by for coffee one day. Cash, check, it don't matter.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nBellarosa leaned back, crossed his legs, and regarded me a moment. He said, \"Now that you know you're not going to jail, you look happier.\"\n\nI would have been even happier if I knew that Frank Bellarosa was going to jail. What a mess.\n\nBellarosa informed me, \"Hey, that picture your wife is doing looks great. She won't let me look over her shoulder, you know. She chases me away, but when she's gone, I lift up the cloth and take a peek. She's a helluva painter.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you like the painting.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I got to find a place of honor for it. Anna likes it, too. Now she can see what Susan is talking about. You know? The ruins. Anna and Susan are getting along pretty good.\"\n\n\"I'm happy to hear that. Your wife is very thoughtful to send over her cooking.'' I'd slipped back into my inane Wasp speech patterns now that the important business was done with, and I could see that Frank was miffed. He'd probably thought we were soul mates, talking about bribery, murder, and Beryl Carlisle's damp pants, but I wanted to show him that even if we wallowed in the same slops for a while, I could still soar like an eagle. I think he appreciated this on one level. That's what he was buying: an eagle. Pigs were cheaper.\n\nI became aware that something had caused a drop in the noise level. I looked toward the door and saw Susan coming toward me, Anna Bellarosa in tow.\n\nAnna was wearing another one of those loose, flowing pantsuits, emerald green this time, and her feet were encased in white sandals, studded with sparkly rhinestones. She had on enough gold to cause a fluctuation in the precious metals market.\n\nAnna was stealing glances at her surroundings as she moved toward us, and she became aware that she was the center of attention. Her face broke into a silly, self-conscious smile, and I was actually embarrassed for her. Poor Anna. I wondered if she knew why people were looking at her; that everyone there thought she was dressed funny, that she had the biggest hooters in the whole club, and that everyone had made the correct deduction that she was the Mafia don's wife.\n\nSusan, of course, was as self-possessed as a queen, completely at ease regarding her companion, whom she escorted as though Anna were European nobility.\n\nFrank and I rose as the women drew nigh, and we all exchanged greetings and kisses. The way I figured it, everybody in the lounge got their money's worth even at four bucks a drink. I also noticed no one was leaving.\n\nYou have to understand, too, that despite what I said to Frank, Susan and I were not in immediate danger of social ostracism. No, John Whitman Sutter and Susan Stanhope Sutter could get away with a lot. People figure that the older the family, the more wacky and eccentric the members. Thus, just as radical chic was in during the sixties and seventies, with Rockefellers, Roosevelts, and so forth dining with black radicals and people without shoes, so perhaps criminal chic was in now. Maybe the Sutters were starting a trend. Take a criminal to The Creek.\n\nThe nouveau riche among The Creek membership, however, would be the most vociferously judgmental, they being the most insecure and the most likely to be made uncomfortable by the Bellarosas, who reminded them of themselves when they lived in Lefrak City or Levittown.\n\nAnyway, Susan looked stunning in a simple white silk dress, a sort of Greco-Roman thing that barely covered her knees and accentuated her tan. We all sat, and Charlie came over unbidden, because Lady Stanhope does not need a waiter summoned for her. Waiters, even in new restaurants, sense this and materialize by her side. This, by itself, is reason enough to stay married to her.\n\nDrink orders were given, and the four of us fell into small talk. I said to Anna, \"You look lovely tonight.\"\n\nShe smiled and her eyes sparkled. Clearly she liked me. For some reason, my eyes drifted to her cleavage, and there was that gold cross again, nestled between those voluptuous boobs, and if ever there was a mixed signal, that was it.\n\nSusan inquired of Frank and me, \"Did you get your business finished?\"\n\nI replied, \"Frank was very helpful.\"\n\n\"Good,'' Susan replied. She said to Frank, \"My attorneys advised me to strike a separate deal with the government. In effect to abandon John. Can you believe that? What sort of people have we become?\"\n\nBellarosa, on learning that Susan had her own attorneys, must have wondered the same thing. But to his credit he seemed to understand the underlying meaning of that question and replied, \"Governments come and go. Laws come and go. You owe loyalty to family, to your own blood, and to your wife or your husband.'' He looked at me, \"And if your wife has given you children and if she is a good wife, you owe loyalty to her family, too. _Capisce?\"_\n\nFrank, of course, hadn't met the Stanhopes. I mumbled a reply.\n\nBellarosa continued, \"If you betray family, you are damned to hell for eternity.'' He added, \"If family betrays you, then no punishment is severe enough.\"\n\nThat sounded like something you'd pull out of a fortune cannoli if there were such a thing. I didn't mind the gospel according to Frank when we were alone, but when Susan was present, I didn't want it to appear that I actually hung on every grammatically incorrect piece of tripe he spouted. So I said, \"What do you mean by betrayal? How about sexual betrayal?\"\n\nForgetting that I'd said we didn't talk sex here, he replied, \"A man can go with another woman without betraying his wife. This is the nature of a man. A wife cannot have another man without betraying her husband.\"\n\nI knew, of course, he was going to say something like that, and I wanted Susan to hear it, though I'm not certain why. A statement like that would usually set off a rather spirited discussion among two normal and contemporary couples, but if Frank Bellarosa had a weakness, it was this: The man had a faint sense of anachronism about him, a sort of 1950s persona, shaped by his unique subculture, his ethnic background, and his profession. He certainly understood the wider world in which he lived, and he understood human nature, which was why he made that statement and why, like it or not, it was a somewhat accurate statement. But he did not understand that you did not _say_ things like that in America. You didn't refer to blacks as eggplants, and you didn't demean women or call Hispanics spics or make gross generalizations about women, minorities, the poor, the handicapped, immigrants, or any other group that was in special favor at the moment. Frank Bellarosa was not a sensitive man. Actually, he didn't have to be, which was one reason I was a little envious of him.\n\nI glanced at Susan, who, as I suspected, was not offended, only amused at this primitive sitting beside her.\n\nAnna, of course, had no comment, nor would she ever.\n\nFrank went on, \"But a man must be careful when he goes with a woman who is not his wife. Great men have been ruined because women made them forget loyalty, made them forget their friends, and opened the door to their enemies.\"\n\nI had the feeling Frank would have gone on, but I wanted the subject changed, so I changed it. I said to Susan, \"Frank told me he liked your painting.\"\n\nSusan smiled, then gave Bellarosa a stern look. \"If he keeps peeking, I'm going to paint his face.\"\n\nMy, hadn't we become familiar with a Mafia don?\n\nAnd so we chitchatted through a round of drinks, giving our audience something to talk about over the weekend.\n\nAt eight, we retired to one of the dining rooms where Susan and I greeted a few people we knew and introduced the Bellarosas without using any of Frank's titles. No one, of course, snubbed the Bellarosas the way they would have twenty or thirty years ago. On the contrary, politeness grips most of American society now as if we'd been bombed with laughing gas, and your average white turkey will shake hands with a suspected murderer, converse on the street with bums who accost him, and probably open the door to armed robbers so as not to appear rude. Thus I knew we weren't going to have any scenes vis-\u00e0-vis the Bellarosas, and I was right.\n\nWe all sat, ordered more drinks, discussed the menu, and listened to the specials from Christopher, the ma\u00eetre d', who Frank decided was a faggot.\n\nWe placed our orders with Richard, an elderly gent who prided himself on remembering every order without writing it down. Alas, that is no longer the case, and hasn't been for some years, so with Richard as your waiter, you either eat what he brings, or you embarrass him by sending it back. I eat what he brings.\n\nI asked for a certain Bordeaux that I knew would go well with everything we ordered. I did this without consulting the wine list. That's my little restaurant gimmick, and people are usually impressed. Frank and Anna didn't seem to give a shit.\n\nSusan smilingly explained to the Bellarosas that they might not get precisely what they ordered, or in fact anything they ordered. They didn't find this as amusing as our peers usually do, who are used to the eccentricities of old clubs.\n\nSusan ended her story by saying, \"If we're lucky, Richard will bring the wrong wine with the wrong food and it might go well together.\"\n\nThe Bellarosas seemed confused and incredulous. Frank demanded, \"Why don't they fire the guy?\"\n\nI explained that the members would not permit the firing of an old employee.\n\nFrank seemed to comprehend that, being an employer, a _padrone_ , the don, a man who rewards loyalty. I asked him, \"You wouldn't fire someone who got too old for the job, would you?\"\n\nHe replied with a smile, \"I guess not, but I never knew nobody in my business who got too old.'' He laughed, and even I smiled. Susan chuckled, but Anna pretended not to hear or to understand. I think she would have liked to cross herself. Frank continued on his roll. \"Sometimes I got to fire people, but sometimes I got to fire _at_ people.\"\n\nThree of us laughed. Anna studied a painting on the wall.\n\nThe appetizers came, two right, two wrong.\n\nAnd so we dined, the Sutters and the Bellarosas. I was relaxed knowing that no one was going to be shot at our table. Susan was relaxed as well, unafraid, as I indicated, of social ostracism, but more than that, she was having a good time. In truth, the Bellarosas were more interesting than the Vandermeers, for instance, and certainly funnier once they got warmed up. Frank had a whole repertoire of jokes that were racist, sexist, dirty, and just plain offensive to anyone, Italians included. But the way he told them, with no apologies or self-consciousness, made them actually sound all right, and we all laughed until our faces hurt.\n\nPeople around us seemed jealous that we were actually having a good time. The entr\u00e9es came, one right, three wrong, but by this time no one cared. Susan had taken to calling me _consigliere_ , which Frank found funny, but which I, even though drunk, didn't find terribly amusing.\n\nRichard tried a few times to take away Frank's green salad, which had been untouched. But Frank told him to leave it, and the next time Richard reached for it, Frank grabbed his wrist. \"Look, pal,'' said Bellarosa, \"I said leave the fucking salad alone.\"\n\nThis sort of stopped the action for a few seconds. Richard backed off, almost bowing as he rubbed his wrist. I was glad for this little incident, for it assured me that Frank Bellarosa was who and what Alphonse Ferragamo said he was. And like most sociopaths, Mr. Bellarosa had a short fuse and was liable to go from laughing to explosive violence in about one second. Even Susan, I saw, who found Bellarosa charming, interesting, and all that, was a bit taken aback.\n\nFrank realized he should not have bared his fangs in human company and explained with a wave of the hand, \"Italians eat their salad after the main course. Cleans the palate. I guess that guy didn't know that.\"\n\nI guess he knows now, Frank.\n\nFrank ate his salad.\n\nAfter about fifteen minutes, everybody forgot or made believe they forgot that Frank had forgotten his manners. In fact, Frank went out of his way to be nice to Richard, explaining about the salad, making a few dumb jokes about Italian waiters, and generally assuring Richard that he could move about the table freely without fear of losing a body part. Richard dropped a dish nevertheless.\n\nWe ordered coffee and dessert, and Frank ordered four glasses of marsala wine, explaining to Richard that Italians often had marsala with or before their dessert, sometimes with cheese. Richard, who didn't give a shit, pretended to be fascinated.\n\nThe meal ended happily, without bloodshed or further incident, except that Frank insisted on paying even after I explained that no money could be used in the club. Finally, frustrated in his attempt to make amends with me, he shoved some bills in Richard's waistcoat pocket.\n\nThe truly inebriated never know when to quit, so we retired to a small study for liqueurs. A sleepy cocktail waitress glanced at her watch in preparation for telling us it was too late, then noticed Frank Bellarosa, who I knew had been pointed out to her at some time during the evening. She smiled and asked, \"What can I get for you?\"\n\nFrank took it on himself to order for everyone. \"Sambuca, and you got to put three beans in each glass for good luck. Got it?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.'' She hurried off.\n\nFrank offered me a cigar and I took it. We lit up and smoked. The cordials came with a whole plate of coffee beans so we could make our own luck.\n\nFrank said, \"I got to take you two to a little place down on Mott Street. Little Italy, you know? A place called Giulio's. I'll teach you how to eat Italian.\"\n\nI asked, \"Do we need bulletproof vests?\"\n\nYou never know with a guy like Bellarosa what he's going to find funny. Susan sort of chuckled. Anna seemed sad. But Frank laughed. \"Nah. They give you them when you sit. Like bibs.\"\n\nWe finished our cordials and I stood unsteadily. \"They want to close up here.\"\n\nFrank sprang out of his chair. \"Come on back to my place.\"\n\nSusan accepted simultaneous to my declining. We're usually pretty much in sync when it comes to things like this, and we can communicate with a glance. But clearly we weren't on the same wavelength this evening. I said to Susan, \"I have a busy day tomorrow. You can go if you wish.\"\n\n\"I guess I'll go home.\"\n\nFrank seemed neither disappointed nor relieved, though Anna looked at me in an odd way, almost as if she and I were _simpatico_ , and the other two were nuts.\n\nSusan and Anna had arrived in Frank's Cadillac, driven by the wheelman\/bodyguard, and Susan and I accepted Frank's invitation to be driven home, as we were both somewhat impaired.\n\nWe staggered out into the balmy night, and Frank's car quickly pulled up to us as if the driver, out of force of habit, thought we'd just robbed the place.\n\nWe all squeezed into the backseat, which people who don't know each other well won't usually do if they're stone sober. Somehow, the order of seating turned out to be Susan, Frank, Anna, and me. The car pulled away and we all swayed and laughed. It really was tight, given Anna's ample hips, and so it seemed natural that Susan wound up half on Bellarosa's lap. Anna, for her part, seemed embarrassed if not actually panicky about the proximity of her right thigh and breast to my left thigh and arm, respectively. It didn't matter what was going on to her immediate left. Amazing.\n\nAnyway, we laughed and joked, and it was all very silly, typical middle-aged suburbanites having alcoholic fun that in the morning would be embarrassing if you were stupid enough to think about it.\n\nThe driver, a man whom Frank called Lenny, actually checked us out in his rearview mirror and even glanced over his shoulder at me once. Lenny was a smirker, and I wanted to bash my fist in his idiotic young face, or tell Frank to put a bullet in the back of his head.\n\nAnyway, Lenny seemed to know the way, pulling right through the open gates of Stanhope Hall, and without hesitation finding his way along the unlighted road to our house. Interesting. Lenny got out and opened Susan's door, helping her off Bellarosa's knee and onto the ground. I exited without help, unless you count Anna rearranging her hips, which inadvertently propelled me out the door.\n\nSusan and I waved good-bye to the black windows of the Bellarosas' Cadillac, then went inside and climbed the stairs to our bedroom. We undressed and fell into bed. Susan and I both sleep au naturel all year round, which means the honeymoon is not over, and gives our young, Hispanic laundress something to talk about, i.e., \"I no wash no nightgowns or pajamas at Stanhope Hall, but _mi Dios_ , those sheets!\"\n\nAnyway, on the same subject, Susan reached over and grabbed me, finding, I'm afraid, not even four fingers' worth of John. I informed her, \"I've had too much to drink.\"\n\nSusan does not take that as a rejection, but as a challenge. In fact, once she gets going she could make my tie hard.\n\n\"Pretend,'' she said, \"that I'm Anna Bellarosa, and we swapped spouses for the night.\"\n\n\"Okay.'' There was a distinct physical difference between Susan and Anna, so I had to pretend real hard. Susan switched off the lamp to facilitate this. She said, \"I'm with Frank now, in the back of his car, and we're getting out of our clothes as the chauffeur is driving us around.\"\n\nI didn't like that image, but a part of me must have because I felt that part getting harder in Susan's hand, and she giggled. \"See?'' she said. \"There you go.'' She added, \"And you're going to fuck Anna Bellarosa now. She's never been with any man except her husband, and she's shy, terrified, but excited. And you know she's going to love how you do it to her, and you're wondering how and when you're going to return her to her husband, and when he's going to give me back to you, and what we're all going to say to one another.\"\n\nMy goodness, what an imagination this woman had. And she knows what turns me on, which can be a little uncomfortable for me. I mean, now that I thought about it, the idea of wife-swapping had briefly crossed my fuzzy mind on the way home in the car.\n\nAnyway, there I was on my back, with Susan's hand cupped around my penis, which was rising like an ICBM out of its silo. I heard her say, \"Oh, my God, John, you're bigger than Frank.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nShe said in a Brooklyn accent, \"I can't get alla this insida me. Please don't put it in me. My husband will kill me for this. He'll kill you.\"\n\n\"He's fucking Susan right now,'' I pointed out. \"Your husband is fucking my wife.\"\n\nShe said, \"I am betraying my husband. God forgive me.\"\n\nI replied, \"I'm just having sex.'' I rolled over on top of her and brought her legs over my shoulders.\n\n\"What are you doing?'' she cried. \"What are you going to do?\"\n\nI thrust myself inside her and she let out a startled sound. As I made love to her, she moaned, sobbed, then settled down and began to enjoy herself. Between deep breaths, she gasped a few words in Italian that I didn't understand, but they sounded sexy and raunchy.\n\nWell, look, I mean, we're a little kinky, okay? But we knew where to draw the line and always had. But this time, for some reason, I had the feeling that we'd gone beyond the bounds of our game. Fantasy was one thing, but bringing people such as the Bellarosas into our bedroom was dangerous. What was happening to us?\n\nAfterward, as we lay on the bed, uncustomarily separated by a few feet of sheets, Susan said, \"I think we should go away. On vacation.\"\n\n\"Together?\"\n\nShe let a few seconds go by, then replied, \"Of course. We have to get out of here, John. Now. Before it's too late.\"\n\nI didn't feel like asking what she meant by too late. I answered, \"I can't go now. There's too much happening.\"\n\nShe didn't say anything for a long time, then replied, \"Don't forget I asked.\"\n\nAnd to be fair to her even in light of what happened, I'll never forget that she asked.\n\n**_Twenty_**\n\nJuly. The best-laid summer plans of hardworking men often go astray, and this promised to be as screwed up a summer as I'd had since my induction into the army.\n\nMr. Melzer got in touch with me as Frank Bellarosa had said he would. We met, at Mr. Melzer's insistence, at my house. He arrived at the appointed hour, six P.M. on a Wednesday, and I showed him into my study.\n\nMr. Melzer was a white-haired gentleman, rather soft-spoken, which had surprised me on the telephone, and his voice fit his appearance as I now saw. He was dressed in a dove-gray suit that was expensive and surprisingly tasteful. His shoes were not only real, but they were lizard at about a thousand dollars a pair. My, my, Mr. Melzer, you struck it rich, didn't you? I wished Mr. Novac could see his former co-worker.\n\nWe sat in my study, but I didn't offer Mr. Melzer anything but a chair.\n\nAs he was a renegade, I had expected Mr. Melzer to have somewhat of a furtive look about him. But he seemed instead completely at ease, and at times rather grave, as if what we were discussing was very weighty and thus very expensive.\n\nI didn't dislike the man immediately as I'd disliked Novac, but there was something a bit oily about Mr. Melzer, and I supposed he'd acquired that lubrication after he'd left the IRS, which is not known for greasing the shaft. The lizard shoes seemed appropriate footwear for Mr. Melzer.\n\nAfter fifteen minutes or so of conversation, he informed me, \"I require twenty thousand dollars as a retainer.\"\n\nThat was actually reasonable considering the case. I would require more if it were my case. But then he added, \"I take half of what I save you in taxes.\"\n\n\" _Half?_ Attorneys are only allowed by law to charge a third of what they get a client in a civil suit.\"\n\n\"I'm not an attorney, Mr. Sutter. There is no law governing my fee. Also, you understand, I have rather heavy expenses.\"\n\n\"You don't even have an office.\"\n\n\"I've got other expenses. You don't want to know about them.\"\n\n\"No, I don't.'' I looked him in the eye. \"And there will be no criminal charges for tax fraud.\"\n\n\"No criminal charges, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"All right. You're hired.\"\n\nHe added, \"However, according to what you've told me, you do owe the government most of that money. Perhaps all of it. But I can and will get it reduced. I have a good incentive to do that. You see?\"\n\nThere is no harder worker than a former government employee who has discovered the word _incentive._\n\nHe continued, \"And I will try to work out a payout schedule, but I must tell you, when they settle for less, they want it quickly.\"\n\n\"Fine. But I don't want to see or hear from Novac again.\"\n\n\"I'll deal with Steve.\"\n\n_Steve?_ I asked him, \"How and when do you want to be paid your retainer?\"\n\n\"A check is fine, and now would be convenient.\"\n\n\"Not for me. I'll send you a check next week. But I want you to begin work as of now.'' When clients say this to me, I raise my eyebrows like lawyers do.\n\nBut Mr. Melzer just waved his hand. \"You are a friend of Mr. Bellarosa. There is no problem with payment.\"\n\nThat could be taken at least two ways. I stood and Mr. Melzer stood also. He went to the window. I said to him, \"It's easier to get out through this door.\"\n\nHe laughed softly and explained, \"I was admiring your place when I drove in.'' He motioned out the window. \"It's very impressive.\"\n\n\"It was.\"\n\n\"Yes, was. It's incredible, isn't it, Mr. Sutter, how the rich lived before income taxes?\"\n\n\"Yes, it is.\"\n\n\"It always pained me, when I was with the government, to see how much hard-earned personal wealth was taken through taxes.\"\n\n\"It pains me, too, Mr. Melzer. Truly it does. And I'm happy for your conversion.'' I added, \"But we must all pay some taxes, and I don't mind paying my fair share.\"\n\nHe turned from the window and smiled at me but said nothing.\n\nI walked to the door. \"And you're certain you don't require my tax records?\"\n\n\"I don't think so, Mr. Sutter. I approach the problem differently.'' He added, \"It's their records on you that interest me.\"\n\n\"I see. And how can I reach you if the need arises?\"\n\n\"I'll call you in a week.'' Mr. Melzer walked to the door, hesitated, and said, \"You're probably bitter about this, Mr. Sutter, and you're probably thinking about some individuals who don't pay their fair share of taxes.\"\n\n\"They have to live with that mortal sin, Mr. Melzer. I simply want to settle up with my Uncle Sam. I'm a patriot, and a former Boy Scout.\"\n\nAgain, Mr. Melzer smiled. I could see that he thought I was a cut above the average tax cheat. He informed me, \"People who don't pay any taxes, the real tax evaders, appear to live like the old robber barons. But I assure you, eventually they go to jail. There is justice.\"\n\nThat was similar to what Mr. Mancuso had told me. That assurance must come with government work. They must know something I don't know. I replied, \"And I would be happy to sit on the jury.'' I held the door open for him.\n\nHe took another step toward the door, then again turned to me. \"Perhaps I could use your services one day. I do very well, you understand, but I have no law degree.\"\n\n\"Which is why you do very well, instead of just fairly well.\"\n\nHe chuckled. \"You're well-known in the Manhattan IRS office. Did you know that?\"\n\nI suspected I was, but didn't know for certain. I asked, \"Do they throw darts at my picture?\"\n\n\"Actually, when I worked there, we had a whole wall in the coffee room captioned 'Rogues' Gallery.'\" He smiled, but I was not amused. He added, \"Not photos, of course, but names and Social Security numbers. Not of tax cheats, you understand, but of attorneys and CPAs who beat the IRS at their own game. They don't like that. So, you see, I knew you, or of you, before I heard from you.'' He paused, then said, \"So, it is ironic, is it not, that you should find yourself in need of tax assistance from me?\"\n\nIrony to me often smells like a put-up job, and that's what he was hinting at. So I asked him, \"Do you believe this case is a personal vendetta against me?\"\n\nHe let a meaningful second pass before answering, \"Who can say for sure? Bureaucrats can be so petty. The point is, even if they did single you out, they did find something, did they not? Even if it is a technicality.\"\n\nA rather expensive technicality. Well, if the only fitting death for a lion tamer is to get eaten by a lion, then the only fitting financial death for a tax man is to get eaten by the IRS.\n\nMr. Melzer returned to his original subject and asked, \"I would like to call on you for advice.\"\n\nThis was hardly the moment to tell him to fuck off, so I said, \"I'm available for my usual hourly rate.\"\n\n\"Good. And would you be available for more extensive work? For instance, would you consider forming a limited partnership?\"\n\n_Mamma mia_ , I was getting more offers than a Twelfth Avenue whore. I replied wryly, \"I hardly think that a man who is facing charges of tax fraud would be an asset to you, Mr. Melzer.\"\n\n\"You're too modest.\"\n\n\"You're too kind.\"\n\n\"Mr. Sutter, I could double your present income in the first year.\"\n\n\"So could I, Mr. Melzer, if I chose to. Good evening.\"\n\nHe took the heavy hint, put it around his neck, and left with a hanging head.\n\nI felt I needed a shower, but made a drink instead. I loosened my tie and sat in my armchair, wiping my forehead with a handkerchief.\n\nThese old houses, all stone and with no duct work, are nearly impossible to air-condition properly, and my study was hot in the July heat. I could get a few window air conditioners, I suppose, but that looks tacky, and people around here are more concerned with appearances than comfort. That's why we wear ties and jackets in the heat. Sometimes I think we're crazy. Sometimes I know we are.\n\nI sipped on a gin and tonic, my summer drink, made with real Schweppes quinine to ward off malaria, and real Boodles gin to ward off reality.\n\n_Double your present income._ My God, I thought, this used to be a nation that produced useful goods, built railroads and steamships, and subdued a continent. Now we perform silly services, make paper deals, and squander the vast accumulated capital of two hundred years of honest labor.\n\nIf Melzer could double my income to about $600,000, then Melzer must be good for over a million himself. And what did he do for that million? He fixed tax problems that were in large part created by people like himself. And the bozo probably went to a second-rate state university and squeaked out a degree in accounting. I made myself another drink.\n\nCommunism was dead, and American capitalism had a bad cough. So who and what would inherit the earth? Not the meek, as the Reverend Mr. Hunnings preached. Not the parasites, such as Melzer, who could survive only while the organism was alive. Not Lester Remsen, who, though he specialized in mining and industrial stocks, wouldn't know a lump of coal from a cow pie. And certainly not me or my children, who had evolved along very narrow lines to be masters of a world that no longer existed.\n\nPeople like the Stanhopes might survive because their ancestors had stashed away enough acorns to last for a long time. People like Bellarosa might survive if they could make deals with the new wolves in the woods. Evolution, not revolution. That was what America was all about. But you had to evolve fast.\n\nI took my gin and tonic and went out on the back terrace. Susan, who had taken to drinking Campari and soda this summer (probably because it was served at Alhambra), joined me outside. She asked, \"Is everything all right?\"\n\n\"Yes. But I need to borrow twenty thousand from you.\"\n\n\"I'll have a check drawn to you tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I'll have it back to you as soon as I unload some stocks. What is your interest rate?\"\n\n\"The vig is one percent a week, compounded daily, and you got ninety days to pay up the principal or I break your legs.'' She laughed.\n\nI glanced at her. \"Where did you learn that? Next door?\"\n\n\"No, no. I'm reading a book about the Mafia.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Why? You read books on local trees, I read books on local wildlife.'' She added, \"Those wiseguys are not nice people.\"\n\n\"No kidding.\"\n\n\"But they make much better interest on their investments than my stupid trustees do.\"\n\n\"So tell Bellarosa you want to capitalize his loan-sharking.\"\n\nShe thought a moment, then said, \"Somehow, I think Frank is different. He's trying to go a hundred-percent legitimate.\"\n\n\"He told you that?\"\n\n\"Of course not. Anna did. But in a roundabout way. She doesn't even admit he's head of a Mafia family. I guess, like me, she never saw it in the papers.\"\n\n\"Susan,'' I replied, \"Frank Bellarosa is the number-one criminal in New York, perhaps in America. He could not legitimize his business or his life even if he wanted to, and I assure you he does not want to.\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"Did you see that article in today's _Times_?\"\n\n\"Yes. Are you reading the newspapers now?\"\n\n\"Someone told me to read that.\"\n\n\"I see.'' The article in question concerned an announcement made by Mr. Alphonse Ferragamo, the United States Attorney for New York's Southern District. Mr. Ferragamo stated that he was presenting evidence to a federal grand jury that was looking into allegations that Mr. Frank Bellarosa, an alleged underworld figure, was involved in the death of a Mr. Juan Carranza, a Colombian citizen and a reputed drug dealer. The federal government was involved in the case, Mr. Ferragamo stated, because both the victim and the suspect were reputed to be involved in ongoing interstate and international racketeering. Thus, the government was seeking a federal indictment for first-degree murder.\n\nI always liked the _New York Times_ ' understated style, calling everyone \"Mr.,'' and inserting lots of \"reputed''s and \"alleged''s. It all sounded so civilized. The _Times_ should have heard what I heard in Bellarosa's study: fucking Ferragamo, fucking Carranza, fucking Feds, spics, shitheads, and _melanzane_. I made a mental note to pick up tomorrow's _New York Post_ and _Daily News_ and get the real scoop.\n\nSusan said, \"Carolyn and Edward will be home tomorrow or the next day. But only for a few weeks, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"I see.'' Neither of them had come home directly after school. Carolyn had gone to the summer home of her roommate's parents in Cape Cod, and Edward had remained at St. Paul's for some vague reason, probably having to do with a girl. I asked Susan, \"Where are they going in a few weeks?\"\n\n\"Carolyn is going to Cuba with a student exchange group to promote world peace and perfect her Spanish. Edward and some other graduating seniors are going to Cocoa Beach where there is a house available to them. I don't think they're going to promote world peace.\"\n\n\"Well, but that's admirable on both counts. World peace begins with inner peace, with solving the problem of the groin area first.\"\n\n\"That's very profound, John.\"\n\nI don't think she meant that. I should tell you that Susan finances these trips of Carolyn's and Edward's. The Stanhope money, in fact, has been a problem in the children's upbringing from the beginning. I don't say that Carolyn and Edward are spoiled; they are bright and they work hard in school. But their early nurturing was left to nannies hired by the Stanhopes. And their formative years were spent in boarding schools, which, while customary around here, is not mandatory. But I went along with it. So now, in a way, I barely know my children. I don't know what they think, what they feel, or who they are. Neither does Susan. I think we missed something, and I think they did, too.\n\nJuly, so far, sucked.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nLester Remsen called me at my Locust Valley office one morning. The purpose of the call was social not business. Or more accurately, it was the business of being social. \"John,'' he said, \"we had a meeting up at the club last night, and the subject was you.\"\n\n\"Who was at the meeting?\"\n\n\"Well . . . that's not important\u2014\"\n\n\"It most certainly is to me if I was the subject of the meeting.\"\n\n\"It's more important what the meeting was about. It was about\u2014\"\n\n\"If it's important, Lester, we will present the topic at the next regularly scheduled meeting of the board. I will not be talked about behind my back in an unscheduled session of self-appointed busybodies who want to remain anonymous. This is a nation of law, and I am a lawyer. _Capisce?_ \"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Do you understand?\"\n\n\"Yes, but\u2014\"\n\n\"While I have you on the phone, Lester, Mrs. Lauderbach called and told me you suggested she sell half her American Express and buy United Bauxite. Why?\"\n\n\"Why? I'll tell you why.'' Whereupon he launched into a sales pitch.\n\nI interrupted and asked, \"What is bauxite?\"\n\n\"It's . . . it's like . . . an important . . . I guess you'd say mineral. . . .\"\n\n\"It's aluminum ore. Hardworking men dig it out of the ground so people can have beer cans.\"\n\n\"Who cares? I told you, it's ten and a half today, a two-year low, and there's talk of a takeover bid by American Biscuit. They're a hot company. They make quality sporting goods.\"\n\n\"Who makes biscuits? U.S. Steel?\"\n\n\"USX. That's U.S. Steel now. They make . . . steel.\"\n\n\"Leave the Lauderbach account alone, Lester, or I'll pull it from you.\"\n\nHe mumbled something, then before I could hang up, he said, \"Listen, John, let me return to the other thing for a moment. I want to talk to you about that. Just between us.\"\n\n\"Talk.\"\n\n\"First of all, I think you owe me an apology.\"\n\n\"For what?\"\n\n\"For what you said to me at the club.\"\n\n\"I think you owe me an apology for having the audacity to try to involve me in a swindle.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you're talking about. I want you to apologize for telling me to go fuck myself.\"\n\n\"I apologize.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . okay . . . next thing. The Bellarosa thing. I have to tell you, John, twenty years ago you'd have been asked to resign for that little stunt. We're all a little looser now, but by the same token, we're all a little more concerned about all these new people moving in. We don't want the club to get a reputation for being a place where these people can come, even as guests. We certainly do not want it known that a notorious Mafia boss is a regular at The Creek.\"\n\n\"Lester, I have no desire to cause you or other club members any distress. I am as big a snob as you are. However, if John Sutter wishes to sup with the devil at the club, it is no business of yours or anyone's as long as no club rules are broken.\"\n\n\"John, damn it, I'm talking about common sense and common courtesy, and yes, common decency\u2014\"\n\n\"And if you or anyone wishes to propose a house rule regarding alleged underworld figures, or the devil, I will probably vote for it. The days of gentlemen's agreements and secret protocols are over, my friend, because there are no gentlemen left, and secret protocols are illegal. If we are to survive, we had better adapt, or we had better get tough and get a plan of action. We cannot stand around any longer complaining because it's hard to dance on the deck of a sinking ship. Do you understand?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then let me put it this way. My prediction is that by the end of this century, Frank Bellarosa will be on the club board, or perhaps there won't be a Creek Country Club. And when it's a town park or a shopping mall, everyone can go there, and we can complain about tight parking and rowdy kids.\"\n\n\"You may be right,'' said Lester unexpectedly. \"But until then, John, we would appreciate it if you didn't bring Mr. Bellarosa in as a guest.\"\n\n\"I will think about that.\"\n\n\"Please do,'' Lester said. \"My best regards to Susan.\"\n\n\"And my regards to Judy. And Lester . . . ?\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Go fuck yourself.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI had decided to avoid The Creek for a while, partly because of my conversation with Lester, but mostly because I prefer to spend July at The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club.\n\nSo on a Friday evening, the day after Edward came home, and two days after Carolyn came home, Susan and I took the children to the yacht club for an early dinner, to be followed by a three-day sailing trip.\n\nWe took my Bronco, piled high with beer, food, and fishing gear. It was just like the old days, sort of, except that Carolyn was driving, and Edward wasn't bouncing all over the place with excitement. He looked instead like an adolescent who had things on his mind; probably the girl he left behind at school. And Carolyn, well, she was a woman now, and someone, not me, had taught her to drive a stick shift. Where do the years go?\n\nAnyway, we entered the grounds of The Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club. The club, founded by William K. Vanderbilt, is located on Center Island, which is actually more of a peninsula, surrounded by Oyster Bay, Cold Spring Harbor, the Long Island Sound, and an aura of old money. A no-trespassing sign would be redundant.\n\nWe approached the clubhouse by way of a gravel drive. The house is a three-story building of gray cedar shingle and white trim, with a side veranda and gabled roofs. The building dates back to the 1880s and was built in a unique architectural style, which, on the East Coast, is called the American Shingle style. This is a sort of hybrid, combining native cedar shingles with classical ornamentation, though the classical touches are not of marble, but of white-painted wood. The clubhouse in fact had mock wooden pilasters all around, their capitals vaguely Corinthian, hence, I suppose, the club's second name. The Seawanhaka are an extinct tribe of Long Island Indians. Thus, the club's name, while as odd and hybrid as its architecture, has as its unifying theme the evocation of extinct civilizations, which may be fitting.\n\nAnyway, it is a beautifully simple building, unpretentious, yet dignified, a combination of rough-hewn Americana with just a bit of frivolity, like an early settler in a homespun dress with imported ribbons in her hair.\n\nCarolyn parked the Bronco and we climbed out, making our way to the clubhouse.\n\nThe dining room faces out onto Oyster Bay, and we took a table near the large, multi-paned window. I could see our boat, the thirty-six-foot Morgan, at the end of a distant pier. The boat is named _Paumanok_ , after the old Indian name for Long Island.\n\nI ordered a bottle of local wine, the Banfi chardonnay, produced on a former Vanderbilt estate that nearly became a housing tract. Perhaps, I thought, we could save the Stanhope estate by planting an expensive crop, maybe figs and olives, but I'd need a lot of sunlamps. Anyway, I poured wine for all of us and we toasted being together.\n\nI believe that children should start drinking early. It gets them used to alcohol and removes the mystery and taboo. I mean, how cool can it be if your mother and father make you drink wine with dinner? It worked for me, and for Susan, too, because neither of us abused alcohol in our youth. Middle age is another matter.\n\nWe talked about school, about Carolyn's trip to Cape Cod and Edward's reluctance to leave St. Paul's, which indeed had something to do with a girl, specifically an older girl who was a sophomore at nearby Dartmouth College. I fear that many of Edward's life decisions will be influenced by his libido. I suppose that's normal. I'm the same way, and I'm normal.\n\nAnyway, we also talked about local happenings and about summer plans. Edward, on his third glass of wine, loosened up a bit more. Carolyn is always tightly wrapped, drunk or sober, and you don't get much out of her until she's ready to talk. Carolyn is also the perceptive one, like her mother, and she asked me, \"Is everything here all right?\"\n\nRather than pretend that it was, or be evasive, I replied, \"We've had some problems here. You both know about our new neighbors?\"\n\nEdward sat up and took notice. \"Yeah! Frank the Bishop Bellarosa. He threatening you? We'll go knock him off.'' He laughed.\n\nSusan replied, \"Actually, it's quite the opposite problem. He's very nice and his wife is a darling.\"\n\nI wasn't sure about any of that, but I added, \"He's taken a liking to us, and we aren't sure how to react to that. Nor do other people. So you may hear a few things about that while you're here.\"\n\nEdward didn't respond directly because when he has his own agenda, he doesn't want to be sidetracked. He said enthusiastically, \"What's he like? Can I meet him? I want to say I met him. Okay?\"\n\nEdward is an informal boy, despite all his private schooling and despite the fact that most of his family on both sides are pompous asses. He's sort of a scrawny kid with reddish hair that always needs combing. Also, his shirttails always need tucking in, his school tie and blazer are usually spotted with something, and his Docksides look as if they were chewed on. Some of this is affected, of course: the homeless preppie look, which was the fashion even when I was up at St. Paul's. But basically, Edward is an undirected though good-hearted boy with a devil-may-care attitude. I said to him, \"If you want to meet your new neighbor, just knock on his door.\"\n\n\"What if his goons come after me?\"\n\nCarolyn rolled her eyes. She always thought her younger brother was a bit of a jerkoff, without actually saying so. All in all though, they get along well in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact they have been separated so much. I replied to the question about goons. \"You can handle them, Skipper.\"\n\nHe smiled at his old nickname.\n\nCarolyn said to me and to her mother, \"I wouldn't let other people tell me whom to associate with.\"\n\nSusan replied, \"We certainly don't. But some of our old friends are disappointed. Actually, there was an incident at The Creek a few weeks ago.'' Susan related, in general terms, our evening with the Bellarosas. She concluded, \"Your father got a call from someone about it, and I got two calls.\"\n\nCarolyn mulled this over. She is, as I indicated, a serious young woman, self-assured, directed, and ambitious. She will do well in law school. She is attractive in a well-kempt sort of way, and I can picture her with glasses though she doesn't wear them, dressed in a dark suit, high heels, and carrying a briefcase. A lady lawyer, as we old legal beagles say. She gave us her considered opinion. \"You have a constitutional right to associate with whomever you please.\"\n\nI replied, \"We know that, Carolyn.'' College kids sometimes think they are learning new things. For years I thought I was getting new information at Yale. I added, \"And our friends have that right, too, and some of them are exercising that right by choosing not to associate with us.\"\n\n\"Yes,'' Carolyn agreed, \"within the right to free association is the implied right not to associate.\"\n\n\"And likewise, my club has the right to discriminate.\"\n\nShe hesitated there, because Carolyn is what we call a liberal. She asked, \"Why don't you both just leave here? This place is anachronistic and discriminatory.\"\n\n\"That's why we like it,'' I said, and got a frown. Carolyn reminds me in many respects of my mother, whom she admires for her social activism. Carolyn is a member of several campus organizations that I find suspect, but I won't argue politics with anyone under forty. I asked her, \"Where do you think we should go?\"\n\n\"Go to Galveston and live on the beach with Aunt Emily.\"\n\n\"Not a bad idea.'' Carolyn also likes Emily because Emily broke the bonds of corporate wifedom and is now a beachcomber. Carolyn, though, would not do that. Her generation of iconoclasts are a bit less wild than mine, better dressed for sure, and won't leave home without their credit cards. Still, I think she is sincere. I said, \"Maybe we'll go to Cuba with you and see about world peace.\"\n\n\"Why don't we order?'' asked Susan, who always suspects me of baiting her daughter.\n\nCarolyn said to me, \"I don't think Cuba is a good place, if that's what you're thinking. But I think by going there I can understand it better.\"\n\nEdward said, \"Who cares about Cuba, Cari? Come to Cocoa Beach and I'll introduce you to my friends.'' He grinned at her.\n\nShe said icily, \"I wouldn't be caught _dead_ with your twerpy friends.\"\n\n\"Yeah? How come when I brought Geoffrey home for Christmas, you hung around us all week?\"\n\n\"I did _not_.\"\n\n\"You _did_.\"\n\nI looked at Susan, who looked at me and smiled. I said to Susan, \"And how come you can't remember to get your car serviced?\"\n\n\"And why can't you learn to pick up your socks?\"\n\nCarolyn and Edward got the message, the way they always did, smiled, and shut up.\n\nWe chatted about George and Ethel Allard, about Yankee and Zanzibar and the relocation of the stables, and other changes in our lives since Christmas. We ordered dinner and another bottle of wine, though I won't drink more than two glasses before I sail.\n\nAs we ate, Carolyn brought up the subject of Frank Bellarosa again. She asked me, \"Does he know what you do for a living, Dad? Has he asked for tax advice?\"\n\n\"On the contrary, I've asked him for tax advice. It's a long story. But now he wants me to represent him if he is indicted for murder.\"\n\nAgain, it was Edward who failed to see any problem there. \"Murder? Wow! No kidding? Did he kill somebody? Are you going to get him off?\"\n\n\"I don't actually think he did kill the person that he may be charged with killing.\"\n\nCarolyn asked me, \"Why does he want you to defend him, Dad? You don't do criminal work.\"\n\n\"I think he trusts me. I think he believes that I would make a good appearance on his behalf. I don't think he would ask me to defend him if he were guilty. He thinks that if I believe in his innocence, then a jury would believe me.\"\n\nCarolyn nodded. \"He sounds like a smart man.\"\n\n\"So am I.\"\n\nShe smiled at me. \"We all know that, Dad.\"\n\nEdward grinned, too. \"Take the case. Beat the rap. You'll be famous. Are you going to do it?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nSusan said unexpectedly, \"I never get involved with your father's business, but if he does take this case, I'm behind him.\"\n\nSusan rarely makes public statements about standing by her man, so I had to wonder about this one.\n\nAnyway, we had dinner, we all loosened up a bit more, and it did almost seem like old times, but this was the last time it would.\n\nIn truth, whatever relationship I have with Carolyn and Edward is based on a time when I could tease them, scold them, and hold them. They are older now, and so am I and so is Susan, and we all have other problems, other cares. I drifted away from my own father at about the age Carolyn and Edward are now, and we never came together again. But I do remember his holding my hand that evening on the boat.\n\nI suppose this separation is a natural biological thing. And perhaps one day, Susan and I will have good adult relationships with our children. I always believed that animals in the wild who leave their nests someday find their parents again and recognize them, and perhaps even signal that recognition. Maybe they even say, \"Thank you.\"\n\nAs Edward was shoveling pie into his mouth, he announced, \"I want to go out to East Hampton with you guys in August. Maybe for a couple weeks till school starts.\"\n\nI glanced at Susan, then informed Edward and Carolyn, \"We may be selling the East Hampton house, and it may be gone before August.\"\n\nEdward looked up from his pie as though he hadn't heard me correctly. \"Selling it? Selling the summer house? Why?\"\n\n\"Tax problems,'' I explained.\n\n\"Oh . . . I was sort of looking forward to going out there.\"\n\n\"Well, you sort of have to make other plans, Skipper.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\nEdward seemed vaguely concerned, the way children are when adults announce money problems. Carolyn, I noticed, was eyeing Susan and me as if she were trying to find the real meaning in this. For all her interest in the disadvantaged, she could barely fathom money problems. Perhaps she thought her parents were getting divorced.\n\nWe finished dinner, and Carolyn and I walked down toward the pier where the _Paumanok_ was berthed. Susan and Edward went to the parking field to bring the Bronco closer to the pier.\n\nI put my arm around Carolyn as we walked and she put her arm around me. She said, \"We don't talk much anymore, Dad.\"\n\n\"You're not around much.\"\n\n\"We can talk on the phone.\"\n\n\"We can. We will.\"\n\nAfter a few seconds she said, \"There's been a lot of things going on around here.\"\n\n\"Yes, but nothing to be concerned about.\"\n\nAfter a few seconds, she asked, \"Are things all right between you and Mom?\"\n\nI saw that coming and replied without hesitation, \"The relationship between a husband and wife is no one's business, Cari, not even their children's. Remember that when you marry.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure that's true. I have a direct interest in your happiness and well-being. I love you both.\"\n\nCarolyn, being the good Stanhope and Sutter that she is, does not say things such as that easily. I replied, \"And we love you and Skipper. But our happiness and well-being are not necessarily tied to our marriage.\"\n\n\"Then you _are_ having problems?\"\n\n\"Yes, but not with each other. We already told you about the other thing. Subject closed.\"\n\nWe reached the pier and stood looking at each other. Carolyn said, \"Mom is not herself. I can tell.\"\n\nI didn't reply.\n\nShe added, \"And neither are you.\"\n\n\"I'm myself tonight.'' I kissed her on the cheek.\n\nThe Bronco came around, and we all unloaded our provisions onto the dock. Susan parked the Bronco again while Carolyn passed things to Edward, who handed them to me on the boat. We did all this without my having to say anything because this was my crew, and we'd done this hundreds of times over the years.\n\nSusan hopped aboard and began putting things where they belonged in the galley, on the deck, and in the cabin. The kids jumped aboard and helped me as I went about the business of making ready to sail.\n\nWith about an hour of sunlight left, we cast off and I used the engine to get us away from the piers and the moored boats, then I shut off the engine and we set sail. Edward hoisted the mainsail, Carolyn the staysail, and Susan set the spinnaker.\n\nThere was a nice southerly blowing, and once we cleared Plum Point, it took us north toward the open waters of the Sound.\n\nThe Morgan is ideal for the Long Island Sound, perfect for trips up to Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, Block Island, and out to Provincetown. The Morgan's major drawback in the bays and coves is its deep keel, but that's what makes it a safe family boat on the open seas. In fact, the original Morgan was developed by J. P. Morgan for his children, and he designed it with safety in mind. It's sort of an ideal club boat; good-looking and prestigious without being pretentious.\n\nIt would actually be possible for me to make a trans-Atlantic crossing with this boat, but not advisable. And now that my children are older, the plodding Morgan may not be what I need. What I need, really need, is a sleek Allied fifty-five footer that will take me anywhere in the world. I would also need a crew, of course, as few as two people, preferably three or four.\n\nI imagined myself at the helm of the Allied, heading east toward Europe, a rising sun on the horizon, the high bow cutting through the waves. I saw my crew at their tasks: Sally Grace mopping the deck, Beryl Carlisle holding my coffee mug, and the delicious Terri massaging my neck. Down in the galley is Sally Ann of the Stardust Diner making breakfast, and impaled on the bowsprit is the stuffed head of Zanzibar.\n\nI took the Morgan west, past Bayville, where I could make out the lights of the infamous Rusty Hawsehole. I continued west into the setting sun, around Matinecoc Point and then south, tacking into the wind toward Hempstead Harbor.\n\nI skirted the west shore of the harbor, sailing past Castle Gould and Falaise, then turned in toward the center of the harbor where I ordered the sails lowered. Carolyn and Edward let out the anchor, and we grabbed fast, the boat drifting around its mooring with the wind and the incoming tide.\n\nIn the distance, on the eastern shore, the village of Sea Cliff clung to tall bluffs, its Victorian houses barely visible in the fading light. A few hundred yards north of Sea Cliff was Garvie's Point, where Susan and I had made love on the beach.\n\nThe sun had sunk below the high bluffs of Sands Point, and I could see stars beginning to appear in the eastern sky. I watched as they blinked on, east to west behind the spreading purple.\n\nNone of us spoke, we just broke out some beer and drank, watching the greatest show on earth, a nautical sunset: the rose-hued clouds, the starry black fringe on the far horizon, the rising moon, and the gulls gliding over the darkening waters.\n\nYou have to pay close attention to a nautical sunset or you will miss the subtleties of what is happening. So we sat quietly for a long time, me, Susan, Carolyn, and Edward, until finally, by silent consensus, we agreed it was night.\n\nSusan said, \"Cari, let's make some tea.'' They went below.\n\nI climbed onto the cabin deck and steadied myself against the mast. Edward followed. We both stared out into the black waters. I said to him, \"Are you looking forward to college?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"They will be the best years of your life.\"\n\n\"That's what everyone keeps telling me.\"\n\n\"Everyone is right.\"\n\nHe shrugged. Presently, he asked, \"What kind of tax problems?\"\n\n\"I just owe some taxes.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . and you have to sell the house?\"\n\n\"I think so.\"\n\n\"Can you wait?\"\n\nI smiled. \"For what? Until you use it in August?\"\n\n\"No . . . until I'm twenty-one. I can give you the money in my trust fund when I'm twenty-one.\"\n\nI didn't reply, because I couldn't speak.\n\nHe said, \"I don't need all of it.\"\n\nI cleared my throat. \"Well, Grandma and Grandpa Stanhope meant that money to be for you.'' _And they'd have apoplexy if you gave it to me._\n\n\"It's gonna be my money. I want to give it to you if you need it.\"\n\n\"I'll let you know.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\nWe listened to the waves breaking against the distant shore. I looked out to the east. Farther north of Garvie's Point, about five hundred yards from where we lay at anchor, I could see the lights of the big white colonial house on the small headland. I pointed to it. \"Do you see that big house there?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"There was a long pier there once, beginning between those two tall cedars. See them?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Imagine where the pier ended. Do you see anything there?\"\n\nHe looked into the black water, then said, \"No.\"\n\n\"Look harder, Skipper. Squint. Concentrate.\"\n\nHe stared, then said, \"Maybe . . . something. . . .\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I don't know. When I stare, I think I can see . . . what do you call that stuff . . . ? That algae stuff that grows in the water and glows kind of spooky green? Bioluminescence . . . ? Yeah. I see it.\"\n\n\"Do you? Good.\"\n\n\"What about it?\"\n\n\"That's your green light, Skipper. I think it means go.\"\n\n\"Go where?\"\n\nI'm not good at the father-son talk, but I wanted to tell him, so somewhat self-consciously I replied, \"Go wherever you want. Be whatever you want to be. For me, that green light is the past, for you it is the future.'' I took his hand in mine. \"Don't lose sight of it.''\n**_Twenty-one_**\n\nIn retrospect, I should have tried the Atlantic crossing with my family and never returned to America; a sort of decolonization of the Sutters and the Stanhopes. We could have sailed into Plymouth, burned the _Paumanok_ , set up a fish-and-chips stand on the beach, and lived happily ever after.\n\nBut Americans don't emigrate, at least not very many of us do, and the few who do don't do it well. We have created our own land and culture, and we simply don't fit anywhere else, not even in the lands of our ancestors, who can barely tolerate us on two-week holidays. In truth, while I admire Europe, I find the Europeans a bit tiresome, especially when they complain about Americans.\n\nSo we didn't cross the Atlantic, and we didn't emigrate, but we had a spectacular weekend of sailing with sunny weather and good winds.\n\nWe had stayed at anchor in Hempstead Harbor Friday evening, and at daybreak we set sail for Connecticut, putting in at Mystic for a few hours of sight-seeing and shopping. Actually, after about an hour in town, Susan told Carolyn and Edward that she and I had to go back to the boat to get my wallet. Carolyn and Edward sort of grinned knowingly. I was a little embarrassed. Susan told them to meet us in front of the Seamen's Inne in three hours.\n\n\"Three hours?'' asked Edward, still smiling.\n\nI mean, it's good for children to know that their parents have an active sex life, but you don't want to give them the impression that you can't go without it for a day or two. However, Susan was very cool about it and said to Edward, \"Yes, three hours. Don't be late.\"\n\nI took out my wallet and gave them each some money, realizing as I did so that I had created a slight inconsistency in the wallet story. But good kids that they are, they pretended not to see the wallet in my hands.\n\nAnyway, on the way back to the dock, I said to Susan, \"That took me by surprise.\"\n\n\"Oh, you handled it quite well, John, until you pulled out your wallet.'' She laughed.\n\n\"Well, they knew anyway.'' I said, \"Remember when we used to tuck them into their berths at night, then go out on top of the cabin and do it?\"\n\n\"I remember you used to tell them that if they heard noises on the roof, it was only Mommy and Daddy doing their sit-ups.\"\n\n\"Push-ups.\"\n\nWe both laughed.\n\nSo, we took the _Paumanok_ out again and sailed past the three-mile limit where sexual perversions are legal. We found a spot where no other craft were nearby, and I said to Susan, \"What did you have in mind?\"\n\nWhat she had in mind was going below, then reappearing on the aft deck stark naked. We were still under sail, and I was at the helm, and she stood in front of me and said, \"Captain, First Mate Cynthia reporting for punishment as ordered.\"\n\nMy goodness. I looked at her standing at attention, those catlike green eyes sparkling in the sunlight, the breeze blowing through her long red hair. I love this woman's body, the taut legs and arms, the fair skin, and the big red bush of pubic hair.\n\n\"Reporting for punishment as ordered,'' she prompted.\n\n\"Right. Right.'' I thought a moment. \"Scrub the deck.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nShe went below and came back with a bucket and scrub brush, then leaned over the side and scooped up a bucket of salt water. She got down on her hands and knees and began scrubbing the deck around my feet.\n\n\"Don't get any of that on me,'' I said, \"or you'll get a dozen lashes across your rump.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir . . . oops.'' She tipped the bucket over, and the salt water soaked my Docksides. I think she did that on purpose.\n\nShe rose to her knees and threw her arms around my legs. \"Oh, Captain, please forgive me! Please don't whip me.'' She buried her head in my groin.\n\nYou know, for a woman who's a bitch in real life, a real ball-buster if you'll pardon the expression, Susan has a rather strange alter ego. I mean, her favorite and most recurring roles are those of subservient and defenseless women. Someday, I'm going to ask a shrink friend of mine about this, though of course I'll change the names to protect the kinky.\n\nAnyway, I made Susan lower the sails and drop anchor so we could stop for a little punishment. I tied her wrists to the mainmast and delivered a dozen lashes with my belt to her rump. Needless to say, these were light love-taps, though she squirmed and begged me to stop.\n\nWell, we passed the next hour in this fashion, Susan performing all sorts of menial tasks in the nude, bringing me coffee, polishing the brass, cleaning the head. I can't get this woman to clean the crumbs out of the toaster at home, but she really enjoys being a naked slave on board the boat. It's good for her, I think, and very good for the boat.\n\nAnyway, after about an hour she said to me, \"Please, sir, may I put my clothes on?\"\n\nI was sitting on the deck, my back against the cabin bulkhead, sipping a cup of coffee. I replied, \"No. You can get down on the deck on your hands and knees and spread your legs.\"\n\nShe did what I ordered and waited patiently while I finished my coffee. I rose to my knees, lowered my pants, and entered her from behind. She was sopping wet as I discovered, and I wasn't in her for more than ten seconds when she came, and about five seconds later it was my turn.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn the way back into Mystic, Susan, who was fully dressed again, seemed somewhat distant. I had the impression that there was something very weighty on her mind. In fact, if I thought about it, Susan's behavior over the past month or so had alternated between periods of clinging affection and bouts of sulkiness and withdrawal. I'm used to her moods, her sullenness, and her general nuttiness, but this was something different. As Carolyn observed, Susan was not herself. But then again, I was not myself either.\n\nAs we sailed back to Mystic, with me at the helm, I said to her, \"Maybe you were right. Maybe we should get away. We could take the boat down to the Caribbean and disappear for a few months. The hell with civilization.\"\n\nShe didn't reply for a few seconds, then said, \"You have to settle your tax problem before it becomes a criminal matter.\"\n\nWhich was true, and like most Americans, I resented any government intrusion into my life that caused me an inconvenience. I said, \"Well, then, as soon as I take care of that, we should leave.\"\n\nShe replied, \"Don't you think you owe Frank something?\"\n\nI glanced at her. \"Like what?\"\n\n\"Well, you promised him you would handle that charge against him.'' She added, \"When you told Carolyn and Edward about it, you made it sound as if you still hadn't decided.\"\n\nI stared out at the horizon for a while. I don't like people telling me how to run my business, or reminding me of what I said. Also, I didn't recall telling Susan that I promised Bellarosa I'd handle the murder charge.\n\nShe said, \"Didn't you exchange favors or something?\"\n\nI said, \"I suppose we did.'' I asked, \"Why does it concern you?\"\n\n\"Well, that's your challenge. I think it would do you some good to get involved in a criminal case.\"\n\n\"Do you? Do you understand it would probably end my career with Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds if I represented a Mafia don? Not to mention what it would do to us socially.\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"I don't care, John, and neither do you. You've already chucked it all in your mind anyway.'' She added, \"Go for it.\"\n\n\"All right. I will.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn Saturday afternoon, we sailed out of Mystic and headed south again to Long Island, spotting land at Montauk Point, which we rounded against a strong wind and tricky currents.\n\nOut in the Atlantic, about ten miles southeast of Montauk, we saw whales breaching and lobtailing in the distance and we headed toward them but could not keep up. While still not a common sight, in recent years I've seen more whales, which is good news. But an hour later, we had a less happy sighting; not fifty yards off our port bow, the conning tower of a huge black submarine broke the water and rose up like some ancient obsidian monolith, dwarfing the thirty-six-foot Morgan. The tower had numbers on it but no other markings, and Edward gasped, \"My God . . . is it ours?\"\n\nI replied, \"No, it is theirs.\"\n\n\"The Russians'?\"\n\n\"The government's. Russian or American. The Sutters don't own any nuclear submarines.\"\n\nAnd that, I think, completed the conversion of John Sutter from right-thinking, taxpaying patriot to citizen of the world, or more precisely, the sea.\n\nWith a few hours of usable light left, and a strong southwesterly wind, I headed back toward the south shore of Long Island and sailed west along the magnificent white beaches. We passed by East Hampton and Southampton, then turned into the Shinnecock Inlet and sailed past the Shinnecock Reservation, putting in at The Southampton Yacht Club where we anchored for the night.\n\nThe next morning, Sunday, we took on fresh water, then navigated around Montauk Point again and into the Great Peconic Bay. For small and medium-size craft, the sailing in Peconic Bay is some of the best on the East Coast, offering the appearance of open seas with the safety of protected water. Also, there is a lot to see in terms of other craft, seaplanes, islands, and spectacular shoreline, so we just explored for the entire day. Edward explored with a pair of binoculars, spotting four topless women. He kept offering the binoculars to me, but I assured him I wasn't interested in such things. Susan and Carolyn, on the other hand, told him to give them the binoculars if he spotted a naked man. What a crew.\n\nOn Sunday evening, we put in at the old whaling village of Sag Harbor for provisions. Susan, as I mentioned, is not much of a cook, even in her modern kitchen at home, so we don't expect much from the galley. Susan and Edward thought that provisions should consist of a decent meal at a restaurant on Main Street, but Carolyn and I voted for roughing it. Since I am the captain of the _Paumanok_ , we had it my way. You see why I like sailing. So we took a walk through the village, which was quiet on a Sunday evening, and found an open deli where we bought cold beer and sandwiches. We took our provisions back to the ship, which was docked at the Long Wharf at the head of Main Street. As we sat on the aft deck drinking beer and eating baloney sandwiches, Susan said to me, \"If we get scurvy on this trip, it will be your fault.\"\n\n\"I take full responsibility for the _Paumanok_ and her crew, madam. I run a tight ship and I will not abide insubordination.\"\n\nSusan shook a bottle of beer, popped the cap, and sent a stream of suds into my face.\n\nNormally, this sort of horseplay between Susan and me is actually foreplay, but there were children present, so I just joined in the laughter. Ha, ha. But I was horny. Boats make me horny.\n\nWe played cards that night, talked, read, and went to bed early. Sailing is exhausting, and I never sleep so well as when I'm on a gently swaying sailboat.\n\nWe rose at dawn on Monday morning and set sail for home. Out in Gardiners Bay, we sailed around Gardiners Island. The Gardiner family came to the New World about the same time as the Sutters, and the island that was granted to them by Charles I is still in their possession. The present occupant of the island, Robert David Lion Gardiner, has what amounts to the only hereditary title in America, being known as the Sixteenth Lord of the Manor. My father, who knows the gentleman, calls him Bob.\n\nAnyway, the circumnavigation of the big island was a tricky piece of sailing, but the crew was up to it. As we sailed away from the north coast of the island, I couldn't help but reflect on the ancient idea that land is security and sustenance, that land should never be sold or divided. But even if that were true today, it were true only as an ideal, not a practicality. Still, I envied the Sixteenth Lord of the Manor.\n\nWe rounded Orient Point and lowered the sails, letting the _Paumanok_ drift as we finally broke out the fishing gear. Susan, Carolyn, and I were going for bluefish, using as bait a tin of herring that we'd brought along for the occasion. Crazy Edward had brought a much bigger rod and reel with a hundred-pound line and was out for shark. He proclaimed, \"I'm going to get a great white.\"\n\nCarolyn smirked. \"See that he doesn't get _you._ \"\n\nEdward had kept a whole chicken in the refrigerator as bait, and he secured it to his big hook with copper wire. Bubbling with his old enthusiasm, he cast his line in the water.\n\nWe pulled in six blues, which we kept in a pail of seawater to be cleaned later by the captain. And indeed, Edward did tie into a shark, specifically a mako, which is prevalent in these waters in July, and I could tell when the mako broke water, and by the bend in the rod, that it weighed about two hundred pounds. Edward shouted with delight. \"Got 'im! Got 'im! He's hooked!\"\n\nThe _Paumanok_ has no fighting chair, which is a requisite if you're trying to land something that size, but Edward fought the fish from a kneeling position, his knees jammed against the bulwark. The shark was powerful enough to tow the boat and even to make it heel whenever Edward locked the reel. Eventually, Edward reached the end of his line, literally and figuratively, and he was so exhausted he could barely speak. The fish, however, had a lot of fight left in him. I recall a similar incident involving me, my father, and a blue shark. I had refused to let anyone relieve me on the rod and refused to let anyone cut the line and end the uneven battle. The result was that after an hour, my arms and hands were paralyzed from fatigue, and I lost not only the shark but the expensive rod and reel as well. What I was watching now was myself about thirty years ago.\n\nA sailboat is not the ship you want to go shark hunting in, and there were a few times I thought that Edward was going to go over the side as the shark dove and the boat heeled. Finally, after nearly an hour, I suggested, \"Let him go.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then let me relieve you awhile.\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\nCarolyn and Susan had stopped fishing for blues and were watching Edward silently. Edward, of course, was not going to blow it in front of the women, or in front of me for that matter. I tried to think of a graceful way out for him but couldn't. Actually, it was his problem, not mine.\n\nCarolyn poured a bucket of fresh water over Edward, then wrapped a wet towel around his head and shoulders. Susan held cans of cola to his lips, and Edward drank three of them.\n\nI could see that Edward was not in good shape. His skin was burning red, and his tongue was actually lolling around his mouth. His eyes had a faraway glazed look, and I suspected he was about to pass out from heat exhaustion. His arms and legs were wrapped around the pole in such a way that I didn't think the pole could get away from him but would take him with it if the fish gave a long, powerful lunge.\n\nI wished in a way that he would pass out, or that the line would snap, or even that the shark would take him over the side; anything rather than his having to let go.\n\nCarolyn said to him, \"Let it go, Edward. Let it go.\"\n\nHe could not speak any longer, so he just shook his head.\n\nI don't know what the natural outcome of this would have been, but Susan took matters into her own hands and cut the line with a knife.\n\nEdward seemed not to understand what had happened for a minute or so, then he sprawled out on the deck and cried.\n\nWe had to carry him below, and we put him in a bunk with wet towels. It was an hour before he could move his hands and arms.\n\nWe set sail for home. Edward was quiet and sullen for some time, then said to everyone, \"Thanks for helping out.\"\n\nCarolyn replied, \"We should have thrown you to the shark.\"\n\n\"Shark?'' I said. \"I thought he was fighting the dead chicken.\"\n\nSusan smiled and put her arm around her son. She said, \"You're as stubborn and pigheaded as your father.\"\n\n\"Thank you,'' said Edward.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe sailed into The Seawanhaka Corinthian late Monday afternoon, sunburned and exhausted. A boat is sort of a litmus test for relationships, the close quarters and solitude compelling people into either a warm bond or into mutiny and murder. As we tied the _Paumanok_ up to its berth, the Sutters were smiling at one another; the sea had worked its magic.\n\nBut you can't stay at sea forever, and most desert islands lack the facilities for a quick appendectomy. So we tie up our boats, and we tie ourselves to our electronic lifelines, and we lead lives of noisy desperation.\n\nI knew that the bond that the Sutters had renewed on the _Paumanok_ , while solid in most respects, had a serious fissure, a fault line if you will, which ran between husband and wife. The children were not holding us together, of course, but they did draw us together, at least while they were around. But that evening, as I sat by myself in my study, I realized that I wanted this summer to end; I wanted Carolyn and Edward back at school so that Susan and I could talk, could connect or disconnect.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn Friday, the four of us drove out to the Hamptons, and I listed our house with the realtors for a quick summer sale. Alas, the summer was already a few weeks old, and most of the Manhattan turkeys had already been plucked. This, combined with a shaky stock market, high mortgage rates, and some nonsense about an income tax increase, was depressing the summerhouse market. Nevertheless, I asked for a cool half million, which the realtor wrote down as $499,900. \"No,'' I said, \"I told you half a million.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm not looking for stupid buyers. List it my way.'' And he did. Even if I got the half million, I wouldn't see much profit after I paid off the existing mortgage, the realtor's commission, Melzer, the IRS, and, of course, the new capital gains. God, how depressing. More depressing still was the fact that I liked the house, and it was the only solid piece of the earth that I owned.\n\nSo we spent Friday afternoon in our shingled bit of Americana, packing a few personal things that we didn't want around when the realtors brought customers through. Everyone was sort of quiet, and I suppose the reality of the situation was sinking in. Another reality, in case it crossed your mind, was that Susan could indeed come up with the money to pay off our tax debt. I don't know exactly how much the woman has (I'm only her husband and a tax lawyer), but I estimate about six hundred thousand dollars, which spins off perhaps fifty thousand a year for pin money. She doesn't spend that much, and probably it is plowed back into the stocks, bonds, and whatever. But asking an old-money heiress to touch her principal is like asking a nun for sex.\n\nAlso, I don't think Susan is as fond of the Hamptons or our house there as I am. There are some practical reasons why this is so, but I think there is a psychological thing going on there that she is barely aware of, which has to do with whose home turf is whose. Anyway, we took care of the house, shopped for groceries, then had a drink on the porch. Edward said, \"If you don't sell it by the time I get back from Florida, can we come out for a few weeks?\"\n\nI replied, \"If I can spare the time.\"\n\nCarolyn said, \"Dad, you take every August off.\"\n\n\"Yes, because taxes, though as inevitable as death, can be put off for a month. This year, however, I have a client with more serious problems than taxes, and I have to stay flexible. But we'll see.\"\n\nThey both groaned, because \"we'll see'' is father talk for \"no.'' I said, \"No, really. We will see what happens.'' I added, \"You can both come out on your own if we haven't sold the place. Perhaps your mother would like to join you.\"\n\nSusan said, \"We'll see.\"\n\nAnd that seemed to be the phrase of the moment, because the future was beginning to look tentative, subject to change without notice.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAt seven P.M., the Sutter clan dutifully made the short trip to Southampton to visit Grandma and Grandpa Sutter, who were so overcome with joy at our arrival that they shook our hands. They own one of those glass and cedar contemporaries with every convenience known to late-twentieth-century American civilization. The house is actually on a computer\/timer sort of thing, with all types of sensors that draw blinds open and shut depending on the sun, water lawns if they need watering, shut off lights if no one is in the room for more than five minutes, and so on. But as there are no uric acid sensors, you do actually have to flush your own toilet.\n\nMy mother announced that she would rather go directly to the restaurant instead of sitting and having a drink there, so we turned around and left in separate cars, meeting in the village of Southampton on Job's Lane. This is an interesting street, one of the oldest in America, going back to the 1640s, though none of the buildings actually go back that far. But speaking of Job, of all the miseries that God visited on that poor man, none\u2014I repeat, none\u2014could have been as bad as having to go to dinner with Joseph and Harriet Sutter.\n\nWell, perhaps I exaggerate. But I do say this: There are times when I would rather eat worms in a root cellar than go to a restaurant with my parents.\n\nAnyway, we had reservations at a trendy new place called Buddy's Hole. In the Hamptons, the more modest the name, like Sammy's Pizza or Billy's Burgers, and\/or the more loathsome the name, like Buddy's Hole, the more pretentious the place will be. My parents, always avant-garde, seek out these dreadful places, filled with the dregs of the American literary world (which is barely distinguishable from the cream), and has-been actors, never-been artists, and a smattering of Euro-trash who probably swam here to sponge off the millionaires.\n\nI myself, oddly enough, prefer the old-guard places of the Hamptons, dark, civilized sort of establishments with no hanging asparagus plants, and a menu that could be described as _ancienne cuisine_ , heavy on the fatty Long Island duck and light on the kiwi fruit.\n\nBe that as it may, we were shown to a nice table for two with six chairs around it and no tablecloth. On the floor under the table was a cat, which is supposed to be cutesy, but I know they rent them and rotate them like they do with the hanging plants. I've seen the same fat tiger cat in four different restaurants. I have little tolerance for these hip places, as you may have gathered, which may explain what happened later.\n\nWell, to continue my complaining, the noise in the place sounded like the soundtrack in the _Poseidon Adventure_ when the boat flips over, and the air-conditioning engineers hadn't taken into account that people might show up.\n\nWe ordered drinks from an irrepressibly friendly little college girl who didn't seem to realize we were not nice people.\n\nMy father, as patriarch, held up his glass as if to propose a toast, and we all did the same. But as it turned out, he was only checking for water spots, and having found some, he called the waitress over and reprimanded her. She was so bubbly and fascinated by the water spots that I began to think she was on a controlled substance.\n\nNew drink in hand, Dad examined the glass again, then set it down. So I proposed a toast. \"Here's to being together, and to a summer of love, peace, and good health.\"\n\nWe touched glasses and drank. A vicious hanging fern kept trying to get its tendrils around my neck, so I ripped some of them off and threw them on the floor where the rent-a-cat was rubbing against my leg. Just as I was about to punt the fuzzy beast across the room, a college kid, probably on Quaaludes, dropped a full tray of food, and the cat, who like Pavlov's dogs knew by now that this sound meant food, took off like a shot. I said to Susan, \"I'm going to recommend this place to Lester and Judy.\"\n\nAnyway, we chatted awhile, though my parents rarely make small talk. They don't care much about family news, don't want to hear about Lattingtown, Locust Valley, or the law firm, and show about as much interest in their grandchildren as they do in their own children; i.e., zip.\n\nNevertheless, I tried. \"Have you heard from Emily recently?'' I inquired. I hadn't seen my sister since Easter, but she had written to me in May.\n\nMy father replied, \"She wrote.\"\n\n\"How recently?\"\n\n\"Last month.\"\n\n\"What did she write?\"\n\nMy mother picked up the ball. \"Everything is fine.\"\n\nSusan said, \"Carolyn is going to Cuba next week.\"\n\nMy mother seemed genuinely interested in this. \"Good for you, Carolyn. The government has no right to stop you.\"\n\nCarolyn replied, \"We actually have to fly to Mexico first. You can't get there from here.\"\n\n\"How awful.\"\n\nEdward said, \"I'm going to Florida.\"\n\nMy mother looked at him. \"How nice.\"\n\nMy father added, \"Have a good time.\"\n\nWe were really rolling now, so I tried this: \"Edward would like to spend some time out here in late August. If you're going away, he can house-sit for you.\"\n\nMy father informed me, \"If we go away, we have the day maid house-sit.\"\n\nNeither of them asked why Edward couldn't stay at our house in East Hampton, so I volunteered, \"We're selling our house.\"\n\n\"The market is soft,'' said my father.\n\n\"We're selling it because I have a tax problem.\"\n\nHe replied that he was sorry to hear that, but I knew he must be wondering how a tax expert could have been so stupid. So I briefly explained the cause of the problem, thinking perhaps the old fox might have an idea or two. He listened and said, \"I seem to recall telling you that would come back to haunt you.\"\n\nGood ol' Pop.\n\nCarolyn said, \"Do you know who we have living next door to us?\"\n\nMy father replied, \"Yes, we heard at Easter.\"\n\nI said, \"We have become somewhat friendly with them.\"\n\nMy mother looked up from her menu. \"He makes the most fantastic pesto sauce.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"I've had it, John.\"\n\n\"You've eaten at the Bellarosas'?\"\n\n\"No. Where is that?\"\n\nObviously I was not paying attention.\n\nMother went on, \"He gets the basil from a little farm in North Sea. He picks it every day at seven P.M.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Buddy Bear. The owner. He's a Shinnecock, but he cooks marvelous Italian.\"\n\n\"The owner is an Indian?\"\n\n\"A _Native American_ , John. A Shinnecock. And ten percent of the bill goes directly to the reservation. He's a darling man. We'll try to meet him later.\"\n\nI ordered another double gin and tonic.\n\nAnd so we passed the time, my parents not inquiring after Susan's parents or any of her family. They also did not ask about anyone in the Locust Valley or Manhattan office, or about the Allards, or in fact, about anyone. And while they were at it, they made a special point of not asking Carolyn or Edward about school. There are certain types of persons, as I've discovered, who have a great love of humanity, like my parents, but don't particularly like people.\n\nBut my mother did like Buddy Bear. \"You absolutely must meet him,'' she insisted.\n\n\"Okay. Where is he?'' I replied graciously.\n\n\"He's usually here on Fridays.\"\n\nEdward said, \"Maybe he's at a powwow.\"\n\nMy mother gave him a very cool look, then said to my father, \"We must get his mushrooms.'' She explained to Susan and me, \"He picks his own mushrooms. He knows where to go for them, but he absolutely refuses to let anyone in on his secret.\"\n\nI was fairly certain that Buddy Bear went to the wholesale produce market like any sane restaurateur, but Mr. Bear was putting out a line of bullshit to the white turkeys who were gobbling it up. My God, I almost felt I would rather have been dining with Frank Bellarosa.\n\nMy mother seemed agitated that the owner had not put in an appearance, so she inquired of our waitress as to his whereabouts. The waitress replied, \"Oh, like he's _really_ busy, you know? He's like, cooking? You know? Do you want to talk to him or something?\"\n\n\"When he has a moment,'' my mother replied.\n\nI mean, who gives a shit? You know?\n\nAt my mother's suggestion, or insistence, I had ordered some angel-hair pasta concoction that combined three ingredients of Mr. Bear's supposed foraging: the basil, the mushrooms, and some god-awful Indian sorrel that tasted like moldy grass clippings.\n\nThere wasn't much said during dinner, but after the plates were cleared, my mother said to my father, \"We're going to have the Indian pudding.'' She turned to us. \"Buddy makes an authentic Indian pudding. You must try it.\"\n\nSo we had six authentic Indian\u2014or should I say Native American\u2014puddings, which I swear to God came out of a can. But I had mine with a tumbler of brandy, so who cares?\n\nThe check came and my father paid it, as was his custom. I was anxious to leave, but as luck would have it, the great Indian was now making the rounds of his tables, and we sat until our turn came.\n\nTo fill the silence, I said to my father, \"Edward tied into a mako last week. About two hundred pounds, I'd say.\"\n\nMy father replied to me, not to Edward, \"Someone caught a fifteen-foot white out of Montauk two weeks ago.\"\n\nMy mother added, \"I don't mind when they're eaten, but to hunt them just for sport is disgraceful.\"\n\n\"I agree,'' I said. \"You must eat what you catch, unless it's absolutely awful. A mako is very good. Edward fought him for an hour.\"\n\n\"And,'' my mother added, \"I don't like it when they're injured and get away. That is inhumane. You must make every effort to capture him and put him out of his misery.\"\n\n\"Then eat him,'' I reminded her.\n\n\"Yes, eat him. Buddy serves shark here when he gets it.\"\n\nI glanced at Edward, then Susan and Carolyn. I took a deep breath and said to my father, \"Do you remember that time, Dad, when I hooked that blue . . . ?\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Never mind.\"\n\nMr. Bear finally got to us. He was rather fat and, in fact, didn't look like an Indian at all except for his long black hair. If anything, he was a white man with some Indian and perhaps black blood and, more important, a keen sense of self-promotion. My mother took his left hand as he stood beside our table, leaving his right hand free to shake all around. \"So,'' said Buddy Bear, \"you like everything?\"\n\nMother gushed forth a stream of praise for one of the most horrible meals I've ever eaten.\n\nWe made stupid restaurant chatter for a minute or two, mother still holding Mr. Bear's paw, but alas, the last of the Shinnecocks had to move on, but not before my mother said to him playfully, \"I'm going to follow you one of these mornings and see where you pick your mushrooms.\"\n\nHe smiled enigmatically.\n\nI asked him, \"Do you have sorrel every day, or only after you mow your lawn?\"\n\nHe smiled again, but not so enigmatically. The smile, in fact, looked like \"Fuck you.\"\n\nEdward tried to stifle a laugh, but failed miserably.\n\nOn that note, we left Buddy's Hole for the cool evening breezes of Southampton.\n\nOn the sidewalk of Job's Lane, my mother said, \"We would invite you all back to the house, but we have a long day tomorrow.\"\n\nI addressed my parents. \"We have almost nothing in common and never did, so I would like to end these meaningless dinners if it's all the same to you.\"\n\nMy mother snapped, \"What a hateful thing to say,'' but my father actually looked saddened and mumbled, \"All right.\"\n\nIn the Bronco on the way back to East Hampton, Susan asked me, \"Will you regret that?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nCarolyn spoke up from the backseat, \"Did you mean it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nEdward said, \"I kinda feel sorry for them.\"\n\nEdward does not love all of humanity, but he likes people, and he feels sorry for everyone. Carolyn feels sorry for no one, Susan doesn't know what sorrow is, and I . . . well, sometimes I feel sorry for myself. But I'm working on that.\n\nActually, telling people what you think of them is not difficult, because they already know it and are probably surprised you haven't said it sooner.\n\nI knew, too, that breaking off my relationship with my parents was good training for ending other relationships. I think Susan, who is no fool, knew this, too, because she said to me, \"Judy Remsen told me that you told Lester to go F himself. Is anyone else on your list?\"\n\nQuick wit that I am, I pulled a gasoline receipt from my pocket and pretended to study it as I drove. \"Let's see here . . . nine more. I'll call your parents tomorrow, so that will leave only seven . . .\"\n\nShe didn't reply, because there were children present.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe drove back to Stanhope Hall on Monday, and for the next few days our house was lively as the children's friends came and went. I actually like a house full of teenagers on school break, and in short doses. At Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving especially, the presence of kids in the house lends something extra to the holiday mood and reminds me, I suppose, of my own homecomings from school.\n\nThe children of the old rich and privileged are, if nothing else, polite. They are acculturated early and know how to make conversations with adults. They'd rather not, of course, but they're learning early how to do things they don't want to do. They will be successful and unhappy adults.\n\nCarolyn and Edward had booked flights on separate days, naturally, so that meant two trips to Kennedy Airport at inconvenient hours. It's times like those when I miss chauffeurs. We could have packed them off in hired limos, I suppose, but after telling my own parents to buzz off, I was feeling a wee bit . . . something.\n\nAfter my children left, the house was quiet, and it rained for a few days straight. I went to the Locust Valley office to fill up the days, but didn't accomplish much except to find the file I needed on the East Hampton house. I spent a day figuring out my expenses on the house, so that when it was sold, I could calculate my profit accurately, and thus figure out my capital gains. Of course, as before, I could reinvest the so-called profit in another house and defer the tax, but I knew that I would not be buying another house in the near future; perhaps never. This realization, which was forced on me by the mundane act of having to crunch numbers, sort of hit me hard. It wasn't simply a matter of money that made me realize there would be no new house in my future; I might be doing very well in two years. It was more, I think, a decision on my part to stop making long-range plans. Modern life was geared toward a reasonably predictable future; thirty-year mortgages, seven-year certificates of deposit, hog belly futures, and retirement plans. But recent events convinced me that I can neither predict nor plan for the future, so screw the future. When I got there, I'd know what to do; I always know what to do in foreign countries. Why not the future?\n\nThe past was another story. You couldn't change it, but you could break away from it and leave it and the people in it behind. My objective, I suppose, was to float in a never-ending present, like the captain of the _Paumanok_ , dealing with the moment's realities, aware but not concerned about where I've been and charting a general course forward, subject to quick changes depending on winds, tides, and whatever I could see on the immediate horizon.\n\nAs I was getting ready to leave the office, my phone rang and my secretary, Anne, came into my office instead of buzzing me. \"Mr. Sutter, I know you said no calls, but it is your father.\"\n\nI sat there a moment, and for no particular reason, I saw us on that boat again, he and I, nearly forty years ago, in the harbor at night, and saw this sort of close-up of my hand in his, but then my hand slipped out of his hand, and I reached for him again, but he had moved away and was talking to someone, perhaps my mother.\n\n\"Mr. Sutter?\"\n\nI said to her, \"Tell him I do not wish to speak to him.\"\n\nShe seemed not at all surprised, but simply nodded and left. I watched the green light on my phone, and in a few seconds it was gone.\n\nFrom the office, I went directly to my boat and sat in the cabin, listening to the rain. It was not a night you would choose to go out into, but if you had to go out, you could, and if you had been caught by surprise in the wind and rain, you could ride it through. There were other storms that presented more of a challenge, and some that were clear and imminent dangers. Some weather was just plain death.\n\nThere were obviously certain elemental lessons that you learned from the sea, most of them having to do with survival. But we tend to forget the most elemental lessons, or don't know when they apply. This is how we, as sailors, get ourselves into trouble.\n\nWe can be captains of our fate, I thought, but not masters of it. Or as an old sailing instructor told me when I was a boy, \"God sends you the weather, kid. What you do with it or what it does to you depends on how good a sailor you are.\"\n\nThat about summed it up.\n\n**_Twenty-two_**\n\nFriday morning dawned bright and clear. Susan was up and out riding before I was even dressed.\n\nShe had finished the painting next door, and we were to have an unveiling at the Bellarosas' as soon as Anna found the right place for the painting, and Susan found an appropriate frame. I couldn't wait.\n\nI was having my third cup of coffee, trying to decide what to do with the day, when the phone rang. I answered it in the kitchen, and it was Frank Bellarosa. \"Whaddaya up to?'' he asked.\n\n\"Seven.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I'm up to seven. What are you up to?\"\n\n\"Hey, I gotta ask you something. Where's the beach around here?\"\n\n\"There are a hundred miles of beaches around here. Which one did you want?\"\n\n\"There's that place at the end of the road here. The sign says no trespassing. That mean me?\"\n\n\"That's Fox Point. It's private property, but everyone on Grace Lane uses the beach. No one lives there anymore, but we have a covenant with the owners.\"\n\n\"A what?\"\n\n\"A deal. You can use the beach.\"\n\n\"Good, 'cause I was down there the other day. I didn't want to be trespassing.\"\n\n\"No, you don't want to do that.'' Was this guy kidding or what? I added, \"It's a misdemeanor.\"\n\n\"Yeah. We got a thing in the old neighborhoods, you know? You don't shit where you live, you don't spit on the sidewalk. You go to Little Italy, for instance, you behave.\"\n\n\"Except for the restaurant rubouts.\"\n\n\"That's different. Hey, take a walk with me down there.\"\n\n\"Little Italy?\"\n\n\"No. Fox Place.\"\n\n\"Fox Point.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I'll meet you at my fence.\"\n\n\"Gatehouse?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Fifteen, twenty minutes. Show me this place.\"\n\nI assumed he wanted to discuss something and didn't want to do it on the telephone. In our few phone conversations, there was never anything said that would even suggest that I might be his attorney. I think he wanted to spring this on Ferragamo and the New York press as a little surprise at some point.\n\n\"Okay?'' he asked.\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\nI hung up, finished my coffee, put on jeans and Docksides, and made sure twenty minutes passed before I began the ten-minute walk to Alhambra's gates. But was the son of a bitch pacing impatiently for me? No. I went to the gatehouse and banged on the door. Anthony Gorilla opened up. \"Yeah?\"\n\nI could see directly into the small living room, not unlike the Allards' little place, the main difference being that sitting around the room was another gorilla whom I supposed was Vinnie and two incredibly sluttish-looking women who might be Lee and Delia. The two sluts and the gorilla seemed to be smirking at me, or perhaps it was my imagination.\n\nAnthony repeated his greeting. \"Yeah?\"\n\nI turned my attention back to Anthony and said, \"What the hell do you think I'm here for? If I'm expected, you say, 'Good morning, Mr. Sutter. Mr. Bellarosa is expecting you.' You do not say 'yeah?' _Capisce?_ \"\n\nBefore Anthony could make his apologies or do something else, don Bellarosa himself appeared at the door and said something to Anthony in Italian, then stepped outside and led me away by the arm.\n\nBellarosa was wearing his standard uniform of blazer, turtleneck, and slacks. The colors this time were brown, white, and beige, respectively. I saw, too, as we walked, that he had acquired a pair of good Docksides, and on his left wrist was a black Porsche watch, very sporty at about two thousand bucks. The man was almost getting it, but I didn't know how to bring up the subject of his nylon stretch socks.\n\nAs we walked up Grace Lane, toward Fox Point, Bellarosa said, \"That's not a man you want to piss off.\"\n\n\"That's a man who had better not piss me off again.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"Listen to me. If you invite me to your property, I want your flunkies to treat me with respect.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Yeah? You into the respect thing now? You Italian, or what?\"\n\nI stopped walking. \"Mr. Bellarosa, you tell your goons, including your imbecile driver, Lenny, and the half-wits and sluts in that gatehouse, and anyone else you have working for you, that don Bellarosa respects Mr. John Sutter.\"\n\nHe looked at me for about half a minute, then nodded. \"Okay. But you don't keep me waiting again. Okay?\"\n\n\"I'll do my best.\"\n\nWe continued our walk up Grace Lane, and I wondered how many people saw us from their ivory towers. Bellarosa said, \"Hey, your kid came over the other day. He tell you?\"\n\n\"Yes. He said you showed him around the estate. That was very good of you.\"\n\n\"No problem. Nice kid. We had a nice talk. Smart like his old man. Right? Up-front like his old man, too. Asked me where I got all the money to build up the estate.\"\n\n\"I certainly didn't teach him to ask questions like that. I hope you told him it was none of his business.\"\n\n\"Nah. I told him I worked hard and did smart things.\"\n\nI made a mental note to talk to Edward about the wages of sin and about crime doesn't pay. Frank Bellarosa's advice to his children was probably less complex and summed up in three words: Don't get caught.\n\nWe reached the end of Grace Lane, which is a wide turnaround in the center of which rises a jagged rock about eight feet high. There is a legend that says that Captain Kidd, who is known to have buried his treasure on Long Island's North Shore, used this rock as the starting point for his treasure map. I mentioned this to Bellarosa and he asked, \"Is that why this place is called the Gold Coast?\"\n\n\"No, Frank. That's because it's wealthy.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah. Anybody find the treasure?\"\n\n\"No, but I'll sell you the map.\"\n\n\"Yeah? I'll give you my deed to the Brooklyn Bridge for it.\"\n\nI think my wit was rubbing off on him.\n\nWe walked up to the entrance to Fox Point, whose gatehouse was a miniature castle. The entire front wall of the estate was obscured by overgrown trees and bushes, and none of the estate grounds were visible from Grace Lane. I produced a key and opened the padlock on the wrought-iron gates, asking Bellarosa, \"How did you get in here?\"\n\n\"It was opened when I got here. Some people were on the beach. Do I get one of those keys?\"\n\n\"I suppose you do. I'll have one made for you.'' Normally, anyone who opens the padlock does not bother to lock it behind them, which was how Bellarosa had gotten in. But there was something about this man that made me rethink every simple and mundane action of my life. I had visions of his goons following us, or somebody else's goons following us, or even Mancuso showing up. In truth, you could scale the wall easily enough, but nevertheless, after we passed through the gates, I closed them again, reached through the bars and snapped the padlock shut. I said to Bellarosa, \"Are you armed?\"\n\n\"Does the Pope wear a cross?\"\n\n\"I imagine he does.'' We began walking down the old drive, which had once been paved with tons of crushed seashells, but over the years, dirt, grass, and weeds have nearly obliterated them. The trees that lined the drive, mostly mimosa and tulip trees, were so overgrown that they formed a tunnel not six feet wide and barely high enough to walk through without ducking.\n\nThe drive curved and sloped down toward the shoreline, and I could see daylight at the end of the trees. We broke out into a delightful stretch of waterfront that ran about a mile along the Sound from Fox Point on the east to a small, nameless sand spit on the west. The thick vegetation ended where we were standing, and on the lower ground was a thin strip of windblown trees, then bulrushes and high grasses, and finally the rocky beach itself.\n\nBellarosa said, \"This is a very nice place.\"\n\n\"Thank you,'' I said, leaving him with the impression I had something to do with it.\n\nWe continued downhill along the drive, which was lined now with only an occasional salt-stunted pine or cedar. The drive led us to the ruin of the great house of Fox Point. The house, built in the early 1920s, was unusual for its day, a sort of contemporary structure of glass and mahogany with flat roofs, open decks, and pipe railings, resembling, perhaps, a luxury liner, and nearly as large. The house had been gutted by fire about twenty years ago, but no one had actually lived in it since the 1950s. Sand dunes had drifted in and around the long rambling ruin, and I was always struck by the thought that it looked like the collapsed skeleton of some fantastic sea creature that had washed ashore and died. But I do remember seeing the house before it burned, though only from a long distance when I was boating on the Sound. I had often thought I would like to live in it and watch the sea from its high decks.\n\nBellarosa studied the ruins for a while, then we walked on toward the beach. Fox Point had been, even by Gold Coast standards, a fabulous estate. But over the years the waterside terraces, the bathhouses, boathouses, and piers have been destroyed by storms and erosion. Only two intact structures now remained on the entire estate: the gazebo and the pleasure palace. The gazebo sat precariously on an eroded shelf of grassland, ready to float away in the next nor'easter.\n\nBellarosa pointed to the gazebo and said, \"I don't have one of those.\"\n\n\"Take that one before the sea does.\"\n\nHe studied the octagonal structure from a distance. \"I can take it?\"\n\n\"No one cares. Except the Gazebo Society, and they're all nuts.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah. Your wife paints those things.\"\n\n\"No, she has lunch in them.\"\n\n\"Right. I'll have Dominic look at it.\"\n\nI gazed out over the Sound. It was a bright blue day, and the water sparkled, and colored sails slid back and forth on the horizon, and in the distance the Connecticut coast was clear. It was a nice day to be alive, so far.\n\nBellarosa turned away from the gazebo and looked farther down the shore toward a building that sat well back from the beach on a piece of solid land protected by a stone bulkhead. He pointed. \"What's that? I saw that the other day.\"\n\n\"That's the pleasure palace.\"\n\n\"You mean like for fun?\"\n\n\"Yes. For fun.'' In fact, the wealthiest and most hedonistic of the Gold Coast residents constructed these huge pleasure palaces, away from their mansions, the sole purpose of which was fun. Fox Point's pleasure palace was constructed of steel and masonry, and during the Second World War the Coast Guard found the building convenient for storing ammunition. But as solid as it looks, or may have looked to German U-boats, from the air you can see that most of the roof is made of blue glass. Actually, on occasions that I've flown over the Gold Coast in a small plane, I could spot this and other surviving pleasure palaces because they all have these shimmering blue roofs.\n\nBellarosa asked, \"What kind of fun?\"\n\n\"Sex, gambling, drinking, tennis. You name it.\"\n\n\"Show me it.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nWe walked the hundred yards to the huge structure, and I led him inside through a broken glass door.\n\nThe athletic wings of the pleasure palace resembled a modern health club, but there were touches of art nouveau elegance in the mosaic tile floors and iron-filigreed windows. Considering that it hadn't been used since about 1929, it wasn't in bad shape.\n\nIn one wing of the building, there was a regulation-size clay tennis court covered by a thirty-foot-high blue-glass roof. The roof leaked, and the clay had crumbled long ago, and it sprouted some sort of odd plant life that apparently liked clay and blue light. There was no net on the court, so Bellarosa, who had shown some confusion in the past regarding interior design, asked me, \"What's this place?\"\n\n\"The drawing room.\"\n\n\"No shit?\"\n\nWe walked through the larger adjoining wing, which was a full gymnasium, into the next section of the building, which held an Olympic-size swimming pool, also covered with blue glass. Adjacent to the gym and pool were steam rooms, showers, rubdown rooms, and a solarium. The west wing, more luxurious, contained overnight guest accommodations, including a kitchen and servants' quarters.\n\nBellarosa said very little as I gave him the tour, but at one point he remarked, \"These people lived like Roman emperors.\"\n\n\"They gave it their best shot.\"\n\nWe found the east wing, which was a cavernous ballroom where Susan and I had once gone to a Roaring Twenties party. \" _Madonn'_ !'' said Frank. \"Yes,'' I agreed. I remembered that there was a cocktail lounge near the ballroom, actually a speakeasy, as this place was built during Prohibition, but I couldn't find it. Walking through this building under the ghostly blue-glass roofs, even I, who have lived among Gold Coast ruins all my life, was awed by the size and opulence of this pleasure palace. We had retraced our steps and were back at the mosaic pool now. I said to Bellarosa, \"We have to hold a Roman orgy here. You bring the beer.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Yeah. Jesus, these people must've had lots of friends.\"\n\n\"People with lots of money have lots of friends.\"\n\n\"Hey, is this place for sale?\"\n\nI knew that was coming. This was the kind of guy who had to know the price of everything and wanted to buy everything he couldn't steal. I replied, \"Yes, it is. Are you going to buy all of Grace Lane?\"\n\nHe laughed again. \"I like my privacy. I like land.\"\n\n\"Go to Kansas. This is a million dollars an acre on the water.\"\n\n\"Jesus. Who the hell can afford that?\"\n\nWell, Mafia dons. I said, \"The Iranians.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"The Iranians are negotiating with the family who own this estate. People named Morrison who live in Paris now. They are filthy rich, but don't want to restore the place. Actually, they're not even American citizens anymore. They are expatriates.\"\n\nHe mulled that over, figuring as many angles as he could, I'm sure, from that skimpy information. We found the broken door and walked out into the sunlight. Bellarosa asked, \"What the hell do Iranians want with this place?\"\n\n\"Well, there are a lot a rich Iranian immigrants here on Long Island now, and they want to buy this estate and convert the pleasure palace into a mosque. Maybe the blue roof turned them on.\"\n\n\"A mosque? Like an Arab church?\"\n\n\"A Muslim mosque. The Iranians are Muslims, but not Arabs.\"\n\n\"Ah, they're all sand niggers.\"\n\nWhy do I bother to explain things to this man?\n\nHe jabbed his finger toward me. \"You people gonna allow that?\"\n\n\"Whom do you mean by 'you people'?\"\n\n\"You know who I mean. You people. You gonna allow that?\"\n\n\"I refer you to the First Amendment to the Constitution\u2014written, incidentally, by my people\u2014as it regards freedom of religion.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but Jesus Christ, did you ever hear those people pray? We had a bunch of Arabs used to meet in a storefront near where I lived. This one clown used to get on the roof every night and wail like a hyena. Jesus, am I gonna have that down the street again?\"\n\n\"It's a possibility.'' We were walking, and I turned toward the gazebo.\n\nI could see that my companion was unhappy. He grumbled, \"The real estate lady never told me about this.\"\n\n\"She didn't tell me about you, either.\"\n\nHe thought about that a moment, trying to determine, I suppose, if that was an ethnic slur, a personal insult, or a reference to the Mafia thing. He grumbled again, \"Fucking Iranians . . .\"\n\nIt was really time for me to give this man a lesson in civics, to remind him what America stood for, and to let him know I didn't like racial epithets. But on further consideration, I realized that would be like trying to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig. So I said, \"You buy it.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"How much? For the whole place?\"\n\n\"Well, it's not nearly as much land as Stanhope or Alhambra, but it's waterfront, so I'd say about ten or twelve million for the acreage.\"\n\n\"That's a big number.\"\n\n\"It gets bigger. If you get into a bidding war with the Iranians, they'll run you up to fifteen or more.\"\n\n\"I don't bid against other people. You just put me in touch with the people I got to talk to. The owners.\"\n\n\"And you'll make them your best offer, and show them that it's their best offer.\"\n\nHe glanced at me and smiled. \"You're learning, Counselor.\"\n\n\"What would you do with this place?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Take a swim. I'd let everybody keep using the beach, too. The fucking Arabs wouldn't do that because they got this thing about seeing a little skin. You know? They swim with their fucking sheets on.\"\n\n\"I never thought about that.'' I wondered if this guy could actually buy Stanhope Hall _and_ Fox Point, and still keep Alhambra. Or was he just blowing smoke? Also, it struck me that he had a lot of long-range plans for a man who was facing indictment for murder and who had an impressive list of enemies who wanted him dead. He had balls, I'll give him that.\n\nWe walked up the path to the gazebo and entered the big octagonal structure. It was made of wood, but all the paint on the sea side had been weathered off. It was fairly clean inside, probably tidied up by the weird ladies of the Gazebo Society before their luncheon. Someone should teach them how to paint.\n\nBellarosa examined the gazebo. \"You got one of these on your place. Yeah, I like it. Nice place to sit and talk. I'll get Dominic here next week.'' He sat on the bench that ran around the inside of the gazebo. \"So, sit, and we'll talk.\"\n\n\"I'll stand, you talk, I'll listen.\"\n\nHe produced a cigar from his shirt pocket. \"Want one? Real Cuban.\"\n\n\"No, thanks.\"\n\nHe unwrapped his cigar and lit it with a gold lighter. He said, \"I asked your kid to ask your daughter to bring me back a box of Monte Cristos.\"\n\n\"I would appreciate it if you didn't involve my family in smuggling.\"\n\n\"Hey, if she gets caught, I'll take care of it.\"\n\n\"I'm an attorney. I'll take care of it.\"\n\n\"What's she doing in Cuba?\"\n\n\"How did you know she was going to Cuba?\"\n\n\"Your kid told me. He's going to Florida. I gave him some names in Cocoa Beach.\"\n\n\"What sort of names?\"\n\n\"Names. Friends. People who will take care of him and his friends if they use my name.\"\n\n\"Frank\u2014\"\n\n\"Hey, what are friends for? But I got no friends in Cuba. Why'd your daughter go to Cuba?\"\n\n\"To work for world peace.\"\n\n\"Yeah? That's nice. How's it pay? Maybe I'll meet her next time she's in town.\"\n\n\"Maybe. You can pick up your cigars.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Hey, how's that income tax thing coming?\"\n\n\"Melzer seems to have a handle on it. Thanks.\"\n\n\"No problem. So, no criminal charges, right?\"\n\n\"That's what he said.\"\n\n\"Good, good. Wouldn't want my lawyer in jail. What's Melzer banging you for?\"\n\n\"Twenty up front and half of what he saves me.\"\n\n\"That's not bad. If you need some quick cash, you let me know.\"\n\n\"What's the vig?\"\n\nHe smiled as he drew on his cigar. \"For you, prime plus three, same as the fucking bank.\"\n\n\"Thank you, but I've got the funds.\"\n\n\"Your kid said you were selling your summer house to pay taxes.\"\n\nI didn't reply. It was inconceivable to me that Edward would say that.\n\nBellarosa added, \"You don't sell real estate in this market. You buy in this market.\"\n\n\"Thank you.'' I put my foot on the bench and looked out to sea. \"What did you want to speak to me about?\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah. This grand jury thing. They convened last Monday.\"\n\n\"I read that.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Fucking Ferragamo likes to talk to the press. Anyway, they'll indict me for murder in two, three weeks.\"\n\n\"Maybe they won't.\"\n\nHe thought that was funny. \"Yeah. Maybe the Pope is Jewish.\"\n\n\"But he wears a cross.\"\n\n\"Anyway, I don't know if you know how these things work. Okay, the U.S. Attorney gets his indictment from the grand jury. It comes down sealed, you know, and it's not going to be made public until the bust is made. So the U.S. Attorney takes his indictment to a federal judge, along with his arrest warrant, which he wants signed. Now this will usually go down on a Monday, you know, so they get the FBI guys out early on Tuesday morning, and they come for you, you know, they knock on your door about six, seven o'clock. Understand?\"\n\n\"No. I do tax work.\"\n\n\"Well, they come for you early so they usually find you home, you know, with your pants down, like in Russia. _Capisce?\"_\n\n\"Why Tuesday?\"\n\n\"Well, Tuesday is a good day for the news. You know? Monday is bad, Friday is bad, and forget the weekend. You think fucking Ferragamo is stupid?\"\n\nI almost laughed. \"Are you serious?\"\n\n\"Yeah. This is serious stuff, Counselor.\"\n\n\"Arrests for murder aren't made to coincide with the news.\"\n\nNow it was his turn to laugh. Haw, haw, haw. He added, \"Grow up.\"\n\nThat pissed me off a little, but I let it slide, because this was interesting. I said, \"But they _could_ arrest you Wednesday or Thursday. Those are hot news days.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah. They could. But they like Tuesday for the big fish. This way they can make the Wednesday papers, too, and maybe a little Thursday action. What if they came for you on Thursday and you weren't home, and they got you Friday? They'd be fucked, news wise.\"\n\n\"Okay. So they arrest you on a Tuesday. What's the point?\"\n\n\"Okay. So they pick you up, they take you down to Federal Plaza, the FBI office, you know, and they jerk you around there awhile, give everybody a good look at you, then they get you over to Foley Square, the federal court, right? And the FBI guys bring you in with cuffs about nine, ten o'clock, and by this time Ferragamo's got half the fucking newspeople in the world there, and everybody's shoving microphones in your face, and the cameras are rolling. Then you get printed and booked, blah, blah, blah, and at about that time is when they let you call your attorney.'' He looked at me. \"Understand?\"\n\n\"What if your attorney is in, say, Cuba?\"\n\n\"He ain't gonna be. In fact, I don't have to call him. Because he's coming over to my place for coffee about five in the morning for the next few Tuesdays.\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\n\"Yeah. So when the FBI comes, then my attorney is right there to see that everything is done right, that the FBI guys behave. And my attorney gets in my car with Lenny and follows me to Federal Plaza, then to Foley Square. My attorney is not in Cuba, or no place except with his client. _Capisce?\"_\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"Also, my attorney has a briefcase, and in that briefcase is cash and property deeds, and other shit that he needs to post bail for his client. My attorney will be given about four or five million dollars to post.\"\n\n\"You're not going to get out on bail on a federal murder charge, Frank, not for any amount of money.\"\n\n\"Wrong. Listen carefully. My attorney is going to convince the judge that Frank Bellarosa is a responsible man, a man who has strong ties to the community, a man who has sixteen legitimate businesses to look after, a man who has a house, a wife, and kids. My attorney will tell the judge that his client has never been convicted of a violent crime, and that he knew the FBI was coming for him and was waiting for them, and came along peacefully. My attorney was a witness to that. My attorney will tell the judge that he knows Mr. Bellarosa personally, as a _friend_ , and that he knows Mrs. Bellarosa, and in fact my attorney lives next door to Mr. and Mrs. Bellarosa, and my attorney is making a personal guarantee that Mr. Bellarosa will not flee the jurisdiction. Understand?\"\n\nIndeed I did.\n\n\"Okay. So now the judge, who does not like to grant any bail for murder, first degree, now he has to consider all this shit very seriously. By now, Ferragamo has been tipped by the FBI that Bellarosa knew he was going to get arrested that morning, and that Bellarosa has the cash on hand for bail, and that Bellarosa has a very high-quality attorney. So Ferragamo gets his ass into the courtroom personally and starts putting the pressure on the judge. Your Honor, this is a very serious charge, blah, blah, blah. Your Honor, this is a dangerous man; a murderer, blah, blah. But my attorney goes balls to balls with the U.S. Attorney and talks about bail not being unreasonably denied, blah, blah, and the charge is bullshit anyway, and we've got five million in the bag here, and I gave you my _personal_ guarantee, Your Honor. John Sutter, of Wall Street, is putting his balls right on the table, Your Honor. Right? Now Ferragamo didn't expect this shit, and he's the one who's caught with his pants down. He's jumping through his ass to see that Frank Bellarosa doesn't walk. He's got a big hard-on about seeing me in jail with the _melanzane_. And that night he's gonna be home with his wife and friends having dinner, watching the fucking news while I'm in the slammer with a cork up my ass trying to keep the faggots out of my back door. You understand what I'm saying?\"\n\nFrank had a way with words. I replied, \"I do.\"\n\n\"Yeah. And you understand that this is not going to happen, Counselor. You are not going to let it happen.\"\n\n\"I thought you told me that Ferragamo wants you on the street after your indictment. So that your friends or enemies could kill you before your trial.\"\n\n\"Yeah. You remembered that? So here's the thing. Ferragamo knows if he gets me in jail, we are going to appeal the bail ruling. Right? But this takes a few weeks. And the next time we come up in front of the judge, Ferragamo has told the judge on the sly that bail is okay with him. He winks at the judge and whispers in his ear. The FBI wants to follow Bellarosa. Right? This is all bullshit. The FBI has been following me for twenty fucking years and they ain't seen shit yet. So the judge winks back, and I'm sprung. But I've been in jail two, three weeks by that time. Follow? So Ferragamo puts the word out that I sang and sang in the slammer. That I'm ready to give up all kinds of people for a reduced charge. So now I'm dead meat. But listen, Counselor, if I can walk out of that courthouse on the same day I walk in, then I got a chance to keep things under control. You understand?\"\n\n\"Yes.'' I understood perfectly well now why it was me and not Jack Weinstein who was going to represent Mr. Frank Bellarosa. It was John Whitman Sutter, great-great-great-nephew of Walt, son of Joseph Sutter the Wall Street legend, husband of Susan (one of New York's Four Hundred) Stanhope, partner in Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, member of The Creek and Seawanhaka Corinthian, not to mention a High Episcopalian, a Yale graduate, Harvard Law, and a friend of Roosevelts, Astors, and Vanderbilts, and incidentally, a friend and next-door neighbor to the accused\u2014that very same John Sutter was going to personally guarantee in open court that his client, Mr. Frank Bellarosa, was not going to skip bail. And that judge would listen, and so would every reporter in that court, and it would make every newspaper and every radio and TV news show in the tristate area, probably the country. The bastard was brilliant. He'd figured this out . . . when? The day I ran into him at Hicks' Nursery? That far back? _Mr. Sutter? John Sutter, right?_\n\nBut of course, it had to be even before then. He had known who I was, that I was a lawyer, and that I was his next-door neighbor when he ran into me by accident or design. He had already seen in his mind this whole scenario that he had just laid out before me and had figured out how to survive before his enemies even made their first move. And what was even more impressive was that he had been reasonably sure that I was in his hip pocket even after I'd told him to buzz off a few times. It was no accident that this man was still alive and free after thirty years. His enemies\u2014state and federal law enforcement agencies, rival Mafia bosses, Colombians, and other opportunists\u2014were not lazy or incompetent. They simply were not up to the challenge of getting rid of Frank Bellarosa.\n\nI mean, there was a time when I wanted to see him in jail . . . maybe even dead. But I had mixed feelings about that now, the way I do when a shark is hooked. You hate the shark, you fear the shark, but after about two hours, you respect the shark.\n\nI heard his voice interrupting my thoughts. \"So you understand?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\nHe went on. \"We should be out of the courthouse before they break for lunch. I don't want lunch in the holding cell. Then you and me go have a nice lunch someplace. Maybe Caff\u00e8 Roma. That's near the court. I gotta make you try fried squid. So around that time, Alphonse Ferragamo is holding one of his fucking press conferences. He's skipping lunch so he can make the late editions and the five-o'clock news. Right? He's announcing my indictment, my arrest, and all that shit. He wants to announce that I'm in jail, too, but that ain't gonna happen, so he has to eat a little shit from the press people and from his boss in Washington. But basically, he's a happy man, and he's going to fuck his girlfriend that afternoon, then go home and have a party. So we'll hang around town awhile, get a hotel room, watch the news, get some newspapers, have a few friends over. You can make a few statements to the press, too, but not too much. And remind me to call my wife. Oh, yeah, it would be nice if your wife could go over to my place about eight, nine in the morning and sit with my wife. You know how wives get about this shit. Well, maybe you don't. But I can tell you, they don't handle it too good. So your wife can kinda keep Anna's mind off things, maybe until her stupid relatives get out to my place and they can all hang around crying and cooking. Okay? But don't mention any of this to your wife yet. _Capisce?_ And try to be around for the next two, three weeks. You going on vacation or anything?\"\n\n\"I guess not.\"\n\n\"Good. Stick around. Get lots of sleep on Monday nights. All right? Practice what you're gonna say in court. Get your brass balls on for the fucking Feds. We're gonna look good in court.'' He looked at me. \"No jail, Counselor. No jail. That's what I promised you, that's what you promise me. You understand?\"\n\n\"I promise I will do my best.\"\n\n\"Good.'' He stood and slapped me on the shoulder. \"Hey, I got another problem. In Brooklyn, I got tomatoes the size of bull balls. Here it is the middle of July, and I got these small green things. But I see you got nice big ones, and those are the plants I gave you. Remember? So the soil must be different. I'm not embarrassed or anything, but this is hard to understand. So what I want is to trade you some of your tomatoes for something. I got lots of string beans. Okay? Deal?\"\n\nI don't like string beans, but we shook on it.\n\n**_Twenty-three_**\n\nSome days after the Fox Point powwow, I was up at the yacht club doing light maintenance on the Morgan. It was a weekday morning, and I was playing hooky from work, as usual. My partners had not commented directly on my extended absences, partly because they expect it in the summer, but also because they assume I am conscientious and would not let the firm down. In fact, they were wrong; my work was piling up, calls went unanswered, and the Locust Valley office had no one at the helm. People work better unsupervised anyway.\n\nThough I enjoy tinkering around the boat, I enjoy sailing it more. But with a sailboat, you really should have at least two people aboard, and it's sometimes difficult to find a crew during the workday. Carolyn and Edward were gone, of course, and Susan is only moderately enthusiastic about sailing, as I am about riding, and she begged off.\n\nThere are friends who might be around during the week, but I'd been avoiding people lately. One can always rustle up a few college kids to crew, but in some irrational way, because I missed my own children, I didn't feel like having other kids around. So, today, I contented myself with putting my boat in order.\n\nI was aware of leather-soled footsteps coming toward me on the pier. It was low tide, so I had to look up from the deck and squint into the morning sun to see who it was. Whoever it was, he was wearing a suit. He stopped and said, \"Permission to come aboard.\"\n\n\"Not in those shoes.\"\n\nSo Mr. Mancuso, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, dutifully removed his shoes, then jumped down onto the teak deck in his stocking feet. \"Good morning,'' he said.\n\n\" _Buon giorno_ ,'' I replied.\n\nHe smiled with his big Chiclets. \"I'm here to bring some aggravation and worry into your life.\"\n\n\"I'm already married.'' That was a pretty good one, and he smiled wider. He wasn't a laugher, but he did appreciate my wit. He was on the right track.\n\nHe said, \"Do you have a few minutes?\"\n\n\"For my country, Mr. Mancuso, I have nothing but time. However, I'm out of money and short on patience.'' I went about my business, which, at that moment, was coiling some half-inch line.\n\nMr. Mancuso set his shoes down on the deck and watched me a moment, then looked around. \"Nice boat.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\n\"Nice place.'' He waved his arm around, encompassing the whole club. \"First-class operation.\"\n\n\"We try.'' I finished with the line and regarded Mr. Mancuso a moment. He was as sallow as when I'd last seen him in April. He wore a light-beige suit of summer wool, which was well cut, a good shirt and tie, and, as I was able to see clearly, very nice socks. However, the frizzy fringe of hair and the woolly tuft still amused me.\n\nHe said, \"You want to talk here, Mr. Sutter? You feel comfortable here? You want to go inside the boat? Someplace else?\"\n\n\"How long is a few minutes?\"\n\n\"Maybe half an hour. Hour.\"\n\nI considered a moment, then asked him, \"You sail?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You do now. You probably won't need that tie and jacket.\"\n\n\"Probably not.'' He took off his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster that held a big automatic, perhaps a Browning.\n\nI glanced around at the nearby boats, then said to him, \"Maybe you want to stow that below. You know, inside the boat.'' I pointed. \"That's called below.\"\n\n\"Sure.'' He ducked down the companionway and reappeared a few minutes later, tieless and barefoot now, his cuffs and shirtsleeves rolled up. He looked even more ludicrous. I stood at the helm and started the engine. \"You know how to cast off?\"\n\n\"Sure. I can do that.\"\n\nAnd he did. Within a few minutes we were under way. The Morgan's helm is a spoked mahogany wheel, and I stood there at it, feeling in control of something for a change. I would have preferred to be under sail, but with Mancuso as my crew I thought I'd better let the engine take us clear of the moored boats and shoals.\n\nI took the _Paumanok_ around Plum Point into Cold Spring Harbor, still under power, and pointed the bow north toward the Sound, then slowed the engine. Still at the helm I said to Mr. Mancuso, \"See that winch? Crank that and it will raise the mainsail.\"\n\nHe did as he was told and the mainsail went up. A light breeze caught it, and the _Paumanok_ moved through the water. I cut the engine and told him how to trim the sail, then I got him to raise the jib, and we started to make some headway. Poor Mr. Mancuso was scrambling all over the decks in his good wool trousers, which, I'm afraid, were ruined. All in all, though, he seemed to be enjoying himself, and I was happy for this unexpected opportunity to sail. Mr. Mancuso, of course, wanted to speak to me about something, but for the time being he seemed content to have been shanghaied aboard the _Paumanok_.\n\nMr. Mancuso was a fast learner, at least as far as terminology, and within an hour, he knew a boom from a spreader, the headstay from the backstay, and presumably his ass from his elbow.\n\nAs I said, the wind was light, but it was from the south and got us well out into the Sound. About three miles off Lloyd's Neck, I showed him how to lower the sails. The wind was still southerly and the tide was ebbing, so we drifted safely away from the shore and shallow water. Still, I returned to the helm and played captain. I asked Mr. Mancuso, \"Did you enjoy that?\"\n\n\"Yes. I really did.\"\n\n\"It's more fun at night with high winds and heavy seas. Especially if your engine conks.\"\n\n\"Why is that, Mr. Sutter?\"\n\n\"Because you think you're going to die.\"\n\n\"That does sound like fun.\"\n\n\"But, of course, the objective is not to die. So you put out your trysails and see if you can run before the wind to safety. Or maybe you lower all your sails, put the engine on full power, and head into the wind. There are other times when you might want to ride to a sea anchor. You have to make intelligent decisions. Not like with desk work where it really doesn't matter.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"About once a year I have to make a decision about pulling my gun. So I can appreciate what you're saying.\"\n\n\"Good.'' Having gotten the \"my balls are as big as your balls'' stuff out of the way, I went below and poured two mugs of coffee from my thermos and brought them up. \"Here.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\"\n\nI stood at the helm in my faded jeans and T-shirt, one hand resting on the wheel, the other holding my mug. I really looked good. I regarded Mr. Mancuso with his silly outfit and his pale skin, sitting on a cushioned locker. I said to him, \"Did you say you wanted to speak to me about something?\"\n\nHe seemed to be contemplating what it was he'd wanted to say, as if perhaps it was no longer relevant. Finally, he said, \"Mr. Sutter, I have been an FBI agent for nearly twenty years.\"\n\n\"It must be interesting.\"\n\n\"Yes. Most of that time has been spent in various organized-crime task forces. The Mafia is my special area of concern.\"\n\n\"Did you want sugar with that? I have no milk.\"\n\n\"No, thanks. So, I've seen a lot of what life is like in the underworld, Mr. Sutter, and there is nothing romantic about it.\"\n\n\"Who ever said there was?\"\n\n\"They hurt people, Mr. Sutter. They sell drugs to children, force young girls into prostitution, extort money from honest businessmen. They engage in loan-sharking activities and beat people who can't make their payments. They corrupt unions and politicians\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm not sure who corrupts whom in that case.\"\n\n\"They murder people\u2014\"\n\n\"They murder other types of scum. They do not murder cops, businessmen, judges, or people like you or me, Mr. Mancuso. I hear what you're saying, but the average citizen is more concerned with, and outraged by, random street violence, rapists, muggers, car thieves, armed robbers, burglars, and drug-crazed maniacs running around. I personally know people whose lives have been touched by those sorts of criminals, and so do you. I don't know anyone personally who has been a victim of the Mafia. _Capisce?\"_\n\nHe smiled at that word, then nodded in agreement. \"Yes, I understand that, Mr. Sutter. But admit that organized crime and racketeering are hurting the entire nation in insidious ways that\u2014\"\n\n\"Okay. I admit it. And I told you I'd sit on a jury in a Mafia case. That's more than a lot of citizens would do. You know why? Because they are frightened, Mr. Mancuso.\"\n\n\"Well, there you are, Mr. Sutter. People _are_ frightened by mobsters. People\u2014\"\n\n\"Well, of course they would be frightened if they had to sit on a jury. But that's a remote possibility. What people are really frightened of is walking down the street at night.\"\n\n\"The FBI doesn't patrol the streets, Mr. Sutter. What you're talking about is another issue.\"\n\n\"Well, then, let's talk about the Mafia. _Why_ would the average citizen be frightened to sit on a jury or testify in an organized-crime case? I'll tell you why; because _you_ are not doing your job.\"\n\nFor the first time, Mr. Mancuso seemed annoyed with me. In truth, he had shown a good deal of patience on this occasion and the last, but I could see I'd gotten to him. Actually, I was only blowing smoke at him, and I wanted him to tell me that everything was under control, that the republic was safe, and that I would be able to walk the streets of New York in a few more weeks, maybe a month. But that wasn't the case. He did, however, give me some hopeful news.\n\nHe put his mug on the deck and stood. He said, \"In fact, Mr. Sutter, we are doing our job. In fact, sir, we are winning the war against organized crime.\"\n\n\"Have you told the Mafia this?\"\n\n\"They know it very well. Better than the American public, which is fed mostly bad news. But let me give you a good-news headline: MAFIA ON THE RUN.\"\n\nI smiled but said nothing.\n\nMr. Mancuso went on, \"Since 1984, Mr. Sutter, the federal government has obtained hundreds of convictions under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act\u2014the RICO Act. We have seized millions of dollars in property and cash, and we have destroyed or seriously damaged nearly all of the twenty-four organized-crime families in this country. There is only one remaining stronghold of the Mafia in America, and that is here in New York. And of New York's five traditional crime families, four have been crippled by prosecutions and by death and by early retirements. The old legendary dons are all gone now. The caliber of the remaining leadership is very low. Only one family remains strong, and only one leader commands respect.\"\n\n\"Who could that be?\"\n\nMr. Mancuso, having delivered himself of this satisfying monologue, smiled. \"You know who.\"\n\nI asked him, \"What is your point?\"\n\n\"Well, the point, obviously, is Frank Bellarosa and your relationship with him.\"\n\n\"I see.'' Mr. Mancuso had intrigued me, and it occurred to me that he could answer some questions for me, rather than vice versa. I asked him, \"How rich is Mr. Bellarosa?\"\n\nHe thought a moment, then replied, \"We estimate that his illegal empire grosses about six hundred million dollars a year\u2014\"\n\n\"Six hundred _million? Mamma mia_ , Mr. Mancuso.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso smiled. \"Yes. But I don't know how much profit there is and how much of that he keeps personally. We do know that he is involved in fourteen legitimate businesses\u2014\"\n\n\"Sixteen.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso regarded me a moment, then continued, \"Fourteen or more legitimate businesses, from which he showed a taxable income last year of five and a half million dollars.\"\n\n\"And he paid his taxes?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. Overpaid, actually. The IRS refunded him some two hundred thousand dollars. He had a serious tax problem some years back that sent him away for nineteen months. So he's very careful with his taxes on his legitimate income.'' Mr. Mancuso added, \"I would not be surprised if he asked you to do his tax work at some point.\"\n\nI didn't reply, but asked, \"Why do you suppose he's not satisfied with five million legitimate dollars a year?\"\n\nMr. Mancuso informed me, \"There are other factors at work, Mr. Sutter. Bellarosa is a unique personality. He does not make decisions the way you or I would. This man fought his way to the top of New York's largest crime family, and he killed or caused to be killed at least nine men whom he perceived to be a danger to him, or who were, in fact, a danger to him, or men who were simply in his way during his pursuit of the emperor's crown. Personalities like this exist, of course, and history is full of them. Frank Bellarosa is a power freak. The money is incidental. Do you see?\"\n\n\"I understand.\"\n\n\"Understand, too, that he _likes_ living on the edge. You may find this hard to believe, Mr. Sutter, but in his primitive way he enjoys being the target of assassins. His enemies can pay him no higher compliment than trying to kill him. _Capisce?_ \"\n\nI smiled involuntarily. \" _Capisce_.\"\n\n\"No, you say _capisco. I_ understand. _Capisce?_ \"\n\n_\"Capisco.\"_\n\n\"Very good. But work on your accent. I understand your wife speaks some Italian. Maybe she can help you.\"\n\nI didn't reply. In fact, neither of us spoke for a while. As the _Paumanok_ drifted, I realized that I should, at some point, let Mr. Mancuso know that I was representing the man who was the subject of our conversation. But as he hadn't asked, and since nothing of a confidential nature was being discussed yet, I let it slide. I wanted to know more about my client, and since my client wouldn't even admit that there was a Mafia, let alone that he was the emperor of it, I figured that Mr. Mancuso was my best source. I asked, \"How big is his empire, actually? Not money, but people.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso studied me awhile, then replied, \"Well, again, these are estimates, but we think that Bellarosa controls the activities of three thousand men.\"\n\n\"That's a big company.\"\n\n\"Yes. And at the core of his organization are three hundred of what we call 'made' men. Men who have made their bones. Do you understand what that means?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I do.\"\n\n\"And all of these hard-core mafiosi are Italian, mostly Sicilian or Neapolitan.\"\n\n\"And which are you, Mr. Mancuso?\"\n\n\"Neither, Mr. Sutter. I am a true Roman on both sides of my family.\"\n\n\"Interesting. And Mr. Ferragamo?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"I hear that his ancestors were from Florence. They are very cultured there. Why do you ask?\"\n\n\"I'm just trying to read the subtexts, Mr. Mancuso.\"\n\n\"I assure you, Mr. Sutter, there are no subtexts.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not. But tell me about these Sicilians and Neapolitans.\"\n\nHe hesitated a moment, then replied, \"I suppose it might matter where Bellarosa's crime family had its ancestral origins, in that there are historical and family ties that we must consider and comprehend in order to effectively prosecute these people.\"\n\n\"I see. So there are about three hundred hard-core members, and about three thousand others.\"\n\n\"Yes. Associates. At the top is Frank Bellarosa. He has an underboss, a man named Salvatore D'Alessio, aka Sally Da-da, who is Bellarosa's wife's sister's husband. Sort of his brother-in-law. Family relationships are very important to these people. When they can't determine if a bloodline exists, they try to determine if they are related by some marriage or another. Lacking anything there, they will form ties and bonds through christenings. You know, godparents and godchildren. These ties are important because they are used to claim and to reinforce loyalty. Loyalty and respect are number one and number two on the agenda. After that, everything else follows. That's why they have been so incredibly difficult to penetrate, and so successful for a century.\"\n\nI nodded. \"And why pale Wasps like me might tend to glamorize and romanticize them.\"\n\n\"Perhaps.\"\n\n\"But you see them more clearly, Mr. Mancuso.\"\n\n\"I believe I do.\"\n\n\"Good. So, there is an underboss. Where does the _consigliere_ fit in?\"\n\n\"He is next in the chain. Their hierarchy is somewhat unique in that respect. This trusted advisor sometimes has more power than the underboss. He is the one who relays instructions to the capos, who are in charge of the gangs. Why do you want to know this?\"\n\n\"I'm just trying to get a picture of my next-door neighbor. Where does a man like Jack Weinstein fit in?\"\n\n\"Weinstein? Bellarosa's attorney?\"\n\n\"Yes. Where does he fit in?\"\n\n\"Well, if the attorney is not Italian, and I presume Jack Weinstein is not, then he occupies some sort of limbo. In Weinstein's case, he has beaten two serious criminal charges for Frank Bellarosa, before Bellarosa became the boss. Bellarosa, therefore, would be grateful, and he might respect Jack Weinstein, the way you or I would be grateful to and respectful of a surgeon who twice saved our lives. Understand?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Why do you ask about Jack Weinstein, Mr. Sutter?\"\n\n\"Professional curiosity. Also, I'm a little tired of the tax business.\"\n\nMancuso smiled, but it was a worried smile. He said, \"This is all abstract, Mr. Sutter. Let me tell you a story about Mr. Bellarosa. There are many, but I'll tell you one that I can swear to. When Bellarosa was a capo, he summoned a man named Vito Posilico to meet him in his social club on Mott Street. When Mr. Posilico arrived, Frank Bellarosa ordered coffee and they sat and talked. Bellarosa then accused Posilico of withholding money from the proceeds of an extortion of a building contractor. The contractor, an honest businessman incidentally, paid Posilico fifty thousand dollars for a guarantee of labor peace during the time the builder was working on a big project. Bellarosa had taken his half share from Posilico\u2014twenty-five thousand dollars\u2014but now claimed that Posilico had shaken the contractor down for one hundred thousand dollars. Posilico denied this, of course, and offered to prove this to his capo in several ways. But Frank Bellarosa did not want to be proven wrong, especially in front of other people. What he wanted was for Posilico to show respect, to confess, to crawl and beg for mercy. Or, if he still insisted on his innocence, to do so in a way that showed he was frightened. But Vito Posilico had too big an ego, and though he _was_ respectful, he was firm in his denial. He said, 'I'll get the contractor here in fifteen minutes, Frank. You can talk to him.' Then Posilico raised his cup to his lips to drink, and Frank Bellarosa drew a lead pipe from somewhere and smashed Posilico's fingers, the cup, and his teeth. Then he stood and proceeded to break nearly every bone in the man's body. To give you one example.\"\n\nWow. I let go of the wheel and leaned back against the rail. Yes, I could easily picture Bellarosa, wielding a lead pipe, cigar in his mouth, cracking a man's bones because of some suspicion of thievery. In truth, Bellarosa would have broken old Richard's arm for taking his salad away if we had been in Bellarosa's club rather than mine. And this was the man whom Susan liked. I watched the wheel move to and fro as the rising wind and current carried the boat farther out. Evil and viciousness, I thought, are only fully understandable in anecdotal form. To hear that a man murdered nine nameless people to get to the top is distressful, but to hear in detail how he smashed Vito Posilico's face and teeth with a lead pipe is gut wrenching.\n\nMr. Mancuso broke into my thoughts. \"Why would a man like you associate with a man like that?\"\n\n\"Are you here on government business, Mr. Mancuso, or are you here to save my soul?\"\n\n\"Both, Mr. Sutter, as they happen to coincide.'' He regarded me a moment, then said, \"I don't know you, but I know a lot about you. I know that you are a church-going man, a law-abiding citizen, a family man, a successful and respected attorney, a respected member of your community, and an army veteran. Frank Bellarosa is a malignancy on society, a vicious criminal, and a man whose soul is going to burn in hell for eternity.\"\n\nThat last thing caught me by surprise, and I must have shown it. I replied, \"I'm not arguing with you. Come to the point.\"\n\n\"I would like your help.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"We have a court order to tap Bellarosa's phones. But he knows that, of course, and he doesn't say anything on the telephone, so\u2014\"\n\n\"And you overheard my conversations with him?\"\n\n\"Yes. We know about the variance, the stables, and about his asking you to walk with him to Fox Point. Incidentally, you have a good sense of humor. And I'm happy to discover that you are not intimidated by him. He puts up with a lot of your sarcasm. I wonder why.\"\n\n\"I think it goes over his thick head, Mr. Mancuso.\"\n\n\"Perhaps. Anyway, we know that you and your wife went there one night, of course, and I have photos of you waving at us, and photos of you walking with Bellarosa to Fox Point. We know, too, that you took him and his wife to your country club, and that this caused you some problems with your friends. Also, we've heard your wife talking with Mrs. Bellarosa on the phone, and even with Mr. Bellarosa a few times.'' He watched me a moment, then added, \"Your wife spends a good deal of time at Alhambra. We understand that she is painting a picture of the house. Correct?\"\n\n\"My wife is a professional painter. Artists, writers, and whores work for anyone with the cash.\"\n\n\"But attorneys don't?\"\n\n\"Depends on the cash.\"\n\n\"Your wife did not charge the Bellarosas for the painting.\"\n\n\"How do you know that?\"\n\n\"There are things I know that I would be happy to share with you, Mr. Sutter, if you would do me a few favors.\"\n\nI did not reply.\n\nHe said, \"What we need is for you to plant three or four bugs in Bellarosa's house. One in his den, one in the entranceway, maybe one in his greenhouse where we see him talking to his goombahs, and definitely one in the kitchen where he probably does most of his business because he's Italian.'' Mr. Mancuso flashed all his Chiclets.\n\n\"How about his bedroom?\"\n\n\"We don't do that.'' He added, \"Not too much goes on there anyway.'' He walked toward me on the rolling boat and put his hand on my arm as though to steady himself. \"Can we count on you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Well . . . I'm his attorney.\"\n\nHe took a step back as if I'd said I had a communicable disease. \"Are you serious?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am. Specifically, he wants me to represent him in the matter of the murder of Juan Carranza.'' I studied Mr. Mancuso's face and saw it was not a happy face.\n\nHe went to the portside rail and looked out to sea awhile.\n\nI realized that I had made a tactical blunder in relating this to him if Bellarosa actually wanted it to remain a secret until his arrest, arraignment, and bail hearing. But that was a small mistake, and I was bound to make a few more since I do mostly taxes, wills, and house closings. Also, Bellarosa had, at one point, wanted me to speak to Mancuso about Ferragamo, so I was not actually violating a privileged conversation. I said to Mancuso, \"Do you want to know why I agreed to represent him?\"\n\nWithout turning around, Mancuso replied, \"I could speculate, Mr. Sutter, and if I did, I would say it had nothing to do with cash.\"\n\n\"No, it doesn't. In fact, I'm repaying a favor. But the main reason is that I believe Bellarosa is innocent of that particular allegation.\"\n\nHe turned toward me. \"Do you? Why do you believe that?\"\n\n\"Among other reasons, because Bellarosa has convinced me that the U.S. Attorney, Mr. Alphonse Ferragamo, is framing him for that murder. Actually not just framing him, but setting him up to be murdered by the Colombians or by Bellarosa's own people to keep the peace with the Colombians.'' I watched Mr. Mancuso closely.\n\nHe has a very expressive face, which is not good for a cop, and I could see that he did not find this statement absurd. Bellarosa was right about watching faces when I made this accusation. I said to Mr. Mancuso, \"I will relate to you what Bellarosa told me.'' And for the next ten minutes, I did just that. I concluded by saying, \"Bellarosa said you are an honest man. So if you are, then tell me honestly, does this sound plausible to you?\"\n\nHe stared down at the deck for a full minute, then without looking up at me replied, \"A United States Attorney is not going to jeopardize his career and his very freedom for personal revenge.\"\n\n\"Well, I wouldn't have thought so three months ago, but''\u2014I affected an Italian accent\u2014\"but now I'ma learna abouta you _paesanos_ , Mistah Mancuso, an' I'ma thinkin', maybe Mistah Bellarosa knowsa whas ina Mistah Ferragamo's head. _Capisce?\"_\n\nMr. Mancuso didn't seem amused.\n\nI added, reverting to my normal accent, \"Save Mr. Ferragamo's soul, Mr. Mancuso. Remind him that revenge is a sin. If he backs off, that will let me off the hook as well. Tell him to find something better than a frame-up for Frank Bellarosa. Tell him to play fair.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso did not respond.\n\nI glanced at my watch, then said to Mr. Mancuso, \"I'll show you how to tack. Raise the mainsail first.\"\n\nAnd so we set sail for home, tacking through the wind, and fighting the tide, which was still running out. After about an hour with little headway, a weary Mr. Mancuso inquired, \"Can't you just start the engine?\"\n\n\"I could, but sailing into the wind is very instructive. It's a test of skill and patience. It is allegorical.\"\n\n\"It's a useless exercise,'' declared the crew.\n\nWe rounded Plum Point, and the wind shifted in a more favorable direction, so we made better headway. Mr. Mancuso was kneeling on the foredeck, holding on to the rail. He seemed to enjoy the wind in the sails and the bow cutting through the water. I had advised him to put on a life jacket or tie on a lifeline, but he assured me he was an excellent swimmer. I called out to him, \"Did you people screw me up with the IRS?\"\n\nHe turned and looked at me, then called back, \"No. But we know about that.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you do.\"\n\nHe added, \"I didn't do that. You have my word on that.\"\n\nI called over the sound of the wind and water, \"Maybe not you, but someone in your office.\"\n\n\"No. We don't fool around with the IRS. It's not legal, and we don't trust them.\"\n\n\"Then you couldn't get me off the hook with them?\"\n\n\"We could put in a good word for you. But I can't promise you anything.\"\n\nBut Frank Bellarosa and Mr. Melzer could unconditionally promise me things. How utterly depressing and demoralizing.\n\nHe called to me, \"Would you like me to put in a good word for you?\"\n\n\"Sure. Tell them I go to church and I'm a good sailor.\"\n\n\"Will do. You want to plant some bugs for me?\"\n\n\"I can't do that.\"\n\n\"Sure you can. But you have to resign as his attorney. You have to be ethical.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso was into ethics. I called to him, \"Lower the jib.\"\n\n\"The what?\"\n\n\"The sail flapping over your head.\"\n\nHe lowered the jib, then the staysail and the mainsail, and I started the engine. When you have an inexperienced crew, it's best to go into port under power and avoid a major embarrassment, like plowing into a moored boat while people are having drinks on the clubhouse veranda.\n\nWe came alongside the pier, and I cut the engine as Mr. Mancuso expertly lassoed a piling. We secured the _Paumanok_ , and we both went below to collect our things.\n\nAs Mr. Mancuso put on his tie and gun, he said to me, \"You're not defending Frank Bellarosa solely on the basis of your belief that he is innocent of this murder, Mr. Sutter. Any attorney can do that. I think you are just playing with high explosives because you enjoy the danger. Like sailing in a storm at night. I know life can get boring, Mr. Sutter, and people with time and money on their hands often need something to get their blood moving. Some men gamble, some race cars or boats, some climb mountains, some have affairs, some do it all.\"\n\n\"At the same time?\"\n\n\"But, Mr. Sutter, there is a price to pay for the thrill. There are consequences. Danger is dangerous.\"\n\n\"I know that, Mr. Mancuso. Where did you get your law degree, if I may ask?\"\n\n\"Georgetown.\"\n\n\"Excellent. Can I double your salary, Mr. Mancuso? We need a Catholic. You have your twenty years in with the FBI.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"I'm not counting years, Mr. Sutter. I want to finish this job. If it takes another twenty years to smash the Mafia in New York, then, God willing, I'll still be at it.\"\n\n\"Please keep my offer in mind. It is a serious offer.\"\n\n\"I appreciate the thought. It is seductive. But what I want to say to you, Mr. Sutter, is that evil is seductive, and\u2014\"\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"Evil is seductive. Do you understand?\"\n\n\"Yes . . .\"\n\n\"And virtue is boring. Evil seems to pay better than virtue, but virtue, Mr. Sutter, is its own reward. You know that.\"\n\n\"Of course I know that. I am an honest man. I am doing nothing dishonest with Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso put his jacket on and gathered his shoes and socks. \"But being involved with Frank Bellarosa is unethical, immoral, and unwise. Very unwise.'' He stepped closer to me in the small galley where we were standing. \"Listen to me, Mr. Sutter. Forget that I asked you to bug Bellarosa's house, and that he may be innocent of this particular charge. The man is _evil_. I like you, Mr. Sutter, and I want to give you good advice. Tell Frank Bellarosa to go away and stay away from you and your wife.'' He actually grabbed me by the arm and put his face near mine. \"I am the voice of truth and reality. Listen to my voice. That man will destroy you and your family. And it will be _your_ fault, Mr. Sutter, not his fault. For the love of God, tell him to leave you alone.\"\n\nHe was absolutely right, of course, so I said, \"Thank you. I like you, Mr. Mancuso. You restore my faith in humanity, but not in much else. I'll think about what you've said.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso released my arm. \"Thank you for the ride, Mr. Sutter. Have a pleasant day.'' He went up the companionway and disappeared on deck.\n\nAfter a minute, I followed and saw him on the pier slipping into his shoes. There were a few other people around now, and they were all watching this man in a suit who had come off my boat. At least a few people probably thought that Mr. Mancuso was a friend of Mr. Bellarosa's\u2014as was John Sutter\u2014and that Sutter and this Mafia fellow had just dumped a few bodies at sea.\n\nI called out to Mr. Mancuso, \"Ferragamo and Bellarosa belong in the same cell. You and I should go sailing again.\"\n\nHe waved to me as he disappeared behind a big, berthed Allied fifty-five footer that I would buy if I had three hundred thousand dollars.\n\nI got some polish from the locker and shined up a brass cleat until it gleamed in the sunlight.\n**_Twenty-four_**\n\nThe week after Mr. Mancuso and I went sailing, I was helping George Allard plant boxtrees where the central wing of the stables had once been. It was hard work, and I could have had it done professionally, but I like planting trees, and George has an obsession with saving old skinflint Stanhope a few dollars.\n\nWhen men work together, despite class differences, they revert to a natural and instinctive sort of comradeship. Thus, I found I was enjoying my conversation with George, and George himself seemed a little looser, joking and even making an indiscreet remark about his employer. \"Mr. Stanhope,'' said George, \"offered the missus and me ten thousand dollars to leave the gatehouse. Who's he think is going to do all this work if I weren't here?\"\n\n\"Mr. Stanhope may have a buyer for the entire estate,'' I said.\n\n\"He's got a buyer? Who?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure he does, George, but Mr. Stanhope wants to be able to offer an empty gatehouse if and when he does, or he wants to be able to sell the gatehouse separately.\"\n\nGeorge nodded. \"Well, I don't want to be a problem, but . . .\"\n\n\"Don't worry about it. I've looked at August Stanhope's will, and it's clear that you and Mrs. Allard have lifetime rights of tenancy. Don't let William Stanhope pressure you, and don't take his offer.'' I added, \"You couldn't rent comparable housing for less than twenty thousand a year around here.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know that, Mr. Sutter. It wasn't much of an offer, and even if he offers more, I wouldn't leave. This is my home.\"\n\n\"Good. We need you at the gate.\"\n\nIt was a hot day, and the work was heavy for a man his age. But men are competitive in this regard, and George was going to show me that he could keep up.\n\nAt noon, I said to him, \"That's enough for now. I'll meet you back here at about two.\"\n\nI walked home and had lunch alone as Susan was out, then wrote to my sister, Emily. When I returned to meet George, I found him lying on the ground between unplanted trees. I knelt beside him, but there were no signs of life. George Allard was dead. The gates to Stanhope Hall were unguarded.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe wake, held in a funeral home in Locust Valley, was well attended by other elderly estate workers whom the Allards had known over the years. Interestingly, a few older gentry put in appearances as well, ladies and gentlemen of the old vanished world, looking like ghosts themselves, come to pay their respects to one of their own.\n\nThe Stanhopes, of course, felt obligated to come in from Hilton Head. They hadn't actually wished George dead, of course, but you knew that the subject had come up in their private conversations over the years, and that it had come up in a way that if you overheard them, you might think they were looking forward to it.\n\nSusan's brother, Peter, still trying to find the meaning of life\u2014this month in Acapulco\u2014could not make it in to contemplate the meaning of death.\n\nI was sorry that Carolyn could not be reached in time in Cuba, but Edward flew up from Cocoa Beach.\n\nMany of my family in and around Locust Valley and Lattingtown stopped by the funeral home as they all knew and liked the Allards. My parents, according to Aunt Cornelia, had gone to Europe so I'll never know if they would have driven in for the funeral, and I really don't care, as all gestures on their part are meaningless, I've decided.\n\nThere was no reason for Emily to come in from Texas, as she didn't know the Allards that well, but she sent me a check to give to Ethel. It is customary when an old servant dies to take up a collection for the widow, this being a holdover, I suppose, from the days before servants had life insurance or Social Security. A good number of people passed checks or cash to me to give to Ethel. William Stanhope knew this, of course, but didn't come up with any cash of his own. His reasoning, I'm sure, was that he was still obligated to pay Ethel her monthly stipend, as per Augustus's will, and that Ethel was still in the gatehouse, and now George was about to occupy a piece of the Stanhope family plot; though in point of fact, there is more Stanhope family plot left than there are Stanhopes left to occupy it. So he wasn't giving away anything valuable, as usual.\n\nThere was no reason for the Bellarosas to come to the funeral home, of course, but Italians, as I've discovered over the years, rarely pass up a funeral. So Frank and Anna stopped in for ten minutes one afternoon, and their presence caused a small stir of excitement, as if they were celebrities. The Bellarosas knelt at the coffin and crossed themselves, then checked out the flower arrangement they'd sent\u2014which incidentally took two men to carry in\u2014then left. They looked as if they did this often.\n\nThe Remsens stopped by the funeral home late Friday afternoon\u2014after the closing bell and before happy hour at The Creek\u2014but they pointedly avoided me, though they chatted with Susan for a minute.\n\nOne would think that, in the presence of death, people would be compelled into a larger appreciation of life and a sharper perspective of its meaning. One would think that. But to be honest, whatever petty grievances I, myself, had outside the funeral parlor were the same ones I carried inside. Why should Lester Remsen or William Stanhope or anyone be any different?\n\nPeople like the DePauws, Potters, Vandermeers, and so forth, who might have stopped by for a moment as our friends and neighbors out of a sense of noblesse oblige, sent flowers instead. I didn't want to read anything into this, but I could have. I was sure they would make it to my funeral. Jim and Sally Roosevelt did come, and Jim was very good with Ethel, sitting for an hour with her and holding her hand. Sally looks good in black.\n\nSo we buried George Allard after church services at St. Mark's on a pleasant Saturday morning. The cemetery is a few miles from Stanhope Hall, a private place with no name, filled with the departed rich, and in pharaonic style, with a few dozen loyal servants (though none of them had been killed for their master's burials), and dozens of pets, and even two polo ponies, one of which was responsible for his rider's death. The old rich insist on being batty right to the end, and beyond.\n\nAs I said, George was interred in the Stanhope plot, which is a good-size piece of land, and ironically the last piece of land the Stanhopes were destined to own on Long Island.\n\nAt graveside, there were about fifteen people in attendance, with the Reverend Mr. Hunnings officiating; there was the widow, Ethel, the Allards' daughter, Elizabeth, her husband and their two children, William and Charlotte Stanhope, Susan, Edward, and I, plus a few other people whom I didn't know.\n\nOn the way to the cemetery, the funeral cortege, as is customary, passed by the house of the deceased, and I saw that someone had put a funeral wreath on the gates of Stanhope Hall, something I hadn't seen in years. Why that custom has died out is beyond me, for what could be more natural than to announce to the world, to unwary callers, that there has been a death in the house and that, no, we don't want any encyclopedias or Avon products today.\n\n\"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,'' said the Reverend Mr. Hunnings, throwing a handful of soil atop the coffin. This is when clergy earn their pay. But Hunnings always struck me as a method actor who was playing the part of a priest in a long-running off-Broadway show. Why do I dislike this man? Maybe because he's conned everyone else. But George had seen through him.\n\nHunnings actually delivered a nice eulogy, though I noticed that he never once mentioned the possibility of heaven as a real place. No use talking about a place you've never been to and have no chance of ever going to.\n\nAnyway, I was glad, in some perverse way, that I was the last one to see George alive and that we had spoken, and that he died doing what he liked best and where he liked doing it. I had spoken to Ethel and to his daughter, Elizabeth, about our last conversation, and of course, I embellished it a bit in an effort to bring them some comfort. But basically George had been a happy man on the day he died, and that was more than most of us can hope for.\n\nI, myself, would not mind dropping dead on my own property, if I owned any property. But better yet, perhaps, I'd like to die on my boat, at sea, and be buried at sea. The thought of dying at my desk upsets me greatly. But if I could choose how and when I wanted to die, I would want to be an eighty-year-old man shot by a jealous young husband who had caught me in bed with his teenage wife.\n\nThe graveside service was ended, and we all threw a flower on the casket as we filed past on our way to our cars.\n\nAs I was about to climb into the Jaguar with Susan, I looked back at the grave and saw that Ethel was still there. The limousine that we had gotten for her and her family had drawn abreast of the Jag and I motioned for the driver to stop. The rear window of the limousine went down, and Elizabeth said to me, \"Mom wants to be alone awhile. The driver will come back for her.\"\n\n\"I understand,'' I replied, then added, \"No, I'll go back for her.'' It's so easy to let professionals handle all the unpleasant aspects of dying and death, and it takes some thought and will to take charge.\n\nElizabeth replied, \"That would be nice. Thank you. We'll see you back at the church.'' Her car drove off and I slid behind the wheel of the Jaguar. \"Where is Edward?'' I inquired of Susan.\n\n\"He is riding with his grandparents.\"\n\n\"All right.'' I fell in behind someone's car and exited the cemetery.\n\nBurial customs differ greatly in this country, despite the homogenization of other sorts of rites and rituals such as weddings, for instance. Around here, if you're a member of St. Mark's, you usually gather after the funeral at the church's fellowship room, where a committee of good Christian ladies have laid on some food and soft drinks (though alcohol is what is needed). It's not quite a party, of course, but it can be an occasion to speak well of the deceased, and to prop up the bereaved for a few more hours.\n\nAs I drove toward the church, I was impressed by Ethel's decision not to go along with the planned program, but to spend a little time at the grave of her husband; just she and George.\n\nSusan said to me, \"That was very thoughtful of you.\"\n\nI replied, \"I am an uncommonly thoughtful man.\"\n\nSusan didn't second that, but asked me, \"Would you weep over my grave?\"\n\nI knew I was supposed to reply quickly in the affirmative, but I had to think about it. I finally replied, \"It would really depend on the circumstances.\"\n\n\"Meaning what?\"\n\n\"Well, what if we were divorced?\"\n\nThere was a second of silence, then she said, \"You could still weep for me. I would cry at your funeral even if we had been divorced for years.\"\n\n\"Easy to say. How many ex-spouses do you see at funerals?'' I added, \"Marriages may or may not be until death do us part. But blood relatives are forever.\"\n\n\"You Italian, or what?'' She laughed.\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"Nothing . . . anyway, you recently told two of your blood relatives\u2014Mater and Pater to be specific\u2014to take a hike.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, they would attend my funeral, and I theirs. My children will attend my funeral and yours. We may not attend each other's funeral.\"\n\n\"I will be at yours. You have my word on that.\"\n\nI didn't like this subject, so I changed it. \"Do you think Ethel will be all right alone in the gatehouse?\"\n\n\"I'll check on her more often. Perhaps we'll have her to dinner a few times a week.\"\n\n\"Good idea.'' Actually, it wasn't, as I don't care for Ethel's company, though I care for her as a person, even if she is a socialist. She might be better off living with her Republican daughter, but I didn't think that was a possibility.\n\nI noticed, too, that William Stanhope had been eyeing her as though he were sizing her up for a casket. I had no doubt that he would pull me off to the side sometime in the next few days and ask me to suggest to Ethel that she leave the gatehouse. William, of course, was desirous of selling the quaint house to yuppies, or successful artists, or anyone with a romantic bent and about a quarter million dollars. Or of course, if anything came of Bellarosa's interest in the entire estate, then, as I'd said to George, William would like all the serfs gone (unless he could sell them as well).\n\nNaturally, I would assure my father-in-law that I would do my best to get old Ethel out, but actually I'd do the opposite as I'd done with George just a few days ago. William Stanhope is a monumental prick, and so outrageously insensitive and self-centered that he actually believes he can ask me for my help in enriching him, and I'm supposed to do his bidding (for free) because I'm married to his daughter. What a swine.\n\n\"Mother and Father looked good,'' Susan said. \"Very tan and fit.\"\n\n\"It's good to see them again.\"\n\n\"They're staying for three or four more days.\"\n\n\"Can't they stay longer?\"\n\nShe gave me a sidelong glance, and I realized I was pushing my credibility. I hadn't told William or his wife to go to hell yet, as I'd promised myself I would, and I'm glad I hadn't because that could only confuse the issue between Susan and me.\n\nI pulled up to the church, and Susan opened her door. \"That was very touching. I mean what Ethel did, staying behind to be with her husband. They were together a half century, John. They don't make marriages like that anymore.\"\n\n\"No. Do you know why men die before their wives?\"\n\n\"No, why?\"\n\n\"Because they want to.\"\n\n\"I'll see you later.'' Susan got out of the car and headed toward the fellowship room, and I headed back to the cemetery.\n\nFunerals are, of course, a time to reflect on your life. I mean, if you need any evidence that you're not immortal, that hole in the ground is it. So you naturally start to wonder if you're getting it right, then you wonder why it matters if you do. I mean, if Hunnings and his cohorts have removed the fear of a fiery hell and the promise of a four-star heaven, who gives a damn what you do on earth? Well, I do, because I still believe in right and wrong, and without embarrassment I'll tell you I believe in a comfortable heaven. I know that George is there even if Hunnings forgot to mention it.\n\nBut afterlife considerations aside, one does wonder if one could be getting a little more fun out of life. I mean, I still enjoy life, but I recall very well a time when things were better at home. So, I must answer the age-old question: Do I move or make home improvements?\n\nI pulled into the gate of the cemetery and drove along the tree-shaded lane to the Stanhope section. It was interesting that the Stanhopes, who needed so much land in life, were all comfortably situated on an acre now, with room for more.\n\nI stopped a short distance from the new grave and noticed that the gravediggers were nearly finished covering it. I noticed, too, that Ethel was nowhere to be seen.\n\nI got out of the car and started for the grave to inquire of the gravediggers where she might be. But then I turned toward the south end of the Stanhope section, the older section where weathered marble headstones rose amid thick plantings.\n\nEthel Allard stood with her back to me at a grave whose headstone bore the name AUGUSTUS STANHOPE.\n\nI watched for a second or two, but felt as if I'd intruded on a private moment. Though in truth, I hadn't stumbled upon this scene by accident; I somehow knew that Ethel would be there. I suppose I could have backed off behind the hedges and called out for her, like the old John Sutter would have done, but instead I said, \"Ethel, it's time to go.\"\n\nShe glanced over her shoulder at me without surprise or embarrassment and nodded. But she remained at the grave for some time longer, then took a white rose that she had been holding and tossed it on Augustus Stanhope's grave.\n\nEthel turned and came toward me, and I could see there were tears in her eyes. We walked side by side toward my car and she said to me, \"I loved him very much.\"\n\n_Who_? \"Of course you did.\"\n\n\"And he loved me dearly.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he did.'' _Who?_\n\nShe began sobbing and I put my arm around her. She actually leaned her head on my shoulder as I led her to the car. She said, \"But it could never be. Not in those days.\"\n\n_Ah._ My God, what funny people we are. I said, \"But it's good that you had _something._ That's better than nothing.\"\n\n\"I still miss him.\"\n\n\"That's very nice. Very lovely.'' And it was, odd as the circumstances were, considering why we were there. And the moral was this: Go for it; it's later than you think.\n\nI put her in the car and we drove back to the church without exchanging another word.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe morning after the funeral, Edward and I finished planting the boxtrees. As we dug in the hot sun, he sort of looked at me as if I might keel over myself and die on the spot. He said, \"Take a break, Dad.\"\n\n\"I'm in top shape. _You_ need the break.\"\n\nWe sat under the chestnut tree and we drank spring water. Children don't think much about death, which is as it should be. But when they are confronted with it, it is not always processed properly or understood in its context. Some children shrug it off, others become maudlin. We spoke about death and dying for a while, coming up with no great revelations, but at least talking it out.\n\nEdward is fortunate in that he has all four grandparents\u2014well, _fortunate_ might not be the right word in the case of those four\u2014but this is more common today as people live longer. And in fact, George Allard's funeral was the first one Edward had attended. Carolyn, at nineteen, has not gone to a funeral. And, I think, we've all, to some extent, come to believe that death is unnatural in modern American society, that somehow the deceased and the family of the deceased have been cheated. I said to him, \"Death is the natural order of things. I would not want to live in a world without death, Edward. In the old days, they used to call death the final reward. It still is.\"\n\n\"I guess. But how about when a kid dies?\"\n\n\"That's harder to comprehend or deal with. I have no answers for that.\"\n\nAnd so we kicked death around awhile. American parents are obsessed with the First Sex Talk; when it should occur, what should be said. Parents, I think, should give as much time and thought to preparing their children for their first experience with the death of a loved one.\n\nWe finished the plantings, and Edward said to me, \"Would you mind if I went back to Florida tomorrow?\"\n\n\"Were you having a good time?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then get back there. How are the girls?\"\n\n\"Well . . . okay.\"\n\n\"You were taught about safe and responsible sex in health class?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Anything else you want to know about safe sex?\"\n\n\"No. I've had it up to here with that subject.\"\n\nI smiled. \"Anything you want to know about good sex?\"\n\nHe grinned. \"Sure. If you know anything about it.\"\n\n\"Hey, watch yourself, wise guy.'' I think I know where this kid gets his sense of humor.\n\nWe went back to the house, cleaned up, then went riding, Edward on Zanzibar, me on Yankee. As we crossed Bellarosa's land, I asked Edward, \"Did you ever say anything to Mr. Bellarosa about my having to sell the summer house for tax money?\"\n\nHe looked at me as we rode. \"No. Why would I tell him that?\"\n\n\"He seemed to know about that.\"\n\n\"Not from me.\"\n\nAfter a minute, he made an unconscious mental connection and said, \"I saw the picture Mom painted. It's really terrific. You seen it?\"\n\n\"Not yet.\"\n\nWe rode until dusk, then we met Susan at a seafood restaurant on the Sound and had dinner together. We talked about the shark that got away, about the submarine sighting, and about dinner at Buddy's Hole, which was funny and sad at the same time. We spoke about the things that would become family history in this summer of change, growth, and death.\n\nThe next morning, I drove Edward to the airport. We don't see people off at the gate anymore, but I shook his hand before he passed through the metal detector and watched him disappear into the crowd.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWilliam and Charlotte Stanhope were staying at one of the cottages at The Creek, and not with us, thank you, God. William took the opportunity of George's funeral to do some business while he was in New York.\n\nAt Susan's suggestion, Squire Stanhope made an appointment with the Bishop of Alhambra. They met at Alhambra first, without me present, then came back to Stanhope Hall, walked around, kicked the bricks, and struck a deal. I didn't actually see them strike the deal, but I could picture them, standing in the sacred grove, pitchforks in hand, cloven hooves bared, touching horns and wiggling their tails.\n\nAnyway, we had dinner that night in Locust Valley; Susan and John, William and Charlotte. William fittingly picked an Italian restaurant, a very good restaurant, and very expensive. William does have good taste in restaurants as opposed to my parents. But as William is my client, and as we were going to do a few minutes' worth of business, I was supposed to bill the dinner to Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. William pulls this every time he's in town, but my firm has never done a dime's worth of business with him, and he doesn't even pay me personally. Therefore, I always pay the bill with my own credit card.\n\nSo William gave me the business. \"John,'' said he, \"your neighbor bought not only the house, but all the acreage. We'll draw up a contract tomorrow morning. Two million down, eighteen million at closing. I'll meet you at ten in the Locust Valley office, and we'll go over the details. He uses Cooper and Stiles in Glen Cove for real estate deals. You know them, so we won't have any problems with this deal. Now, let's close in a few weeks. He's got the money. No use waiting. You notify the tax people tomorrow that they can take the property off the auction block. They'll have their money in about thirty days. Do that first thing. And call Cooper and Stiles first thing and tell them to expect to receive and to read the contract by tomorrow afternoon. And I want them to get to their client with the contract the following day. None of this lawyerly foot-dragging. The whole Japanese Empire was surrendered with a one-page document that took five minutes to sign.\"\n\n_How would you know? You were fishing off Martha's Vineyard._ \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"And John, you'll keep this strictly confidential.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nWilliam went on, \"I think the idiot believes he can subdivide the acreage and make a killing. I want to nail this down before he learns otherwise. You speak to Cooper and Stiles about that without making it obvious what you don't want them to say to their client. They won't say anything anyway, because they want the fee.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.'' Frank Bellarosa was many things, but an idiot wasn't one of them.\n\n\"He probably thinks he can bribe or threaten government officials to have the land rezoned. He's got a lot to learn about how we conduct public affairs here.\"\n\nI said, \"I think he wants the land to bury bodies.\"\n\nWilliam gave me a look of annoyance. He doesn't appreciate my humor at all, which is probably why I hate him.\n\nHe said, \"Bellarosa's deed will include the gatehouse, too, of course. He wasn't happy about the Allards' lifetime tenancy. But I told him that if he made the widow a reasonable offer, she'd leave. If _he_ can't get her out, no one can.'' William nearly smiled, and I nearly put my fist in his mouth. He added, \"Meantime, the son of a bitch wants to hold a half million in escrow until the gatehouse is vacated and unencumbered. So put that in the contract, but let's see if we can get a promise from Ethel to move, and pass that on to Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nHe looked at me and said, \"I discovered why you didn't want to dine at The Creek tonight, John. You're the subject of some heated debate over there. That's very awkward for me.\"\n\n_And it will get a lot more awkward for you when your friends find out you sold Stanhope Hall to Frank Bellarosa._ I said, \"Yes, sir. I'm sorry about that.\"\n\nHe looked at me closely, then said, \"I'd like to give you some advice. Don't get involved with that man.\"\n\n\"You just sold him Stanhope Hall,'' I pointed out.\n\nHe stopped eating and his yellow eyes narrowed. \"That was business.\"\n\n\"So is my involvement with him, sir. Your daughter handles our social involvements.\"\n\nSo, there was what you call dead silence for a while, during which time I thought Susan might say something on my behalf. But Susan pays me the compliment of not defending me or speaking for me. I do the same for her.\n\nCharlotte Stanhope finally broke the silence and said, \"Poor Ethel. She looked frightful.'' She turned to me. \"Do you think she can manage alone?\"\n\nCharlotte has a trilly sort of voice that you think is going to trail off into a series of chirps. She's well bred, of course, and seems on the surface to be a nice lady, but in her own quiet way, she's as vicious as her husband.\n\n\"John? Do you think poor Ethel can manage alone?\"\n\nI replied, \"I'll inquire as soon as a respectable period of time has passed.\"\n\n\"Of course. The poor dear, she would be so much better situated with her daughter.\"\n\nWe chatted about this and that while we ate, or at least they did. I was simmering.\n\nWilliam returned to the subject of the sale. He said to my wife, \"I'm sorry, Susan, if this sale causes you any inconvenience. But it had to happen. And I don't think you need worry about houses going up so soon. Now that Bellarosa owns the land, you and I will contribute five or ten thousand to the Preservation Fund, anonymously, of course, so he doesn't get wind of it. They'll hold him up in court for years. But meanwhile, Bellarosa assured me that you may continue to use the land in any way you see fit, for riding, gardening, walks, just as if I still owned it. In fact, he's willing to sign a covenant to that effect.\"\n\n\"That's very good of you to think to ask him about that,'' said Susan to Mr. Thoughtful.\n\nWilliam smiled at his daughter. \"It could have been worse, you know. At least you know this fellow. And he speaks well of you.'' He paused. \"He's quite a character. But not the thug I expected.\"\n\nI didn't think William would find much fault with a man who was about to hand him twenty million dollars. William, of course, was ecstatic in his own shitty little way. What annoyed me, I think, was not his attitude toward me, or the fact that he had just made a fortune, but the fact that he shed not one tear for the passing of Stanhope Hall. Even I, who had come to hate the place, felt some nostalgia for it, and it hadn't been in _my_ family for generations.\n\nWilliam was still talking to his daughter. \"Susan, I'm glad you got the stable moved\u2014\"\n\n\"I paid for half of the moving of the stable.\"\n\nWilliam glanced at me, then turned back to his daughter and continued, \"Bellarosa told me he wants to move the love temple to his property. He says this fellow of his, Dominic, who did your stable\u2014\"\n\n\"You are a schmuck.\"\n\nHe looked at me in a funny sort of way. \"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"You are an unprincipled asshole, an utterly cynical bastard, a monumental prick, and a conniving fuck.\"\n\nCharlotte made a little choking sound. Susan continued eating her raspberries, with no apparent problem. William tried to say something, but only succeeded in going like this: \"You . . . you . . . you . . . you . . .\"\n\nI stood and poked William in the chest. \" _You_ , tightwad, pay for dinner.'' I touched Susan's arm. \" _You_ come with me.\"\n\nShe stood without a word and followed me out of the restaurant.\n\nIn the car on the way home, she said, \"Can the love temple actually be moved?\"\n\n\"Yes, it's post and lintel construction. Sort of like building blocks. It has to be done carefully, but it's possible, and actually easier than the stable.\"\n\n\"Interesting. I think I'd like to take some courses in building and architecture at Post. That would help me understand more fully what I paint, how it was built, the very soul of the structure, you know, the way Renaissance painters studied skeletons and muscle to paint those fantastic nudes. Perhaps that's all I'm lacking by way of becoming a great painter. What do you think?\"\n\n\"You may be right.\"\n\nWe pulled into the gates at Stanhope Hall. The gatehouse was dark, as Ethel was staying with her daughter awhile. Susan said, \"I'm going to miss George very much.\"\n\n\"Me, too.'' I didn't bother to get out of the car and close the gates, since I intended to pass through them again in about five minutes. Susan, of course, noticed this and remained silent all the way to our house. I brought the Jag to the front door, and Susan looked at me.\n\nA few seconds passed, then I said, \"I'm not coming inside. I'll be back for my things tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"That is really not your concern.\"\n\nShe began to get out of the car, then turned back and said, \"Please don't leave me tonight.'' She added, \"But if you do, take your own car.'' She put out her hand and smiled. \"Keys, please.\"\n\nI shut off the Jag and gave her the keys. Susan unlocked the front door and we both went inside\u2014I to the kitchen to get my own keys, she upstairs to go to bed. As I headed for the front door again, the phone rang and she answered it upstairs. I heard her say, \"Yes, Dad, I'm fine.\"\n\nI opened the door to leave, then heard her saying, \"Well, but that must be what he thinks of you or he wouldn't have said it. John is very precise in his choice of words.\"\n\nThough I don't like eavesdropping, I paused at the front door and heard her go on, \"No, he will not apologize, and I won't apologize for him.'' Silence, then, \"I'm sorry Mother is upset. Actually, I think John would have said more if she _weren't_ there.'' Silence again, then, \"All right, Dad, I'll speak to you tomorrow. Yes, Dad. . . .\"\n\nI called up the stairs, \"Tell the son of a bitch to find another free lawyer.\"\n\nI heard Susan say, \"Hold on, Dad. John just said, and I quote, 'Tell the son of a bitch to find another free lawyer.' Yes . . .'' She called down to me, \"Father says you're an ambulance chaser, an embarrassment to your father, and an incompetent.\"\n\n\"Tell him he's not half the man _his_ father was, and the best part of him ran down Augustus's leg.\"\n\nSusan said, \"Dad, John says he disagrees with that. Good night.'' I heard her hang up. She called down to me, \"Good night, John.\"\n\nI headed up the stairs. \"I need my overnight bag.\"\n\nI went into our bedroom to get my bag out of the closet, and Susan, who must have been undressing as she spoke on the phone, was lying on top of the sheets, her legs crossed and reading a magazine, stark naked.\n\nWell, I mean, there's something about a naked woman, you know, and I was really feeling my oats and all, having just told William Stanhope what I thought of him, and there was his bitchy daughter, lying there stark naked. In some instinctive sort of way, I knew I had to ravish her to complete my victory. So I did. She seemed to enjoy it.\n\nNow, a real primitive would have left afterward, to show his contempt for her and her whole clan. But I was pretty tired, and it was late, so I watched some TV and fell asleep.\n\n**_Part V_**\n\nThe public be damned.\n\n\u2014William Henry Vanderbilt  \nReply to a newspaper reporter, 1882\n\n**_Twenty-five_**\n\nDespite my announcement that I was leaving home, or perhaps because of it, Susan and I were getting along better. We both agreed that I had been under some financial and professional strain, and that George's death had caused us both some emotional trauma, and even the sale of Stanhope Hall had probably contributed to my outburst in the restaurant and my announcement when we got home. I assured Susan, however, that I still thought her father was a monumental prick. She seemed willing to let it go at that.\n\nAnyway, toward the end of July, Mr. Melzer called me at home to inform me that he had worked out a deal with the Internal Revenue Service. To wit: I would pay them $215,000 within sixty days and they would consider the obligation fulfilled. Mr. Melzer seemed pleased with his work. He said, \"That is a savings to you of $99,513.\"\n\n\"But then I would owe you about fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Melzer, and I've already paid you twenty thousand. So really, Mr. Melzer, if you do a little arithmetic, you have saved me only about thirty thousand dollars. I could have done as well myself.\"\n\n\"But I did the work for you, Mr. Sutter.'' He cleared his throat over the phone. \"And there was the matter of the criminal charges. That alone is worth\u2014\"\n\n\"Get them down another ten or shave your commission.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\nI hung up. After a decent interval of an hour or so, Mr. Melzer called back. \"They will take two hundred and ten thousand dollars, Mr. Sutter. That is the best I can do. I will make up the other five to you. Considering they could still bring criminal charges against you, I suggest you settle.\"\n\n\"I never understood, Mr. Melzer, why the IRS and the Mafia haven't merged.\"\n\nMr. Melzer chuckled and replied, \"Professional jealousy.'' He added, \"Can you have the check ready within sixty days?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Fine. I'll hand-deliver the check to the IRS and see that it is properly credited. That is part of my service.\"\n\nThere was a not-too-subtle subtext there. I said, \"And I suppose you'd like to pick up your check at the same time.\"\n\n\"That would be very convenient.\"\n\n\"All right. Call me in thirty days.\"\n\n\"Fine. And thank you, Mr. Sutter. It has been a delight working with a man of such refinement.\"\n\nI couldn't say the same, so I said, \"It's been educational.\"\n\n\"That only adds to my delight.\"\n\n\"By the way, Mr. Melzer, did you happen to hear anything regarding how the IRS discovered this oversight on my part?\"\n\n\"I did make some inquiries regarding that very question. I did not receive any direct answers, but we can assume this was not a random examination of your past tax returns.\"\n\n\"Can we then assume that someone was out to make difficulties for me?\"\n\n\"Mr. Sutter, I told you, you are not popular with the IRS.\"\n\n\"But I have not been popular with the IRS since I began beating them at their game twenty years ago. Why would they examine my return _now_?\"\n\n\"Oh, I think they knew about this oversight of yours for years, Mr. Sutter. They like to see the interest and penalties accumulate.\"\n\n\"I see.'' But I found that hard to believe, even of the Internal Revenue Service. They were tough but generally honest, even going so far as to return money that you didn't know you overpaid them.\n\n\"However,'' Mr. Melzer continued, \"I would not pursue that if I were you.'' He added, \"Or you will be needing me again.\"\n\n\"Mr. Melzer, I will never need you again. And I am not intimidated by any agency of my government. If I believe I've been singled out for persecution, I will certainly pursue the matter.\"\n\nMr. Melzer let a moment pass, then said, \"Mr. Sutter, if I may be blunt, your type of man is nearly extinct. Accept your loss, swallow your pride, and go live your life, my friend. No good will come of your trying to take on forces more powerful than yourself.\"\n\n\"I enjoy fighting the good fight.\"\n\n\"As you wish.'' He added, \"By the way, I would still like to call on you for your professional advice if I may. Your work for me would be strictly confidential, of course.\"\n\n\"Better yet, it will be nonexistent. Good day.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWell, things always seem to work out, don't they? The very next day, on one of my rare appearances in my Wall Street office, there was a phone call for me. It was from a Mr. Weber, a realtor in East Hampton, informing me that he had good news. He had, in fact, a bid of $390,000 for my little summer cottage. \"That is not good news at all,'' I informed him.\n\n\"Mr. Sutter, the market has fallen to pieces. This is the only serious offer we've had, and this guy's looking around at other houses right now.\"\n\n\"I'll call you back.'' I then phoned every other realtor who had the house listed and listened to an earful of bad news and excuses. I called Susan, since she is joint owner of the house, but as usual, she wasn't in. That woman needs a pager, a car phone, a CB radio for her horse, and a cowbell. I called Weber back. \"I'll split the difference between asking and bid. Get him up to four hundred and forty-five.\"\n\n\"I'll try.\"\n\nMr. Weber called me back in a half hour, making me wonder if his customer wasn't actually sitting in his office. Weber said, \"The prospective buyer will split the difference with you again, making his final offer $417,500. I suggest you take that, Mr. Sutter, because\u2014\"\n\n\"The housing market is soft, the summer is waning, and the stock market is down sixteen and a quarter today. Thank you, Mr. Weber.\"\n\n\"Well, I just want you to know the facts.\"\n\nMr. Weber, by now, could smell his commission, which I figured at six percent to be about twenty-five thousand dollars. I said, \"I want four and a quarter for me, so you'll give me the difference from your commission.\"\n\nThere was silence on the phone as Mr. Weber, who had been smelling prime ribs, realized he was being offered T-bone or nothing. He cleared his throat as Mr. Melzer had done and said, \"That's do-able.\"\n\n\"Then do it.'' Normally, I would be more aggressive in real estate deals and also with the IRS. But I didn't have much strength from which to bargain. In fact, unbeknownst to Mr. Weber, I had none, and time was running out.\n\nMr. Weber said, \"It's done. Did I tell you that the buyer wants to rent the house starting immediately? No? Well, he does. He wants to use it for all of August. He's offering a hundred a day until closing. I know you could get more now in high season, but it's part of the deal, so I suggest\u2014\"\n\n\"His name isn't Melzer, is it?\"\n\n\"No. Name's Carleton. Dr. Carleton. He's a psychiatrist in the city. Park Avenue. They don't see patients in August, you know, and he has a wife and two kids, so he wants\u2014\"\n\n\"My family wants to use the house in August, Mr. Weber.\"\n\n\"It's a deal breaker, Mr. Sutter. He insists.\"\n\n\"Well, in that case, I had better make new summer plans, hadn't I? Perhaps I'll go down to the town dump and slug rats with a rake.\"\n\n\"Actually, I could find you another rental out here\u2014\"\n\n\"Never mind. Do it your way and Dr. Carleton's way.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Dr. Carleton really likes the house. The furniture, too.\"\n\n\"How much?\"\n\n\"Another ten. Cash.\"\n\n\"Fine. Did he see the picture of my wife and kids in the den?\"\n\nMr. Weber chuckled. Making deals was fun. I said, \"If this bonzo is trying to pull off a cheap summer rental, I'll hang his balls over my mantel.\"\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"Get a one percent binder, now. Today. And I want to go to contract in a week with twenty percent down.\"\n\n\"A week? But\u2014\"\n\n\"I'll fax you a contract this afternoon. You get this guy in high gear, Mr. Weber. If there are any problems, get back to me pronto.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.'' He asked, \"Are you looking to buy any other property out east?\"\n\n\"What do you have east of Montauk Point?\"\n\n\"Ocean.\"\n\n\"How much?\"\n\n\"It's free, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"I'll take it.'' I hung up. _Madonn_ ', when the shit happens, it happens. Well, I thought, I broke even today. Not bad for a man who's only in his mid-forties.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI took the train home that evening and met Susan at McGlade's for dinner, as we'd planned that morning. I explained the deal to her and said, \"I tried to call you to get your approval.'' Which was more than Frank Bellarosa did when he bought Alhambra without mentioning it to his wife.\n\nSusan didn't seem to care about the sale. But you never know with women. To paraphrase what Churchill said about the Germans, \"Women are either at your feet or at your throat.\"\n\nAnyway, I had my calculator out and I was doing some number-crunching over my third gin and tonic. \"So, we pay the IRS, we pay Melzer, we pay the real estate commission, we satisfy the existing mortgage, we damned sure put money aside for the capital gains tax since we're not buying another house, and we add in the ten thousand for the furniture and about three thousand for rent, and deduct the taxes on that as though it were income to play it safe . . . then, let's see, we factor in some out-of-pocket expenses. . . .\"\n\nSusan was yawning. The rich are bored by money talk.\n\nI scratched some figures on my place mat. \"Well, I think we cleared ninety-three bucks.'' I thought a moment, then said, \"A potential half-million-dollar asset wiped out.'' I looked at Susan, \"What does the government do with all my money?\"\n\n\"Can we order dinner?\"\n\n\"I can't afford it. I'll drink.'' I played around with the numbers again, but I still couldn't afford solid food, so I ordered another gin and tonic.\n\nSusan said, \"Oh, by the way, are you figuring in the twenty thousand dollars you owe me?\"\n\nI looked up at her. \"Excuse me, Mrs. Sutter, this is a joint liability.\"\n\n\"Well, I know that, John. But it wasn't my fault.\"\n\nUnderstand, please, this woman needs twenty thousand dollars like I need to move another stable across the property. I cleared my throat, the way Messrs. Melzer and Weber had done. \"Why are you bringing that up?\"\n\n\"My attorneys want to know\u2014\"\n\n\"Your _father_.\"\n\n\"Well . . . I don't really care about the money. But it's not a good habit to get into. I mean, mingling assets.\"\n\n\"We mingle _my_ assets. Look, Susan, rest assured I have no claim on your property, even if we do occasionally mingle assets. You have a very tight marriage contract. I'm a lawyer. Trust me.\"\n\n\"I do, John, but . . . I don't actually need to have the money, but I do need a sort of promissory note. That's what my . . . lawyers said.\"\n\n\"All right.'' I scribbled an IOU for $20,000 on the place mat, signed and dated it, and pushed it across the table. \"It's legal. Just ignore the part about lunch, dinner, and cocktails, steaks and chops.\"\n\n\"You needn't be so touchy. You're a lawyer. You understand\u2014\"\n\n\"I understand that I've given your father free legal services for nearly two decades. I understand that I paid half the cost for the moving of your stable\u2014\"\n\n\"Your horse is in there, too.\"\n\n\"I don't want the stupid horse. I'm going to have him turned into glue.\"\n\n\"That's an awful thing to say. And by the way, you bought the boat in your name only.\"\n\n\"The check had my name only on it, lady.\"\n\n\"All right, then . . . I don't like to bring this up, but you've never had to make a mortgage or rent payment since we've been married.\"\n\n\"And what did _you_ do to get that house except to get born with a silver spoon up your ass?\"\n\n\"Please don't be crude, John. Look, I don't like to talk about money. Let's drop it. Please?\"\n\n\"No, no, no. Let us not drop it. Let us have our very first and very overdue fight about money.\"\n\n\"Please lower your voice.\"\n\nI may or may not have lowered my voice, but the jukebox came on, and so everyone who was listening to us had to listen to Frank Sinatra singing \"My Way.'' Great song. I think the guy at the end of the bar played it for me. I gave him a thumbs-up.\n\nSusan said, \"This is very ugly. I'm not used to this.\"\n\nI addressed Lady Stanhope. \"I'm sorry I lost my temper. You're quite right, of course. Please put that IOU in your bag and I will repay the loan as soon as I can. I'll need a few days.\"\n\nShe seemed embarrassed now. \"Forget it. Really.'' She ripped up the IOU. \"I don't understand any of this.\"\n\n\"Then, in the future, keep my business and our business to yourself, and do not discuss any of it with your father. I strongly suggest you get a personal attorney who has nothing to do with your father or your trustees. I will deal with that attorney in any future matters.'' _Including matrimonial_. \"And please keep in mind that, for better or worse, I am your husband.\"\n\nShe was really quite red now, and I could see she was vacillating between my feet and my throat. She finally said, \"All right, John.'' She picked up the menu and I couldn't see her face.\n\nI told you about the red hair, and I knew she was still wavering between her good breeding and her bad genes. I suppose, as a purely precautionary move, I should have put the steak knives out of her reach, but that might be overreacting. I was still pretty hot myself, of course, and I had to get one last zinger in. I said, \"I didn't appreciate your father calling you the other night to see if you were all right. Does he think I beat you?\"\n\nShe glanced up from the menu. \"Of course not. That was silly of him.'' She added, \"He's really quite angry with you.\"\n\n\"Why? Because I stuck him with the dinner bill?\"\n\n\"John . . . what you said was a bit strong. But . . . he asked me to tell you that he would accept an apology from you.\"\n\nI clapped my hands. \"What a magnificent man! What a beautiful human being!'' I wiped a tear from my eye.\n\nThe song had ended, and we had our audience back.\n\nSusan leaned across the table and said to me, \"You've changed. Do you know that?\"\n\n\"And how about you, Susan?\"\n\nShe shrugged and went back to the menu, then looked up again. \"John, if you apologized, it would make things so much less tense. For all of us. Even if you don't mean it. Do it for me. Please.\"\n\nThere was a time, of course, not so long ago, when I would have. But that time had passed, and it was not likely to come again. I replied, \"I will not say something I don't mean. I will not crawl for you, or for anyone. My only regret in that episode is that I should have grabbed his tie and yanked his face into his cheesecake.\"\n\n\"You're really angry, aren't you?\"\n\n\"No, anger is transient. I hate the bastard.\"\n\n\"John! He's my father.\"\n\n\"Don't bet on that.\"\n\nSo, I had dinner alone. But I figured I should get used to it. Someday my quick wit is going to get me into trouble. Actually, I guess it did.\n\n**_Twenty-six_**\n\nThis elderly couple walked into my office and announced that they had not gotten along for about fifty years and they wanted a divorce. They looked as if they were around ninety\u2014stop me if you've heard this\u2014so I said to them, \"Excuse me for asking, but why have you waited so long to seek a divorce?'' And the old gentleman replied, \"We were waiting for the children to die.\"\n\nWell, there are times when I feel the same way. Susan and I were reconciled yet again, and I had apologized for suggesting that her paternal origin was in question and that her mother was a whore. And even if Charlotte had once had hot pants, what difference did it make? But there was still the open question of whether or not her father was a monumental prick and so forth. I honestly believe he is, plus some. In fact, I even jotted down a few more descriptions of him in the event I ever saw him again. Susan, of course, knew what he was, which was why she wasn't terribly upset with me; but William _was_ her father. Maybe.\n\nAnyway, I was still living rent-free in Susan's house, and we were speaking again but not in complete or compound sentences.\n\nI had been getting to bed early on Monday evenings, as per Mr. Bellarosa's suggestion, rising early on Tuesdays and joining him for coffee at dawn. Susan hadn't questioned me about my two early-Tuesday departures on foot to Alhambra, and as per my client's instructions, I hadn't told her about his imminent arrest.\n\nThe FBI knew now, of course, that I was Frank Bellarosa's attorney, but my client did not want them to know that we had anticipated an early-Tuesday-morning visit. So, for that reason, I had to walk across our back acreage and approach Alhambra from the rear so as not to be seen from the DePauw outpost.\n\nIncidentally, I had run into Allen DePauw a few times in the village, and with that profound lack of moral courage that is peculiar to rat finks, stool pigeons, and police snitches the world over, he did not snub me, but greeted me as though we were still buddies. On the last occasion that I ran into him, at the hardware store, I inquired, \"Do you trust your wife alone with all those men at your house around the clock? Don't you go to Chicago a lot for business?\"\n\nInstead of taking a swing at me, he replied coolly, \"They have a mobile home behind my house.\"\n\n\"Come on, Allen, I'll bet they're always coming inside to borrow milk while you're away.\"\n\n\"That's not very funny, John. I'm doing what I think is right.'' He paid for his machine gun oil or whatever it was and left.\n\nWell, probably he was doing what he thought was right. Maybe it _was_ right. But I knew that he was one of the people at the club who were making anonymous demands for my expulsion.\n\nAnyway, in regard to Tuesday early A.M., even if the FBI came for Frank Bellarosa on another day, I was ready every morning to jump out of bed and be at Alhambra quickly. This was really exciting.\n\nIt was early August now, a time when I should have been in East Hampton. But Dr. Carleton, whoever the hell he was, was in my house with his feet on my furniture, enjoying East End summer fun and the instant respectability of an eighteenth-century shingled house. I'd spoken to the psychiatric gentleman on the phone once to get him squared away with the house, and he'd said to me, \"What is your rush in going to closing, if I may ask?\"\n\n\"My mother used to take money from my piggy bank and never replaced it. It's sort of complicated, Doc. Next week, okay?\"\n\nSo, I had that date out east and I needed the bucks for the Feds, but the other Feds across the street here wanted to bust my client and I had to stay on top of that, too. It was hard to believe that it was as recently as March when I'd had a safe, predictable life, punctuated only now and then by a friend's divorce or a revealed marital infidelity and occasionally a death. My biggest problem had been boredom.\n\nI had called Lester Remsen the day after the battle of McGlade's and said to him, \"Sell twenty thousand dollars' worth of some crap or another and drop the check with my secretary in Locust Valley.\"\n\nHe replied, \"This is not the time to sell anything that you're holding. Your stuff got hit harder than most. Hold on to your positions if you can.\"\n\n\"Lester, I read the _Wall Street Journal_ , too. Do as I say, please.\"\n\n\"Actually, I was going to phone you. You have margin calls\u2014\"\n\n\"How much?\"\n\n\"About five. Do you want me to give you an exact figure so you can send me a check? Or, if money is a little tight, John, I can just liquidate more stocks to cover the margin calls.\"\n\n\"Sell whatever you have to.\"\n\n\"All right. Your portfolio is a little shaky.\"\n\nThis is Wall Street talk for, \"You've made some very stupid investments.'' Lester and I go back a long way, and even when we're not speaking, we talk. At least we talk about stocks. I realized I didn't like stocks or Lester. \"Sell everything. Now.\"\n\n\" _Everything_? Why? The market is weak. It will rally in September\u2014\"\n\n\"We've been talking stocks for twenty years. Aren't you tired of it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I am. You know, Lester, if I had spent the last twenty years looking for Captain Kidd's treasure, I would have lost less money.\"\n\n\"That's nonsense.\"\n\n\"Close my account,'' I said, and hung up.\n\nWell, anyway, it was six A.M. on the first Tuesday in August, and I was brooding about this and that. In reality, even if Dr. Carleton wasn't in my summer house, I wouldn't be there this August, owing to the fact that my client next door wanted me to stick close. I suppose I could have moved into Alhambra, to be very close, but I don't think the don wanted me around while he conducted business and consorted with known criminals. And I certainly didn't want to be a witness to any of that.\n\nSo on that overcast Tuesday morning, I walked out of Susan's house and began my cross-country trek in a good suit, carrying a big briefcase into which I would place five million dollars in cash and assignable assets with which to make bail.\n\nI had examined all these assets one night at Bellarosa's house in order to list and verify them. Thus, I saw a small piece of the don's empire. Most of what I saw was recorded property deeds, which the court would accept. There were some bearer bonds and a few other odds and ends, together totaling about four million, which would meet even the most excessive bail. But to be certain, Bellarosa had dumped a shopping bag onto his kitchen table that contained a million dollars in cash.\n\nAs I was making my third trip to Alhambra in as many weeks, the birds were singing and the air was still cool. A ground mist sat about chest high on the fields between our property, and it was sort of eerie, as if I were going to Wasp heaven in my Brooks Brothers suit and briefcase.\n\nI reached the reflecting pool with the statue of Mary and Neptune still glaring at each other, and a figure moved toward me out of the mist. It was Anthony, who was being taken for a walk by a pit bull. He barked at me. The dog, I mean. Anthony said, \"Guh mornin', Mistah Sutta.\"\n\nHe must have a sinus condition. \"Good morning, Anthony. How is the don this morning?\"\n\n\"He's 'spectin' ya. I'll walk ya.\"\n\n\"I'll walk myself, thank you.'' I proceeded up the path to the house. Anthony was quite nice when you got to know him.\n\nI approached the rear of the big house, noticing that the security lights were still on. I crossed the big patio and pulled the bell chain. I saw Vinnie through the glass doors politely holstering his gun as he recognized me. \"Come on in, Counselor. The boss is in the kitchen.\"\n\nI entered the house at the rear of the palm court, and as I made my way across the large space, I noticed Lenny, the driver, sitting in a wicker chair near one of the pillars, drinking coffee. He, like Vinnie, was wearing a good suit in expectation of visitors and for the possible trip into Manhattan. Lenny stood as I approached and mumbled a greeting, which I made him repeat more distinctly. This was fun.\n\nI made my way alone through the dark house, through the dining room, morning room, butler's pantry, and finally into the cavernous kitchen, which smelled of fresh coffee.\n\nThe kitchen had been completely redone, of course, and the don had told me exactly how much it cost to import the half mile or so of Italian cabinetry, the half acre of Italian floor tile, and the marble countertops. The appliances, sensibly, were American.\n\nThe don was sitting at the head of an oblong kitchen table, reading a newspaper. He was dressed in a blue silk pinstripe suit, a light blue shirt, which is better than white for television, and a burgundy tie with matching pocket handkerchief. The newspapers had dubbed him the Dandy Don and I could see why.\n\nBellarosa glanced up at me. \"Sit, sit.'' He motioned to a chair and I sat to his right near the head of the table. He poured me coffee while still reading his paper.\n\nI sipped on the black coffee. I suspected that one would never find a round table in the house of a traditional Italian, because a round table is where equals sat. An oblong table has a head where the patriarch sat. So, there I was, sitting at his right hand, and I wondered if that was significant or if I was getting into this thing too much.\n\nHe glanced up from the newspaper. \"So, Counselor, is this the morning?\"\n\n\"I hope so. I don't like getting up this early.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Yeah? _You_ don't like it. You're not the one going to jail.\"\n\n_I'm not the one who's broken the law for thirty years._\n\nHe put down the newspaper. \"I say this is it. The grand jury sat for three weeks. That's long enough for murder. The RICO shit can take a year, nosing around your business, trying to find what you own and where it came from. Money is complicated. Murder is simple.\"\n\n\"That's true.\"\n\n\"Hey, fifty bucks says that this is the morning.\"\n\n\"You're on.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I know what you're thinking. You think they're not going to indict me. You think you squared it with Mancuso.\"\n\n\"I never said that. I said I told him what you asked me to tell him\u2014about Ferragamo. I know Mancuso is the type of man who would pass that on to Ferragamo and maybe even to his own superiors. I don't know what will come of that.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what's going to come of it. Nothing. Because that scumbag Ferragamo is not going to back off after making his pitch to a grand jury. That would make him look like a real _gavone._ But I'm glad you talked to Mancuso. Now Ferragamo knows that Bellarosa knows.'' Bellarosa went on, \"But maybe you shouldn't've told him you were my attorney.\"\n\n\"How could I speak to him on your behalf without telling him I was representing you?\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"I don't know. But maybe if you didn't say anything, he might've opened up to you.\"\n\n\"That's unethical and illegal, Frank. Do you want a crooked lawyer or a Boy Scout?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Okay. We'll play you straight.\"\n\n\"I'll play myself straight.\"\n\n\"Whatever.\"\n\nWe drank coffee awhile and the don shared his newspaper with me. It was the _Daily News_ , that morning's city edition, which someone must have delivered to him hot off the printing press in Brooklyn. I flipped through the lead stories, but there was no early warning, no statement from Ferragamo about an imminent arrest. \"Nothing about you in here,'' I said.\n\n\"Yeah. The scumbag's not that stupid. I got people in the newspapers and he knows it. He's got to wait for the bulldog edition, about midnight. We'll get that tonight. This prick loves the newspapers, but he loves TV more. You want something to eat?\"\n\n\"No, thanks.\"\n\n\"You sure? I'll call Filomena. Come on. Get something to eat. It's gonna be a long morning. Eat.\"\n\n\"I am really not hungry. Really.'' You know how these people are about eating, and they actually get annoyed when you refuse food, and they're happy when you eat. Why it matters to them is beyond me.\n\nBellarosa motioned to a thick folder on the table. \"That's the stuff.\"\n\n\"Right.'' I put the folder containing the deeds and such in my briefcase.\n\nBellarosa produced a large shopping bag from under the table. In the bag was one hundred stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills, a hundred bills in each stack, for a total of one million dollars. It looked good like that.\n\nHe said to me, \"Don't get tempted on the way to court, Counselor.\"\n\n\"Money doesn't tempt me.\"\n\n\"Yeah? That's what you say. Watch, I'll get to court and find out you cold-cocked Lenny and stole the money. And I'll be in jail and I get this postcard from you in Rio, and it says, 'Fuck you, Frank.'\" He laughed.\n\n\"You can trust me. I'm a lawyer.\"\n\nThat made him laugh even harder for some reason. Anyway, I have this large briefcase, almost a suitcase, that lawyers use when they have to drag forty pounds of paper into court, plus lunch. So I transferred the paper money into the briefcase along with the four million in paper assets. Paper, paper, paper.\n\nBellarosa said, \"You looked at those deeds and everything the other day, right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"So you see, I'm a legitimate businessman.\"\n\n\"Please, Frank. It's a little early in the morning for bullshit.\"\n\n\"Yeah?'' He laughed. \"Yeah, you see, I got Stanhope Hall in that briefcase now. I got a motel in Florida, I got one in Vegas, and I got land in Atlantic City. Land. That's the only thing that counts in this world. They don't make no more land, Counselor.\"\n\n\"No, they don't, except in Holland where\u2014\"\n\n\"There was a time when they couldn't take land away from you unless they fought you for it. Now, they just do some paperwork.\"\n\n\"That's true.\"\n\n\"They're gonna take my fucking land.\"\n\n\"No, it's just going to be used as collateral. You'll get it back.\"\n\n\"No, Counselor, when they see that shit in your briefcase, they're gonna come after it. Ferragamo is going to start a RICO thing next. They're gonna freeze everything I got, and one day they're gonna own it all. And that stuff you got in there makes their job easier. The murder bullshit smoked out a lot of my assets.\"\n\n\"You're probably right.\"\n\n\"But fuck them. Fuck all governments. All they want is to grab your property. Fuck them. There's more where that came from.\"\n\nI guess so, if Mancuso was correct. A lot more.\n\n\"Hey, did I tell you I made an offer for Fox Point? Nine mill. I talked to that lawyer who you told me handles things here for the people who own the place.'' He asked me, \"You want to handle that for me?\"\n\nI shrugged. \"Why not?\"\n\n\"Good. I'll give you a point. That's ninety large.\"\n\n\"Let's see if they accept nine. Don't forget the Iranians.\"\n\n\"Fuck them. They're not owners. They're buyers. I only deal with owners. I showed this lawyer that my best offer was his client's best offer. So he's going to make his clients understand that. His clients are not going to know about any more Iranian offers. _Capisce?_ \"\n\n\"I surely do.\"\n\n\"And now we got a place to swim. I'm gonna let everyone on Grace Lane keep using the beach. And nobody has to worry about a bunch of sand niggers running around wrapped in sheets. _Capisce?_ \"\n\n\"Do you think you could avoid using that word?\"\n\n_\"'Capisce?'\"_\n\n\"No, the other word.\"\n\n\"What the fuck are you talking about?\"\n\n\"Forget it.\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"Anyway, you can count on ninety large in a few months. Glad you came?\"\n\n\"So far.'' I said to him, \"You're obviously not too concerned about facing murder charges, racketeering charges down the line, or possible assassination.\"\n\n\"Ah, it's all bullshit.\"\n\n\"It's not, Frank.\"\n\n\"Whaddaya gonna do? You gonna curl up and die? You see a deal, you make a deal. One thing's got nothing to do with the other.\"\n\n\"Well, but it does.\"\n\n\"Bullshit.\"\n\n\"Just thought I'd mention it.'' I poured myself more coffee and watched the sun burning through the mist outside the kitchen window. _You see a deal. You make a deal._ I recalled a story I'd had to read once in history class, up at St. Paul's. In the story, two noble Romans were standing on the ramparts of their city, negotiating the price of a piece of land in the distance. The seller extolled the virtues of his land, its fertility, its orchards, and its proximity to the city. The potential buyer did his best to find some faults with the land to get the price down. Finally, they struck a deal. What neither man mentioned during or after the negotiations was that an invading army was camped on the land in question, preparing for an assault on Rome. The moral of this apocryphal story, for Roman schoolboys, and I suppose for modern preppies at St. Paul's who were supposed to be sons of the American ruling class, was this: Noble Romans (or noble preppie twits) must show supreme confidence and courage even in the face of death and destruction; one went about one's business without fear and with an abiding belief in the future. Or, as my ancestors would say, \"Stiff upper lip.'' I said to Bellarosa, \"I didn't know you'd closed on Stanhope Hall.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Last week. Where were you? You don't do legal work for your father-in-law? What kind of son-in-law are you?\"\n\n\"I thought it would be a conflict of interest if I represented him for that transaction, and you for this matter.\"\n\n\"Yeah? You're always thinkin' about that kind of stuff.'' He leaned toward me. \"Hey, can I tell you something?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"Your father-in-law is a little hard to take.\"\n\nI had this utterly irrational mental flash: I could get Bellarosa to have William rubbed out. A contract. A closing. _This is from your son-in-law, you son of a bitch. BANG! BANG! BANG!_\n\n\"Hey, you listening? I said how do you get along with that guy?\"\n\n\"He lives in South Carolina.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Good thing. Hey, you want to see the painting?\"\n\n\"I'll wait until it's hung.\"\n\n\"Yeah. We're gonna get some people here. Susan's gonna be the guest of honor.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"How's she doin'? Don't see her much anymore.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\"\n\n\"Yeah. She around today? To keep Anna company?\"\n\n\"I think so. We don't exchange daybooks.\"\n\n\"Yeah? You got a modern wife there. You like that?\"\n\n\"How's Anna?\"\n\n\"She's getting used to living here. She has all her crazy relatives drive out, and she shows off now. Donna Anna.'' He added nonchalantly, \"She got over that ghost thing.'' He smiled at me unpleasantly. \"You shouldn't have told her that crazy story.\"\n\nI cleared my throat. \"I'm sorry if it upset her.\"\n\n\"Yeah? That was a hell of a story. The kids fucking. _Madonn_ '. I told a lot of people that story. But I don't know if I got it right. Then I told it to my guy, Jack Weinstein. He's a smart guy like you. He says it was a book. That you got the story out of a book. It's not a story about Alhambra. Why'd you do that?\"\n\n\"To amuse your wife.\"\n\n\"She wasn't amused.\"\n\n\"Well, then to amuse myself.\"\n\n\"Yeah?'' He didn't look too pleased with me. \"Somethin' else,'' he said. \"Anna thinks you were the guy who growled at her. Was that you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Why'd you do that?\"\n\nI pictured myself at the bottom of the reflecting pool wearing concrete slippers unless I had a better answer than \"To amuse myself.'' I said, \"Look, Frank, that was months ago. Forget it.\"\n\n\"I don't forget nothin'.\"\n\nTrue. \"Well, then accept my apology.\"\n\n\"Okay. That I'll do.'' He added, \"And that's more than I usually do.'' He stared at me, then tapped his forehead. \" _Tu sei matto. Capisce?_ \"\n\nIt helps when they use their hands. I replied, _\"Capisco.\"_\n\n\"You people are all crazy.\"\n\nWe both went back to our newspaper, but after a few minutes of silence, he asked me, \"How much am I paying you?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I'm returning a favor.\"\n\n\"Nah. You already did that by talking to Mancuso. Get me sprung today, and you get fifty large.\"\n\n\"No, I\u2014\"\n\n\"Take it now, Counselor, because I might need you later for something, and if they grab all my money under RICO, you ain't gonna get shit.\"\n\nI shrugged. \"All right.\"\n\n\"Good. See? You got ninety and fifty already and you ain't even had your breakfast yet.'' He wagged his finger at me. \"And don't forget to report it on your income tax.'' He laughed.\n\nI managed a smile. Fuck you, Frank.\n\nWe spoke about family for a while, and Frank asked me, \"Your daughter still in Cuba?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"If you talk to her, tell her it's number fours.\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"Monte Cristo number four. I forgot to tell your son to tell her that. That's the big torpedoes. Number four.\"\n\nI wasn't going to argue with him about smuggling, so I nodded. He asked me, \"Do you think the old lady is going to stay in the gatehouse?\"\n\n\"I advised her to do that.\"\n\n\"Yeah? What would she take to get out?\"\n\n\"Nothing, Frank. That's her home. Forget that.\"\n\nHe shrugged.\n\nI played with the idea of telling him that William Stanhope had probably contributed money to the Gold Coast Preservation Fund, earmarked for the Stanhope Hall zoning battle. But I couldn't bring myself to reveal a confidence like that. However unethical William's action was, it wasn't illegal, and he'd confided his thoughts in front of me about four minutes before I told him to go fuck himself. But I did ask Bellarosa, \"What are you going to do with Stanhope Hall?\"\n\n\"I dunno. We'll see.\"\n\n\"You could use it to bury bodies.\"\n\nHe smiled.\n\nI asked him, \"Where's your son, Tony?'' I'd met the little La Salle student the previous week, and he seemed like a sharp kid. He also reminded me of his father in his appearance and mannerisms. Bellarosa seemed very proud of him. I'd taken to calling the kid Little Don, but only in my mind, of course.\n\nBellarosa answered me, \"I sent him to his older brother for the rest of the summer.\"\n\n\"Which older brother?\"\n\nHe looked at me. \"It don't matter, and forget you heard that. Understand?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.'' My Lord, you really had to think before you asked any questions of this man. The rich and famous were like that, of course, and I had wealthy friends who didn't advertise the whereabouts of their children either. But they would tell _me_ if I asked.\n\nHe asked me, \"Hey, your son still in Florida?\"\n\n\"Maybe. Maybe not.\"\n\nHe smiled again and went back to his paper. He was doing the crossword puzzle. \"American writer, first name Norman, six letters . . . ends in _r_.\"\n\n\"Mailer.\"\n\n\"Never heard of him.'' He filled in the boxes. \"Yeah . . . that's it. You're a smart guy.\"\n\nFilomena came into the kitchen, and she really was ugly, kind of hard to take in the morning. She and Frank chatted away in Italian for a few minutes, and I could tell his Italian wasn't good because she was impatient with him. She dragged out all sorts of biscuit tins with Italian writing on them and dumped them on the table. She was giving Bellarosa a hard time about something, then started giving me a hard time.\n\nFrank explained to me, \"She wants you to eat.\"\n\nSo, I ate. There were different kinds of breakfast biscuits, and they weren't bad with butter. Bellarosa had to eat, too. Filomena watched us for a while, motioning to me to keep shoveling it in. Bellarosa said something sharp to her, and she gave it right back to him. This was sort of like a power breakfast, and Filomena had the power.\n\nFinally, Filomena found something else to do, and Frank pushed his plate away. \"Pain in my ass.\"\n\n\"Well, that hit the spot.\"\n\nHe leaned toward me. \"You know any men around here for her?\"\n\n\"Not offhand.\"\n\n\"She's twenty-four, probably a virgin, cooks like a chef, cleans, sews, and works hard.\"\n\n\"I'll take her.\"\n\nHe laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. \"Yeah? You want an Italian woman? I'm gonna tell your wife.\"\n\n\"We've already discussed it.\"\n\nWe had another cup of coffee. It was approaching eight A.M., and by this time I was beginning to think it was a little late for an arrest, but then Vinnie came into the kitchen as though he were walking on eggs. \"Boss, they're here. Anthony called from the gate. They're coming.\"\n\nBellarosa made a motion of dismissal, and Vinnie dematerialized. Bellarosa turned to me. \"You owe me fifty bucks.\"\n\nI had the feeling he wanted it right then, so I gave it to him and he shoved it in his pocket. \"See?'' he said. \"Ferragamo is a dishonest man. He lied to the grand jury and they gave him his indictment. So I'm getting arrested for something I didn't do, and he _knows_ I didn't kill Juan Carranza. Now there's going to be blood in the streets, and innocent people are going to get hurt.\"\n\nPeople who get into trouble with the law start sounding like saints and martyrs. I've noticed that with my clients who get caught doing creative accounting.\n\nBellarosa stood and said to me, \"On January fourteenth of this year, on the day Juan Carranza was killed in Jersey by the DEA guys, I got a very good alibi.\"\n\n\"Good.'' I stood, too, and grabbed my briefcase.\n\n\"You never asked me about my alibi for that day because you're not a criminal lawyer.\"\n\n\"That's true. I should have asked.\"\n\n\"Well, as it so happens, I was here. That's one of the days I drove out here to look at this place. I was here almost the whole day, walking around, eighty miles from where Carranza got hit. They blew his head off in his car on the Garden State Parkway. But I wasn't anywhere near there. I was here.\"\n\n\"Was anyone with you?\"\n\n\"Sure. Someone's always with me. Lenny was driving. Another guy was keeping me company.\"\n\nI shook my head. \"No one wants to hear that crap, Frank. That's not an alibi. Did anyone around _here_ see you?\"\n\nHe looked me in the eye. I don't know why I hadn't seen that coming. I said, \"Forget it.\"\n\nHe pointed his finger at me. \"Counselor, if you tell that judge at the bail hearing that you saw me that day, you blow Ferragamo out of the water, and I walk in two minutes, maybe without even posting bail.\"\n\n\"No.'' I moved toward the door.\n\n\"Hey, maybe you did see me. What were you doing that day? You out riding?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nHe moved toward me. \"Maybe your wife was out riding. Maybe she saw me. Maybe I should talk to her.\"\n\nI dropped the briefcase and came toward him. \"You son of a bitch!\"\n\nWe stood there, about a foot apart, and I kept thinking about the lead pipe. I said, \"I am not going to commit perjury for you, and neither is my wife.\"\n\nWe stared at each other and finally he said softly, \"Okay. If you don't think you got to say that to get me sprung, then you don't have to say it. Just get me sprung.\"\n\nI poked my finger at him. \"Don't try that shit on me again, Frank. Don't you _ever_ ask me to do anything illegal. I want an apology or I walk out of here.\"\n\nI couldn't read anything in his normally expressive face, except that his eyes were somewhere else, then he focused on me. \"Okay. I apologize. Okay? Let's go.'' He took my arm, I took the briefcase, and we went out to the palm court.\n\nLenny and Vinnie stood at the small peep windows that flanked the front door. Vinnie turned to his boss. \"Somethin' screwy here.\"\n\nBellarosa brushed him aside and looked out the window. \"I'll be goddamned. . . .'' He turned to me. \"Hey, look at this.\"\n\nI moved to the window, not knowing what I expected to see\u2014tanks, SWAT teams, helicopters, or what. I did expect to see vehicles, and in the vehicles at least a dozen men: federal types in suits and maybe a few uniformed county police and detectives so that everyone felt they had a piece of the action. But what was coming up the long cobblestone drive now was a solitary man on foot, taking his time, looking at the flower beds and poplars, as though he were out for a stroll.\n\nAs the man got closer\u2014actually long before that\u2014I recognized him. I turned to Bellarosa. \"Mancuso.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\nLenny, at the other window, exclaimed, \"He's alone! The son of a bitch is _alone_.'' He turned to Bellarosa. \"Let's off the motherfucker.\"\n\nI didn't think that was a good idea.\n\nBellarosa said, \"The man has balls. What balls he has.\"\n\nVinnie was scandalized. \"They can't do that! They can't send one guy!\"\n\nMr. Mancuso wasn't alone, of course, but had the full weight and power of the law with him. That was the lesson to be learned this morning, not only by Frank Bellarosa and his men, but by me.\n\nLenny said, \"Here he comes!'' He put his right hand inside his jacket, reaching, I hoped, for his appointment book. But no, he drew his revolver and said, \"Should we take him, boss?'' Actually, he didn't sound too sincere.\n\nBellarosa replied, \"Shut up. Put that away. Both of you get back. Over there. Counselor, you stand there.\"\n\nLenny and Vinnie moved far back near a column, and I stood to the side.\n\nThere were three raps on the door.\n\nFrank Bellarosa strode to the door and opened it. \"Hey, look who's here.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso held up his badge case, though we all knew who he was, and got right to the point. \"I have a warrant for your arrest, Frank. Let's go.\"\n\nBut Bellarosa did not make a move to leave and both men stared at each other, as if they had both anticipated this moment for years and wanted to let it hang there awhile to be fully appreciated. Finally Bellarosa said, \"You got some balls, Mancuso.\"\n\nMancuso replied, \"And you are under arrest.'' Mancuso pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. \"Hands to your front.\"\n\n\"Hey, goombah, let me take care of a few things first. Okay?\"\n\n\"Cut the goombah stuff, Frank. Are you resisting arrest?\"\n\n\"No, no. I just want to talk to my wife. No funny stuff. I was waiting for you. Look, we got a civilian here.'' He stepped aside and motioned toward me. \"See? You know him. He'll vouch for me.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso and I made eye contact, and I could tell that he already knew I was there. I said to him, \"Mr. Mancuso, you can see that my client was expecting this arrest, and he has made no attempt to resist or to flee. He wants some time to speak to his wife. That is reasonable and customary.'' I didn't know if that was true or not, but it sounded as if it could be. I think that's the way they do it in the movies.\n\nMr. Mancuso said to Bellarosa, \"All right, Frank. Ten minutes. Just a hug and a smooch. No boomba, boomba.\"\n\nBellarosa laughed, though I was certain he wanted to smash Mancuso's face with a lead pipe.\n\nBellarosa moved out of the doorway, and Mancuso walked a few paces into the palm court, looked at me, then saw Vinnie, then Lenny. He glanced around to make sure he hadn't missed anyone.\n\nBellarosa said, \" _Benvenuto a nostra casa._ \"\n\nMr. Mancuso replied in Italian, and though I couldn't understand what he'd said, it didn't sound like \"Thank you.'' In fact, if I didn't know firsthand that Mr. Mancuso didn't use profanity, I'd swear he said, \"Fuck you.'' Maybe he only swears in Italian. Anyway, whatever he said caused Frank, Vinnie, and Lenny to be unhappy with their _paesano._\n\nFrank kept his smile in place, excused himself, and climbed the stairs to the second floor.\n\nMr. Mancuso turned his attention to Lenny and Vinnie. He said to them, \"Carrying?\"\n\nThey both nodded.\n\n\"Licensed?\"\n\nAgain they nodded.\n\nMr. Mancuso put out his hand. \"Wallets.\"\n\nThey both put their wallets in his hand, and he rummaged through them, letting money and credit cards fall to the floor as he retrieved their pistol licenses. He compared their faces to the photos and said, \"Vincent Adamo and Leonard Patrelli. What do you do for a living, boys?\"\n\n\"Nothin'.\"\n\nHe threw their wallets to them and said, \"Get out.\"\n\nThey hesitated, then scooped up their money and cards from the floor and left.\n\nMr. Mancuso turned his attention now to his surroundings, looking up at the birds, the hanging plants, and the mezzanine and balconies.\n\nI asked him, \"Would you like some coffee?\"\n\nHe shook his head and began ambling around the palm court, checking on the health of the potted palms, making sure the birds in the lower cages had food and water, then contemplating a pink marble column.\n\nThis was indeed a different Mr. Mancuso than the one I'd gone sailing with. He turned and looked at me, then motioned me to a big wicker chair.\n\nI sat, and he pulled another chair over and sat across from me. We listened to the birds awhile, then he looked at me and asked, \"What's the problem, Mr. Sutter?\"\n\n\"Problem? What problem?\"\n\n\"That's what I asked you. You have to have problems or you wouldn't be here. Family problems? Money problems? Wife problems, life problems? You're not going to solve any problems here. Are you trying to prove something? What's making you unhappy?\"\n\n\"You, at the moment.\"\n\n\"Hey, I'm not in the happiness business.\"\n\n\"Are you in the priest business?\"\n\n\"Sometimes. Look, I'll let Bellarosa call his attorney, Jack Weinstein. Weinstein will meet him at Federal Court. I'll give you five minutes with Bellarosa to explain to him any way you want that you don't want to represent him or, in fact, ever see him again. Believe me, Mr. Sutter, he will understand.\"\n\n\"You're not supposed to try to come between a lawyer and his client.\"\n\n\"Don't tell me the law, Mr. Sutter. You know, it doesn't matter to me, as a federal agent making this arrest, who Bellarosa's attorney is. But it matters to me as a citizen and as a man that his attorney is you.\"\n\nI thought about that for a moment, then replied, \"I truly appreciate that. But I cannot walk away from this, Mr. Mancuso. Only I know how I got here, and why. I have to see it through, or I'll never break out on the other side. Do you understand?\"\n\n\"I have always understood. But you should have explored your alternatives.\"\n\n\"Probably I should have.\"\n\nWe sat in silence for a few more minutes, then I heard Bellarosa's heavy tread on the staircase.\n\nMancuso stood and met him at the bottom step, cuffs in hand. \"Ready, Frank?\"\n\n\"Sure.'' Bellarosa extended his hands, and Mancuso cuffed him. Mancuso said, \"Against the post.\"\n\nBellarosa leaned against the marble stair post, and Mancuso frisked him. \"Okay.\"\n\nBellarosa straightened up, and Mancuso said to me, \"As long as you're here, _you_ tell him his rights.\"\n\nI didn't really remember the wording of the so-called Miranda warning, which was a little embarrassing. (I do mostly taxes, wills, and house closings.) Anyway, Mancuso and Bellarosa helped me out, though Mancuso had a little cheat card with him. He said to me, \"Okay? Your client understands his rights?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\nMancuso took my client's arm and began leading him away, but I said, \"I'd like to see the arrest warrant.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso seemed annoyed, but fished it out of his pocket and handed it to me. I studied it carefully. I'd never really seen one, and I found it rather interesting. I figured I was earning a little of the fifty large already, and making up for the Miranda thing, but I could sense that Mancuso and even Bellarosa were a little impatient. I handed the warrant back to Mancuso, but I wondered if I was supposed to ask for a copy for my files.\n\nMancuso led Bellarosa to the door and I followed. I said to Mancuso, \"Are you going directly to the FBI office at Federal Plaza?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"How long will you be there?\"\n\n\"As long as it takes to book my prisoner.\"\n\n\"And after the booking, will you be taking my client directly to the Federal Court at Foley Square?\"\n\n\"That is correct.\"\n\n\"At about what time, Mr. Mancuso?\"\n\n\"Whenever I get there, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"Will there be newspeople there?\"\n\n\"That's no concern of mine, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"It's a concern of Alphonse Ferragamo, who is going to stage a media circus.\"\n\n\"It's still no concern of mine.\"\n\nI said, \"I plan to be with my client every step of the way, Mr. Mancuso. I expect everyone to behave properly and professionally.\"\n\n\"You can count on that, Mr. Sutter. May I remove my prisoner? I'd like to get on the road.\"\n\n\"Certainly.'' I said to Frank Bellarosa, \"I'll see you at Federal Plaza.\"\n\nBellarosa, trying to look very nonchalant despite the cuffs and Mancuso's hand on his arm, said to me jokingly, \"Don't forget the briefcase, and don't stop for coffee, and don't get lost. _Capisce?_ \"\n\nI noticed that Frank Bellarosa was not as eloquent with his hands cuffed, but I understood him. _\"Capisco.\"_\n\nHe laughed and said to Mancuso, \"See? Another few months and I'll have him cursing in Italian.\"\n\n\"Let's go, Frank.'' Mancuso led Bellarosa out the door.\n\nI stood at the open door, and Lenny and Vinnie joined me. I watched Mancuso take Frank Bellarosa down the long drive toward the gate where Anthony stood watching. There is something about that scene that I won't ever forget. But I don't think that Anthony, Vinnie, or Lenny were as profoundly impressed with the scene, nor would they make the logical deduction that crime doesn't pay.\n\nLenny said to me, \"Ready to go, Counselor?\"\n\nI nodded and retrieved my briefcase as Lenny went out to bring the Cadillac around front.\n\nI found myself standing with Vinnie, who still seemed annoyed that the house hadn't been surrounded by SWAT teams and paratroopers. \"We shoulda offed the motherfucker. You know? Who the fuck does he think he is?\"\n\n\"The law.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Fuck him.'' Vinnie stomped out the door.\n\nI started to follow, but heard a noise behind me and turned. Coming down the winding staircase, wailing at the top of her big lungs, was Anna, wearing a robe and slippers. I started to back out the door, but she saw me. \"John! John! Oh, my God! John!\"\n\n_Madonn_ '. Do I need this?\n\n\"John!'' She came rushing toward me like a '54 Buick with oversize bumper guards. \"John! They took Frank! They took him away!'' She collided with me\u2014Boom!\u2014and wrapped her arms around me, which was all that kept me from sprawling across the floor. She buried her face in my chest and gushed tears over my Herm\u00e8s tie. \"Oh, John! They arrested him!\"\n\n\"Yes, I was actually here.\"\n\nShe kept sobbing and squeezing me. _Madonna mia_. Those tits and arms were crushing the air out of my lungs. \"There, there,'' I wheezed. \"Don't cry. Let's sit down.\"\n\nI steered her over to a wicker chair, which was like trying to manhandle a side of beef. She wasn't wearing much under her robe, and despite the circumstances and the early hour, I found I was a wee bit cranked up by her proximity. An incredibly insane thought passed through my mind, but I got it right out of there before it got me killed.\n\nShe was sitting now, clutching my hands in hers. \"Why did they take my Frank?\"\n\n_Gee, Anna, I can't imagine why._ I said, \"I'm sure it's a mistake. Don't worry about it. I'll have him home by tonight.\"\n\nShe yanked me down to my knees and our faces were close. I noticed that, as upset as she was, she'd dallied upstairs long enough to comb her hair, put on a little makeup, and that nice scent she used. She looked me straight in the eye and said, \"Swear to me. Swear to me, John, that you will bring Frank home.\"\n\n_Mamma mia_ , what a morning this was going to be. I never had these problems at a house closing. I cleared my throat and said, \"I swear it.\"\n\n\"On the grave of your mother. Swear it on the grave of your mother.\"\n\nAs best I knew, Harriet was still alive and well in Europe. But a lot of people think my parents are dead, including me sometimes, so I said, \"I swear on the grave of my mother that I'll bring Frank home.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . dear Lord . . .'' She kissed my hands and blubbered awhile. I managed to get a look at my watch. \"Anna, I have to go meet Frank.'' I stood, her hands still grasping mine. \"I really have to go\u2014\"\n\n\"Hey, Counselor! Got to move!'' It was Vinnie, who, seeing Anna clutching me, said, \"Oh, hi, Mrs. Bellarosa. Sorry about this. I gotta take Mr. Sutter to court.\"\n\nI disengaged my hands and said to Anna, \"Call Susan and she'll come over to keep you company. Maybe you can go shopping, play a little tennis.'' I hurried toward the door, snatched up my briefcase, and left quickly.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn the expressway into Manhattan, Lenny, behind the wheel, said, \"Did you see how cool the don was?\"\n\nVinnie, also in the front seat, replied, \"Yeah. He ain't afraid of nuthin'.'' He looked back at me. \"Right, Counselor?\"\n\nI was a little annoyed with these two, who had been singing Bellarosa's praises for the last ten miles, as though he'd been arrested by the KGB for prodemocracy activities and was on his way to the Lubyanka for torture. I said, \"There was nothing to be afraid of except bad drivers on the expressway.\"\n\n\"Yeah?'' snapped Vinnie. \"I've been arrested twice. You got to show balls or they fuck you around. How'd you like to be looking at ten or twenty years?\"\n\n\"Hey, Vinnie,'' I replied, \"if you can't do the time, don't do the crime. _Capisce?_ \"\n\nLenny laughed. \"Listen to this guy. He sounds like fucking Weinstein now. Hey, Counselor, how'd you act if you was thrown in a cell full of _melanzane_ and spics?\"\n\n\"I might prefer it to being in a car with two greaseballs.\"\n\nThey thought that was very funny and they laughed, slapped their knees, pounded the dashboard, and Lenny hit the horn a few times while Vinnie whooped. The Italians, I'd discovered, were pretty thick-skinned when it came to ethnic humor at their expense. But there were other kinds of jokes they didn't find so amusing. You had to be careful.\n\nVinnie said to me, \"The don is lookin' forward to lunch at Caff\u00e8 Roma today, Counselor. He's gonna be there, right?\"\n\n\"I hope so. If not, we'll get Caff\u00e8 Roma to deliver to his cell.\"\n\nNow there's an example of the kind of joke they don't find funny. In fact, Vinnie said, \"That's not too fuckin' funny.\"\n\nLenny said, \"If you don't walk out of that court with the don, maybe you should find another way home.\"\n\nThat wasn't quite a threat, but it had possibilities. I replied, \"Let me worry about that. You worry about driving.\"\n\nNo one spoke for a while, which was fine with me. So there I was, in a black Cadillac with two Mafia goons, heading into the maws of the federal criminal justice system.\n\nIt was just nine A.M. now and the worst of rush hour was over, but traffic was still heavy, so I didn't think there was any chance that we'd overtake Mancuso, and in fact, I didn't even know what sort of vehicle he was driving. But as it turned out, though we never saw the car that Mancuso and Bellarosa were in, I began to realize that the same four nondescript gray Fords had been keeping pace with us for some time.\n\nLenny said, \"Look at those cocksuckers.\"\n\nSo I did. Each car held two men, and they were staring at us as they played a game of changing positions around us. The car to our front suddenly slowed down, and Lenny hit his brakes. \"Cocksuckers!\"\n\nThe gray Fords to our sides and rear boxed us in, and they slowed us down to ten miles an hour, causing the other Long Island Expressway motorists behind us, who are not known for road courtesy in the best of times, to go nearly hysterical. Horns were blaring, insults hurled, drivers pounded their foreheads against their steering wheels. They were really upset back there.\n\nSo we caused what they call on the radio \"major delays'' approaching the Midtown Tunnel.\n\nThis wasn't just harassment, of course, but a rather unethical attempt to separate me from my client. I saw Ferragamo's hand in this and began to suspect that it wasn't the FBI in those cars, but Ferragamo's men from the Justice Department. I said to Lenny, \"Go right to Federal Court in Foley Square.\"\n\n\"But the don said to meet him at the FBI headquarters.\"\n\n\"Do what I say.\"\n\n\"He'll kill us!\"\n\n\"Do what I say!\"\n\nVinnie, who had about half a functional brain, said, \"He's right. We gotta get straight to the court.\"\n\nLenny seemed to understand. \"Okay. But I ain't takin' this fuckin' rap, Vinnie.\"\n\nI settled back in the seat and listened to the horns blaring around us. I didn't think Mancuso was in on this, and as best I could figure it, Mancuso would get a call over his car radio instructing him to go straight to Federal Court. Bellarosa could and would be booked there instead of at FBI headquarters. Then Bellarosa would be whisked in front of a judge for arraignment, and the head of New York's largest crime family would be standing there in his nice suit without an attorney. The judge would read the charge and ask Bellarosa to enter a plea. Bellarosa would say, \"Not guilty,'' and the judge would order him held without bail. Frank would put up a big stink, but to no avail. Murder is a tough charge, and it would take me about two weeks to get a bail hearing. Actually, I would be well-advised to just head on down to Rio and send a postcard.\n\nI looked at my briefcase beside me. Some of the paper assets were negotiable, and there was a cool million in cash. The Brazilians didn't ask many questions when you deposited a million U.S. in the bank, except maybe what color checks you wanted.\n\nI looked at my watch. They were probably at Foley Square by now, but the booking process, even if it was speeded up, still had to be done according to law; there would be a body search, fingerprinting, photographs, a personal history taken, and forms to fill out. Only then would they haul Bellarosa in front of a waiting judge. So it was possible for me to charge into the courthouse, find out where Bellarosa was to be arraigned, and get into the courtroom on time. It was possible.\n\nI remember I had a house closing in Oyster Bay once, and my car broke down . . . but maybe that's not a good comparison.\n\nWell, but what could I do? I took down the license plate numbers of our escorts, stared back at them, then picked up a newspaper lying on the seat. The Mets had beaten Montreal and were two games out of first place now. I said to my friends up front, \"Hey, how 'bout them Mets?\"\n\nVinnie said, \"Yeah, you see that last night?\"\n\nWe did baseball chatter awhile. I knew we had to have something in common besides the same boss and the fear of our lives.\n\nThere was a car phone in the rear, and I could have called Susan, but I had no desire to. The next time she heard anything of me would be on the afternoon news. But then I remembered she didn't read, hear, or watch the news. But maybe she'd make an exception in this case. Thanks for the challenge, Susan.\n\nWe approached the tunnel tolls, and I looked at my watch. This was going to be very close.\n\n**_Twenty-seven_**\n\nWe lost our escort at the Midtown Tunnel and got on the FDR Drive. Lenny turned out to be a better driver than a conversationalist, which is saying very little, and he got us quickly into and through the narrow, crowded streets of lower Manhattan. But the closer we got to Foley Square, the slower the traffic was moving. I looked at my watch. It was nine-forty, and I estimated that Mancuso and Bellarosa could have been at Foley Square for as long as thirty minutes. The wheels of criminal justice move slowly, but they're capable of a quick grind if someone such as Alphonse Ferragamo is standing there squirting oil on them.\n\nBut the wheels of the Cadillac were not moving fast at all. In fact, we were stalled in traffic near City Hall Park, and the first arraignments would begin at ten A.M. _Damn it._ I grabbed my briefcase and opened the door.\n\n\"Where you goin'?'' asked Vinnie.\n\n\"Rio.'' I exited the car before he could process that.\n\nIt was hot and humid outside the air-conditioned Cadillac, and it's not easy to run in wing-tip shoes despite their name, but all lawyers have done this at one time or another, and I headed up Centre Street toward Foley Square at a good clip. On the way, I practiced my lines. \"Your Honor! Don't bang that gavel! I got money!\"\n\nThe streets and sidewalks were crowded, and many of the people in this section of town were civil servants of the city, state, or federal government who, by nature, were in no particular hurry. However, there were a few other Brooks Brothers runners whom I took to be attorneys on missions similar to mine. I fell in behind a good broken-field runner, and within ten minutes I was at Foley Square, covered with sweat, my arms aching from the weight of the briefcase. I'm in pretty good shape, but running through Manhattan heat and carbon monoxide in a suit is equivalent to about three sets of tough tennis at the club.\n\nI paused at the bottom of the forty or fifty courthouse steps and contemplated the summit a moment, then took a deep breath and charged toward the colossal columned portico. I had a mental image of my passing out and of good samaritans crowding around me, loosening my Herm\u00e8s tie, and relieving me of my five-million-dollar burden. Then I'd have to hitchhike to Rio.\n\nBut the next thing I knew, I was inside the cooler lobby of the Federal Courthouse, walking purposefully across the elegant ivory-colored marble floor, then through a metal detector, which didn't go off. But a U.S. Marshal, obviously intrigued by my disheveled appearance and huge briefcase, asked me to put the briefcase on a long table and open it. So, there I was, in this massive lobby amid the hustle and bustle of a courthouse at ten A.M., opening a briefcase stuffed with wads of money. If you've ever emptied a bag of dirty underwear at Customs, you know the feeling.\n\nThe marshal, an older man who probably thought all marshals should look and act like Wyatt Earp, stood there with his thumbs hooked in his belt, chewing a wad of something. Despite his cowboy pose, he was not wearing boots or spurs or anything like that. Instead, he was dressed in the standard marshal's courthouse uniform, which consisted of gray slacks, white shirt, red tie, and a blue blazer with the U.S. Marshal's service patch on the breast pocket. His shoes were penny loafers, and his six-gun was not strapped around his waist, but was somewhere else, probably in a shoulder holster. I was very disappointed in this outfit, but chose not to remark on it. Wyatt Earp inquired, \"What's that?\"\n\n_It's money, you stupid ass._ \"It's bail money, Marshal.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah?\"\n\n\"Yup. I have a client being arraigned this morning.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\"\n\n\"It is. And in fact, I don't want to miss it, so\u2014\"\n\n\"Why're you all sweaty?\"\n\n\"I was actually running so as not to be late for the arraignment.\"\n\n\"You nervous about something?\"\n\n\"No. I was running.\"\n\n\"Yeah? You got some kind of identification?\"\n\n\"I believe I do.'' I pulled my wallet out and showed him my driver's license with my photo, and my bar association card. A few other marshals were standing around now, watching me and the money. Wyatt Earp passed my driver's license around and everyone took a look. Needless to say, a crowd was gathering, enchanted by the green stuff, so I closed the briefcase.\n\nAfter my license made the rounds, including, I think, a passing janitor, I got my ID back. Earp asked me, \"Who's your client, Counselor?\"\n\nI hesitated, then replied, \"Bellarosa, Frank.\"\n\nThe marshal's eyebrows arched. \"Yeah? They got that sucker? When?\"\n\n\"He was arrested this morning. I really want to get to the courtroom before he comes before the judge.\"\n\n\"Take it easy. He'll be lucky if he sees a judge by lunchtime. You new around here?\"\n\n\"Sort of.'' I added, \"I need to speak with my client before the arraignment. So I'll just be on my way.'' And I was.\n\n\"Wait!\"\n\nI stopped. The marshal moseyed over to me, sort of bowlegged as if he'd been on a horse all morning, or maybe he had hemorrhoids. He said, \"You know where the lockup is?\"\n\n\"Actually, no.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll tell ya. You go to the third floor\u2014\"\n\n\"Thanks.\"\n\n\"Hold on. The lockup is between the marshal's area where your guy is going to be fingerprinted and photographed, and . . .'' He stopped talking and moved closer to me. \"You gotta go to the bathroom or something?\"\n\nI guess I seemed a little fidgety, and Wyatt could see it. He looked suspicious again, so I took the bull by the horns. \"Look, Marshal, my client is going to be processed very quickly because of who he is. In fact, he's already processed. I do not want to miss the arraignment because if I do, he will not be happy with me.'' I almost added, \" _Capisce_?'' but the guy looked Irish.\n\nHe grinned. \"Yeah, you don't want to miss that arraignment, Counselor. You know where to go?\"\n\n\"Third floor?\"\n\n\"Right you are. Your guy been indicted and arrested, or just arrested and waiting indictment?\"\n\n\"Indicted and arrested.\"\n\n\"Okay, then you don't want the Magistrate, you want the District Judge, Part One.\"\n\n_Mamma mia_ , this guy was going to give me a course in the federal court system. In truth, I didn't know any of this, but neither did I care. I just wanted to get to the third floor before it was too late. However, I didn't want to look panicky, which would only cause him to be more helpful or more suspicious. I smiled. \"Part One. Right.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Part One. Third floor.'' He looked at his watch. \"Hey, it's after ten. You better get a move on.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'd better.'' I walked, not ran, toward the elevators. I heard him call after me, \"I hope you got enough money there.\"\n\nI hope I have enough time, Wyatt. I took the elevators up to the third floor.\n\nAs bad luck would have it, the elevator stopped outside the Magistrate's Court, not Part One, so I was already lost. I picked a direction and walked. There were dozens of handcuffed prisoners in the corridors of justice with their arresting officers, U.S. Marshals, FBI men, attorneys for the government, attorneys for the accused, witnesses, and all sorts of people, none of whom looked happy to be there. There is something uniquely depressing about the hallways in any criminal court; the prisoners, the guards, the visible evidence of human frailty, misery, and evil.\n\nI picked a corridor and went down it. The federal courts are distinctly different from state or municipal courts in many respects. For one thing, you usually get a higher-quality criminal, such as Wall Street types and other white-collar rip-off artists who were stupid enough to use the U.S. mails for their schemes or to branch out across state lines. Occasionally, you get a spy or traitor, and now and then (but not often enough) you get a congressman or member of the Cabinet. But I'd heard, and now I saw with my own eyes, that with the increase in federal drug cases, the quality of federal defendants was somewhat lower than in years past. In fact, I saw men who looked as if they were definitely part of the international pharmaceutical trade, and I could see why Frank Bellarosa, tough guy that he was, would just as soon avoid trouble with these new guys.\n\nIn fact, I didn't even want to be in the same hallway as these dangerous felons, even if they _were_ cuffed. For one thing, they smelled, and the stink was overpowering. I had smelled that odor in state criminal court once and knew it; it was the smell of the junkie, a sort of sugary-sweet smell at first whiff, but underlying it was a stench like a rotting animal. I almost gagged as I walked down the corridor. John Sutter, what are you doing here? Get back to Wall Street where you belong. No, damn it, see it through. Where're your balls, you finicky twit? Push on.\n\nI pushed on, through the stinking corridor of Magistrate Court, and found Part One, where the defendants were uncuffed and smelled better.\n\nI asked a deputy marshal, \"Has Frank Bellarosa come before a judge yet?\"\n\n\"Bellarosa? The Mafia guy? I didn't even know he was here.\"\n\n\"He's supposed to be here. I'm his attorney. Could he have been arraigned already?\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"Maybe. Judge Rosen's been doing arraignments for a while.\"\n\n\"Where is his courtroom?\"\n\n\"Her. Judge Rosen's a woman.\"\n\n\"How many judges are arraigning this morning?\"\n\n\"One, same as every morning. You new here?\"\n\n\"I guess so. Where is Judge Rosen's courtroom?\"\n\nHe told me and added, \"She's a bitch on bail, especially for wiseguy types.\"\n\nSo, with that encouraging news, I walked quickly but with no outward signs of the anxiety that was growing inside me to the door of the courtroom marked JUDGE SARAH ROSEN and opened it.\n\nIndeed, the court was in session, and two marshals eyed me as I entered. Sitting in the benches where spectators normally sit at a trial were about thirty people, mostly men, and almost all, I suspected, were defense attorneys, though there might be some arresting officers as well, and perhaps a few defendants who were deemed not dangerous and thus were uncuffed. I looked for my client's blue suit and for Mancuso's distinctive pate among the heads and shoulders but did not see either.\n\nThere was an arraignment in progress. A defendant and his attorney stood in front of Judge Sarah Rosen. To the right of the defendant was a young assistant U.S. Attorney, a woman of about twenty-five. She was in profile, and for some reason, she reminded me of my daughter, Carolyn. The courtroom was quiet, yet everyone up front was speaking so softly that I could catch only a word or two. The only thing I heard clearly was the defendant, a middle-aged, well-dressed man, say, \"Not guilty,'' as if he meant it and believed it.\n\nThe criminal justice system in America is basically an eighteenth-century morality play that the actors try to adapt to twentieth-century society. The whole concept of arraignments, for instance, the public reading of the charges, the haggling over bail in open court, is somewhat archaic, I think. But I suppose it's better than other systems where justice is done in dark, private places.\n\nOne of the marshals was motioning me to sit down, so I sat.\n\nThe arraignment in progress was finished, and the defendant was led away in cuffs, bail denied. Not good.\n\nThe court officer called out the next case. \"Johnson, Nigel!\"\n\nPresently, a tall, thin black man wearing a white suit and dreadlocks was escorted into the courtroom through the side door, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been. An attorney rose and made his way toward the judge's bench. If I had to guess, I'd say the gentleman standing before Judge Rosen was a Jamaican and the charge probably had something to do with drug trafficking or illegal immigration or both. The arraignment could take as long as fifteen minutes if there was an argument over bail. Meanwhile, Ferragamo could have pulled a really neat trick, and my client could be standing in front of another judge in Brooklyn Federal Court, offering his Rolex watch for bail. The courtroom was cool, but I was still sweating. Think, Sutter.\n\nAs I thought, I was aware that the door behind me had opened a few times, and I noticed that men and women were making their way to the front of the court and finding seats. I also noticed two men and one woman in the otherwise empty jury box. They were sketch artists, which I thought was unusual at an arraignment.\n\nSitting a few feet to my left was an attorney doing some paperwork on his briefcase. I leaned toward him and asked, \"Have you been here long?\"\n\nHe looked over at me. \"Since nine.\"\n\n\"Have you heard Frank Bellarosa's case called?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"No. Is he going to be arraigned here?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I'm representing him, but I'm not familiar with the Federal Courts. How would I find\u2014\"\n\n\"Quiet in the court!'' bellowed the fat marshal, who probably saw me rather than heard me. These guys are power freaks, all full of themselves with their guns and badges and potbellies. I recalled that Mark Twain once observed, \"If you want to see the dregs of humanity, go down to the jail and watch the changing of the guard.'' I wish Uncle Walt had said that. Anyway, I settled back and considered my options.\n\nThe arraignment of the tall fellow had begun, and indeed it was a drug charge. The U.S. Attorney, the defense attorney, and Judge Rosen were conferring. Apparently, the defense attorney wasn't getting his point across, because the judge was shaking her head and the U.S. Attorney, still in profile, seemed smug, and the defendant was staring at his feet. Presently, a guard came, and the defendant became the prisoner again. _She's a bitch on bail._ Yes, indeed. If, in fact, Frank Bellarosa came before her, I could think of no reason in the world why she would set bail for him on a murder charge.\n\nThe longer I sat there, the more convinced I became that this whole thing had been stacked against me from the beginning. I was sure that my client was in Federal Court in Brooklyn right now. I could ask for a bail hearing, take an appeal, get a writ of habeas corpus, and try to get him sprung sometime in the near future. But that's not what I was getting paid for, nor what he wanted. I got up, took my briefcase, and left.\n\nI went to the holding cells located in a far corner of the third floor and checked with the U.S. Marshal who was in charge of the cells. But my client had disappeared as surely as if he had been swallowed into the Gulag.\n\nI went to the public phone booths and called both my offices, but there was no message from my client. So, I sat there, contemplating my next move. Just then, the deputy marshal that I'd spoken to regarding the arraignments came up to me. He said, \"Oh, I'm glad I found you, Counselor. Your guy, Bellarosa, is going to be arraigned at Brooklyn Federal Court.\"\n\nI stood up. \"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"That's what I hear from my boss. Too bad. I wanted to see him.\"\n\n\"I'll get you his autograph,'' I said as I raced toward the elevators. I rode down to the lobby, rushed out the doors, down the steps, and hailed a cab in Foley Square. I could be across the Brooklyn Bridge and in Federal Court in about twenty minutes. A taxi stopped and I opened the door, but as I was getting in, I happened to notice an NBC news van. Then it hit me. That group of people who had walked into the courtroom, and the three sketch artists in the jury box. \"Damn it!'' I left the taxi door open and raced back toward the courthouse. \"That bastard! That bastard Ferragamo! What a conniving son of a bitch!'' I took a deep breath and charged back up the steps\u2014there were forty-six of them, and the five million dollars was getting heavier.\n\nI passed through the metal detector again, smiled at Wyatt Earp, who gave me a surprised look as I walked in long strides toward the elevators. I watched Earp out of the corner of my eye until an elevator came. I got in and rode up to the third floor.\n\nI went directly to Part One and pulled open the door to Judge Rosen's courtroom in time to hear the court officer bellow, \"Bellarosa, Frank!\"\n\nA murmur went up from the crowd, as they say, and people actually began to stand, then a few people moved into the aisle to get a better view, and I found myself pushing to get through.\n\nThe courtroom deputy was shouting, \"Order in the court! Sit down! Sit down!\"\n\nThrough the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Bellarosa as he was escorted in through the side door.\n\nAs I made my way to the front, the courtroom deputy called out, \"Is the attorney for Frank Bellarosa present?\"\n\nI reached the spectator rail and said, \"Here!\"\n\nBellarosa turned to me but did not smile, though he nodded to show he appreciated my resourcefulness in figuring out what had happened that morning. I actually felt very proud of myself despite the fact that what I was doing was not serving humanity or Western civilization in the least.\n\nI passed through the gate in the spectator rail and put the briefcase on the defense table. I glanced at Judge Rosen, who registered no surprise that I was there, and I deduced that she was not part of the setup. But the Assistant U.S. Attorney seemed rather surprised, and she couldn't hide it. She looked around the courtroom as if she expected someone to come to her assistance.\n\nJudge Rosen said to me, \"Counselor, have you entered your appearance in court?\"\n\n\"No, Your Honor. I just now arrived.\"\n\nShe looked at me, and I could tell she had seen me earlier. She shrugged. \"Your name?\"\n\n\"John Sutter.\"\n\n\"Let the record show that the defendant is represented by counsel.'' Judge Rosen then advised Frank Bellarosa of his right to remain silent and so forth. \"Do you understand?'' she asked him in a tone of voice that suggested she was unimpressed by his notoriety.\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor,'' replied Bellarosa in a pleasant voice.\n\nShe looked down at the charge sheet that had been handed to her and scanned it for a minute, then read the charge of murder to Bellarosa and asked him, \"Do you understand the charge against you?\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor.\"\n\n\"And have you seen a copy of the indictment?\"\n\n\"No, Your Honor.\"\n\nJudge Rosen turned to me. \"Have you been given a copy of the indictment, Mr. Sutter?\"\n\n\"No, Your Honor.\"\n\nJudge Rosen looked at the Assistant U.S. Attorney and addressed her by name. \"Miss Larkin, why hasn't the accused or defense counsel seen a copy of the indictment?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure why the accused hasn't, Judge. But defense counsel was not present during the processing of the accused this morning.\"\n\nJudge Rosen said, \"He's here now. Give him a copy of the indictment.\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor.\"\n\nI went to the prosecution table, and Miss Larkin handed me a thick sheaf of papers. I made eye contact with her, and she said, \"Perhaps you'd like a few hours to read that. I have no objection to a second call on this arraignment.\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\nJudge Rosen said, \"Mr. Sutter, will you waive your client's right to a public reading of the indictment?\"\n\nI didn't have to, of course, and I could have had the indictment read line by line for the next few hours. In the eighteenth century, when people had more time and indictments were handwritten and a lot shorter, part of the drama was the reading of the grand jury's findings. But the fastest way to piss off Judge Rosen was to exercise any right that took more than two minutes of the court's time. I said, therefore, \"Though we have not had an opportunity to read the indictment, we waive a public reading of it.\"\n\nShe inquired of me, \"Have you seen the arrest warrant, Mr. Sutter?\"\n\n\"I have.\"\n\n\"And you have heard the charge read by me in open court?\"\n\n\"We have.\"\n\nShe nodded and looked at Frank Bellarosa. \"How do you plead to the charge?\"\n\n\"Not guilty!'' he replied in a tone of voice that sounded almost aggrieved, as if a monumental injustice was being done.\n\nJudge Rosen nodded, somewhat inattentively, I thought. Someday, someone would shout out to her, \"Guilty as charged!'' But she wouldn't hear it, nor would it register. She then said to Bellarosa, \"You also have the right to be released on a reasonable bail.\"\n\nThat was true, but it wasn't likely.\n\nJudge Rosen looked at me and said, \"However, in a case of murder, Mr. Sutter, I do not grant bail. Furthermore, under federal law in a case involving narcotics, which in a manner of speaking this case does, there is a presumption against the defendant. But I assume you want to say something to me which would overcome that presumption.\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor. May I confer with my client for a moment?\"\n\n\"If you wish.\"\n\nI leaned toward Bellarosa and said, \"We were delayed.'' I explained briefly.\n\nHe nodded and said, \"They don't play fair. See?'' He added, \"Hey, I heard of this judge. She's a tough bitch. They made sure she was doing arraignments this morning. Understand?\"\n\nI regarded Judge Rosen a moment. She was a woman of about forty-five, young for a federal judge, and somewhat attractive, if you're into stern-looking women. I didn't think my boyish-charm routine would do me any good, unless she happened to get off on scolding boyish men. You have to play every angle. Judge Rosen looked at the Assistant U.S. Attorney and asked her, \"Miss Larkin? Do you wish to say something?\"\n\nMiss Larkin replied, \"Your Honor, in view of the presumption under the statute, the government requests that Frank Bellarosa be detained. However, if the court is inclined to hear arguments for bail, the government is entitled to and requests a three-day continuance for a bail hearing.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"So that the government can gather evidence for the court to show why the accused should be detained.\"\n\nJudge Rosen said to me, \"Is that all right with you, Mr. Sutter?\"\n\n\"No, Your Honor. It isn't.\"\n\n\"Why not, Mr. Sutter?\"\n\n\"I don't see any reason for my client to sit in jail for three days. The government has been investigating this case since January. They know everything they're going to know about my client already, and it's not likely they are going to learn anything new in the next seventy-two hours.\"\n\nJudge Rosen nodded and said to Miss Larkin, \"Request denied.\"\n\nMiss Larkin did not look happy. She said to Judge Rosen, \"Well, then, Your Honor, the U.S. Attorney would most probably wish to be present for any discussion of bail.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nMiss Larkin replied, \"Because of the . . . the seriousness of the charge and the notoriety of the accused.\"\n\nJudge Rosen looked at me. \"Mr. Sutter? Would you like some time to confer with your client? We can schedule a bail hearing for this afternoon.\"\n\nI replied, \"No, Your Honor. We have entered a plea of not guilty, and we request bail in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars, which we are prepared to post right now.\"\n\nJudge Rosen's eyebrows rose at that statement. She turned her attention back to Miss Larkin and said, \"If Mr. Ferragamo wished to be here for this arraignment, he should be here now. The attorney for the accused has indicated that he wants to discuss bail at this time.'' Judge Rosen added, \"I assume you have read the indictment and are familiar with this case, Miss Larkin. I'm sure you can present the government's arguments for detention.\"\n\nThe subtext here was that it wasn't necessary to bother the U.S. Attorney since no bail was going to be granted anyway, and let's get on with it. But Miss Larkin, at a young age, had developed a nose for trouble, and she knew her limitations, which marked her as a potentially great attorney. She replied, \"Your Honor, will you instruct the deputy to call Mr. Ferragamo's office and pass on my request for his presence? In the meantime, we can proceed.\"\n\nJudge Rosen motioned to her courtroom deputy, who disappeared into the judge's robing room to make the call. I wondered how fast Ferragamo could run in wing tips.\n\nI looked into the courtroom and saw that the word had gotten out and the room was packed. In the jury box were the three sketch artists, scratching away at their pads now. I brushed my hair with my fingers.\n\nJudge Rosen said to me, \"Mr. Sutter, go ahead and present your argument for bail.\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor.'' You could literally hear ballpoint pens clicking in the courtroom behind me. Courtrooms don't terrify me the way they do some lawyers. But in this case, I had some real anxieties, and the cause of those anxieties was not the audience or Miss Larkin or the judge, but my client, who wanted to be on his way in ten minutes.\n\nI spoke in a normal conversational tone, but I sensed that I could be heard clear to the back of the silent court. I said, \"Your Honor, first I want to bring to your attention the fact that my client had previous knowledge, through the newspapers, that the U.S. Attorney was presenting evidence of murder to a grand jury. He made no attempt to flee during that time. And furthermore, anticipating that an indictment might be handed down and an arrest warrant issued, he instructed me to remain available in that event. He, too, remained available for arrest, and in fact, when the arrest came at approximately eight A.M. this morning, I was with him and can attest to the fact that he made no attempt to flee or resist.'' I added, \"If the arresting officer, Mr. Mancuso, is here, he, too, can attest to that.\"\n\nJudge Rosen looked toward the side door, then out into the court. \"Is Mr. Mancuso present?\"\n\nA voice called out from the side of the court. \"Here, Your Honor.\"\n\nAs Mr. Mancuso made his way through the standing-room-only crowd, I said to Bellarosa, \"They tried to send me to Brooklyn. Your buddy Alphonse is a snake.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Yeah, we shoulda known they'd pull some stunt. I never got to FBI headquarters neither. Mancuso gets this call on the radio, and next thing I know, we're pulling up to the back of the courthouse. You see what I mean? Fucking Alphonse.\"\n\nMancuso came through the rail and stood a few feet from us. Bellarosa said to me, loud enough for him to hear, \"They wanted to get you over to FBI headquarters where they were going to jerk you around until this was over in court. But I dragged my ass through the booking. Fucked up six sets of prints.'' He laughed and poked me in the ribs. \"I knew you'd figure it out. You're a smart guy. Hey, we leaving here together?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\nJudge Rosen said, \"Mr. Sutter? Do you need a moment?\"\n\nI turned back to the bench. \"No, Your Honor.\"\n\nShe said to Mr. Mancuso, \"Please relate the circumstances of the defendant's arrest.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso did so, very precisely, professionally, and unemotionally, leaving out only the conversation that he and I had had regarding my midlife crisis.\n\nJudge Rosen said to him, \"What you're saying, Mr. Mancuso, is that Mr. Bellarosa appeared to be expecting you, and he made no attempt to flee or resist arrest.\"\n\n\"That is correct.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Mancuso. Please remain in the court.\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor.'' Mancuso turned and looked at me, then at Bellarosa, but I could read nothing in his face but weariness.\n\nHe took a seat at the prosecution table.\n\nJudge Rosen said to me, \"It appears that the accused made no attempt to resist or flee. However, I am not going to grant bail based solely on that fact. Unless you can convince me otherwise, Mr. Sutter, and do so very quickly, I am going to order that the accused be taken to the Metropolitan Correction Center right now to await trial.\"\n\nWe did not want that, did we? So I looked at Judge Rosen and said, \"Your Honor, I also want to bring to your attention the fact that my client has never been convicted of a violent crime in any jurisdiction. He has, in fact, no history of violence.'' Someone in the courtroom laughed. \"Further, Your Honor, my client is a legitimate businessman whose\u2014''\u2014I could actually hear some tittering behind me. People are so cynical these days\u2014\"whose absence from his companies would impose an undue hardship on him, would interfere with his livelihood, and with the livelihoods of people who depend on my client for employment\u2014\"\n\nThe laughing was becoming a little more overt now, and Judge Rosen, too, smiled, but then caught herself and banged her gavel. \"Order!\"\n\nMiss Larkin, I noticed, was smiling also, and so was the court reporter, the two marshals, and the courtroom deputy. Only Frank and John were not smiling.\n\nJudge Rosen motioned me to approach the bench, and I did. She leaned over and our faces were only inches apart. We could have kissed. She whispered to me. \"Mr. Sutter, at your request, I let you say your piece, but this is really very silly, and you're wasting my time and making a fool of yourself. Now, I understand the pressure you must be under to keep your client out of jail, but you can forget it. He can go to jail and await a more formal bail hearing where you may present more substantial evidence than your own characterization of him as a gentle man and a good citizen. I have a lot of arraignments before me today, Mr. Sutter, and I'd like to get moving on them.'' She added, \"A few days or weeks in jail won't kill him.\"\n\nI looked her in the eye. \"But it will. Your Honor, at least let me say what I have to say. Can we retire to your chambers?\"\n\n\"No. Your client is not any different from anyone else who will come before me today.\"\n\n\"But he _is_ different, Judge. You know that and so do I. This courtroom is packed with newspeople, and they're not here to report on the general state of the criminal justice system. They have, in fact, been tipped off by the U.S. Attorney's office to be here at your court to see Frank Bellarosa led away in cuffs.'' I added, \"The press knew before even you or I knew that Frank Bellarosa would be in this courtroom.\"\n\nJudge Rosen nodded. \"That may be true, Mr. Sutter. But it doesn't change the charge or the general policy of refusing bail in cases of homicide.\"\n\nStill t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate, I whispered, \"Your Honor, my client may or may not be involved in so-called organized crime. But if he is who the press alleges he is, you must be aware that no major figure such as Mr. Bellarosa has fled U.S. jurisdiction for many decades.\"\n\n\"So what?'' She looked at me a moment, then said, \"Mr. Sutter, I sense that you are not a criminal lawyer and that you are not familiar with Federal Court. Correct?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Sutter, this is another world, different, I'm sure, from the one you come from.\"\n\n_You can say that again, lady._ But good Lord, do I really look and sound like some sort of Wall Street Wasp, or worse yet, a la-di-da society lawyer from Long Island? I said to Judge Rosen, \"I'm here to see that justice is done. I may not know how things are usually done here, but I know that my client has a right under Constitutional law to have a fair bail hearing.\"\n\n\"He does. Next week.\"\n\n\"No, Judge. Now.\"\n\nHer eyebrows rose, and she was about to throw me out and put Bellarosa in the slammer, but as luck would have it, Miss Larkin interrupted. Obviously Miss Larkin didn't like all this talk that she couldn't hear, so she said, \"Your Honor, may I speak?\"\n\nJudge Rosen looked at her. \"All right.\"\n\nMiss Larkin came closer to the bench but spoke in a normal volume. \"Judge, whether or not the accused came into custody peacefully is not relevant in determining bail when the charge is murder. Nor is this the time or place to consider other circumstances that defense counsel might wish to put before the court. The government has reason to believe that the accused committed murder, and is a danger to the community, and has the resources and ample reason to flee the country if released on bail.\"\n\nJudge Rosen, who had had enough of me a minute before, now felt obligated, I think, to give the defense the last word before she kicked me out. She looked at me. \"Mr. Sutter?\"\n\nI glanced at Miss Larkin, who still reminded me of Carolyn. I had an urge to scold her but said instead to her, \"Miss Larkin, the suggestion that my client is a danger to the community is ludicrous.'' I turned to Judge Rosen and continued, loud enough now for everyone to hear, \"Your Honor, this is a middle-aged man who has a home, a wife, three children, and no history of violence.'' I couldn't help but glance back at Mr. Mancuso, who made a funny face, sort of a wince as if I'd stepped on his foot. I continued, \"Judge, I have here in this briefcase the names and addresses of all the companies that my client is associated with.'' Well, maybe not _all_ , but most. \"I have here, also, my client's passport, which I am prepared to surrender to the court. I have here also\u2014\"\n\nJust then, the side door swung open, and in strode Alphonse Ferragamo, looking none too happy. Ferragamo was a tall, slender man with a hooked nose set between eyes that looked like tired oysters. He had thin, sandy hair and pale, thin lips that needed blood or lip rouge.\n\nHis presence caused a stir in the court because nearly everyone recognized him; such was his ability to keep his face before the public. Ferragamo had been called an Italian Tom Dewey, and it was no secret that he had his eye on either the governor's mansion or, \u00e0 la Tom Dewey, the bigger house in Washington. His major problem in running for elective office, I thought, was that he had a face that no one liked. But I guess no one wanted to tell him that.\n\nJudge Rosen, of course, knew him and nodded to him but said to me, \"Continue.\"\n\nSo, I continued. \"I have here, too, the ability to post a substantial bail, enough to\u2014\"\n\n\"Your Honor,'' interrupted Alphonse Ferragamo, ignoring all court etiquette. \"Your Honor, I can't _believe_ that the court would even _entertain_ a discussion of bail in a case of willful and wanton _murder_ , in a case of execution-style _murder_ , a case of drug-related, underworld assassination.\"\n\nThe jerk went on, describing the murder of Juan Carranza with more adjectives and adverbs than I thought anyone could muster for a single act. Also, he was into word stressing, which I find annoying in court, almost whiny.\n\nJudge Rosen did not look real pleased with Alphonse Ferragamo charging into her court like\u2014pardon the expression\u2014gangbusters, and running off at the mouth. In fact, she said to Alphonse, \"Mr. Ferragamo, a man's liberty is at stake, and defense counsel has indicated that he wishes to present certain facts to the court which may influence the question of bail. Mr. Sutter was speaking as you entered.\"\n\nBut Alphonse did not take the hint and put his mouth into gear again. Clearly, the man was agitated, and for whatever reason\u2014justice or personal vendetta\u2014Alphonse Ferragamo desperately wanted Frank Bellarosa in prison. Meanwhile, Miss Larkin, who in her own way had handled this open-and-shut case better by keeping her mouth mostly shut, sort of slipped off and sat beside Mr. Mancuso at the prosecutor's table.\n\n\"Your Honor,'' Ferragamo continued, \"the accused is a notorious _gangster_ , a man who the Justice Department believes is the head of the nation's largest organized crime family, a man who we believe, through investigation and through the testimony of witnesses, has committed a drug-related _murder_.'' In a monumental Freudian slip, Ferragamo added, \"This is _not_ a personal vendetta, this is _fact_ ,'' leaving everyone wondering about personal vendettas.\n\nObviously, this guy hadn't been in a courtroom for some time. I mean, I don't do much court work either, but even I could do better than this clown. I listened as Mr. Ferragamo did everything in his power to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. I was tempted to interrupt a few times, but as that old Machiavellian Napoleon Bonaparte once said, \"Never interrupt an enemy while he's making a mistake.\"\n\nI glanced at Judge Rosen and saw that she was clearly and openly annoyed. But even a judge has to think twice before she tells a U.S. Attorney to shut up, and the more Ferragamo talked, the more time I felt I would be given to present my arguments.\n\nThe interesting thing about what Ferragamo was saying now was that it didn't relate directly to the question of bail. Instead, Ferragamo was going on about Bellarosa's alleged problems in the drug trade, especially in regard to Colombians and rival Mafia gangs. The man sounded as if he were holding a press conference. Actually, he was. Ferragamo informed everyone, \"The heroin trade, which has been traditionally controlled by the _Cosa Nostra_ , the _Mafia_ , is now only a small part of the lucrative trade in illegal drugs. The Bellarosa _crime family_ is seeking to muscle in on the cocaine and crack trade, and to do so, they must _eliminate_ their rivals. Thus, the _murder_ of Juan Carranza.\"\n\nGood Lord, Alphonse, why don't you just paint a target on Bellarosa's forehead and turn him loose in a Colombian neighborhood? I glanced at Frank and saw he was smiling enigmatically.\n\nJudge Rosen coughed, then said, \"Mr. Ferragamo, I think we understand that you believe the defendant has committed murder. That's why he's here. But pretrial incarceration is not a punishment, it is a precaution, and Mr. Bellarosa is innocent until proven guilty. I want you to tell me why you believe he will forfeit his bail and flee.\"\n\nMr. Ferragamo thought about that a moment. Meanwhile, Frank Bellarosa just stood there, the object of all this attention but with no speaking part. I'll give him credit for his demeanor though. He wasn't sneering at Ferragamo, he wasn't cocky or arrogant, nor did he seem deferential or crestfallen. He just stood there as if he had a Sony Walkman stuck in his ear, listening to _La Traviata_ while waiting for a bus.\n\nRather than answer Judge Rosen's direct question, Alphonse Ferragamo had some advice for her, and she clearly did not like his tone, but she understood the words. What he was saying in effect was this: \"Listen, lady, if you let this guy go free on bail, public opinion (the press) will crucify you. If he flees the country, you might as well go with him.'' And the final point, though not in these exact words, was this: \"Judge, you have no reason whatsoever to stick your neck out. Just bang the goddamned gavel and have the prisoner taken to jail.''\n\nJudge Rosen did not seem happy with the lecture, but she did seem to grasp the import of it. Still, to irk Ferragamo, I think, she turned to me. \"Mr. Sutter?\"\n\nI began my counterattack, and that son of a bitch kept interrupting. I was scoring points, but clearly the home team started with lots of points. Bail proceedings, you understand, are not stacked in favor of the defendant as a trial by jury is, and it was all I could do just to keep Judge Rosen from banging the gavel and ending the whole thing. I mean, what was in it for her to listen to me tell her to make an insane decision that would jeopardize her career and lead to speculation that she was on the mob's payroll or was sleeping with Italian gangsters? There was nothing in it for her except that she was ticked off at Ferragamo's grandstanding, and in some deeper sense, she was not now fully convinced that Bellarosa was a bail risk. In short, she was interested in justice.\n\nI went on with my description of Bellarosa as if I were introducing him for a Knights of Columbus award. \"He has deep roots in his former Brooklyn neighborhood, having lived within a mile of his birthplace all his life. Recently, he has become my neighbor, and I know this man personally.'' This brought a few murmurs from the crowd, but having started on this tack, to use a nautical term, I had to sail with it. \"My wife and his wife are friends. We have entertained at one another's house''\u2014sort of\u2014\"and I've met some of his family\u2014'' _Oh, shit. Wrong word._ Everyone laughed again, and the gavel crashed down again. \"Order!\"\n\nI recovered nicely and went on, \"Your Honor, I will personally guarantee that my client will not leave the Southern District of New York and that he will appear in court to face this charge on the date assigned to this case. I repeat, Your Honor, my client, despite all innuendos and allegations and public smears to the contrary, is a substantial, taxpaying citizen, a man with friends and fami\u2014and relatives all over the metropolitan area, a man who counts among his friends many prominent businessmen, clergy, politicians\u2014'' More chuckles from the peanut gallery, though I could see I had made a few more points, but was anyone keeping score? I said, \"And further, Your Honor\u2014\"\n\nFerragamo couldn't stand not hearing himself talk for this long, so he cut me off again. \"Judge, this is _ridiculous._ This man is a known _gangster_ \u2014\"\n\nIt was Judge Rosen's turn to interrupt. \"The charge before the court is murder, Mr. Ferragamo, not racketeering. If the charge were racketeering and he had these roots in the community, I would have already set bail. I'm not interested in allegations of racketeering. I'm interested in the question of whether or not this man will flee a drug-related murder charge.\"\n\nFerragamo was annoyed. He looked at Bellarosa, and their eyes met for the first time. Then he looked at me, as if to say, \"Who the hell are you to get in the middle of this thing between Ferragamo and Bellarosa?'' Ferragamo said to the judge, \"Then let's concentrate on that aspect; this is a man who has vast _resources,_ not only in _this_ country, but in _foreign_ countries, and it is not inconceivable that\u2014\"\n\n\"Your Honor,'' I interrupted, since this seemed the way to get the floor with Mr. Ferragamo, \"Your Honor, I stated earlier that I have here my client's passport\u2014\"\n\nFerragamo interrupted by yelling at me directly, \"Your client, Mr. Sutter, can buy _fifty_ passports!\"\n\nI found myself, for the first time in my life, shouting in court. \"Mr. Ferragamo, I gave the court my word! I am personally guaranteeing that\u2014\"\n\n\"Who are _you_ to personally guarantee\u2014?\"\n\n\"Who are _you_ to doubt\u2014?\"\n\nAnd so it went, degenerating very quickly into courtroom histrionics. Everyone loved it. Except Judge Rosen, who banged her gavel. \"Enough!'' She looked at me. \"Mr. Sutter, the court appreciates your personal guarantee and is impressed with your foresight in dragging a suitcase full of money into court''\u2014laughter\u2014\"and acknowledges your offer to turn over the defendant's passport. However, your request for bail is deni\u2014\"\n\n\"Your Honor! One more thing, if I may.\"\n\nShe rolled her eyes, then motioned wearily for me to go on.\n\n\"Your Honor . . . Your Honor . . .\"\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Sutter? Speak. Please.\"\n\nI took a deep breath, caught Bellarosa's eye, and spoke. \"Your Honor, regarding the charge itself . . . the charge as read . . . the charge states that the alleged murder of this Juan Carranza individual took place on January fourteenth of this year in New Jersey. Well, Your Honor, my client has an alibi for that day, and I didn't think it appropriate or advisable to introduce that alibi at this time, but it's obvious that I must address myself to that alibi. So, if I may approach the bench . . .\"\n\nThere was a silence in the courtroom, broken by Ferragamo's voice. \"What _kind_ of alibi, Mr. Sutter? I want to hear what alibi you have.'' He looked at the judge. \"Your Honor, I have _five_ witnesses who have testified under oath in front of a _grand jury_ , who have implicated Frank Bellarosa in the _murder_ of Juan Carranza. The grand jury voted to indict the defendant based on this testimony. What possible alibi could the defense counsel present here . . . ?'' He threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture. \"Oh, this is inane. Really, Mr. Sutter. _Really._ You have wasted my time and everyone's time.\"\n\nHe really looked pissed off. _Really._ But I was more pissed off. In fact, the more this jerk spoke, the more I realized he was a ruthless, egocentric media hound. I said to him, loud enough for everyone to hear, \"Mr. Ferragamo, I have the license plate numbers of four cars that attempted to delay my appearance here in court. I believe that when I run those numbers through the DMV, I will find those cars are registered to the U.S. Attorney's office. I believe that you engaged in an unlawful act to keep\u2014\"\n\n\"How dare you? How _dare_ you?\"\n\n\"How dare _you_?'' I shot back, doing a little word stressing of my own. \"How dare _you_ obstruct\u2014\"\n\n\"Are you insane?\"\n\nI mean, I was really hot now. Needless to say, it's not a good idea to make an enemy of a man like this, but what the hell, I had enemies in many high places now: the IRS, the FBI, The Creek, the Stanhope dynasty and their attorneys, and so forth. What was one more? I said, \"I'm not the one displaying aberrant behavior in open court.\"\n\n_\"What?\"_\n\nThe crowd loved it. I mean, _really_ loved it. There they sat, only ten minutes before, bored out of their minds with pro forma early-morning arraignments, and suddenly, in walks Frank Bellarosa, then his button-down attorney, who turns out to be a little bit nuts, and the ambitious Alphonse Ferragamo, who has completely lost control of himself. I glanced into the courtroom and saw reporters scribbling furiously, artists looking up and down between their pads and the bench as though they were following a vertical Ping-Pong game, and the rest of the crowd, smiling attentively, like people who had been sitting through a dull opera only to discover there was a nude scene in the second act.\n\nBellarosa and I made eye contact again, and he smiled at me.\n\nMeanwhile, Alphonse and I were getting in good jabs at each other, not really addressing any issue except the issue of egos. Judge Rosen let us spar for about a minute, not wanting to be thought of as a killjoy, but finally she rapped her gavel. \"That's enough, gentlemen.'' And she used the term loosely. \"Mr. Sutter,'' she said, \"that is a serious accusation, but even if it were true, it has no bearing on this discussion. And regarding any alibi you say your client has for the day of the alleged crime, Mr. Sutter, such alibi evidence may be considered by the court in determining whether to set bail or not. However, I don't see how I can give your argument any credence unless you happen to have witnesses in this court. And even if you did, Mr. Sutter, I am not prepared to delay this morning's arraignments by swearing in witnesses at this time.'' She added, \"I'm sorry, Mr. Sutter, but the question of bail must be decided at a future session\u2014\" The gavel went up again.\n\n\"Judge,'' I said quickly, \"Judge, on the day in question, January fourteenth of this year\u2014\"\n\n\"Mr. Sutter\u2014\"\n\n\"My client, Your Honor, was, in fact, inspecting property adjacent to my property on Long Island. And though he was unknown to me personally at that time, I recognized him from newspapers and television, and I realized that I had, in fact, seen Mr. Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\nJudge Rosen leaned toward me and waited for the gasps and all that to subside. \"Mr. Sutter, are you telling me that _you_ are Mr. Bellarosa's alibi?\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor.\"\n\n\"You saw him on January fourteenth?\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor. I was home that day. I checked my daybook.'' Actually I hadn't, but I should have before I committed perjury. I continued, \"I was riding my horse and saw Mr. Bellarosa with two other gentlemen walking around the property that he subsequently purchased. I saw them and they waved to me and I returned the wave, though we did not speak. I was not more than thirty feet from Frank Bellarosa and recognized him immediately. This was at nine A.M., then I saw them get into a black Cadillac at about noon and leave. Mr. Carranza was murdered at about noon as his car left an exit of the Garden State Parkway in New Jersey, about eighty miles from where I saw Mr. Bellarosa at the same time.\"\n\nWhat could Alphonse Ferragamo say? Only one word and he said it. \"Liar.\"\n\nI gave him my best withering Wasp look, and he actually turned his oyster eyes away.\n\nJudge Rosen sat quietly for a full minute, probably wondering why she had wanted so badly to be a judge. Finally, she asked me, \"How much money do you actually have there, Counselor?\"\n\n\"Five million, Judge. Four in assignable assets, one million in cash.\"\n\n\"Good. I'll take it. See the clerk downstairs.'' She banged her gavel as Ferragamo bellowed. Judge Rosen ignored him and said, \"Next case!\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn the way to see the district clerk down in the basement, Bellarosa said to me, \"See, I knew you could do it.\"\n\nMy stomach was churning, my head ached, and yes, my heart ached. Never in a billion years would I have imagined that I would perjure myself in court for _any_ reason, let alone to spring a Mafia don.\n\nBut neither did I ever think I would be charged with criminal tax fraud for a stupid misjudgment. Nor would I have imagined that a U.S. Attorney would frame a man because of a personal grudge, or try to obstruct justice by delaying me on my way to court, then trying to send me on a wild-goose chase to Brooklyn. Yes, I know that two wrongs don't make a right\u2014that's one of the first ethical lessons I learned as a small boy\u2014but part of life and part of growing up is the ability to do what has to be done to survive. When the stakes go from baseball cards and pennies to life and death, then sometimes you make adjustments. Concessions, I guess you'd say. Sometimes you lie.\n\nThe history of the world is filled with dead martyrs who would not compromise. I used to admire them. Now I think that most of them were probably very foolish.\n\nBellarosa said to me, \"See what a prick that guy is?\"\n\nI didn't reply.\n\nHe went on, \"You pissed him off. I didn't want you to do that. It's personal for him, but it's not personal for me. _Capisce?_ \"\n\n\"Frank. Shut up.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI was still sort of in a daze as I moved through the corridors of the courthouse, reporters with pads and pencils swarming around us. They can't bring cameras or tape recorders into the courthouse, but why they let these crazy people inside at all is beyond me. Freedom of the press is one thing, but blocking the hallway is inconvenient and probably a misdemeanor.\n\nFinally, out on the courthouse steps, minus my heavy briefcase and my virginity, we ran into the press again, who had fallen back to regroup and join up with their cameramen and photographers.\n\nReporters were asking all sorts of pertinent and dangerous questions, but all they were getting from the don in return were wisecracks, such as this: \"Hey, what're you all doing here? No autographs. You want me to smile? Get my good side.'' And so forth.\n\nAlso, he knew some of the reporters by name. \"Hey, Lorraine, long time. Where'd you get that tan?'' Lorraine smiled at the charming man.\n\n\"Tim, you still working for the paper? They don't know about your drinking?'' Ha, ha, ha.\n\nA TV reporter got his microphone under Bellarosa's nose and asked, \"Is there a power struggle going on between the Mafia and the Medell\u00edn cartel over the control of the cocaine trade?\"\n\n\"The who and the what over the which? Talk English.\"\n\nA more sensible reporter asked, \"Do you think Alphonse Ferragamo is pursuing a personal vendetta against you?\"\n\nFrank lit up a big cigar, Monte Cristo number four. \"Nah. People lie to him about me, and he's got to follow up. He's my good goombah.\"\n\nEveryone laughed.\n\n\"You happy to be free this morning, Frank?\"\n\nHe puffed on his stogie. \"I gotta tell ya, I had the worse breakfast of my life in there. That's what I call cruel and unusual punishment.\"\n\nThat got a good laugh, and as it became obvious that Mr. Bellarosa was not going to make any newsworthy statements, the emphasis shifted to the entertainment value of the story. Frank was good entertainment. Someone asked him, \"How much did that suit cost you, Frank?\"\n\n\"Peanuts. I go to a little guy on Mott Street. I don't pay uptown prices. You could use a good tailor yourself, Ralph.\"\n\nSo the don held court for a few minutes as we made our way down the forty-six steps toward the street, surrounded by about fifty members of the press, including cameramen and photographers. Worse, a crowd of several hundred onlookers had materialized. It doesn't take much to draw a crowd in New York.\n\nI was not being completely ignored, of course, and reporters who couldn't get the don's attention were settling for me, but I was just reciting my mantra, which was, \"No comment, no comment, no comment.\"\n\nWe were near the bottom of the steps, but the crowd around us was so thick now, I couldn't see any way to get to the street where Lenny was supposed to meet us with the car.\n\nA reporter asked me, \"How much does five million dollars weigh?\"\n\nIt seemed silly to say \"No comment'' to a silly question, so I replied, \"It was heavy enough for me to think that it was excessive bail.\"\n\nWell, you should never encourage these people, and by answering one question, I opened myself up for a lot of attention. I was really getting grilled now, and I glanced at Bellarosa, who gave me a look of caution through his cigar smoke.\n\n\"Mr. Sutter,'' asked a newspaper reporter, \"you said in court that you were delayed by four cars on your way here. How did they delay you?\"\n\n\"No comment.\"\n\n\"Did they cut you off?\"\n\n\"No comment.\"\n\n\"Do you really think those cars were driven by people from Alphonse Ferragamo's office?\"\n\n\"No comment.\"\n\nAnd so it went. I seemed to have a permanent microphone under my nose now, recording my \"no comment'' for posterity. I spotted the Cadillac parked illegally in the square about fifty yards away, with Lenny behind the wheel. Then I noticed Vinnie approaching the courthouse with two patrolmen in tow.\n\nMeanwhile, the press were really getting on my nerves. I glanced again at my client and saw that he was still smiling, still puffing away, and still at ease despite being surrounded by aggressive A-type personalities. But though he was at ease, Bellarosa did not have the reputation of being a publicity hound. He could handle it, but he did not seek it out as did some of his predecessors, certain of whom were\u2014partly as a result of their fondness for talking too much to the press\u2014dead.\n\nA particularly persistent and pesky female reporter, whom I recognized from one of the TV networks, was bugging me about the alibi. She asked me, \"Are you _certain_ it was Frank Bellarosa you saw?\"\n\n\"No comment.\"\n\n\"You mean you're not _sure_ it was Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"No comment.\"\n\n\"But you _said_ it was Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\nAnd on and on she went, as if we were married or something. \"Mr. Sutter,'' she said very snottily, \"Mr. Ferragamo has five witnesses who put Frank Bellarosa at the scene of the murder. Are you saying they're all liars? Or are _you_ the liar?\"\n\nIt must have been the heat, and I guess my own state of mind, or maybe that woman's tone of voice finally got to me. Anyway, I snapped back, \"Ferragamo's witnesses are liars, and he _knows_ they are liars. This whole thing is a frame-up, a personal vendetta against my client, and an attempt to start trouble between\u2014'' I got my mouth under control, then glanced at Bellarosa, who touched his index finger to his lips.\n\n\"Trouble between who? Rival mobs?\"\n\nSomeone else, a Mafia groupie or something, asked, \"Trouble with his own mob? Trouble with his underboss? With Sally Da-da?\"\n\nMafia politics were not my strong point, but obviously the initiated knew all sorts of underworld gossip and they thought I did, too.\n\n\"Trouble with who?'' asked someone else. \"With the Colombian drug kings? With Juan Carranza's friends?\"\n\n\"Is it true that the Mafia is trying to push out the Colombians?\"\n\n\"Mr. Sutter, did you say in court that Alphonse Ferragamo ordered people to run you off the road?\"\n\nI thought someone already asked that question.\n\n\"Mr. Sutter, are you saying that the U.S. Attorney is framing your client?\"\n\nMr. Sutter, blah, blah, blah. I had this image of the television set over the bar at The Creek. I wonder if people really do look heavier on TV. I hope not. I could hear my pals now. \"Look at him.'' \"He's getting fat.'' \"He's sweating like a pig.'' \"His tie is crooked.'' \"How much is he getting paid for that?'' \"His father must be rolling over in his grave.'' My father is actually alive and well in Europe.\n\nFinally, the two cops, with Vinnie encouraging them on, got through to us. Frank bid the press fond adieu, waved, smiled, and followed Vinnie and the two cops through the throng with me bringing up the rear. We got out to the street, and Lenny inched the car closer through the onlookers. I was annoyed that the government could set the stage for a media circus, then not provide crowd control. Actually, I never realized how many annoying things the government did.\n\nVinnie got to the Cadillac and opened the rear door. Bellarosa ducked inside, and one of the cops said, \"Take it easy, Frank.\"\n\nBellarosa said to the two cops, \"Thanks, boys. I owe you one.\"\n\nMeanwhile, I can't even get a cop to interpret complex and contradictory parking signs for me. But that was yesterday. Today, the cop near the open car door touched his cap as I slid in beside the don. What a screwy country.\n\nVinnie had jumped into the passenger's seat up front, and Lenny pulled away, moving slowly until he was clear of the crowd, then he gassed it.\n\nWe headed downtown, then Lenny swung west toward the World Trade Center, then downtown again to Wall Street. Obviously, he was trying to lose anyone who might be following.\n\nWe passed my office building, the J. P. Morgan Building at 23 Wall Street, and though I was still supposed to work there, I felt a sudden nostalgia for the old place.\n\nWe drove around for a while, no one saying much, except that Vinnie and Lenny were congratulating the don ad nauseam about his great escape, as though he had something to do with it. I really detest flunkies.\n\nBellarosa said very little in return, but at one point he leaned over to me. \"You did real good, Counselor. Right up until the end there.\"\n\nI didn't reply.\n\nHe continued, \"You got to be careful what you say to the press. They twist things around.\"\n\nI nodded.\n\nHe went on, \"The press ain't lookin' for facts. They think they are, but they want a good story. Sometimes a good story has no facts. Sometimes it's funny. They think this stuff is all funny. This stuff with the Mafia and all. The big Cadillacs, the cigars, the fancy suits. Somehow they think this is all funny. _Capisce?_ That's okay. That's better than them thinking it's not funny. So you keep it funny. You give them funny stuff. You're a funny guy. So lighten up. Make it all sound funny, like it's a big joke. Understand?\"\n\n_\"Capisco.\"_\n\n\"Yeah. You did fine with that lady judge. Alphonse fucked himself up. He talks too much. Every time he opens his mouth, somebody wants to put their fist in it. He's pissed off now, but he's gonna be a lot more pissed off when the press starts asking him about the car bullshit this morning and the frame-up thing. You didn't have to say all that shit. You know?\"\n\n\"Frank, if you don't like the way\u2014\"\n\nHe patted my knee. \"Hey, you did okay. Just a few points I gotta make so you know. Okay? Hey, I walked. Right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\nWe kept driving around lower Manhattan. Frank ordered Lenny to pull over at a newsstand, and Vinnie got out and bought the _Post_ for Frank, the _Wall Street Journal_ for me, and some medical journals for himself, mostly gynecology and proctology. Lenny shared the journals with Vinnie at stoplights. I like to see people try to improve their minds.\n\nI had some paperwork with me relating to the bail: the receipt for five million dollars, the bail forfeiture warning, and other printed matter that I looked over. I also had the arrest warrant now, and the charge sheet, which I now read. Most important, I had a copy of the indictment, which ran to about eighty pages. I wanted to read it at my leisure, but for now, I perused it, discovering that, indeed, all the evidence against Frank Bellarosa was in the form of five witness statements. There was no physical evidence putting him at the scene of the crime, and all the witnesses had Hispanic names.\n\nI had never asked Bellarosa about the actual murder, and I only vaguely remembered the press accounts of it. But from what I could glean from the witness statements, Juan Carranza, driving his own car, a Corvette, left the Garden State Parkway at about noon on January fourteenth, at the Red Bank exit. With him was his girlfriend, Ramona Velarde. A car in front of the Corvette came to a stop on the single-lane exit ramp, and Carranza was forced to stop also. Two men then exited the car behind Carranza, walked right up to his car, and one of them fired a single bullet through his side window, striking Carranza in the face. The assassin then tried the driver's door, and finding it unlocked, he opened it and fired the remaining four bullets from the revolver into Carranza's head. The girlfriend was untouched. The assassin then threw the revolver on the girlfriend's lap, and he and his companion got into the front car that had blocked the exit ramp, abandoning their car behind Carranza's.\n\nThe witnesses to this assassination were Ramona Velarde and four men who were in a car behind the car from which the assassins exited. Each of the four male witnesses stated frankly that they were Juan Carranza's bodyguards. I noted that none of them said they fired at the men who had bumped off their boss. In fact, they stated that they put Ramona Velarde in their car and jumped the curb onto the grass, driving around the assassins' abandoned car and the Corvette, but they made no attempt to pursue the assassins. The subtext here was that they recognized that their boss had been hit by the Italian mob, and they didn't want to be dead heroes. The New Jersey State Police determined that this rubout had federal drug and racketeering implications and contacted the FBI. Through an anonymous tip, Ramona Velarde was picked up, and she subsequently identified the four bodyguards, who were all picked up or surrendered within a few weeks. All of them agreed to become federal witnesses.\n\nThe issue of identification seemed to me a little vague. Ramona Velarde was only a few feet from the assassin, but I don't see how she could have seen his face if he was standing beside a low-slung Corvette. All she could have seen was the hand and the gun. Similarly, the assassin and his partner would have exited their car with their backs to the four bodyguards, who had let that car come between them and their boss. However, all four men stated that the assassin and his partner glanced back at them a few times as the two men stepped up to Carranza's Corvette. All four of the men said they recognized the face of Frank Bellarosa. Ramona Velarde picked Bellarosa's photo out of mug shots.\n\nWell, as I read this interesting account of gangland murder, it did certainly sound like a mob hit, Italian style. I mean, it was classical Mafia: the boxed-in automobile, the girlfriend left untouched, even the bodyguards left alone so that the hit didn't become a massacre, which would draw all sorts of unwanted negative press. And the abandoned car was stolen, of course, and also Italian style, the murder weapon was left behind and was clean as a whistle. The amateurs liked to use the same gun over and over again until somebody got caught with it, and ballistics showed it had about a dozen murders on it. The Italians bought clean guns, used them once, and dumped them immediately at the scene before strolling off.\n\nI thought about this testimony I was reading in Bellarosa's Cadillac. It was quite possible that the murder had taken place exactly this way, and the witnesses were telling the truth, except for the identification of Frank Bellarosa. I'm no detective, but it doesn't take many brains to realize that a man such as Bellarosa, even if he wanted to personally commit a murder, wouldn't do it in broad daylight where half the population of the New York metropolitan area could identify his face.\n\nBut apparently someone in the FBI office or the U.S. Attorney's office saw this murder as an opportunity to cause problems in the underworld. Therefore why not assign it to the number-one Mafia boss? And I thought, if Bellarosa was right that the murder was done by the Drug Enforcement Agency, then the DEA would most probably choose a modus operandi of the underworld, e.g., an Uzi submachine-gun attack to imitate Colombians, a knife or machete attack to imitate the Jamaicans, a bomb assassination as the Koreans had used a few times, or the cleanest, safest, and most easily imitated attack\u2014a Mafia rubout.\n\nI realized that what I was doing was formulating a defense in my mind, but beyond that I was trying to convince myself that I was defending an innocent man. Trying to be objective, trying to be that universal juror, I evaluated what I knew of the case so far and found that there was a reasonable doubt as to Frank Bellarosa's guilt.\n\nI glanced at Bellarosa as I flipped through the indictment. He noticed and said to me, \"They named the guys who testified against me. Right?\"\n\n\"Yes. Four men and one woman.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah. Carranza's girlfriend. I remember that from the papers.'' He asked, \"She said she saw me?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe nodded but said nothing.\n\nI said to him, \"They're all under the federal witness protection program.\"\n\n\"That's good. Nobody can hurt them.'' He smiled.\n\nI said to him, \"They won't make good witnesses for a jury. They're not upright citizens.\"\n\nHe shrugged and went back to his newspaper.\n\nLenny stopped in front of a coffee shop on Broadway. Vinnie took coffee orders, then went inside to fetch four containers.\n\nWe drove through the Holland Tunnel into New Jersey, then came back into Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel.\n\nThe car phone in the rear rang, and Bellarosa motioned for me to answer it, so I did. \"Hello?\"\n\nA familiar voice, a man, asked, \"Is Mr. Bellarosa there?\"\n\nJohn Sutter is a fast learner, so I replied, \"No, he's at Mass. Who is this?\"\n\nBellarosa chuckled.\n\nThe man answered my question with one of his own. \"Is this John Sutter?\"\n\n\"This is Mr. Sutter's valet.\"\n\n\"I don't like your sense of humor, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"Most people don't, Mr. Ferragamo. What can I do for you?'' I looked at Bellarosa.\n\n\"I would like your permission to speak to your client.\"\n\nBellarosa already had his hand out for the phone, so I gave it to him. \"Hello, Al. . . . Yeah. . . . Yeah, well, he's kind of new to this. You know?'' He listened for a while, then said, \"You ain't playing the game, either, goombah. You got no right to complain about this.'' He listened again, a bored expression on his face. \"Yeah, yeah, yeah. So what? Look, you gotta do what you gotta do. Am I complaining? You hear me shooting my mouth off?\"\n\nI couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, of course, but I couldn't believe the end I _was_ hearing. These guys were talking as if they'd just had a disagreement over a game of boccie ball or something.\n\nBellarosa said, \"You think I'm gonna use dirty money for bail? Check it out, Al. You find it's dirty, it's yours, and I'll come back to jail. . . . Yeah. Save yourself some time. Don't get technical.'' He glanced at me, then said into the phone, \"He's an okay guy. Get off his case. He's a real citizen. An important citizen. You don't fuck with him, Al. You fuck with him, you got serious problems. _Capisce_?\"\n\n_Me?_ Was he talking about _me?_\n\nBellarosa said to the U.S. Attorney, \"I'm sorry you're pissed off, but you should just think about it. Okay? . . . Yeah. I'll do that. Catch you on TV tonight, right?'' Bellarosa laughed. \"Yeah. Okay. See ya.'' He hung up and went back to his newspaper.\n\n_Madonna mia_. These people were crazy. I mean, it was as if they were playing at being Americans in public, but between themselves some sort of ancient ritual was taking place.\n\nNo one spoke for a while, then Bellarosa looked up from his paper and asked his boys, \"Okay?\"\n\nLenny replied, \"I never spotted nobody, boss.\"\n\nBellarosa glanced at his watch, then asked me, \"You hungry?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You need a drink?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Good. I got just the place.'' He said to Lenny, \"Drive over to Mott Street. We'll get a little lunch.\"\n\nCaff\u00e8 Roma is a fairly famous spot in the heart of Little Italy. I'd been there a few times for dinner with out-of-towners. But it wasn't on Mott Street. I said to Bellarosa, \"Mulberry Street.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Caff\u00e8 Roma is on Mulberry Street.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah. We're not going there. We're going to Giulio's on Mott Street.\"\n\nI shrugged.\n\nHe saw that I didn't appreciate the significance of what he was saying, so he gave me a lesson. \"Something else you got to remember, Counselor\u2014what you say you're doing and what you're doing don't have to be the same thing. Where you say you're going and where you're going are never the same place. You don't give information to people who don't need it or to people who could give it to other people who shouldn't have it. You're a lawyer. You know that.\"\n\nIndeed I did, but a lunch destination was not the kind of information I kept secret or lied about.\n\nBut then again, nobody wanted to shoot me at lunch.\n**_Twenty-eight_**\n\nLittle Italy is not far from Foley Square and is also close to Police Plaza, the FBI headquarters at Federal Plaza, and the state and city criminal courts. These geographical proximities are a convenience to attorneys, law enforcement people, and occasionally to certain persons residing in Little Italy who might have official business with one of these government agencies. So it was that we could actually have pulled up in front of Giulio's Restaurant on Mott Street in Little Italy within five minutes of leaving Foley Square. But instead, because of other considerations, it took us close to an hour. On the other hand, it was only now noon, time for lunch.\n\nGiulio's, I saw, was an old-fashioned restaurant located on the ground floor of one of those turn-of-the-century, six-story tenement buildings bristling with fire escapes. There was a glass-paneled door to the left, and to the right, a storefront window that was half-covered by a red caf\u00e9 curtain. Faded gold letters on the window spelled out the word GIULIO'S.\n\nThere was nothing else in the window, no menus, no press clippings, and no credit-card stickers. The establishment did not look enticing or inviting. As I mentioned, I come to Little Italy now and then, usually with clients, as Wall Street is not far away. But I've never noticed this place, and if I had, I wouldn't have stepped inside. In truth, my clients (and I) prefer the slick Mulberry Street restaurants, filled with tourists and suburbanites who stare at one another, trying to guess who's Mafia.\n\nLenny drove off to park the car, and Vinnie entered the restaurant first. I guess he was the point man. I stood on the sidewalk with Bellarosa, who had his back to the brick wall and was looking up and down the street. I asked him, \"Why are we standing outside?\"\n\nBellarosa replied, \"It's good to let them know you're coming.\"\n\n\"I see. And you really can't call ahead, can you?\"\n\n\"No. You don't want to do that.\"\n\n\"Right.'' He never looked at me, but kept an eye on the block. There are many fine restaurants in Little Italy, all trying to keep a competitive edge. A shortcut to fame and fortune sometimes occurs when a man like don Bellarosa comes in and gets shot at his table. A terrible headline flashed in front of my eyes: DANDY DON AND MOUTHPIECE HIT.\n\nI asked my lunch companion, \"Has anyone been knocked off here?\"\n\nHe glanced at me. \"What? Oh . . . no. Yeah. Once. Yeah, back in the Prohibition days. Long time ago. You like fried squid? _Calamaretti fritti?_ \"\n\n\"Probably not.\"\n\nVinnie opened the door and stuck his head out. \"Okay.\"\n\nWe entered. The restaurant was long and narrow, and the rows of tables had traditional red-checkered cloths. The floor was ancient white ceramic tile, and the ceiling was that pressed tin with glossy white paint on it. Three ceiling fans spun lazily, keeping the smell of garlic circulating. On the plain white, plaster walls were cheap prints, all showing scenes of sunny Italy. The place wasn't much to look at, but it was authentic.\n\nThere weren't many diners, and I could see waiters standing around in red jackets, all stealing glances at don Bellarosa. A man in a black suit rushed toward us, his hand prematurely extended, and he and Bellarosa greeted each other in Italian. Bellarosa called him Patsy, but did not actually introduce him to me, though he was obviously the ma\u00eetre d'.\n\nPatsy showed us to a corner table in the rear. It was a nice comfortable table with good fields of fire.\n\nLenny had arrived, and he and Vinnie took a table near the front window with a good view of the door. Now we had interlocking fields of fire, which was the first requirement for a pleasant lunch at Giulio's.\n\nPatsy was obsequious, the waiters bowed and bowed and bowed as we walked by, and a man and a woman, apparently the owner and his wife, ran out of the kitchen and stopped just short of prostrating themselves on the floor. Everyone was grinning except Frank, who had this sort of Mafia poker face on that I'd never seen before. I said to him, \"Come here often?\"\n\n\"Yeah.'' He said something to the owner in Italian, and the man ran off, perhaps to kill himself, I thought, but he returned shortly with a bottle of Chianti and two glasses. Patsy uncorked the wine but Frank poured. Finally, after a lot of fussing around our table, everyone left us alone. Frank banged his glass against mine and said, \" _Salute_!\"\n\n\"Cheers,'' I replied, and drank the wine, which tasted like grappa diluted with tannic acid. _Yuk_!\n\nFrank smacked his lips. \"Aahh . . . that's good. Special stuff. Direct from the other side.\"\n\nThey should have left it there.\n\nA few more people had entered, and I looked around. The clientele at lunch hour seemed to be mostly locals, mostly men, and mostly old, wearing baggy suits without ties. I could overhear a mixture of English and Italian around me.\n\nThere were a few younger men in good suits, and like a vampire who can tell its own kind at a glance, I recognized them as Wall Street types, trendy twerps who had \"discovered'' Giulio's the way Columbus discovered America, i.e., it ain't there until I find it.\n\nHere and there I noticed tables at which were men who I thought might be in Frank's business. And in fact, Frank nodded to a few of these people, who nodded back. Despite the informality of the place and the fact that it was warm, only the Wall Street twerps and a few of the old men had removed their jackets. The rest of the clientele, I was sure, were either wearing shoulder holsters or wanted everyone to think they were. Frank, I knew, could not be armed, as he had just been through a booking and search. Lenny and Vinnie, I knew, _were_ armed. I was basically unarmed, except for my three-hundred-dollar Montblanc pen and my American Express Gold Card.\n\nI said to my client, \"Are you satisfied with the way it went this morning?\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"It went like it went. I got no complaints with you.\"\n\n\"Fine. Do you want to discuss the charge against you? The defense?\"\n\n\"I told you, it's bullshit. It's not getting to trial.\"\n\n\"It could. Ferragamo had five witnesses for the grand jury. Those witnesses said enough to implicate you in the murder of Juan Carranza.\"\n\n\"Ferragamo's probably got something on them. They maybe saw the hit, but they didn't see my face there.\"\n\nI nodded. \"Okay. I believe you.\"\n\n\"Good. Then you did the right thing today.\"\n\n\"No. I committed perjury.\"\n\n\"Don't worry about it.\"\n\nThe owner, whose name was Lucio, came by with a bowl of fried onion rings, and a waiter put down two small plates.\n\n\" _Mangia_ ,'' Frank said as he took a clawful of the onion rings.\n\n\"No, thanks.\"\n\n\"Come on. Eat.\"\n\nThey weren't onion rings, of course, but I was trying to pretend they were. I put a few of the things on my plate, then put one in my mouth and washed it down with the Chianti. Ugh, ugh, ugh.\n\nThere was a big loaf of Italian bread sitting right on the tablecloth, unsliced, and Frank ripped it apart with his big mitts and flipped a few pieces my way. I didn't see a bread plate and probably never would. I ate some of the bread, which was the best I've ever had.\n\nBetween chews, Bellarosa said, \"You see what I mean about how law-abiding I am? Mancuso came in by himself, and I'm waiting for the fucking cuffs. Now how do you think they take a spic out of one of those social clubs? They go in there with a fucking battalion, armed to the fucking teeth, and they got to beat off spics and drag the guy out screaming. Half the time somebody gets a split head or gets shot. You see the difference? You think Mancuso is a fucking hero? No. He knew I wasn't going to put him away.\"\n\n\"Still, Frank, that took balls.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Yeah. That little, skinny wop bangs on my door and says, 'You're under arrest.' Yeah.'' He added, \"But you think Mancuso is going to be a star? No fucking way. Ferragamo runs his show his way, and he's the star. You'll see on the news.\"\n\nUnbidden, the waiter brought over a bowl of what looked like scallops covered with red sauce. Bellarosa shoveled some on my plate beside the fried squid. He said, \"This is _scungilli._ Like . . . conch. Like a shellfish. _Sono buone_.\"\n\n\"Can I order something from the menu?\"\n\n\"Try that. Try it.'' He dug into his whatever it was. \"Eat. Come on.\"\n\nI positioned my wine and a piece of bread, swallowed a piece of the conch, drank the Chianti, and bit on the bread.\n\n\"You like it?\"\n\n\" _Sono buone_.\"\n\nHe laughed.\n\nWe ate, drank, and talked awhile. No one offered us a menu, and I noticed that most of the customers were not using menus but were talking food with the waiters in a mixture of Italian and English. The waiters seemed friendly, happy, enthusiastic, knowledgeable, patient, and helpful. Obviously they weren't French.\n\nIt struck me as I sat there that this restaurant could have been a hundred years old, older than The Creek, older than The Seawanhaka Corinthian. And very little in the restaurant had changed, not the decor, the cuisine, or the clientele. In fact, Little Italy was a sort of time warp, a bastion of Italian immigrant culture that seemed to be resisting change and assimilation against all odds. If I had to bet on what would last into the next century\u2014the Gold Coast or Little Italy\u2014I'd bet on Little Italy. Similarly, I'd put my money on Giulio's over The Creek.\n\nI regarded Frank Bellarosa as he ate. He looked more comfortable here, obviously, than he had in The Creek. But beyond that, he belonged here, was part of this place, part of the local color, the fabric and decor of Giulio's, and Mott Street. I watched him, his tie loosened, a napkin stuffed in his collar, and his hands darting around the table, relaxed in the knowledge that no one was going to take anything away from him; not his food, nor his pride.\n\nWe were working on our second bottle of Chianti, and I said to him, \"You're from Brooklyn. Not Little Italy.\"\n\n\"Yeah. But most of Brooklyn's gone. My old neighborhood is gone. This is still the place. You know?\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"I mean, like every Italian in New York comes here at least once in his life. Most come once or twice a year. It makes them feel good, you know, because they live in the suburbs now, and maybe their old neighborhood is full of blacks or Spanish, or something, so they can't go back there, so they come here. This is everybody's old neighborhood. _Capisce?_ Well, maybe not your old neighborhood.'' He laughed. \"Where you from?\"\n\n\"Locust Valley.\"\n\n\"Yeah. You don't have far to go home.\"\n\n\"It gets farther every year.\"\n\n\"Well, I like to come down here, you know, to walk on the streets, smell the bakeries, smell the cheese, smell the restaurants. Lots of people come for San Gennaro\u2014you know, the Feast of San Gennaro, the patron saint of Napoli . . . Naples. They come for St. Anthony's feast, too. They come here to eat Italian, see Italians, feel Italian. You understand?\"\n\n\"Is that why you come here?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Sometimes. I have some business here, too. I see people here. I got my club here.\"\n\n\"The Italian Rifle Club?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Can you take me there?\"\n\n\"Sure. You took me to The Creek.'' He smiled. \"I take Jack Weinstein there. He loves it. I get him drunk and take him down to the basement and let him blast the targets. I got a silhouette target down there that says 'Alphonse Ferragamo.'\" He laughed.\n\nI smiled. \"I think they throw darts at my picture in the IRS office.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Darts? Fuck darts.'' He stuck his finger at me and cocked his thumb. \"Ba-boom, ba-boom. That's how you make holes in targets.\"\n\nHe finished another glass of wine and repoured for both of us. The Chianti was getting better. By the third bottle it would taste like Brunello di Montalcino, 1974.\n\nI looked around the restaurant again. During my mental absence it had gotten full and was noisy now, lively and hopping. I said to Bellarosa, \"I like this place.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nActually, I was feeling better. Sort of like the high you get after a close call. I couldn't come to terms with the perjury, you understand, but I was working on it. In fact, I took my daybook out of my pocket and, for the first time, turned to January fourteenth. I write in ink, partly because, as an attorney, I know that my daybook is a quasi-legal document and, therefore, should be done in ink in the event it ever had to be shown as evidence. On the other hand, I always use the same pen, the Montblanc with the same nib and the same black Montblanc ink, so if I had to add something after the fact, I could. But I don't like to do that.\n\nAnyway, with some real trepidation, knowing a lot rode on this, I looked at the space for January fourteenth and read: _Light snow. Home in_ _A_ _._ _M_ _., lunch with Susan at Creek, Locust Valley office_ _P_ _._ _M_ _., meet with staff, 4_ _P_ _._ _M_ _._\n\nI stared at the entry awhile. _Home in_ _A_ _._ _M_ _._ Did I really ride that day? Maybe I did. Did I ride over to Alhambra? Perhaps. Did I see three mafiosi walking around? I said I did.\n\nI began to close the book, but then I noticed the entry for January fifteenth: _7:40_ _A_ _._ _M_ _., Eastern flight #119_ , _West Palm Beach._ If I had gone to Florida on the morning of the fourteenth, Ferragamo and the FBI would eventually have discovered that by subpoenaing my daybook, or by other means. And John Sutter would be sharing a cell with Frank Bellarosa. But I was in the clear; _Home in_ _A_ _._ _M_ _._ The Sutter luck was holding. If I were Catholic, I would have crossed myself and said the Rosary. I put the book in my pocket.\n\nBellarosa said, \"You got someplace else to go?\"\n\n\"No. Just checking something.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Does it check out?\"\n\n\"Yes, it does.\"\n\n\"Good.'' He looked me in the eye. \" _Grazie_ ,'' he said, and that was all the thanks or acknowledgment I would ever get, and more than I wanted.\n\nBellarosa said, \"I want to take the women here with us at night. You'll like it at night. This old ginzo plays the little squeeze box''\u2014he pantomimed someone playing an accordion\u2014\"whaddaya call that? The concertina. And they got this old fat donna who sings like an angel. Your wife will love it.\"\n\nI asked, \"Are you safe to be with?\"\n\n\"Hey, what's this thing you got about that?'' He tapped his chest. \"If I'm the target, I'm the target. You think anybody gives a shit about you? Just don't get in the way and don't be looking at people's faces. _Capisce?_ '' He laughed and slapped my shoulder. \"You're funny.\"\n\n\"So are you.'' I knocked back another glass of that nectar of the gods and asked him, \"But how about the other people? The Spanish? The Jamaicans? Do they play by the rules?\"\n\nHe was chewing on olive pits now and spoke as he chewed. \"I'll tell you one rule they play by. They come into Little Italy to make a hit, there won't be a fucking black or Spanish left in New York. They understand that rule. Don't worry about them around here.\"\n\nI've always liked New York because of its ethnic diversity, this great American melting pot. _Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses_ . . . I've forgotten the rest of it. Maybe we've all forgotten it.\n\nBellarosa leaned toward me and said, \"As long as this stuff bothers you, you ever think about getting a gun permit?\"\n\n\"It's not on my 'must do' list, no.\"\n\n\"Well, if you're going to be around, you know, you should think about it.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nHe quoted, \"'Among other evils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised.' Who said that?\"\n\n\"Mother Teresa?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Come on. Machiavelli. Right?\n\n\"Right. Do I get combat pay?\"\n\n\"Sure. Hey, I owe you fifty large. Right?\"\n\n\"No. I don't want it.\"\n\n\"That don't matter. You got it.\"\n\nA waiter set down a platter of antipasto. There seemed to be no sequence to this meal, at least none that I could determine.\n\nBellarosa pointed to the items on the plate. \"That's prosciutto\u2014you know that stuff, right? This is _stracchino_ , and this is _taleggio._ This cheese here has worms in it, so I won't make you eat it.\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"Worms. Little worms. You know? They give the cheese a flavor. You don't eat the worms. You crumble the cheese like this and get the worms out. See? See that one?\"\n\nI stood. \"Where is the men's room?\"\n\nHe jerked his thumb over his shoulder. \"Back there.\"\n\nI walked to the men's room, a horrible little place, and washed my face and hands. _Worms?_\n\nThe door opened and Lenny came in. He stood at the sink beside me and combed his greasy hair. He asked me, \"You enjoyin' your lunch, Counselor?\"\n\n\"Shouldn't you be out there keeping an eye on the door?\"\n\n\"Vinnie got two eyes.'' He washed his hands. \"Fucking city. Everything's got dirt on it.'' He dried his hands on a towel roll that had dirt on it. \"You're the don's lawyer, so you're not wired. Correct?\"\n\n\"Wired? Are you out of your mind?\"\n\n\"No. Sometimes people got wires. Sometimes they come in the shitter to drop a wire, sometimes to pick up a wire. If I see people go to the shitter when they're talking to the don, I think wire, I think gun.\"\n\n\"I think you've been watching too much TV.\"\n\nHe chuckled. \"So? You mind?'' He held out his clean hands toward me.\n\nI stood there a moment, then nodded. The son of a bitch gave me a thorough frisking, then said, \"Okay. Just checking. Everybody got a job.\"\n\nI put a quarter on the sink. \"That's for you, Lenny. Good job.'' I left. Boy, I was really getting the hang of it now. I returned to the table and saw that the worm cheese had been removed from the antipasto.\n\nFrank said, \"Yeah. I got rid of that for you. You find the back'ouse okay?\"\n\n\"The what?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"The back house. Back'ouse, they say in Little Italy. From when it was out back. You know?\"\n\n\"Yes, I found it.'' I saw Lenny return to his table, glaring at me as he sat. I asked Bellarosa, \"Did you send him in to frisk me?\"\n\n\"Nah. He just does it. Look, I know Mancuso tried to get to you, and I trust you more than I trust a lot of my own people. But when I _know_ I'm talking to a guy who's clean, I feel better.\"\n\n\"Mr. Bellarosa, a lawyer cannot, may not, will not, act as an agent for the government against his own client.\"\n\n\"Yeah. But maybe you're writing a book.'' He laughed. \"Fuck it. Let's eat. Here. This is called _manteche._ No worms.'' He put a piece of the cheese on a biscuit he called _frisalle_ and held it near my mouth. \"Come on. Try that.\"\n\nI tried it. It wasn't bad. I sipped some Chianti and popped a black olive in my mouth. These people dined out differently from what I was used to. For instance, none of the previous plates had been cleared, and Bellarosa returned to his fried squid.\n\nI said to him, \"Mancuso told me you once beat one of your men with a pipe and broke every bone in his body.\"\n\nHe looked up from his squid. \"Yeah? Why'd he tell you that? What's he trying to do? He trying to make me sound like a bad guy?\"\n\n\"Well, that certainly didn't show you in the best light.\"\n\n\"Mancuso should learn how to keep his fucking mouth shut.\"\n\n\"The issue is not Mancuso, Frank. The issue is you beating a man with a pipe.\"\n\n\"That's not an issue.'' He pulled apart some bread and dipped it in the red sauce as he spoke. \"When you're young, you sometimes do things you don't want to do, but got to do. I wasn't the boss when that thing happened. The boss was a guy who you'd know. He's dead now. But when he said to me, 'Frank, you got to do this or you got to do that,' I did it. _Capisce?_ \"\n\nI didn't reply.\n\n\"Just like in the army or in the church. You follow orders. I give the orders now, and I don't like the rough stuff. Times are changing. Not everybody wants to get into this business anymore. You got to treat your people better.\"\n\n\"At least offer them Blue Cross and Blue Shield.\"\n\nHe thought that was funny. \"Yeah. If you break their legs, they're covered. Yeah. Blue Cross.\"\n\nThere was no reason to pursue the bone-smashing incident; it was only important that he knew that I knew about his peculiar managerial style. In truth, there were times when I would have liked to beat my partners with a lead pipe, but that would only give them an excuse to do the same to me. And that made me think of Signor Niccol\u00f2 Machiavelli. I said to Frank, \"An enemy must either be caressed or annihilated.\"\n\nHe looked up from his food. \"Yeah. That's the problem with pissing somebody off, Counselor. I'm happy you understand that. In my business, you treat people with respect or you put them away. Now that thing with the pipe, for instance, that was not a good idea. That was one pissed-off _paesano_ , so when he was feeling better again, I knew I had to settle that. You know? He had to be caressed or annihilated. You don't leave people around like that with vendettas against you.\"\n\n\"So you bought him dinner and gave him a raise.\"\n\n\"Yeah.'' He thought a moment, then added, \"I'll tell you the main thing that's wrong with what the priests teach you\u2014the main thing wrong with religion. It's the bullshit about turning the other cheek. You do that and everybody's gonna take a pop at your face. But sometimes you got to take a hit. Like with Ferragamo. There's not a fucking thing I can do to him. All I can do is make sure there's not a fucking thing he can do to me. Understand? And if you can't get rid of a guy, you don't piss him off, even if he's on your case.\"\n\n\"But you piss Ferragamo off just by being alive.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Yeah. That's _his_ problem. But _you_ piss him off by smart-assing him.\"\n\n\"So what? There's not a thing he can do to me.\"\n\n\"Maybe yes, maybe no. So maybe he comes after your friends. Maybe you want to give him a call and discuss the case. He would like you to do that. He would like you to show a little respect.\"\n\n\"The man is an asshole, Frank, and everybody in New York knows it.\"\n\n\"That's why he needs all the respect he can get.\"\n\nWe both laughed at that one. Bellarosa said, \"Hey, maybe the son of a bitch will be the Governor someday, or even the President. Be nice to him. He'll make you the Attorney General.\"\n\nIn fact, by taking Mr. Frank Bellarosa as a client, I would never be considered for any public office. Not that I want to be a judge or to run for the State Assembly or anything like that, but in the back of every lawyer's mind is that possibility. I was once elected to the Lattingtown Village Board, but after this fiasco, I would be well-advised to stay out of public life for a decade or so.\n\nFrank said, \"So maybe you'll call him. I'll give you his private number.\"\n\nI looked at him. \"Frank, he's not going to drop any charges against you after today.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I know that. I'm not talking about that. I thought you understood.\"\n\n\"You mean, you want me to apologize to him?\"\n\n\"You don't have to say, 'Mr. Ferragamo, I'm sorry I made you look like an asshole and a fool.' In fact, you don't mention that. You just talk to him about the case with respect. He'll forgive you, because he's an asshole. _Capisce?_ \"\n\nHere was a client who wanted me to call the prosecution\u2014not to try to make a deal or plea bargain, but to apologize for beating his pants off in court. _Mamma mia_ , I don't remember any of this from Harvard Law. I replied, \"I'll call him. And I'll be respectful toward his office.\"\n\n\"There you go. Sometimes assholes hold important positions. You think every Caesar was a bright guy? Whaddaya gonna do? You got to deal with it.'' He poured more wine. \"Ready for your pasta?\"\n\nWe'd been there an hour already, and I had consumed a lot of food, mostly bread, cheese, and olives, which were the only edible things served so far. Also the Chianti was working its way through my duodenum. I said, \"I'll pass on pasta.\"\n\n\"No. You have pasta. They have _lingue de passero_ here\u2014the sparrow's tongue.\"\n\n\"Can I get meatballs instead?\"\n\n\"It's not real sparrow tongue. It's the name of the pasta. You think we eat sparrow's tongue?\"\n\n\"You eat worms, Frank, and sheep's brains.\"\n\n\"You don't eat the worms. You'll have sparrow's tongue. It comes from a little town called Faro San Martino in Abruzzo\u2014the province of Brutus. That's where my wife's family is from. They're very thickheaded there. But they have magnificent pasta.'' He put his thumb and forefinger to his lips and kissed. \" _Magnifico_. And we're gonna have it with the _puttanesca_ sauce. The whore's sauce.\"\n\n\"Say again?\"\n\n\"Whore. Whore. I don't know why they call it that. Maybe because it's got anchovies in it.'' He laughed. \"You understand?\"\n\n\"I believe I do.\"\n\nHe raised a finger and a waiter appeared. Bellarosa made a sweeping motion with his hand, and the waiter snapped his fingers, and two busboys hurried over and cleared away round one.\n\nI settled back in my chair and had some water. I noticed that the Wall Street types had left, and so had some of the local tradesmen. But the old men stayed on, sipping wine or coffee. Also still present were the men who looked like Frank. Obviously, there were two kinds of lunches served here: American Italian and Italian Italian.\n\nFrank stood and excused himself but did not head for the back'ouse. Instead, he walked to a table where four men in dark suits sat. They greeted him cordially but with obvious reserve. I watched as a waiter ran over with a wineglass and one of the men poured Bellarosa some Chianti. They all touched glasses and I heard them mumble, \" _Salute_.'' They drank, then they all hunched forward over the table and said grace. Well, maybe not.\n\nGood Lord, I thought, these people really exist. I mean, right there, not twenty feet away, were five mafiosi drinking wine in a restaurant in Little Italy. I was sorry I hadn't brought my video camera. Look, kids, here's Daddy having lunch with a Mafia don. Now the don is walking over to talk to his mobster friends. See? Okay, the camera's swinging around to those two men near the door. See them? They're bodyguards. See the door? Close-up of the door. Okay, back to the table with the Mafia men.\n\nI watched them, sans video camera. They all talked with their hands. One of them made a motion as if he were pushing something down into the table, another one touched his forefinger to his right eye, Bellarosa tapped the tips of his fingers on the table, and another guy flicked his thumb under his chin. One thing they didn't do with their hands, however, was to point at or touch one another.\n\nI noticed, too, that their expressions were for the most part stoic, sort of that Mafia poker face that Frank put on when he walked in here. But now and then their eyes or their mouths would convey something without revealing anything.\n\nI had no idea what was being discussed, of course, but I assumed that Bellarosa was telling them about his morning. Maybe they knew about the arrest by now, if it was on the radio or if they had another source of information. In any event, they would be interested in the outcome of his court appearance. The fact that he was in Giulio's was a point in his favor regarding any rumors floating around town that he was making deals with Alphonse Ferragamo.\n\nThe other order of business would be the Juan Carranza problem. By now, I could actually imagine a conversation among these people. Frank was saying something like, \"We gotta stick together on this Carranza thing. Okay? We don't want a bunch of spics making us do things we don't wanna do. Right? And we don't want the fucking Feds to start something between us. You know? I don't wanna see no Italian blood spilled over a bunch of spics. Agreed? We don't want to hurt business, so if we gotta go to the mattresses with these spics, we hit them hard and fast. Understand? We don't make no separate deals with spics, chinks, _melanzane_ , Feds, DAs, or nobody. _Capisce?_ \"\n\nHow's that? The scary thing is that four months ago, if I'd heard that conversation, I wouldn't have understood half of it. Now I could make it up. _Madonn_ '. What was happening to me? I didn't know, but it was interesting.\n\nI regarded Lenny and Vinnie at their nice table for two in the corner. They hadn't had any alcohol as far as I could see, but they were puffing up a smoke screen and drinking cup after cup of coffee. The Italians seem to have the capacity to sit for hours at a table, talking and consuming things. Lenny and Vinnie seemed content doing nothing except sitting and watching the door. But I guess watching the door was about as important a job as there was in Giulio's at the moment. Both of them, I noticed, were also watching the remaining clientele, especially the four men with Frank. But the lingerers in the restaurant all seemed to be known by the waiters and ma\u00eetre d', and I thought it was unlikely that one of them would suddenly stand up and start blasting away. No, it was the door that had to be watched. So, to help Vinnie and Lenny, I watched the door, too.\n\nAfter about fifteen minutes, Frank returned to our table. \"I'm sorry, Counselor. I had some business there.\"\n\n\"No problem.\"\n\nThe pasta came and Frank dug right in. \"Whaddaya think? Smell like a whore's pussy? Yes? No?\"\n\n\"No comment.\"\n\nI picked at the pasta, which I guess did resemble little sparrow tongues. Actually, it was quite good, including the fishy sauce, but I was stuffed.\n\nBellarosa tore off a piece of bread and actually stuck it in my dish. \"Here, dunk. Don't be shy.\"\n\nI don't even like it when Susan takes food off my plate. But I took the bread from him and ate it.\n\nI glanced at my watch. \"Do you want to call your wife?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Later.\"\n\n\"Maybe we should let her know you're out on bail.\"\n\n\"She's okay.\"\n\n\"She was upset after you left.\"\n\n\"Yeah? I told her to stay upstairs. You see? They don't fucking listen anymore.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, a call\u2014\"\n\n\"What made you think of my wife? The _puttanesca_ sauce?'' He laughed. \"Is that what made you think of calling my wife?\"\n\nI wasn't going to touch that one. I played around with the pasta and sipped the wine.\n\nBellarosa finished his pasta and spilled some of mine onto his plate, commenting, \"You're not eating. You don't like it?\"\n\n\"I'm stuffed.'' I glanced at my watch. It was two-thirty. I informed Bellarosa, \"I told your wife I'd have you home this afternoon.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Why? I told you, we got to stay around here. I got more people to talk to. I want you to say something to the newspeople later. We got a nice big suite at the Plaza. We'll hang around town for a few days.\"\n\n\"A few days?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Frank, I have a business, appointments\u2014\"\n\n\"What can I tell ya? The shit hit the fan, Counselor. I'll make it up to you.\"\n\nActually, I had no appointments and nearly no business left to worry about. And for fifty large, I could stick around for a few days.\n\nFrank took the rest of my pasta. \"Yeah, we'll send home for some clothes. Your wife will pack some things for you.\"\n\n\"Will she?\"\n\n\"Sure. That's what wives are for.\"\n\nNot my wife, goombah.\n\nHe waved his hands over the plates as if he wanted them to go away by themselves, but a waiter popped up out of the floor and whisked them away.\n\nAnother waiter brought two plain salads. Frank said, \"Clean your palate.'' He sprinkled oil and vinegar over his greens and tomatoes, then did the same for me. \"Eat,'' he said.\n\nI poked at the salad.\n\n\"Eat it. The vinegar helps you digest.\"\n\n\"What does the oil do?\"\n\n\"Helps you shit. _Mangia_.\"\n\nThe salad I could handle, but I said, \"Don't order any more food for me.\"\n\n\"You have to have the main course. What did you come here for?'' Bellarosa called over the waiter. They discussed the main course in Italian, then Bellarosa turned to me. \"Whaddaya like? Veal? Chicken? Pork? Fish?\"\n\n\"Sheep's head.\"\n\n\"Yeah?'' He said something to the waiter and I heard the word _capozella._ They both laughed. He turned to me. \"They got a special chicken dish here. Nice and light. Okay? We'll share it.\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\nBellarosa ordered, then turned back to me. \"This dumb wop walks into a pizzeria, you know, and says to the guy, 'I want a whole pizza.' And the guy says, 'You want it cut in eight pieces or twelve?' And the dumb wop says, 'Twelve, I'm really hungry.'\" Bellarosa laughed. \"Twelve slices. I'm really hungry. Get it?\"\n\n\"I think so.\"\n\n\"Tell me one.\"\n\n\"Okay. This Wasp walks into Brooks Brothers, you know, and he says to the guy, 'How much is that three-piece pinstripe suit?' And the guy says, 'Six hundred dollars.' And the Wasp says, 'Fine, I'll take it.'\" I went back to my salad.\n\nBellarosa let a few seconds pass, then said, \"That's it? That's the joke? That's not funny.\"\n\n\"That's the point.\"\n\n\"What's the point?\"\n\n\"Wasps aren't funny.\"\n\nHe processed that a moment, then said. \"You're funny.\"\n\n\"No one else thinks so.\"\n\nHe shrugged.\n\nWe drank awhile, and the nice little chicken dish came, and it was enough to feed half the dining room in The Creek. Bellarosa spooned the stuff onto two plates. \"This is called _pollo scarpariello._ Say it.\"\n\n\" _Pollo . . . scarp . . ._ \"\n\n\" _Scarpariello._ Chicken, shoemaker style. Maybe a shoemaker invented it. Maybe they make it with old shoes.\"\n\nI turned over a piece of meat with my fork. \"What part of the chicken is that?\"\n\n\"That's sausage. You make it with sausage, too. It's saut\u00e9ed in oil and garlic, with mushrooms.\"\n\n\"That does sound light.\"\n\n\"Eat it. Here, try this. This is escarole with more oil and garlic. The garlic gets that pussy smell outa your mouth. Here. You got to try everything.\"\n\nI called the waiter over. \"Bring me a bottle of that water with the bubbles in it and a glass of ice.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nHe brought a green bottle that was labeled Pellegrino, and I made a mental note of it for the future. I poured and drank three glasses of the sparkling water while Frank ate the chicken and sausage.\n\nIt was nearly three-thirty but the place was not completely empty. Frank's four friends had left, but a few old men sat around with coffee and newspapers. Two old guys were actually snoozing. Vinnie and Lenny were still drinking coffee and smoking.\n\nThe door opened, and I instinctively tensed. A man entered, about fifty years old, wearing a dark gray suit and sunglasses. Behind him was a younger man whose eyes darted around the tables. I poked Bellarosa's arm and he followed my gaze to the door. I glanced at Vinnie and Lenny and saw they were on the case. The two men who had come in were aware of Bellarosa's bodyguards and didn't make any abrupt movements, but just stood there near the front door looking at Bellarosa and me. The waiters stood still, staring at their shoes. The few old men in the place gave the two intruders a glance, then went back to their coffee and newspapers.\n\nFrank stood and stepped away from the table, and the man with the sunglasses took them off and came toward Bellarosa. They met in the middle of the restaurant and embraced, but I could see it was more a demonstration of respect than affection.\n\nFrank and his buddy sat at an empty table. The man's partner, or bodyguard or whatever, took a seat with Vinnie and Lenny at their suggestion. I turned my attention back to Bellarosa and his _paesano._ If you watched these people long enough, you could figure out the pecking order. Whereas Frank the Bishop Bellarosa seemed to have no peers this side of Augustus Caesar, this man who had just come in was close. The man had lit Bellarosa's cigarette, but he did it in such a way as to suggest that he didn't like doing it and might not do it again. Bellarosa, for his part, purposely blew smoke at the man. They were both smiling, but I wouldn't want anyone to smile at me like that.\n\nThe conversation lasted five minutes, then the man patted Bellarosa's shoulder as if he were congratulating him on getting out of the slammer. They both stood, embraced again, and the man left with his friend.\n\nThe waiters reappeared. I relaxed a bit, but I noticed that Lenny and Vinnie had their eyes glued to the door.\n\nFrank sat down across from me. \"That was a guy who used to work for me.\"\n\n\"The guy whose bones you broke?\"\n\n\"No. Another guy.\"\n\n\"He looked familiar. Is his picture in the papers sometimes?\"\n\n\"Sometimes.\"\n\nI could see that Frank Bellarosa was a bit distracted. Obviously, that man had said something that upset my client. But whatever it was, I would probably never know about it.\n\nIt was apparent to me, however, that don Bellarosa was doing some politicking, some public relations on his own behalf, and that he had more personal appearances to make. I had the sense, too, that this was galling to him, but he was going to do it just the same. He might not compromise or make deals with the law or with blacks or Hispanics or with women. But he had to deal with his own kind, and he had to do it with just the right balance of force and respect.\n\nBellarosa seemed to have come out of his pensive mood and he said to me, \"Hey, you drink cappuccino, espresso, or American?\"\n\n\"American.\"\n\nHe signaled a waiter and gave an order. The coffee came and behind it was a man carrying a tray of pastry. _Mamma mia_ , I couldn't even swallow my own saliva anymore. But good old Frank, playing both host and waiter, insisted on describing each of the pastries before asking me to pick two for myself. There was no use declining, so I picked two, and he told me I didn't want those two and picked two others for me.\n\nI nibbled at the pastry, which was good enough to find room for, and I also got my coffee down. We chatted with Patsy, with Lucio and his wife, and with a few of the waiters. Everyone seemed happy that the meal was coming to a bloodless conclusion. Patsy smiled at me. \"You like everything?\"\n\n\"Very good.\"\n\n\"You come back for dinner. Okay?\"\n\n\"Sure will.\"\n\nLucio and his wife were not smooth like Patsy, but I tried to draw them out. \"How long have you owned this place?\"\n\nLucio replied, \"It was my father's restaurant, and his father's restaurant.\"\n\n\"Your grandfather was Giulio?\"\n\n\"Yes. He came from the other side and opened his restaurant, right here.'' He pointed to the floor.\n\n\"In what year?\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"I don't know. Maybe 1900.\"\n\nI nodded. A real slick entrepreneur would have made the most of that: _Giulio's; family-owned on Mott Street since 1899._ (The last century always sounds better.) But I had the impression that Lucio was concerned only with the day's fare and his customers' satisfaction a meal at a time. Maybe that's why he was successful, like his father and his father's father.\n\nThe chef came out, complete with apron and chef 's hat, which he removed prior to bowing to the don. Good Lord, you would have thought Bellarosa was a movie star or nobility. Actually, he was even more important than that; he was mafioso, and these people, mostly from Sicily and Naples, I suspected, had good ancestral memories.\n\nWe chatted a minute longer. They all could not have been friendlier, but nevertheless I felt a bit out of place, though not uncomfortable. Lucio and company could tell, of course, that I was an important person, but not an important Italian person. I felt actually like an American tourist in Italy.\n\nFrank stood and I stood, and the chairs were pulled away for us. Everyone was grinning wider as they held their breaths. A minute more and they could all collapse on the floor.\n\nI realized that the only thing missing from this meal was the bill. But then Frank took a wad of cash from his pants pocket and began throwing fifties around the table. He hit the chef with a fifty, Patsy with a fifty, and three waiters with a fifty each. He even called over two young busboys and slipped them each a tenner. The man knew how to take care of people. We all bid each other _buon giorno_ and _ciao._\n\nLenny was already gone, and Vinnie was outside checking the street. I saw Lenny pull the Cadillac up in front of the restaurant, and Vinnie opened the rear car door while we were still inside the restaurant. Vinnie motioned through the glass door, and it was only then that Bellarosa exited the restaurant. I was right behind him but not too close. He slid into the backseat and I got in beside him. Vinnie jumped into the front and Lenny pulled quickly away. And this guy wanted to take the wives here? Get serious, Frank.\n\nBut maybe he was just taking normal precautions. I mean, maybe even when peace reigned in the regions of the underworld, Frank Bellarosa was just a careful man. Maybe I _would_ take Susan here with the Bellarosas. Couldn't hurt. Right?\n\nWe traveled south on Mott Street, which is one-way like all of the narrow streets in the old part of Manhattan.\n\nFrank said to Lenny, \"Plaza Hotel.\"\n\nLenny cut west on Canal and swung north on Mulberry, driving through the heart of Little Italy. Bellarosa stared out the window awhile, recharging his Italian psyche. I wasn't sure, but I suspected that he did not walk these streets freely; that like a celebrity, he saw most of the world through tinted car-windows. Somehow I felt sorry for him.\n\nHe turned to me and said, \"I've been thinking. Maybe you had enough of this shit.\"\n\nMaybe I did. Maybe I didn't. I didn't reply.\n\nHe went on, \"You did what I needed you to do. You got me sprung. You know? Jack Weinstein can take over from here. He knows how to deal with those scumbags in the U.S. Attorney's office.\"\n\n\"It's up to you, Frank.\"\n\n\"Yeah. This could get messy. You got a nice law practice, you got a nice family. You got friends. People are gonna bust your balls. You and your wife go take a nice vacation someplace.\"\n\nWhat a nice man. I wondered what he was up to. I said, \"It's your decision, Frank.\"\n\n\"No, it's your decision now. I don't want you to feel pressured. No problem either way. You want, I'll drop you off at the train station. You go home.\"\n\nI guess it was time for me to bail out or take an oath of loyalty. The man was a manipulator. But I already knew that. I said, \"Maybe you're right. You don't need me anymore.\"\n\nHe patted my shoulder. \"Right. I don't need you. I _like_ you.\"\n\nJust when I think I've got this guy figured out, I don't. So we went to the Plaza Hotel.\n\nWhat I didn't know was that half the Mafia in New York were going to show up that night.\n\n**_Twenty-nine_**\n\nThe Plaza is my favorite hotel in New York, and I was glad that Frank and I shared the same taste in something, since I was apparently going to be there awhile.\n\nWe checked into a large three-bedroom suite overlooking Central Park. The staff seemed to appreciate who we were\u2014or who Bellarosa was\u2014but they were not as obvious about it as the _paesanos_ at Giulio's, and no one seemed particularly nervous.\n\nFrank Bellarosa, Vinnie Adamo, Lenny Patrelli, and John Whitman Sutter sat in the spacious living room of the suite. Room service delivered coffee and sambuca, and Pellegrino water for me (which I discovered is an antidote for Italian overindulgence). By now it was twenty minutes to five, and I assumed we all wanted to catch the five-o'clock news on television. I said to Frank, \"Do you want to call your wife before five?\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah.'' He picked up the telephone on the end table and dialed. \"Anna? Oh . . .'' He chuckled. \"How you doin' there? Didn't recognize your voice. Yeah. I'm okay. I'm in the Plaza.\"\n\nHe listened for a few seconds, then said, \"Yeah. Out on bail. No big deal. Your husband did a terrific job.'' He winked at me, then listened a bit more and said, \"Yeah, well, we went for a little lunch, saw some people. First chance I had to call. . . . No, don't wake her. Let her sleep. I'll call later.'' He listened again, then said, \"Yeah. He's here with me.'' He nodded his head while my wife spoke to him, then said to her, \"You want to talk to him?'' Bellarosa glanced at me, then said into the phone, \"Okay. Maybe he'll talk to you later. Listen, we got to stay here a few days. . . . Yeah. Pack some stuff for him, and tell Anna I want my blue suit and gray suit, the ones I had made in Rome. . . . Yeah. And shirts, ties, underwear, and stuff. Give everything to Anthony and let him send somebody here with it. Tonight. Okay?. . . . Turn the news on. See what they got to say, but don't believe a word of it. . . . Yeah.'' He laughed, then listened. \"Yeah. . . . Okay. . . . Okay. . . . See you later.'' He hung up, then almost as an afterthought, he said to me, \"Your wife sends her love.\"\n\n_To whom?_\n\nThere was a knock on the door, and Vinnie jumped up and disappeared into the foyer. Lenny drew his pistol and held it in his lap. Presently, a room service waiter appeared wheeling a table on which was a bottle of champagne, a cheese board, and a bowl of fruit. The waiter said, \"Compliments of the manager, sir.\"\n\nBellarosa motioned to Vinnie, who tipped the waiter, who bowed and backed out. Bellarosa said to me, \"You want some champagne?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You wanna call your wife back and tell her what you need?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I'll dial it for you. Here . . .'' He picked up the telephone. \"You go in your room for privacy. Here, I'll get her.\"\n\n\"Later, Frank. Hang up.\"\n\nHe shrugged and hung up the phone.\n\nVinnie turned on the television to the five-o'clock news. I hadn't expected a lead story, but there was the anchorman, Jeff Jones, saying, \"Our top story, Frank Bellarosa, reputed head of the largest of New York's five crime families, was arrested at his palatial Long Island mansion early this morning by the FBI. Bellarosa was charged in a sealed sixteen-count federal indictment in the murder of Juan Carranza, an alleged Colombian drug lord who was killed in a mob-style rubout on the Garden State Parkway on January fourteenth of this year.\"\n\nJeff Jones went on, reading the news off the teleprompter as if it were all news to him. Where do they get these guys? Jones said, \"And in a startling development, Judge Sarah Rosen released Bellarosa on five million dollars' bail after the reputed gang leader's attorney, John Sutter, offered himself as an alibi witness for his client.\"\n\nJones babbled on a bit about this. I wondered if Susan recalled the morning of January fourteenth. It didn't matter if she did or not, since I knew she would cover me so I could cover Frank Bellarosa. Oh, what tangled webs we weave, and so forth. Mr. Salem taught me that in sixth grade.\n\nJeff Jones was saying now, \"We have Barry Freeman live at Frank Bellarosa's Long Island estate. Barry?\"\n\nThe scene flashed to Alhambra's gates, and Barry Freeman said, \"This is the home of Frank Bellarosa. Many of the estates here on Long Island's Gold Coast have names, and this house, sitting on two hundred acres of trees, meadows, and gardens, is called Alhambra. And here at the main gates of the estate is the guard booth\u2014there behind me\u2014which is actually a gatehouse in which live two, maybe more of Bellarosa's bodyguards.\"\n\nThe camera panned in on the gatehouse and Freeman said, \"We've pushed the buzzer outside there and we've hollered and shaken the gates, but no one wants to talk to us.\"\n\nThe camera's telescopic lens moved in, up the long driveway, and the screen was filled with a fuzzy picture of the main house. Freeman said, \"In this mansion lives Frank the Bishop Bellarosa and his wife, Anna.\"\n\nI heard Frank's voice say, \"What the fuck's this got to do with anything?\"\n\nFreeman went on for a while, describing the lifestyle of the rich and infamous resident of Alhambra. Freeman said, \"Bellarosa is known to his friends and to the media as Dandy Don.\"\n\nBellarosa said, \"Nobody better call me that to my face.\"\n\nVinnie and Lenny chuckled. Clearly they were excited about their boss's television fame.\n\nThe scene now flashed back to Freeman, who said, \"We've asked a few residents on this private road about the man who is their neighbor, but no one has any comment.'' He continued, \"We don't think the don has returned home from Manhattan yet, so we're waiting here at his gate to see if we can speak to him when he does.\"\n\nBellarosa commented, \"You got a long wait, asshole.\"\n\nBarry Freeman said, \"Back to you, Jeff.\"\n\nThe anchor, Jeff Jones, said, \"Thanks, Barry, and we'll get right back to you if Frank Bellarosa shows up. Meanwhile, this was the scene this morning at the Federal Courthouse in lower Manhattan. Jenny Alvarez reports.\"\n\nThe screen showed the videotape of that morning: Frank Bellarosa and John Sutter making their way down the steps of the courthouse as savage reporters yelled questions at us. My blue Herm\u00e8s tie looked sort of aqua on camera, and my hair was a bit messy, but my expression was a lawyerly one of quiet optimism. I noticed now that the snippy female reporter who had given me a hard time on the lower steps was on my case even then as we first left the courthouse, but she hadn't really registered in my mind at the time. I saw, too, by her microphone, that the station I was watching was her station. I guess that was Jenny Alvarez. She was yelling at me, \"Mr. Sutter? Mr. Sutter? Mr. Sutter?\"\n\nObviously, she had been fascinated by me the moment she laid eyes on me. Actually, she wasn't bad-looking herself.\n\nBut neither Frank nor I had said much as we descended the steps, and the scene shifted to the lower steps where we got stuck for a while. And there was Great Caesar, with the majestic classical columns of the courthouse behind him, puffing on his stogie, wisecracking and hamming it up for the cameras. I hadn't noticed when I was there, but from the camera's perspective, I could see a line of federal marshals on the top steps of the courthouse, including my buddy, Wyatt Earp.\n\nFrank commented to the three of us, \"I gotta lose some weight. Look how that jacket's pulling.\"\n\nVinnie said, \"You look great, boss.\"\n\nLenny agreed, \"Terrific. Fuckin'-ay-terrific.\"\n\nIt was my turn. \"You could drop ten pounds.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Maybe it's just the suit.\"\n\nI turned my attention back to the television. You could hear a few questions and a few answers, but mostly it was just entertainment, a street happening, impromptu theater. Then, however, Ms. Snippy's cameraman got a close-up of her bugging me again. \"Mr. Sutter, Mr. Ferragamo has five witnesses who put Frank Bellarosa at the scene of the murder. Are you saying they're all liars? Or are _you_ the liar?\"\n\nAnd stupid John replied, \"Ferragamo's witnesses are liars, and he _knows_ they are liars. This whole thing is a frame-up, a personal vendetta against my client, and an attempt to start trouble between\u2014\"\n\n\"Trouble between who?'' asked Ms. Snippy. \"Rival mobs?\"\n\nAnd so it went.\n\nFrank didn't say anything, but I had the feeling he wished this wasn't going out over the air to Little Italy, Little Colombia, Little Jamaica, Chinatown, and other quaint little neighborhoods where exotic people with big grudges, big guns, and extreme paranoia might decide to engage in what was called a drug-related murder.\n\nI turned my attention back to the television. The classical columns and crowded steps of the courthouse were gone, and the background was now gray stone. And there was Ms. Alvarez live, apparently recently returned from her engagement in lower Manhattan. In fact, she had changed from the morning's neat suit and was now wearing a clingy, red fuck-me dress and holding a bulbous phallic symbol to her lips. But did she put it in her mouth? No. She spoke into it. \"And this is Stanhope Hall. Or at least its walls and towering gates. And over there, right behind the gates, is the gatehouse where an old woman tried to shoo us away a little while ago.\"\n\nFunny, but I hadn't recognized the place at first. It was odd that you could sometimes believe in the imagist world of television, but when the person or place was someone or something you knew personally, it didn't look real; the perspective was wrong, the colors were off. The very diminution of size made the person or place nearly unrecognizable. But there it was: the gateway to Stanhope Hall on television.\n\nMs. Alvarez did ten seconds of travelogue, then said, \"You can't see the fifty-room mansion from here, but in that mansion live John Whitman Sutter and Susan Stanhope Sutter.\"\n\nThis was not at all accurate, of course. Susan _had_ lived in the mansion once, but had stepped down in the world. I'll write to Ms. Alvarez.\n\nAnyway, Jenny Alvarez went on about blue bloods, high society, Susan's parentage, and all that nonsense, then she came to the point, which was, \"Why would John Sutter, a respected and successful attorney with the old Wall Street firm of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, with rich and powerful friends and clients, defend Frank the Bishop Bellarosa on a charge of murder? What is the connection between these two men, between these two families? Did John Sutter, in fact, see Frank Bellarosa on the morning of January fourteenth when Alphonse Ferragamo charges that Bellarosa murdered Juan Carranza in New Jersey? Is that why Sutter chose to take on this case? Or is there more to it?\"\n\nThere's more to it, Ms. Snippy.\n\nBellarosa asked, \"Where'd they get all that shit on you, Counselor?\"\n\n\"I handed out press kits on myself.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"Just kidding, Frank.\"\n\nMs. Alvarez was still at it. Where she got all that shit was from Mr. Mancuso and\/or Mr. Ferragamo. This was called payback time, aka \"Fuck you, Sutter.'' Thanks, boys.\n\nFrank Bellarosa said, half jokingly, \"Hey, who's the fucking star of this show? Me or you? I didn't know you were a big shot.\"\n\nI stood and walked toward my bedroom.\n\n\"Where you goin'?\"\n\n\"The back'ouse.\"\n\n\"Can't you hold it? You're gonna miss this.\"\n\n\"I won't miss it at all.'' I went into my bedroom and into the bathroom. I peeled off my jacket and washed my hands and face. \"Good Lord . . .'' Well, aside from my personal reasons for being here, the fact remained that Frank Bellarosa was not guilty of the murder of Juan Carranza. \"Not guilty,'' I said aloud. \"Not guilty.\"\n\nI looked in the mirror and held eye contact with myself. \"You fucked up, Sutter. Oh, you really fucked up this time, Golden Boy. Come on, admit it.\"\n\n\"No,'' I replied, \"I did what I had to do. What I wanted to do. This is a growing experience, John. A learning experience. I feel fine.\"\n\n\"Tell me that in a week or two.\"\n\nI am the only man I know who can get the best of me in an argument, so I turned away before I said something I'd regret.\n\nI dropped my clothes on the bathroom floor and stepped into the shower. Oh, that felt good. The three best things in life are steak, showers, and sex. I let the water cascade over my tired body.\n\nBy tomorrow morning, this story would be spread all over the newspapers. The _Daily News_ , New York's premier chronicle of the Mafia, would headline it, and so would the _Post. USA Today_ would give it some play, and the _Wall Street Journal_ , while not seeing any real news value to the story per se, would report it. My fear there was that they would decide that the story was not Frank Bellarosa, but John Sutter of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. In fact, they might massacre me. Woe is me.\n\nAnd by tomorrow morning, anyone in Lattingtown, Locust Valley, or the other Gold Coast communities who had missed the story in the above-mentioned newspapers, or missed it on the radio, or somehow missed it on New York's dozen or so TV news shows, could read it in the local Long Island newspaper, _Newsday_ , with special emphasis on the local boy, John Sutter. I saw the headline: GOLD COAST TWIT IN DEEP SHIT. Well, maybe not in those words. But _Newsday_ was a left-of-center sort of publication in a heavily Republican county, and they delighted in being antagonistic toward the nearly extinct gentry. They would have fun with this one.\n\nI tried to imagine how this would sit with my partners, my staff, and my two secretaries when they discovered that Mr. Sutter had expanded the scope of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds into criminal law. As the water flowed over my head, I had this mental image of my mother and father flipping through the _International Herald Tribune_ , somewhere in darkest Europe, looking for depressing stories of famine and political repression, and stumbling upon an odd little article about Mr. Frank Bellarosa, Mafia gang leader in New York. Mother would say, \"Isn't that the fellow who lives next to our son, what's-his-name?'' And Father would reply, \"Yes, I believe . . . well, look, here is a mention of John Sutter. That must be our John.'' And Mother would say, \"It must be. Did I tell you about that darling little caf\u00e9 I saw yesterday in Montmartre?\"\n\nOf course my friends at The Creek would be somewhat more interested. I pictured Lester, Martin Vandermeer, Randall Potter, Allen DePauw, and a few others sitting around the lounge, nodding knowingly, or perhaps shaking their heads in stunned disbelief, or doing whatever they thought everyone else thought was appropriate, and Lester would say, \"If only John had had more strength of character. I feel sorry for Susan and the kids.\"\n\nJim and Sally Roosevelt, though, were real friends, and nonjudgmental people. I could count on them to tell me straight out what they thought and felt about me. Therefore, I would avoid them for about a month.\n\nThen there were my relatives, my aunts and uncles such as Cornelia and Arthur, and my too many cousins, and their spouses, and the whole crew of silly people I had to associate with because of things like Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, weddings, and funerals. Well, Thanksgiving was three months away, I didn't know about any upcoming weddings, and no one seemed about to croak (though after today I wouldn't be surprised if Aunt Cornelia did). And if they all snubbed me, I wouldn't care one whit, but they were more likely to pester me for details of my secret life as a Mafia mouthpiece.\n\nAnd of course, there were Carolyn and Edward. I was glad I'd tipped them off about this, so when they heard it from other sources, they could say, \"Yes, we know all about that. We support our father in whatever he does.'' What great kids. Anyway, I guessed that Carolyn would be outwardly cool, but inwardly worried. That girl keeps everything in. Edward would start a scrapbook. But I'm not concerned about the judgment of children, my own included.\n\nAs for my sister, Emily, she had passed through her own midlife rejection of upper-middle-class values and had already reached the other side. I knew she would be there waiting for me when I arrived at my destination, and bless her, she wouldn't want to know anything about my journey, only that I'd made it.\n\nEthel Allard. Now there was a tough call. If I had to put major money on that, I would say she was secretly pleased that another blue blood had been exposed as morally corrupt. Especially me, since she could never find a chink in my shining armor. I mean, I never beat my wife (except at her own suggestion), I didn't owe money to tradesmen, didn't use the gatehouse to screw women, I went to church, hardly ever got drunk, and I treated her reasonably well. \"But,'' she would ask, \"what good have you done lately, Mr. John Sutter?'' Not much, Ethel. Oh, well.\n\nI'm only glad that George isn't alive to see this, for surely it would have killed him. And if it didn't, he would have annoyed me with his superior and disapproving attitude, and I would have killed him myself.\n\nBut, you know, there's a bright spot even in a pile of horse manure. For instance, the Reverend Mr. Hunnings would be secretly and sneeringly happy that I was shown up for what I was: a gangster groupie who probably dealt drugs to support his alcohol habit. And I liked the idea that he was probably happy. I was happy that he was happy. I couldn't wait to get to church next Sunday to put my envelope in the collection plate with a thousand dollars in it.\n\nThen there were the women; Sally Grace Roosevelt, for one, who had found Susan's description of don Bellarosa so interesting. And there was Beryl Carlisle, who I was sure now would peel off her damp pants the moment I walked into the room. And there were women like the delicious Terri, who would take me a little more seriously after this.\n\nAh, we're getting a little closer to the crux of this matter, you say. Perhaps. Let's discuss Charlotte and William Stanhope for one half-second: Fuck them.\n\nNow on to Susan. No, I can't _blame_ her for what happened, for my being at that moment in the Plaza Hotel with a mobster, an accused murderer, and a man who had about two hundred people looking to kill him. I couldn't blame her for my decision to be Bellarosa's attorney. And I couldn't blame her for the unwanted press attention she and I were both now getting and would continue to get until perfect strangers knew all about us. No, I couldn't _blame_ her. But you do see that it was mostly her fault.\n\nI mean, no, not her _fault_ , but sort of her responsibility. In a very small nutshell, it was like this: Susan thought Frank Bellarosa was interesting and, perhaps by inference, more of a man than her own husband. Her husband, who truly cares what his wife thinks of him, did not like that. Her husband is a jealous man. And her husband thinks he is every inch the man that Frank Bellarosa is. More of a man in many ways. But it doesn't do a bit of good to say such a thing. You have to show it.\n\nAnd so, when the opportunity to do so presented itself, ironically through the person of Frank Bellarosa himself, the husband, showing more ego than judgment, proceeded to ruin his life so he could show everyone a thing or two.\n\nDid I have any regrets as of that moment? Not a one, really. In fact, I felt better than I'd felt in a long time. I knew I would.\n\nI stepped out of the shower and dried myself off. In the misty mirror I drew a nice big smiling face. \"Smile, stupid, you got what you wanted.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nIt was a wild night. The phone rang nonstop, and people came and went. Obviously, the don was not in hiding, but had simply moved his court from Alhambra to the Plaza.\n\nThere were phone calls from the news media, too, and I suppose the word had gotten out via the hotel staff, or perhaps some of the invited guests. But Bellarosa was taking no calls from the press and told me not to make any statements until the morning. A few enterprising, not to mention gutsy, reporters had actually shown up at the door of the suite and were greeted by Vinnie, official gatekeeper for don Bellarosa, who had a funny line. \"I'll let ya in but ya ain't gettin' out.'' No one accepted the invitation. But I could have sworn I heard Jenny Alvarez's voice arguing with Vinnie.\n\nWaiters set up a bar and brought food all night. The television was on constantly, tuned to an all-news channel that re-ran the Bellarosa story every half hour or so with a few variations. I could barely hear the television above the chatter, but I could see Bellarosa and Sutter walking down those courthouse steps every half hour.\n\nMost of the men who arrived at the suite seemed to be vassals of the great _padrone_ , captains and lieutenants in his own organization. They hugged and kissed him, and the lesser of them satisfied themselves with a handshake. A few older men actually bowed as they took his hand. Obviously, they were there to swear fealty to this man who was their don. Bizarre, I thought; this so-called empire of Bellarosa's sort of reminded me of a medieval principality where none of the affairs of state or the rules of behavior were written down, but simply understood, and where oaths were binding on pain of death, and court intrigue was rampant, and succession to power was accomplished through a mixture of family blood, consensus, and assassination.\n\nThe men present were dressed in standard Mafia suits of blue, gray, and black, some with pinstripes. The suits could almost pass for Wall Street, but there was something subtly different about them, and the dress shirts ran mostly to shiny satin or silk, and the ties were drab monotones. There were lots of gold cuff links, expensive watches, even jeweled tiepins, and every left pinky in that room had a diamond ring, except mine.\n\nThe men around me spoke mostly in English, but every once in a while, someone would say something in Italian; just a line or two that I couldn't understand, of course. I regretted that I'd wasted eight years in French class. I mean, what can you do with French? Insult waiters? I did get lucky in Montreal once, but that's another story.\n\nAnyway, not everyone who came to the Plaza suite was there to pay homage and swear loyalty. A few men showed up with their own retinues, men with unpleasant faces whose embraces and kisses were strictly for show. These were men who were there for information. Among them were the four whom Bellarosa had sat with at Giulio's, and also the steely-eyed man who had come in later with the bodyguard. Bellarosa would disappear with these men into his bedroom, and they would emerge ten or fifteen minutes later, their arms around one another, but I couldn't tell who screwed whom in there.\n\nAt any given time, there were about a hundred men in the big sitting room, though, as I said, they were coming and going, but I estimated that as of about ten o'clock, two or three hundred people must have shown up. I wonder what the office Christmas party looks like.\n\nAnyway, Bellarosa paid very little attention to me, but he wanted me to stay in the room, I suppose to show me off, or to immerse me in Mafiana, maybe even to impress me with his world. However, he barely introduced me to anyone, and when he did think to introduce me, I didn't get any kisses or hugs, only a few surprisingly limp handshakes. But I wasn't put out by this. In fact, I noticed that these people were not big on introductions in general and barely bothered with them or acknowledged them, even among themselves. I thought that odd, but perhaps it was only my cultural bias; I mean, in my crowd, and with Americans in general, introductions are a big deal, and I even get introduced to people's maids and dogs. But with Bellarosa and his goombahs, I think there was this ingrained sense of secrecy, silence, and conspiracy that precluded a lot of idle chatter, including people's names.\n\nIt was sort of an Italians-only party, I guess, but then Jack Weinstein showed up and I was never so happy to see a Jewish lawyer in my life. Weinstein came right up to me and introduced himself. He didn't seem at all professionally jealous, and in fact, he said, \"You did a nice job. I never could have sprung him.\"\n\nI replied, \"Look, Mr. Weinstein\u2014\"\n\n\"Jack. I'm Jack. They call you Jack or John?\"\n\nActually they call me Mr. Sutter, but I replied, \"John is fine. Look, Jack, I don't think I should have any further involvement in this case. I don't do criminal work, and I simply don't know the ropes at Foley Square.\"\n\nHe patted my shoulder. \"Not to worry, my friend. I'll be in the wings the whole time. You just schmooze the judge and jury. They'll love you.\"\n\nI smiled politely and regarded him a moment. He was a tall, thin man of about fifty with a deep tan, dark eyes, and a nose that could be described as Semitic or Roman; in fact, Weinstein could have passed for a _paesano._ Giovanni Weinstein.\n\nHe informed me, \"You shouldn't have said that about Ferragamo. About the aberrant behavior in court. Crazy people are very sensitive about being called crazy.\"\n\n\"Screw him.\"\n\nWeinstein smiled at me.\n\nI said, \"Anyway, you know, of course, that Frank doesn't think he will make it to trial. He thinks he'll either be . . . you know . . . before then, or that Ferragamo will drop it for lack of evidence.\"\n\nWeinstein looked over both his shoulders and said softly, \"That's what this is all about. This gathering. This is public relations. He has to show that he's not afraid, that he has the support of his business associates and that he's still an effective manager.'' He smiled. \" _Capisce?_ \"\n\n_\"Capisco.\"_\n\nWeinstein chuckled. Boy, what a good time we were having. He said, \"And I'm not going to bug you about that statement you made to the reporter out on the steps, John, because I put my foot in it a few times myself when I first came to work for this outfit. But you've got to be careful. These people speak their own brand of English. For instance, take the words 'pal' and 'talk.' If someone here says to you, 'Hey, pal, let's go outside for a talk,' don't go. Same with, 'Let's take a walk.' _Capisce?_ \"\n\n\"Sure. But\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm just making you aware of this stuff\u2014expressions, nuances, double meanings, and all that. Just be aware. And don't worry about facial expressions or hand gestures. You'll never understand any of that anyway. Just listen closely, watch closely, keep your hands still, your face frozen, and say very little. You're a Wasp. You can do that.\"\n\n\"Right. I think I figured that out already.\"\n\n\"Good. Anyway, I'm glad you were ready to go this morning. You know, usually the State Attorney General and sometimes even the U.S. Attorney will make an arrangement so that they don't have to come and arrest a man like Bellarosa at his home, or on the street or in a public place. You understand, when you have a middle-aged man with money and ties, the prosecutor can work something out with the guy's attorney. A voluntary surrender. But sometimes these bastards get nasty, like when they arrested those Wall Street characters in their own offices and marched them out in cuffs. That was bullshit.\"\n\nI shrugged. There were two ways of looking at that, depending on if you were watching it on TV or if you had the cuffs on.\n\nWeinstein said, \"We were pretty sure they'd come for Frank on a Tuesday, so when our snitch rang me last night and let me know it was on for seven this morning, I wasn't too surprised.\"\n\n\"What snitch?\"\n\n\"In Ferragamo's office . . . oh . . . forget where you heard that.\"\n\n\"Sure.'' I thought a moment. That son of a bitch cheated me out of fifty bucks. I couldn't believe it. Here was a guy who threw fifty-dollar bills around, who offered me exorbitant fees for doing very little, and he screws me out of fifty bucks. Obviously, it wasn't the money, it was his obsessive need to win, and to impress people. And this was also the guy who gave me his alibi two minutes before he was arrested, then told me to forget it while making it clear to me he didn't intend to spend one day in jail. This guy was slick.\n\nWeinstein said, \"See what I mean? I figured you knew about that. You can't figure these people, John. And they say Jews are tricky. Hell, this guy . . . well, enough of that.\"\n\nI inquired, \"Is he in any real danger? I ask that because I don't want to get caught in the crossfire, and I don't mean that figuratively.\"\n\nAgain Weinstein glanced around, then said, \"The Hispanic gentlemen will never get to him, and really don't want to get to him themselves, because that will cause them many problems. This is fine, because they tend to be indiscriminate with their submachine guns. However''\u2014his eyes traveled around the crowded room as he spoke\u2014\"someone here can and will get to him if they smell weakness, if they think he is more of a liability than an asset.'' He added, \"Think of a school of hungry sharks, and think of the biggest shark with a wound that leaves a trail of blood in the water. How long does that big shark have? Understand?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"It's not that they don't like him,'' Weinstein said, \"or that he hasn't done his job. But that's history. They want to know about today and tomorrow. The bottom line with these people, Counselor, is keeping out of jail and making money.\"\n\n\"No,'' I informed him, \"keeping out of jail and making money are the subtotals. The bottom line with these people is respect. Appearances. Balls. _Capisce?_ \"\n\nHe smiled and patted my cheek affectionately. \"I stand corrected. You learn fast.'' He said, \"Give me a call when you get some time. We have a few things to discuss. We'll have lunch.\"\n\n\"Anyplace but Little Italy.\"\n\nHe laughed, turned, and greeted someone in Italian. They hugged but didn't kiss. That would be me in a year or so if I wasn't careful.\n\nA very short and very fat man came up to me, and his stomach hit me before I could back away. He said, \"Hey, I know you. You work for Jimmy, right? Jimmy Lip. Right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\nHe stuck out his fat, sweaty hand. \"Paulie.\"\n\nWe shook and I said, \"Johnny. Johnny Sutta.\"\n\n\"Yeah. You're Aniello's godson, right?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"How's he doin'?\"\n\n\"Very good.\"\n\n\"The cancer ain't killed him yet?\"\n\n\"Uh . . . no . . .\"\n\n\"He's a tough son of a bitch. You see him at Eddie Loulou's funeral last month? You there?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Aniello walks in, half his face gone, and the fucking widow almost drops dead in the coffin with Eddie.'' He laughed and so did I. Ha, ha, ha. He asked me, \"You see that?\"\n\n\"I heard about it when I got there.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Jesus, why don't he wear a scarf or something?\"\n\n\"I'll mention it to him when we have lunch.\"\n\nWe talked for a few more minutes. I'm usually good at cocktail party chatter, but it was hard to find things in common with Paulie, especially since he thought I was someone else. I asked him, \"Do you play golf?\"\n\n\"Golf? No. Why?\"\n\n\"It's a very relaxing game.\"\n\n\"Yeah? You wanna relax? What for? You relax when you get old. When you're dead. What's Jimmy doin' with himself?\"\n\n\"Same old shit.\"\n\n\"Yeah? He better watch his ass. None of my business, but if I was him, I'd lay off the chinks for a while. You know?\"\n\n\"I told him that.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Good. You can push the chinks so far, you know, but if you keep leanin' on them, they're gonna get their little yellow balls in an uproar. Jimmy should know that.\"\n\n\"He should.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Hey, tell Jimmy that Paulie said hello.\"\n\n\"Sure will.\"\n\n\"Remind him about the place on Canal Street we got to look at.\"\n\n\"I will.\"\n\nPaulie waddled off and bumped into someone else. I took a few steps toward the bar and someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see a large gentleman whose features looked Cro-Magnon. He asked me, \"What's Fat Paulie talkin' to you about?\"\n\n\"Usual shit.\"\n\n\"What's the usual shit?\"\n\n\"Who wants to know?\"\n\n\"Hey, pal, if you don't know who I am, you better fucking ask around.\"\n\n\"Okay.'' I moved to the bar and poured myself a sambuca. How, I wondered indignantly, could anyone here mistake me, John Whitman Sutter, for one of them? I caught a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror. I still looked the same. But maybe my breath still smelled of _puttanesca_ sauce and garlic.\n\nAnyway, I asked a young man at the bar, \"Who is that?'' I cocked my head toward the Cro-Magnon gentleman.\n\nHe looked at the man, then at me. \"You don't know who that is? Whaddaya from Chicago or Mars?\"\n\n\"I forgot my glasses.\"\n\n\"Yeah? If you don't know who that is, you don't gotta know.\"\n\nThis sounded like Italian haiku, so I dropped the subject. \"Play golf?\"\n\n\"Nah.'' The young man leaned toward me and whispered, \"That's Sally Da-da.\"\n\n\"Right.'' Now I had three Sally's in my life: Sally Grace; Sally of the Stardust Diner; and a gentleman who, if I recalled Mancuso correctly, was born Salvatore with a whole last name, but who had apparently not mastered much speech beyond the high-chair stage. How's little Sally? Da-da-da. Sally want ba-ba? I said, \"That's the Bishop's brother-in-law.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Sally is the husband of the Bishop's wife's sister. What's her name?\"\n\n\"Anna.\"\n\n\"No, the fucking sister.\"\n\n\"Maria, right?\"\n\n\"Yeah . . . no . . . whatever. Why you asking about Sally Da-da?\"\n\n\"He told me to ask around about him.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Why?\"\n\n\"He wants to know what I was talking to Fat Paulie about.\"\n\n\"You shouldn't be talkin' to Fat Paulie about nothing.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"If you don't know, you better find out.\"\n\n\"Fat Paulie talks too much,'' I ventured.\n\n\"You got that right. Fat Paulie better watch his ass.\"\n\n\"And Jimmy Lip better watch his ass, too,'' I said.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"He's leaning too hard on the chinks.\"\n\n\"Again? What's wrong with that asshole?\"\n\n\"He listens to his godson too much.\"\n\n\"Which godson?\"\n\n\"Aniello. No, Johnny. No . . .'' I had to think how that went.\n\nThe young man laughed. \"I thought you was gonna say his godson Joey. I'm Joey. Who are you?\"\n\n\"John Whitman Sutter.\"\n\n_\"Who?\"_\n\n\"The Bishop's attorney.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . yeah . . . I saw you on the news. Jack is out?\"\n\n\"No, Jack is still in. I'm doing the front stuff.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I heard that. Whaddaya want with Sally Da-da?\"\n\n\"Just talk.\"\n\n\"Yeah. You wanna stay away from that guy. You let the Bishop talk to him.\"\n\n\" _Capisco. Grazie._ '' I made my way to the window and looked out over Central Park. Basically all cocktail parties are the same. Right? You just have to get a few drinks in you, get warmed up a little, and work the room. The only thing missing at this little gathering was women. Actually, I realized I didn't miss them. _Capisce?_\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAt about ten P.M., a short, squat gentleman with hairy hands arrived, wheeling four suitcases on a luggage cart, one of which looked like my Lark two-suiter. Lenny directed the man, whom he knew, into the appropriate bedrooms. I wondered if Lady Stanhope enjoyed packing my suitcase. I'm glad Frank asked her, not me.\n\nAt eleven P.M., someone switched to a network news channel and turned up the volume. People began to quiet down and drift over to the TV set.\n\nThe lead story was still the arrest of Frank Bellarosa, but the slant this time was Alphonse Ferragamo's noontime news conference, which had been given short shrift earlier. I had no doubt that the U.S. Attorney's office had complained vigorously about media sensationalism and too much human-interest fluff regarding don Bellarosa and his attorney. Time for hard news.\n\nAfter the anchor's lead-in, the screen showed yet another cameraman's perspective of the steps of the courthouse, with Bellarosa waving to everyone, and with me looking tan, fit, tall, and well dressed. No wonder the women love me.\n\nAnyway, this lasted only five seconds or so, then the scene shifted to a crowded press-conference room, probably in the bowels of the Foley Square complex. A close-up of the podium showed Alphonse Ferragamo looking more composed than when I'd last seen him in court. A few people around me made interesting observations about the U.S. Attorney, such as \"motherfucker,'' \"cocksucker,'' \"asshole,'' \"shithead,'' and \"faggot.'' I'm glad Alphonse's mother wasn't in the room.\n\nMr. Ferragamo shuffled some papers and read a prepared statement. \"At seven-forty-five this morning,'' he began, \"agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, working within a Federal Organized Crime Task Force, which includes New York City and State police and agents of the Drug Enforcement Agency, acting in coordination with the Nassau County police, effected the arrest of Frank Bellarosa at his Long Island mansion.\"\n\nI could have sworn I saw only Mancuso there. But I guess everybody else was out on Grace Lane, and they wanted to be mentioned.\n\nFerragamo went on, \"This arrest is the culmination of a seven-month investigation by New Jersey state police acting in concert with the U.S. Attorney's office and the FBI. The evidence presented to the grand jury, which led to the indictment and arrest of Frank Bellarosa, implicates Bellarosa as the triggerman in the slaying of the reputed Colombian drug king Juan Carranza.\"\n\nSo Ferragamo went on, fashioning a hangman's noose for my client, and I wondered who in that hotel room would put it around his neck. From where I was standing, I could see Bellarosa's face, and he betrayed no emotion, no uneasiness or discomfort. He was listening to _La Traviata_ in his head again. But I could see several other men in the room who looked uneasy. Others looked deep in thought, and a few glanced quickly at Bellarosa.\n\nFerragamo tied the last knot in the rope by announcing, \"Federal witnesses have testified in closed session that there is an ongoing power struggle within the Bellarosa organization and that the murder of Juan Carranza was not sanctioned by the organization or by the other four crime families in New York. The murder was carried out by Bellarosa and a faction of his organization that wants to regain dominance of the drug trade and push out the Colombians, the Caribbean connections, and the East Asian connections.\"\n\nFerragamo continued, \"This murder indictment is only the first of many more indictments to come in the war against organized crime. The scope of this investigation has been widened to include other charges against Frank Bellarosa including charges of racketeering under the RICO Act. Other figures in Bellarosa's organization are also under investigation.\"\n\nThat didn't get a round of applause. On one level, everyone knew that Ferragamo was beating the bush to see who would panic and run to him. But on another level, everyone in that room had a friend or relative in jail. Mancuso had been right about the mob's being crippled by a slew of recent convictions. But there were others in the five families who saw this as an opportunity, a period of cleansing. Out with the old blood, in with the new. Gang wars used to accomplish the same thing.\n\nAnd speaking of gang wars, Ferragamo was right on top of it. He said, \"The U.S. Attorney's office and other federal, state, and city law enforcement agencies are concerned that this struggle for control of the drug distribution may lead to a new type of gang war on the streets of New York: a war between and among different ethnic groups who live in uneasy peace among themselves, but who may now resort to violence.'' Ferragamo looked up from his prepared statement.\n\nFor a half second you could hear the breathing in the room around me, then a reporter at the press conference asked Ferragamo, \"Did you expect Bellarosa to show up with a Wall Street lawyer and five million dollars?\"\n\nA few people in the press room laughed, and in the hotel room many heads turned toward me.\n\nFerragamo smiled sardonically. \"We had some indication of that.\"\n\nThen, there she was, Ms. Snippy, aka Jenny Alvarez, standing up and asking, \"You have five witnesses, Mr. Ferragamo, who say they saw Frank Bellarosa shoot Juan Carranza. Yet Bellarosa's lawyer, John Sutter, says he saw Bellarosa on Long Island that morning. Who's lying?\"\n\nAlphonse Ferragamo gave a nice Italian shrug. \"We'll let a jury decide that.'' He added, \"Whoever is lying will be charged with perjury.\"\n\nIncluding you, Alphonse. I'm not taking this rap alone. And so it went for another minute, but then it was time to get on to the standard story of the fire in the South Bronx, which was only newsworthy because nobody could believe there was anything left in the South Bronx to burn. Actually, I think they run the same footage of the last fire on slow news days.\n\nLenny flipped through the other two networks, but we only caught the last few seconds of the Ferragamo news conference, which had apparently been everyone's lead story.\n\nLenny turned back to the all-news channel, which at that particular moment was doing sports. The Mets did it again, trouncing Montreal six to one. What a day.\n\nWhy did I feel eyes on me? Well, time to fade to black as they say, so I opened the door to my bedroom, but saw it was being used for a meeting. Sitting around on my chairs and bed were six unhappy-looking men, including Mr. Sally Da-da, who stared at me and inquired, \"Yeah?\"\n\n\"This is my room.\"\n\nThey all looked from one to another, then back at me. \"Yeah?\"\n\nI said, \"I'll give you ten minutes.'' I closed the door and went right to the bar. Actually, they could have longer if they needed it.\n\nThe crowd had thinned to about thirty men now, and I noticed that Jack Weinstein was gone. I took my drink and went to one of the windows again and opened it, breathing in some fresh air.\n\nFrank Bellarosa came up beside me with a drink in his hand, and a cigar in his mouth. We both stared out at the park and the lights of the great city. Finally he said, \"You have a good time tonight?\"\n\n\"Interesting.\"\n\n\"You talked to Jack.\"\n\n\"Yes. Smart guy.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Who else you talk to?\"\n\n\"Fat Paulie. Some other people. I didn't catch many names.\"\n\n\"Yeah? You meet my brother-in-law?\"\n\n\"Sort of.'' I added, \"He's in my bedroom now with five other men.\"\n\nBellarosa said nothing.\n\nWe continued looking out into the summer night, and I was reminded of the night on his balcony. He offered me a cigar and I took it. He lit it with a gold lighter, and I blew smoke out the window. He said to me, \"You understand what's happening here?\"\n\n\"I think I do.\"\n\n\"Yeah. We got a long, hard fight ahead of us, Counselor. But we won round one today.\"\n\n\"Yes. By the way, I'd like my fifty dollars back.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I heard about your snitch in Ferragamo's office.\"\n\n\"Yeah? From who?\"\n\n\"Doesn't matter who.\"\n\nHe fished around in his pocket and pulled out a fifty, which I took. He said, \"Wanna make another bet?\"\n\n\"What's the bet?\"\n\n\"I bet that's the last time you catch me cheating.'' He laughed and slapped me on the back.\n\nSo we puffed away on the Monte Cristo's, then he said to me, \"A lot of these goombahs think you're magic or something. _Capisce?_ They respect your world. They think you people still hold the power in your hands. Maybe you do. Maybe it's slipping away. Maybe if the Italians and the Anglos could somehow get together, we could get New York back. Maybe get this country back.\"\n\nI didn't reply, because I couldn't tell if he was serious, joking, or crazy.\n\nHe said, \"Anyway, you have this . . . what do you call it . . . ? This like aura, you know, around you, like you are connected to powerful forces. That's what they said on television. That's what a lot of these goombahs believe.\"\n\n\"You sure got your fifty thousand worth.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Yeah.\"\n\n\"You understand, I hope, that I have no such power. I'm socially and financially connected, but not politically connected at all.\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"So what? That's between us.\"\n\n\"All right. I'm going to bed. Can I kick your brother-in-law out of my room?\"\n\n\"Later. We'll wait up for the bulldog editions. I can get the _Post_ and the _Daily News_ hot off the press in about half an hour. I got people waiting for them now.'' He asked me, \"Hey, you call your wife?\"\n\n\"No. Did you call yours?\"\n\n\"Yeah, she called before. She's okay. She said to tell you hello. She likes you.\"\n\n\"She's a nice woman. A good wife.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but she drives me nuts with her worrying. Women. _Madonn_ '.'' He let a second or two pass, then said, \"Maybe it's good that we get away from them for a few days. You know? They appreciate you more when you're gone awhile.\"\n\nI wondered if Anna appreciated her husband more after he returned from two years in a federal penitentiary. Maybe she did. Maybe if I got nailed on a perjury rap and went away for five years, Susan would really appreciate me. Maybe not.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAt about midnight, with about a dozen people left in the suite, two men arrived within a few minutes of each other, each carrying a stack of newspapers. One had the _Post_ , the ink still wet on it, and the other, the _Daily News_. They threw the papers on the coffee table.\n\nI read the _Post_ headline: GOTCHA, FRANK. The _Post_ is not subtle. Beneath the headline was a full-page photo of Frank Bellarosa being led down a corridor of the Federal Court in cuffs, with Mancuso holding his arm. I learned from the caption that Mr. Mancuso's first name was Felix, which explained a lot.\n\nIt was obvious that despite the prohibition against cameras in the courthouse, Ferragamo had arranged for the daily newspapers to have photo opportunities during the time that Bellarosa was in cuffs. A picture is worth a thousand words, and maybe as many votes when November rolled around.\n\nBellarosa picked up one of the copies of the _Post_ and studied the photo. \"I'm taller than Mancuso. You see? Ferragamo likes to have big FBI guys around the guy in cuffs. He don't like Mancuso for a lot of reasons. Plus the guy's short.'' He laughed.\n\nThe remaining men in the room, including me, Frank, Lenny, Vinnie, Sally Da-da and two of his goons, and a few other soldier types each took or shared the newspapers. I picked up a copy of the _Daily News_ , whose headline read: BELLAROSA ON MURDER CHARGE.\n\nAgain, there was a full-page photo, this one of Bellarosa holding his cuffed hands up, clenched together like a victorious prizefighter. The caption read: _Frank Bellarosa, reputed boss of New York's largest crime family, taken into custody in Federal Court yesterday morning._ I held the newspaper up for Bellarosa. \"You'll like this shot.\"\n\nHe took the paper. \"Yeah. Good picture. I remember that one.\"\n\nVinnie said, \"You look good, boss.\"\n\nLenny nodded. \"Yeah. Nice shots, boss.\"\n\nEveryone else added their congratulations on a fine photo, cuffs notwithstanding. I wondered if Frank Bellarosa got tired of full-time sycophants.\n\nI did notice that Sally Da-da was not adding his congratulations, but was reading the _News._ I did not like this man, and he knew it. And he did not like me, and I knew it, so it sort of balanced out. But aside from not liking him, I didn't trust him.\n\nI opened the _Daily News_ to a byline story and saw a small photo of Frank and a man who looked vaguely familiar. The caption read: _Bellarosa leaving courtroom with Attorney John Sutter._ Ah. I thought he looked familiar.\n\nBellarosa was reading the _Post._ He said, \"Hey, listen to this.'' He read, \"'In a move that surprised and even shocked veteran court observers, Bellarosa showed up at the arraignment with blue-blood lawyer John Sutter of Lattingtown, Long Island.'\" Bellarosa looked at me. \"You really got blue blood?\"\n\n\"Of course I have.\"\n\nHe laughed and went back to the story and read, \"'Sutter is the husband of Susan Stanhope Sutter, heiress daughter of a socially prominent Gold Coast family.'\" He looked up at me again. \"Does that mean your wife's got blue blood, too?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\"\n\nBellarosa scanned the article and said, \"They got a lot of shit here on you, Counselor. Your law firm, your clubs, all that stuff.\"\n\n\"That's nice.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Where do you think they got all that shit so fast? Your pal Mancuso and scumbag Alphonse. Right? They're really trying to stick it up your ass.\"\n\nAnd doing a rather nice job of it, I should say. Oh, well, what did I expect? When people like me step out of bounds, the government is right there to pounce, and the press eats it up. There are unwritten rules in this society, too, just like in Bellarosa's society, and if you break the unwritten rules, you won't get your bones broken, but you'll get your life broken.\n\nI looked again at the _Daily News_ article and found my name. Here's what the article did not say: \"John Sutter is a good man, an okay husband, and a fairly good father. He served honorably in the U.S. Army, and is active in conservation efforts. He contributes thousands of dollars to charity, is a generous employer, and plays a good game of golf.\"\n\nHere is what the article did say: \"Sutter himself has been under investigation by the IRS for criminal tax fraud.\"\n\nI thought I'd solved that problem. I guess it was a matter of verb tenses. Has been. Had been. Journalese was interesting. It was an art form. I wondered if I should write a letter to the editor or begin a lawsuit. Probably neither.\n\nI poured myself a scotch and soda, and without wishing my fellow revelers good-night, I went into my bedroom and closed the door.\n\nI saw my suitcase on the luggage rack and opened it. Susan had risen to the occasion and had done a nice job. She had packed my toilet kit, a gray suit, and a blue suit of summerweight wool. There were matching ties and pocket handkerchiefs and dress shirts. There was also enough underwear for about two weeks, which might have been a subtle hint.\n\nAs I unpacked, I saw an envelope with my name on it and opened it. It was a \"Dear John'' letter from Susan, which didn't surprise me since my name is John. But I'm being flip. As I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, I read the letter, and here's what it said:\n\n_Dear John,_\n\n_You looked marvelous on television, though I'm not certain about the green tie with the blue suit. Or was the TV color off? You handled that bitchy female reporter quite well, I thought. I spent the day with Anna, who was very impressed with you and thanks you. I had to go home through the back way as there were reporters at the gates of both houses. How long will that nonsense last? Lots of messages on our answering machines, though I haven't played any of mine yet. But there was a fax from your New York office asking you to call. Urgent. I wonder what that's all about? What a break for Frank that you happened to see him on that day. Was I out riding with you? Call me tonight if you have a moment._\n\n_Love,  \nSusan_\n\nWell, that was vintage Susan Stanhope. Anna Bellarosa probably spent the whole day blubbering and wailing, and Susan spent the day arranging flowers. Well, look, this is the way people like us are. We _can_ be passionate, affectionate, angry, sad, or whatever, but we don't show much of it. I mean, what good does it do? It's self-indulgent, and contrary to popular opinion, it doesn't make you feel any better.\n\nStill, Susan's note was a bit _sangfroid_ , to use a French expression. On the other hand, I hadn't expected any note at all. I wonder if she wrote to Bellarosa.\n\nI undressed, and as she hadn't packed any pajamas, I went to bed in my underwear. No, I wasn't going to call her.\n\nI drank my scotch and listened to the muted murmur of Manhattan street sounds eight floors below. I still smelled that horrible fishy sauce and that garlic on my breath. No wonder Italy was the only country in Europe without vampire legends; they turned back at the Alps.\n\nI may have drifted off for a while, but I woke up remembering that I had to tell Jimmy Lip that Fat Paulie wanted him to look at that place on Canal Street. More important, I had to tell Jimmy to lighten up on the chinks.\n\nThe phone rang and it was Susan, and I spoke to her, but in truth, I think it was a dream.\n\nThe phone rang again and it was Jenny Alvarez with an interesting proposition. I said to her, \"Come on up. Tell Lenny or Vinnie it's okay. I'm in the first bedroom to the left.\"\n\nLater I heard a knock on my bedroom door and she entered. I said to her, \"If you like me, why were you so bitchy to me?\"\n\n\"That's my way.\"\n\nShe took off her shoes, but not her red fuck-me dress, and crawled into bed beside me. What a tease. I wanted to kiss her but I was concerned about the anchovies and garlic on my breath.\n\nI'm not sure what happened next, but when I woke up again before dawn, she was gone. Actually, I doubt she was ever there.\n**_Thirty_**\n\nThe next morning while having coffee in the suite, I called a few select newspaper people whose names Bellarosa had given me. The story I put out was this: Frank Bellarosa wants a speedy trial within the next month, and any delay on the part of the U.S. Attorney's office would be construed as justice denied. Mr. Bellarosa is innocent of the charge and wants to prove so in open court.\n\nThis, of course, would put Alphonse Ferragamo on the spot to develop a case quickly, and since there apparently was no case, Ferragamo had to either drop the charges or go into court with little chance of winning. Ferragamo wanted to do neither; what he wanted was for someone to knock off Bellarosa soon.\n\nAnyway, after coffee that morning in the littered living room of the suite, I went into my bedroom and dialed Susan. \"Hello,'' I said.\n\n\"Hello,'' she replied.\n\n\"I'll be in the city for a few days and I wanted you to know.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\n\"Thank you for packing my bag.\"\n\n\"Think nothing of it,'' she said.\n\n\"Thank you just the same.'' When husbands and wives get on this frigid roll, you'd think they were total strangers, and they are.\n\nSusan asked, \"Did you see my note?\"\n\n\"Note . . . ? Oh, yes, I did.\"\n\n\"John . . . ?\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"We really have to talk about it.\"\n\n\"The note?\"\n\n\"About us.\"\n\n\"Not _us_ , Susan. About _you_.\"\n\nShe didn't reply for a few seconds, then asked, \"What _about_ me? What is really bothering you about me?\"\n\nI took a deep breath and said, \"Did you call me last night? Did we speak?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, then, it was a dream. But it was a very realistic dream, Susan. Actually it was my subconscious mind trying to tell me something. Something I've known for some time, but couldn't come to grips with. Has that ever happened to you in a dream?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Well, in my dream I realized that you were having an affair with Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\nThere, I said it. Well, sort of. She didn't reply for a few seconds, then asked, \"Is that why you're in a bad mood? You dreamed that I was having an affair with Frank?\"\n\n\"I think it was more than a dream. It was a nocturnal revelation. That's what's been bothering me for months, Susan, and it's what has come between us.\"\n\nAgain there was a long silence, then she said, \"If you suspected something, you should have come to grips with it, John. Instead, you've become withdrawn. You've indulged yourself in playing Mafia mouthpiece and telling off all your friends and family. Maybe what's happened to us is as much your fault as mine.\"\n\n\"No doubt about it.\"\n\nAgain, silence, because neither of us wanted to return to the issue of adultery. But having come this far, I said, \"So? Yes or no? Tell me.\"\n\nShe replied, \"You had a silly dream.\"\n\n\"All right, Susan. If that's what you say, I will accept that because you've never lied to me.\"\n\n\"John . . . we do have to talk about this . . . in person. There's probably a lot we've been keeping from each other. You know I would never do anything to hurt you . . . I'm sorry if you've been upset these last few months . . . you're a very unique man, a very special man. I realize that now. And I don't want to lose you. I love you.\"\n\nWell, that was about as mushy as Susan ever got, and while it wasn't a full confession of marital infidelity, it was something very like it, sort of like plea bargaining. I was pretty shaky, to be honest with you, and I found myself sitting on the bed in my room, my heart pounding and my mouth dry. If you've ever confronted your spouse with charges of sexual misconduct, you know the feeling. I finally said, \"All right. We'll talk when I get back.'' I hung up and stared at the telephone, waiting, I guess, for it to ring, but it didn't.\n\nYou have to understand that prior to that day in court and the subsequent media exposure, I wasn't ready to confront this other issue of Susan and Frank. But now, having put my old life behind me forever, and now that I felt good about myself, I was prepared to hear my wife tell me she had been sexually involved with Frank Bellarosa. What's more, I still loved her, and I was prepared to forgive her and start over again, because in a manner of speaking, we'd both had an affair with Frank Bellarosa, and Susan was right that this was as much my fault as hers. But Susan was not yet at the point where she could tell me it had happened or tell him it was over.\n\nSo, lacking a confession from Susan, I had to remain in that limbo state of the husband who knows but doesn't know, who can't ask for a divorce or offer to forgive, and who has to deal with the parties as if nothing were going on, lest he make a complete fool of himself.\n\nOr maybe I could just ask Frank, \"Hey, goombah, you fucking my wife, or what?\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nLater that morning, Bellarosa and I met Lenny and Vinnie with the Cadillac outside the Plaza. We drove back down to Little Italy where we stopped at Bellarosa's club for espresso. The Italian Rifle Club had few similarities to The Creek, as you might guess, except that it was private and that men discussed things there that had to do with manipulating the republic for the benefit of the club members. Maybe there were more similarities than I realized.\n\nThat morning Bellarosa had a series of meetings scheduled in his club, which was actually a large storefront with a black-painted picture window, dark inside, and divided into various dim coffee rooms and private rooms.\n\nI was pretty much ignored most of the time, and sometimes they spoke in Italian, and sometimes when someone present didn't speak any Italian, I was asked to leave the room with the words, \"You don't want to hear this, Counselor.'' I was sure they were right.\n\nSo I drank a lot of coffee and read all the morning papers and watched some old geezers playing a card game that I couldn't follow.\n\nAfter an hour or so in the club, we left and got back into the car. Though there was a layer of clouds blocking the sun, the morning was getting hot, an urban heat produced by cars and people and yesterday's sun still trapped in the concrete. Country squires can tolerate only about a week in Manhattan in the summer, and I hoped we wouldn't be much longer in the city, but with this guy you didn't ask questions about times and places.\n\nWe made a stop at Ferrara's, where Bellarosa picked out a dozen pastries for Anna, which were put into a nice white box with green and red string and which Bellarosa carried to the car. I can't describe to you why the sight of this big man carrying that little box daintily by the string struck me as so civilized, but it did. It wasn't exactly Aristotle contemplating the bust of Homer, but it was a profoundly human act that made me see the man, the husband, and the father. And yes, the lover. Whereas I'd always seen Bellarosa as a man's man, I saw now that my original impression of him as a man whom women would find attractive was accurate. Well, not all women, but some women. I could see Susan, Lady Stanhope, wanting to be debased and sexually used by this insensitive barbarian. Maybe it had something to do with her seeing her mother in bed with a gardener or stableboy or whoever it was. Maybe this is something that all highborn ladies fantasize about: taking off their clothes for a man who is not their social or intellectual equal, but is simply a sexual turn-on. And why should this be such a shock to men? Half the wealthy and successful men I know have screwed their secretaries, cocktail waitresses, and even their maids. Women have libidos, too. But maybe Susan Stanhope and Frank Bellarosa had a more complex relationship.\n\nAnyway, we spent the rest of the morning in Little Italy, Greenwich Village, and environs, making a few quick stops, sometimes for talk, sometimes for taking provisions aboard the Cadillac. The car soon smelled of cheese and baked goods, and some horrible salted codfish called _baccal\u00e0_ , which I suppose couldn't be put in the trunk because of the heat. Bellarosa explained to me, \"I'm going to send all this stuff home later. This is all stuff Anna likes. You want to send something to your wife?\"\n\nIt annoyed me that he always referred to Susan as my wife, instead of by her name. What did he call her when they were alone?\n\n\"You want to stop for something? Flowers or something?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I'll send these pastries from Ferrara's like it was from you.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nHe shrugged.\n\nAs we headed up toward Midtown, he said to me, \"You called this morning? Everything's okay at home?\"\n\nI replied, \"Yes. How's _your_ wife? You call this morning? Everything okay at home?\"\n\n\"Yeah. I'm just asking you because if you got problems at home, you don't have your mind on business. And because we're friends. Right?\"\n\n\"How was I yesterday in court?\"\n\n\"You were fine.\"\n\n\"Subject closed.\"\n\nHe shrugged again and looked out the window.\n\nWe stopped at the Italian Sailor's Club on West Thirty-fourth Street, and Bellarosa went inside by himself. He came out fifteen minutes later with a brown bag and got into the car. Now what do you suppose was in that brown bag? Drugs? Money? Secret messages? No. The bag was filled with small crooked cigars. \"These are from Naples,'' he said. \"You can't get them here.'' He lit one up and I could see why you couldn't. I opened the window.\n\n\"You want one?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nHe passed the bag up to Vinnie and Lenny, who took a cigar apiece and lit up. Everyone seemed happy with their little duty-free cigars. Of course, today it was cigars, tomorrow it could be something else that came out of the Sailor's Club. Interesting.\n\nInstead of stopping for a three-hour lunch at an Italian restaurant, we stopped at an Italian sausage cart near Times Square. Bellarosa got out and greeted the vendor, an old man who hugged and kissed Bellarosa and nearly cried. Without asking us what we wanted, Bellarosa got us all hot sausage heros with peppers and onions. I said, \"Hold the mayo.'' We ate outside the double-parked car as we chatted with the old vendor, and Bellarosa gave the man a hunk of goat cheese from Little Italy and three crooked cigars. I think we got the best of that deal.\n\nIf a man is known by the company he keeps, then Frank Bellarosa was sort of a populist, mixing with the masses the way the early Caesars had done, letting the common people hug and kiss him, venerate him, and lay hands on him. At the same time, he mixed with the highborn, but if the Plaza was any indication, he seemed to treat the powerful with cool contempt.\n\nThe sausage man was not tending his cart and, in fact, shooed away a few people so he could better tend to his luncheon guests, dining alfresco in expensive suits in the heat of Times Square with the Cadillac blocking traffic. What a bizarre little scene, I thought.\n\nWe wiped our fingers on paper napkins, bid our host _buon giorno_ , and got back into the car. Still chewing on a mouthful of sausage, Bellarosa said to Vinnie, \"You tell Freddie to hit these guys up for another fifty cents a pound on the sausage and let them pass it on to their customers.'' He said to me, \"It's a good product and everybody eats it\u2014your Spanish, your _melanzane_ , they love this shit. Where they gonna go for lunch around here? Sardi's? The coffee shops serve shit. So they eat on the street and watch the pussy go by. Right? That's worth another quarter. Right? You like the sandwich? You pay another two bits for it? Sure. So we hit the vendors for another fifty cents a pound and they pass it along. No problem.\"\n\n\"Now that we've all discussed it,'' I said, \"should we take a vote?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Vote? Yeah, we'll vote. Frank votes yes. End of vote.\"\n\n\"Good meeting,'' I said.\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\nActually, I was impressed with Bellarosa's attention to the smaller outposts of his empire. I suppose he believed that if he watched the price of sausage, the bigger problems would take care of themselves. He was very much a hands-on man, both in his professional life and his personal life, if you know what I mean.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe crossed the East River into the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn by way of the Williamsburg Bridge. After that, I was lost. Brooklyn is a mystery to me, and I hope it remains so. Unfortunately, I had a guide who pointed out everything to me, the way people do who think you care about their squalid little part of the world. Bellarosa said, \"There on the roof of that building is where I got my finger wet for the first time.\"\n\nI had the impression he wasn't talking about sucking his thumb. I said, \"How interesting.\"\n\nAnyway, we stopped at a beautiful old baroque church covered with black grime. \"This is my church,'' Bellarosa explained. \"Santa Lucia.\"\n\nWe got out of the car, went to the rectory, and knocked on the door, which was opened by an old priest, who went through the hugging and kissing routine.\n\nBellarosa and I were shown into a large second-floor commons room where two more elderly priests joined us and we had coffee. These people drink a lot of coffee, in case you hadn't noticed, though it's not so much the caffeine they're after, but the shared experience, sort of a wet version of breaking bread together. And wherever Frank Bellarosa went, of course, coffee was made and served, usually with something sweet.\n\nAnyway, we had coffee, and we chatted about this and that, but not about yesterday's difficulties with the law. The three priests were old-school Italians, naturally, and didn't use their first names, so there was none of that Father Chuck and Father Buzzy nonsense. On the other hand, they all seemed to have difficult first and last names, and with their accents, it sounded as if they were all named Father Chicken Cacciatore. I called them all Father.\n\nSo the head guy was talking about how the bishop (the real bishop of the diocese) wanted to close up Santa Lucia unless it could become self-sufficient, which seemed unlikely since there were hardly enough Italian Catholics left in the parish to support it. The priest explained delicately that the Hispanic Catholics in the parish, mostly from Central America, thought that ten cents in the collection basket covered the overhead. The priest turned to me and said, \"The old people of this parish can't go to another church. They want to be close to their church, they wish to have their funeral Mass here. And of course, we have those former parishioners, such as Mrs. Bellarosa, who return to Santa Lucia and who would be heartbroken if we had to close.\"\n\nOkay, Father, bottom line.\n\nHe cleared his throat. \"It costs about fifty thousand dollars a year to maintain and to heat the church and rectory, and to put food on the table here.\"\n\nI didn't reach for my wallet or anything, but while the priest was telling me this for the don's benefit, the don had scribbled out a check and put it on the coffee table facedown.\n\nSo, after a few more minutes, we made our farewells and embraces and got our God-bless-yous, and we left.\n\nOut on the street, Bellarosa said to me, \"Nobody can shake you down like a Catholic priest. _Madonn_ ', they hit me for fifty large. But whaddaya gonna do? Ya know?\"\n\n\"Just say no.\"\n\n\" _No?_ How ya gonna say no?\"\n\n\"You shake your head and say, 'No.'\"\n\n\"Ah, you can't do that. They know you got the money and they do a guilt thing on you.'' He chuckled, then added, \"You know, I was christened at Santa Lucia, my father and mother was christened here, I was married here, Anna had the kids christened here, Frankie got married here, my old man was buried here, my mother\u2014\"\n\n\"I get the picture. I've got a church like that, too. I give five bucks a week, ten at Easter and Christmas.\"\n\n\"It's different here.\"\n\nInstead of getting back into the car, Bellarosa turned and looked back at the sad old church and surveyed the mean streets around us. He said, \"I used to play stoopball on those rectory steps there. You ever play stoopball?\"\n\n\"I've heard of it.\"\n\n\"Yeah. The slum kids played it. What did you play? Golf?'' He smiled.\n\n\"I played the stock market.\"\n\n\"Yeah?'' He laughed. \"Well, we played stoopball right there. Me and my friends . . .'' He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then said, \"Father Chiaro\u2014that was the old pastor you just talked to\u2014he used to charge out of the rectory and run us off. But if he got hold of you, he'd drag you by the ears into the rectory and put you to work on some shit job. You see those doorknobs in there? They're brass, but they don't look it now. I used to have to polish those fucking knobs until they looked like gold.\"\n\n\"He's still got you by the ears, Frank.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Yeah. What a sovanabeech.\"\n\n\"A what?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"That's the way my grandfather used to say it. _Sovanabeech._ Son of a bitch.\"\n\n\"I see.'' Well, I tried to picture fat little Frank Bellarosa on these streets, playing ball, making zip guns, kneeling in the confessional, getting his finger wet, kneeling in the confessional, and so on. And I could picture it, and I'm a nostalgic guy myself, so I'm partial to people who are sentimental about their childhood. I guess that's a sign of middle age, right? But with Bellarosa, there was more to it, I think. I believe he knew then that he was going home for the last time, and that he had to take care of Santa Lucia so that the priests there would take care of him when the time came. There had been a few stories in the newspapers over the last ten years or so about problems with certain priests and churches providing burial services for people in Frank's line of work. I guess this frightened Frank Bellarosa, who had assumed all along that he was dealing with a church that was under direct orders from God to forgive everyone. But now people were trying to change the rules, and Bellarosa, not one to take unnecessary chances and knowing he couldn't take it with him, prepaid for his burial service at Santa Lucia. That's what I think.\n\nBellarosa put his hands in his pockets and looked down the intersecting street. \"In those days you could walk down this street here late at night and nobody bothered you, but a lot of the old ladies would yell at me from the windows, 'Frankie, get home before your mother kills you.' You think anybody says that on this street anymore?\"\n\n\"I doubt it.\"\n\n\"Yeah, me too. You wanna see where I lived when I was a kid?\"\n\n\"Yes, I would.\"\n\nInstead of getting into the car, we walked from Santa Lucia in the heat, the way Frank Bellarosa must have done many years before. Lenny and Vinnie tailed behind us in the Cadillac. The area around the church was mostly black, and people glanced at us, but they'd probably witnessed similar scenes, and they knew this was a prodigal son with a gun, so they went about their business while Frank went about his.\n\nWe stopped in front of a burned-out five-story brick tenement, and Bellarosa said, \"I lived on the top floor there. It was a hundred degrees in the summer, but nice and warm in the winter with those big steam radiators that banged. I shared a room with two brothers.\"\n\nI didn't respond.\n\nHe went on, \"Then my uncle took me out of here and sent me to La Salle, and the dorms looked like a Park Avenue penthouse to me. I started to understand that there was a world outside of Williamsburg. You know?'' He was quiet again, then said, \"But I got to tell you, looking back on this place in the 1950s, I was happy here.\"\n\n\"We all were.\"\n\n\"Yeah.'' We got back into the car and drove some blocks to a better street, and he showed me the five-story brownstone where he and Anna had spent much of their married life. He said, \"I still own the building. I made apartments on each floor and I got a bunch of old people in there. I got an old aunt in there. They pay what they can to the church. You know? The church takes care of the whole thing. It's a good building.\"\n\nI asked, \"Are you trying to get into heaven?\"\n\n\"Yeah, but not this week.'' He laughed, then added, \"Everything's got an angle, Counselor.\"\n\nWe drove around the old Italian section of Williamsburg, which had never been very large, and what was left of Italian Williamsburg seemed rather forlorn, but there were stops to be made, and the trip was not all nostalgia, but partly business. As I said, it must be difficult to run a crime empire when you can't use the telephone, or even the mail for that matter. And this fact obviously necessitated a lot of driving and quick stops to call on people. Frank was the three-minute Mafia manager.\n\nAfter Williamsburg, we drove into more lively Italian neighborhoods in Bensonhurst, Bay Ridge, and Coney Island, where we made more stops and saw more people, mostly in restaurants and in the back of retail stores and in social clubs. I was quite honestly amazed at the number of branch offices and affiliates of Bellarosa, Inc.\u2014or would one say franchises and chain outlets? More amazing, there didn't seem to be any written list of these stops. Bellarosa would just say a few words to Lenny and Vinnie, such as, \"Let's see Pasquale at the fish place,'' and they'd drive somewhere. I could hardly believe that their pea-size brains could retain so many locations, but I guess they had good incentives to do their job.\n\nWe left Brooklyn and went into Ozone Park, Queens, which is also an Italian neighborhood. Frank had some relatives there, and we stopped at their row house and played boccie ball in an alleyway with a bunch of his old goombahs who wore baggy pants and three-day whiskers. Then we all drank homemade red wine on a back porch, and it was awful, awful stuff, tannic and sour. But one of the old men put ice in my wine and mixed it with cream soda, of all things. Then he sliced peaches into my glass. Frank had his wine the same way. It was sort of like Italian sangria, I guess, or wine coolers, and I had an idea to market the concoction and sell it to trendy places like Buddy's Hole where the clientele could drink it with their grass clippings. Ozone Park Goombah Spritzers. No? Yes?\n\nAnyway, we moved on into the late afternoon, making a few more stops at modest-looking frame houses in other Queens neighborhoods.\n\nFrank Bellarosa had entertained the movers and shakers of his world, the chiefs and the \"made men,'' at the Plaza Hotel. Now he was going out into the streets to talk to his constituents, like a politician running for office. But unlike a candidate, I never heard him make any promises, and unlike a Mafia don, I never heard him make a threat. He was just \"showing his face around,'' which seemed to be an expression with these people that I kept hearing. Showing your face around must have a lot of subtle connotations, and must be important if Bellarosa was doing it.\n\nThe man had a natural instinct for power, I'll say that for him. He comprehended on some level that real power is not based on terror, or even on loyalty to an abstract idea or organization. Real power was based on personal loyalty, especially the loyalty of the masses to the person of don Bellarosa, as I witnessed with the sausage vendor and with everyone else we'd stopped to see. Truly the man was an intuitive and charismatic leader\u2014the last of the great dons.\n\nAnd as evil as he was, I nearly felt sorry for him, surrounded now by enemies within and without. But I had also felt sorry for proud Lucifer in _Paradise Lost_ when he was brought down by God and heaven's host of goody-goody androgynous angels. There must be a serious flaw in my character.\n\nWe headed back to Manhattan after dark. New York is truly a city of ethnic diversity, but I don't have much occasion or desire to hang around with the ethnics. However, I have to admit that I was intrigued by the Italian subculture that I had caught a glimpse of that day. It was a world that seemed both alive and dying at the same time, and I remarked to Bellarosa in the car back to Manhattan, \"I thought all that Italian stuff was a thing of the past.\"\n\nHe seemed to understand what I meant and replied, \"It is in the past. It was past when my old man took me around on Saturdays to sit with the goombahs and sip wine and talk. It's always in the past.\"\n\nThe old immigrant cultures, I reflected, still exerted a powerful influence on their people and on American society. But truly they were losing their identity as they became homogenized, and ironically they were losing their power as they filled the vacuum created by the so-called decline of the Wasp. But more important, back there in the shadows, somewhere in the outer boroughs, were the new immigrants, the future that neither Frank Bellarosa nor I understood or wished to contemplate.\n\nAs the car approached the skyline of Manhattan, Bellarosa said to me, \"You have a good time today?\"\n\n\"It was interesting.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Sometimes I have to just get out and see these people. You know? To see that everybody's still out there. I've been losing touch, kind of holed up at Alhambra. You can't do that. You go out there and if somebody wants to take a pop at you, then at least you went down out on the street, and not holed up someplace waiting for them to corner you. You know?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do. But do you need a lawyer along while you're tempting fate?\"\n\n\"No. I need a friend.\"\n\nI had several sarcastic replies right on the tip of my tongue, but I said nothing, which said it all.\n\nHe added, \"I'm gonna make you into an honorary Italian like Jack Weinstein. You like that?\"\n\n\"Sure, as long as that doesn't make me an honorary target.\"\n\nHe sort of laughed, but I think he was finding less humor in the subject of his assassination. He did say, however, \"I talked to some people. You got nothing to worry about. You're still a civilian.\"\n\nGreat news. And I trusted these people, right? Well at least they probably all belonged to the rifle club and were good marksmen. I surely hoped so.\n\n**_Thirty-one_**\n\nWe went back to the Plaza Hotel. Bellarosa gave Vinnie and Lenny the night off, and Frank and I ordered dinner in the suite.\n\nAs we ate at the table in the dining area, we made small talk, mostly about vegetables and real estate. I sliced my steak, and as I did so, I wondered what new and exciting course my life would take if I plunged my steak knife into Bellarosa's heart.\n\nI think he was reading my thoughts because he said, \"You know, Counselor, you're probably thinking that your life is getting fucked up and you think I fucked it up for you. Wrong. You fucked yourself up and you did it before you ever laid eyes on me.\"\n\n\"Maybe. But you're not part of the solution.\"\n\n\"Sure I am. I helped you get rid of all the bullshit in your life. So now you got to go on.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\n\"Yeah. You think I'm some kind of dumb greaseball. Wrong again.\"\n\nI was getting a little annoyed with this guy now. I said, \"Stupid people think you're stupid. I know better.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Yeah. It's an old Italian trick. Claudius did it to save his life before he became emperor. There's a guy in my business up in the Bronx\u2014you know the guy\u2014he's been acting simpleminded for ten years because the Feds are on his case. You know? But Ferragamo is stupid and he thinks I'm stupid, so I surprise him every time, but he's too stupid to get it.'' He laughed.\n\nWe went back to our steaks and didn't speak until coffee, then he asked me, \"You ever play dumb?\"\n\n\"Sometimes.\"\n\n\"Like, I mean, you _know_ something, but you don't let on you know. You hold on to it until the right time. You don't go off hot and get yourself hurt. You wait.\"\n\nI replied, \"Sometimes I _never_ let on. Sometimes I just let the other guy go crazy wondering if I know.\"\n\nHe nodded appreciatively. \"Yeah. Like what, for instance? Give me a for instance.\"\n\nWe looked at each other across the table, and I replied, \"Like the bullshit with the IRS, Frank. You told Melzer to go to his friends in the IRS and see if they could find something on me, and they did. Then you turn me on to Melzer, who fixes things for me, and I owe you a favor. You're a real pal.\"\n\nHe played around with his dessert and didn't reply.\n\nI asked, \"But what if I hadn't come to you with the problem?\"\n\nHe shrugged.\n\n\"Then,'' I said, \"you'd find another problem for me. Or maybe I'd need another kind of favor from you, like the variance for the stables. I'm not sure that was a coincidence or a setup, but apparently you have my wife's ear, so you can get to me through her.\"\n\nThe man obviously knew there was trouble between Susan and me, and if he had a conscience at all, it was a guilty one. In fact, he actually looked uncomfortable. I mean, beyond class differences and political differences, and ethnic and racial tensions, and all the other problems that people have with one another in society, the most primitive and elemental cause of violence, murder, and mayhem is sexual possessiveness. To put it more simply, people get angry when other people are fucking or trying to fuck their mate. Anyway, Bellarosa must have been feeling a little uneasy or he wouldn't have prodded me into the subject to see my reaction. He looked at me, waiting to see, I think, if I was actually going to broach the subject of him and Susan. But since it was he who was feeling a little uneasy, not me, I decided to leave him hanging awhile longer.\n\nWithout a word, I stood and went to the sideboard on which were a few dozen telephone messages, one of which was from Susan advising me that she'd changed her telephone number. I suppose the media were getting to her, not to mention our friends and relatives. I threw the message with the new phone number in the wastebasket and left the suite.\n\nDown in the lobby, I was accosted by none other than Jenny Alvarez, the lady in red, except that she was not wearing red that evening. \"Hello, Mr. Sutter,'' she said.\n\nShe was, in fact, wearing a black silk dress, sort of an evening dress, I guess, as if she'd just come from dinner. She really looked good, and I wanted to ask her if we'd spent the night together, but it seemed like a silly question, so I just replied, \"Hello.\"\n\n\"Can I buy you a drink?'' she asked.\n\n\"I don't drink.\"\n\n\"Coffee?\"\n\n\"I'm in a bit of a hurry.\"\n\nShe seemed hurt, and I began to believe we really had spent the night together. I'm a lot of things, but a cad isn't one of them, so I accepted the offer of a drink, and we went into the Oak Bar and got a table. She ordered a scotch and soda, and I made it two. She said, \"I saw the statements you made to the newspapers this morning.\"\n\n\"I didn't know TV journalists read the papers. Or read at all.\"\n\n\"Don't be a snot.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"Anyway, I'd like to do an interview with you.\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"It won't take long. We can do it right here in the Plaza, live for the eleven-o'clock news.\"\n\n\"I'd be dead for the morning news.\"\n\nShe laughed as though this were a joke. This was not a joke. She said, \"Could you get Mr. Bellarosa to join you?\"\n\n\"I think not.\"\n\n\"Maybe we could tape an in-depth interview and run it on our nightly news show at eleven-thirty. That's a national show. That would give you both an opportunity to present your side of the case.\"\n\n\"We're actually going to present our side in court.\"\n\nSo we went on in this vein for a while, Ms. Alvarez thinking I was playing hard to get, and I, to be honest, not blowing her off because I was enjoying the company. She had nice full lips.\n\nWe ordered a second round. She could not comprehend, of course, that not everyone in America wanted to be on television. Finally, growing a little weary with her obsessive badgering, I said, \"I had a dream last night that I slept with you.\"\n\nShe seemed like a tough sort of lady who'd heard it all before, but this took her by surprise, and she actually got flustered. I was smitten. I said, \"Look, Ms. Alvarez\u2014can I call you Jenny?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Look, Jenny, you must know that these people don't appear on TV shows. You have a better chance of getting the Premier of the Soviet Union on your show than getting Frank Bellarosa.\"\n\nShe nodded, but only, I think, to get her brain working better. She said, \"But _you_ are not in the Mafia\u2014\"\n\n\"There is no Mafia.\"\n\n\" _You_ can talk to us. Mr. Ferragamo has agreed to come on the show\u2014\"\n\n\"He'd do a sitcom if the ratings were high enough.\"\n\nShe giggled. \"Come on, Mr. Sutter . . . John. Don't you see how this can help your client?\"\n\nSo we began round three with another round of drinks. She went on for a while, making a good case for television exposure, but I'm afraid I wasn't paying much attention. I said, \"It was a very realistic dream.\"\n\nShe replied, \"Look, if it means getting you on the air . . .\"\n\nI paid more attention. \"Yes?\"\n\n\"Well . . . we can scramble you.\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"You know. Scramble your face and voice. No one will know it's you.\"\n\n\"Unless you introduce me by name.\"\n\n\"Don't be silly. What would be the point of\u2014?\"\n\n\"You had on that red dress.\"\n\n\"The scrambled interview would have a different slant, of course. Not John Sutter as attorney, but as an unidentified source. We've done that before with organized crime reports. You'd talk about\u2014\"\n\n\"Do you have an apartment in town?\"\n\nRound three ended in a draw, and we went to round four, both optimistic. At seven bucks a pop in the Oak Bar, one of us was down fifty-six dollars already, plus tax and tip. There was a bowl of really good smoked almonds on the next table, but our table had a bowl of those disgusting goldfish pretzels. They're all over the place.\n\nShe went on again, glancing at her watch a few times. I asked, \"Are you doing the news tonight?\"\n\n\"I don't think I have a story tonight since you're not cooperating.\"\n\n\"Do you get paid anyway?\"\n\n\"Maybe. Look, at least consider the news show at eleven-thirty. We have a show put together, but we need a focus.\"\n\n\"Does that mean you won't scramble my face?\"\n\n\"I mean an _angle._ I want someone to speak intelligently about different aspects of this case. I don't want any more so-called experts. I want someone who can give the American public the other side of this issue.\"\n\n\"What other side?\"\n\n\"The constitutionality of RICO, the government's harassment of certain ethnic groups under the guise of justice, Ferragamo's statements about a possible gang war between Hispanics and Italians. That sort of thing. I really want to get a different view on this thing.\"\n\n\"Sounds like a good show. I'll watch it.\"\n\n\"Let's go talk to Mr. Bellarosa. See if he wants to be interviewed. See if he wants his attorney to go on.\"\n\n\"Stay here.'' I stood. \"See if you can get a bowl of smoked almonds.'' I went out to a house phone and called the suite, but Bellarosa's line was busy. I had no intention of presenting Ms. Alvarez's offer to him, but I wanted to see if he was still in. I went back to the Oak Bar, sat, and informed Ms. Alvarez, \"He says no. And no means no.'' She had gotten the smoked almonds and I took a handful.\n\n\"Then how about you?'' she asked. \"Will you go on the air?\"\n\n\"What's in it for me?\"\n\n\"I take off the red dress.\"\n\n\"Before or after I go on the air?\"\n\nShe looked at her watch. \"Before.'' She added, \"Fuck me, but don't screw me.\"\n\nWe both smiled. Well, dreams do come true if you let them. But this one looked like trouble. I stood. \"Sorry. I can't live up to my end of the deal. But it's been fun.'' I left her with the tab.\n\nIn the lobby, I checked for messages, and there were a few from TV, press, and radio people. Most criminal attorneys would parlay this opportunity into fame and fortune. But mob attorneys such as Jack Weinstein and John Sutter had to satisfy themselves with \"No comment'' and tainted money that could be seized under the RICO Act. Hey, who said this was going to be good for my career?\n\nAnyway, I turned toward the lobby doors, intending to take the walk I had intended to take before, but once again I was waylaid by Jenny Alvarez. She said, \"Let me ask you a question. A personal question, off the record.\"\n\n\"I like the regular missionary position, but I'm open to anything.\"\n\n\"What I want to know is, why did you get involved with Frank Bellarosa?\"\n\n\"It's a long story. Truly it is.\"\n\n\"I mean, I saw your estate out there on Long Island. My God, I didn't think people still lived like that.\"\n\n\"I live in the guesthouse on the estate. You got that wrong on TV. And what difference does it make where I live?\"\n\n\"It makes all the difference. We're talking TV, John. Entertainment. You're a star. You look like a star. You act like a star. You're well dressed, you carry yourself well, and you speak extremely well. You're a class act.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\n\"Even if you did stick me with the tab.\"\n\n\"That's the classiest thing I've done all week. Look . . . Jenny, you're very attractive, and I'd like to take you upstairs, but I think you're giving me a line of bull because you want something from me, and it's not sex. And I can't deliver, not sex or information. I'm a faithful husband, plus I'm impotent and simpleminded. So\u2014\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\nComing from the direction of the Oak Bar, staring at me, were Lenny and Vinnie. I guess they had seen me in the bar and wondered why I was having a drink with a TV reporter. Jenny Alvarez's face is well-known in New York, and even cretins like Lenny and Vinnie watch the news. Anyway, Cretin One and Cretin Two were making stupid movements with their heads, indicating they wanted me to join them.\n\nMs. Alvarez inquired, \"Who are those men?\"\n\n\"Those are my law clerks.'' Well, the best way to cover myself, of course, was to make it clear to Lenny and Vinnie that my intentions in speaking to Ms. Alvarez were sexual and not traitorous. How's that for a rationalization? So, I put my arm around her and led her to the elevators. I said, \"Let's have a drink in my room.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nLenny and Vinnie got on the elevator with us. As we rode up, I said to my pals, \"This is Jenny Alvarez. She's a famous TV reporter.\"\n\nThey glanced at each other. Vinnie asked, \"The don want to see her?\"\n\n\"No, I want to see her. Alone, and I don't want to be bothered.\"\n\nThey both smirked, leered, and drooled. Class acts.\n\nWe got out on the eighth floor. Lenny unlocked the door to the suite, and we all entered. Bellarosa was lying on the couch, watching TV with his shoes off.\n\nJenny Alvarez went right up to him and introduced herself as he stood. Bellarosa said, \"Oh, yeah. You're the lady who gave this guy here a hard time. You friends now?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"Yes, we are.\"\n\nWell, the next thing, of course, was that she was going to start hammering poor Frank for an interview. Right? Wrong. She turned out to be the class act of the evening. She said, \"John invited me in for a drink. I hope I'm not intruding on business.\"\n\nBellarosa replied, \"Nah. We're on vacation.\"\n\nI said to Ms. Alvarez, \"Let's go to my room.'' I snagged a bottle of scotch and a bucket of ice from the bar, and she took two glasses and a bottle of soda.\n\nI showed her to my room, but as I began to follow her in, Bellarosa tapped me on the shoulder. He closed the door to my room and said to me, \"You couldn't get yourself a house whore? You have to bring this TV broad up here?\"\n\nI replied tersely, \"It's my business who I spend my free time with. But to set the record straight, my relationship with that woman is and will remain platonic.\"\n\nBellarosa glanced at the scotch and ice bucket in my hands and smiled. I guess that did seem like a pretty idiotic statement from one man of the world to another. However, I added, \"And it's not a business relationship either.\"\n\n\"Yeah? So no pillow talk. Okay? Watch what you say to her. Understand?\"\n\nI stepped toward the door, but he didn't move aside. Instead, he said, \"What's on your mind, Counselor? What's bugging you?\"\n\n\"If you spoke to my wife tonight, and I assume you did, then you know.\"\n\nHe stayed silent a moment, then nodded. \"Yeah. Okay. I spoke to her. But you got that all wrong. That's a bad thing to be thinking about. That's a very dangerous thing, when a guy gets something like that in his head. I've seen that kind of thing get people hurt and killed. So you just put that out of your head.'' He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a shake. \"Okay?\"\n\nSo I guess I was outvoted, two to one, on the question of a sexual triangle. I said, \"All right, Frank. Subject closed. Open the door for me.\"\n\nHe opened my bedroom door, and carrying the ice bucket and scotch, I went inside and kicked the door shut, then put the scotch and bucket on a cocktail table.\n\nJenny Alvarez said, \"Are you sure I'm not interrupting business?\"\n\n\"I'm sure. Make yourself comfortable. Have a seat.\"\n\nWe sat in the two facing club chairs in the corner with the drinks on the cocktail table between us.\n\nAs I put ice in our glasses, I noticed that my hand was a little unsteady. Confronting one's wife with an accusation of adultery was a little tense, but confronting the other man, especially when the guy was a killer, was not one of life's better moments. But I felt strangely at peace, as if I'd gotten rid of a great burden and put it on the people who'd stuck me with it in the first place. I mean, if you analyzed it with cold logic, it really wasn't my problem unless I chose to make it so. Still, I knew that the cold logic would eventually give way to more basic feelings such as heartache, pain, betrayal, jealousy, and other standard marital miseries. But tonight, I felt on top of things, and I had a drinking companion.\n\nJenny Alvarez said, \"Nice suite. Crime pays.\"\n\nI replied, \"Thanks for laying off Bellarosa.\"\n\n\"I came up here to have a drink with you.\"\n\n\"Right.'' Cynic though I am, I believed her, and it felt good to believe what someone said for a change. I mixed us scotch and sodas, and we touched glasses and drank. I have to be honest with you; I was nervous. I said, \"Don't you have to be on the air or something?\"\n\n\"You're my only assignment tonight. But since you're not going on the air, neither am I. But I'll call in later.'' She added, \"Late enough so they can't get me on something else before airtime. So I'm free tonight. Feels good.\"\n\nWell, I mean, she rearranged her whole schedule, you know, so she could have a drink with me. So what was I supposed to do? Kick her out after one drink? Get room service to deliver a Monopoly game? I cleared my throat. \"I'm very flattered.\"\n\nShe smiled. Oh, those lips. I have to tell you, I'm not usually into Latin beauties, but this woman was absolutely gorgeous. She had a soft brown complexion, dark eyes that sparkled, and thick black hair that cascaded over her shoulders. When she smiled, she had dimpled cheeks that I wanted to pinch.\n\nShe said, \"You're separated, I understand.\"\n\n\"I hadn't heard that.\"\n\n\"Well, I did.\"\n\n\"From whom?\"\n\n\"People out where you live.\"\n\n\"Is that a fact? I didn't even know that.\"\n\nShe smiled. \"Most men would just say yes to that question under these circumstances.\"\n\n\"I'm not most men. I'm into truth. Are you married?\"\n\n\"I was. I had a baby on TV. Remember? Two years ago.\"\n\nI seemed to recall some mawkish and tasteless coverage of the progress of her pregnancy and final delivery. But I don't watch much TV news, and until now I didn't even realize that this was the same woman. I replied, \"I do remember that. TV cameras in the delivery room. Sort of vulgar.\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"Not for television.\"\n\n\"I also seem to recall a proud father.\"\n\n\"I'm divorced now.\"\n\n\"So no more babies on television.\"\n\nShe smiled. \"Not for a while.\"\n\nWe chatted a bit, but I watched my consumption of scotch, in the event I had to rise to the occasion. I can't do it when I'm loaded, which is frustrating because that's usually when I want to do it the most. Alcohol is a cruel drug.\n\nI said, \"Look, I asked you up here to cover myself with those two goons. Understand?\"\n\n\"I think so. Do you want me to fake orgasmic noises, then leave?\"\n\n\"Well . . . no. I enjoy your company. But . . . I just wanted you to know why I invited you here.\"\n\n\"So now I know. Do you know why I accepted the invitation?\"\n\n\"You find me interesting.\"\n\n\"That's right. Very interesting. Intriguing. You intrigue me.\"\n\n\"Well, that's good news. You may not believe this, but I used to be dull.\"\n\n\"That's not possible.'' She smiled. \"When was that?\"\n\n\"Oh, back in March, April. I was really dull. That's why my wife left me.\"\n\n\"You said you didn't know anything about that.\"\n\n\"Well, I haven't been home in a few days. Maybe I should call my answering service.\"\n\nBut I didn't. We talked about this and that, bantered and teased, but we never talked about Frank Bellarosa. However, it occurred to me that there was more than one way to put a knife into his heart. I mean, I could use this woman as a conduit to the news media. I could remain anonymous, and she would vouch for the reliability of her source. I could feed the media all sorts of things that could put Frank Bellarosa into jail or into the grave. And that would take me off the hook for the perjured alibi, and Bellarosa would be out of my life. I mention this because it did cross my mind. I guess I had been hanging around Bellarosa too long. But I was determined not to let my life become obsessed with vendetta the way his was. Whatever he had done to me, he had to live with it, and perhaps one day, he would answer for it. _Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord._ So I dismissed my thoughts of revenge (for the moment) and got back to the business at hand. I said to Jenny Alvarez, \"There's no payoff, you know. I mean, even if you spend the night, I'm not telling you anything.\"\n\n\"I told you I'm here because I want to be with you. I don't really give sex for stories and you don't really proposition women who need something from you. That was a game downstairs.\"\n\n\"And it's another game up here. And I'm out of practice.\"\n\n\"You're doing fine. I'm still interested. By the way, did you see yourself on TV?\"\n\n\"Sure did.\"\n\n\"Your hair was messy.\"\n\n\"I know. And my tie looked the wrong color, but it wasn't. I can show you the tie.\"\n\n\"Oh, I believe you. That happens on TV sometimes.\"\n\nThe phone rang, but I didn't answer it. Jenny made a call to her studio and told them she was through for the night. I had a club soda, and she had another scotch. We both kicked our shoes off at some point. There was a TV in the bedroom and we watched her news show at eleven. The Bellarosa story got a minute, mostly reports about the published stories in the newspapers, including my press statements. Ferragamo, who was good at the ten-second sound bite, said, \"We are investigating Mr. Bellarosa's alibi for the day in question, and if we find evidence that contradicts that alibi, we will ask that bail be rescinded, and we will take Mr. Bellarosa into custody again, and we will consider action against the individual who supplied the alibi.\"\n\nTen seconds on the head. The man was a pro.\n\nMs. Alvarez inquired, \"He means you, doesn't he?\"\n\nI replied, \"I think so.\"\n\n\"What sort of action? What can they do to you?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I was telling the truth.\"\n\n\"So the five other witnesses were lying? No, don't answer. No business. It's a habit. Sorry.'' She seemed lost in thought, then blurted out, \"But it just doesn't make _sense_ , John.\"\n\n\"Does it make sense that Frank Bellarosa would commit murder in broad daylight?\"\n\n\"No, but . . . you're sure you saw him?\"\n\n\"Is this on the record?\"\n\n\"No, off the record.\"\n\n\"Okay . . . I'm positive it was him.\"\n\nShe smiled. \"If you're going to keep talking business, I'm leaving.\"\n\n\"My apologies.\"\n\nThe sports came on, and I was delighted to discover that the Mets trounced Montreal again, nine to three. \"They're going all the way,'' I said.\n\n\"Maybe. But the Yankees will take the first four of the Series.\"\n\n\"The Yankees? They're lucky if they finish the season.\"\n\n\"Baloney,'' she said. \"Have you _seen_ the Yankees this year?\"\n\n\"There's nothing to see.\"\n\nWe discussed this for a few minutes, and though I could tell she was knowledgeable, it was obvious that she was very biased. I explained, \"They don't have one long-ball hitter on the team.\"\n\n\"Pitching is the name of the game today, buddy, and the Yankees have real depth in the bullpen.\"\n\nThis was very frustrating. I tried to explain the facts of baseball life to her, but she said, \"Look, I can get us into the press box at Yankee Stadium. You come and see the Yankees play, then we can discuss this intelligently.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't go to the Bronx if you paid me. But I'll watch a Yankee game with you on TV.\"\n\n\"Good. I want you to watch them against Detroit next week.\"\n\nWell, anyway, it was a good night, and we had fun, and the next morning I felt a little better than I had the morning before. _Capisce?_\n\n**_Thirty-two_**\n\nWe spent a few more days at the Plaza, but neither Frank nor I ever mentioned or alluded to the subject of my wife's being his mistress. But I could tell he was still burdened by the subject, and he could tell I was not. I don't mean to suggest I was playing with him; he was not a man to be played with. But apparently he had some human feelings like the rest of us mortals, and I sensed he felt he'd gone beyond the bounds of even Machiavellian behavior and crossed into actual sin. Well, Father what's-his-name could issue him a quick absolution over the phone. \"Say two Hail Mary's, Frank, when you get a chance. See you at Communion.\"\n\nAnyway, on one of those days at the Plaza, I had lunch with Jack Weinstein, whom I took a liking to. On another day, I called Alphonse Ferragamo, whom I had taken a disliking to. But I was nice to Alphonse, as per my client's orders, and Mr. Ferragamo and I agreed to fight fair and clean, but we were both lying.\n\nAlphonse\u2014not me\u2014brought up the subject of my client's cooperating in other matters of interest to the Justice Department in exchange for Justice dropping the charge of murder. I replied, \"He's not guilty of murder.\"\n\nMr. Ferragamo informed me, \"Well, we think he is. But I'll tell you what. I'll talk to Washington about a blanket immunity for Bellarosa if he wants to talk.\"\n\n\"How about absolution?\"\n\nFerragamo chuckled. \"That's between him and his priest. I'm talking immunity from prosecution for good information.\"\n\n_Good information?_ What kind of information did the stupid son of a bitch think the don of dons had\u2014the location of a bookie joint in Staten Island? Bellarosa had plenty of good information; he just wasn't going to give it to the Justice Department.\n\n\"Immunity on anything he testifies about under oath,'' said Alphonse, which is not quite the same as blanket immunity in exchange for unsworn information. This guy played it slick. I thought a moment. If, in fact, Frank Bellarosa squealed, the Mafia in New York would be crippled for years, maybe forever. And perhaps for that reason alone, his _paesanos_ wanted him dead. He simply had too much information and he had a good memory.\n\nI said to Alphonse, \"Mr. Ferragamo, my client knows nothing about organized crime. But if he did, I think he'd rather speak to the State Attorney General than to you.\"\n\nThis got Alphonse a little worked up. The nice thing about a federal form of government is that you can play off one level of government against another. They taught me that in civics class. Well, they didn't, but they should have. Alphonse said, \"That's not a good idea, Mr. Sutter. That won't get your client off the hook with the United States government.\"\n\n\"And cooperating with you won't get my client off the hook with the New York State government.\"\n\n\"Well . . . let me work on a joint immunity sort of thing. Would that be what you're looking for?\"\n\n\"Maybe. And we have six parking violations in the city. We want those fixed, too.\"\n\nWhen I heard him force a laugh, I knew I had him by the short hairs. He said, \"So you present this possibility to your client, Mr. Sutter. You seem a bright and reasonable man. Maybe a man like you could convince your client to make a really smart move.\"\n\n\"I'll tell him what we discussed.'' You have to understand that every prosecutor in America would like to get just one break like that in a lifetime; a top-level bad guy who was willing to sing for a year into a tape recorder and rat out a thousand other bad guys. To tell you the truth, it was a good deal for Frank. Ferragamo, in effect, was offering Frank Bellarosa his life. But very few of these _paesanos_ made deals, and Frank Bellarosa was the last man in America you would approach with a government offer. But Alphonse was asking, and I had to make sure he was offering the real thing, and it was my duty to pass it on. I said to the U.S. Attorney, \"Meanwhile, we really want a quick trial date, Mr. Ferragamo, or I have to start complaining to the press.\"\n\n\"My case is ready, Mr. Sutter. My office is working on a date.\"\n\n_Bullshit._ \"Fine. When can I speak to the government witnesses?\"\n\n\"Soon.\"\n\n_Horseshit._ \"Thank you.\"\n\nUnderstand that U.S. Attorneys don't often speak directly to defense lawyers, and when they do, they're a bit arrogant and bullying. But Mr. Ferragamo had probably been reading about John Whitman Sutter in the newspapers, and he must have gotten the impression that I was someone with power, and he was being nice to me at least until he had me checked out. Also, of course, he wanted me to get Frank to sell out. But there was the matter of my perjury, which must have perplexed him. I said to Alphonse, \"I saw you on TV the other night, Mr. Ferragamo, and I didn't appreciate the inference you made that I was lying about my client's whereabouts.\"\n\n\"I didn't actually say you were lying, nor did I use your name. I said we are investigating the alibi.\"\n\n\"Meaning you're sending Justice Department investigators around to my community and my offices to see if anyone can tell you where _I_ was on January fourteenth of this year. I don't like that.\"\n\n\"Be that as it may, Mr. Sutter, that is how I must proceed.'' He added, \"It may have simply been a case of mistaken identity on your part. Correct?\"\n\n\"I know whom I saw.\"\n\n\"Well, if you're willing to say that, and ten years in jail for perjury doesn't frighten you, then I suppose you know where you were on January fourteenth. That was the day before you flew to Florida for vacation, wasn't it?\"\n\n_Mamma mia_ , first the IRS, then this guy. Why was everyone so intent on getting me into a federal prison? It must be my attitude. I replied, \"You're wasting your time and the taxpayers' money, Mr. Ferragamo. But I respect your thoroughness and diligence.\"\n\n\"Thank you. Please think about what I've said. Whatever we can work out for your client, we can also work out for you.\"\n\nI bit my lip, my tongue, and a pencil, and replied, \"Thank you for your time.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAnyway, I spoke to Jack Weinstein in his Midtown office the next day, as you don't talk about these things on the telephone. I outlined what Alphonse Ferragamo had said and added, \"I know what Frank's answer is going to be, Jack, but this is perhaps his one last chance to save his life, and to start a new life.\"\n\nWeinstein stayed silent a few minutes, then said to me, \"Okay, John, I'm Ferragamo and I have you for perjury and you're looking at maybe ten in a federal prison. Okay, what I want from you is all the information you have on your friends and relatives and business partners that can put them away for cheating on their taxes, for playing fast and loose with SEC rules, for doing a little coke and marijuana, maybe for price-fixing, and for all those other little white-collar things that you winked at over the years. Okay, so your partners will go to jail, your wife's family goes to jail, your family goes to jail, your old school buddies go to jail, and you go free. What do you say, John?\"\n\n\"I say fuck you, Alphonse.\"\n\n\"Precisely. And it goes deeper than that with those people, my friend. It's some kind of ancient distrust of government, some primitive code of honor and of silence. _Capisce?\"_\n\n\"Yes, but the world has changed, Jack. Really it has.\"\n\n\"I know. But nobody's told these people yet. You go tell Frank the world has changed and tell him to give up every last _paesano_ he knows. Go tell him.\"\n\nI stood to leave. \"I suppose if Frank Bellarosa plays by the old rules, then he holds the old world together.\"\n\n\"I think that's it.'' He added, \"But you do have to tell him what Ferragamo said. Schedule about two minutes for that conversation.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Hey, how does 'Weinstein and Sutter' sound?\"\n\nNot real terrific, Jack. But I smiled and replied, \"How about 'Sutter, Weinstein and Melzer'?\"\n\nHe laughed. \" _Melzer?_ I wouldn't share a match with that guy.\"\n\nI left Weinstein's office knowing that despite my ambivalent feelings about Frank Bellarosa's being alive, well, and free, I had done my job.\n\nBut to be certain, I did present Ferragamo's offer to Bellarosa. However, I didn't need a whole two minutes because after about thirty seconds, Bellarosa said to me, \"Fuck him.\"\n\n\"That's your final decision?\"\n\n\"Fuck him and fuck his dog. Who the hell does he think he's dealing with?\"\n\n\"Well, he just took a shot at it. Don't take it personally. He has a job to do.\"\n\n\"Fuck him and fuck his job.\"\n\nPride goeth before the fall. Right?\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAnyway, Frank and I and Lenny and Vinnie drove to the rifle club one night. We went down to the basement with a bunch of other sportsmen, all armed with revolvers and automatics, and we blasted away at paper targets and drank wine all night. Jolly fun, almost like bird shooting out in the Hamptons, lacking only a beautiful autumn landscape, tweedy old gentlemen, vintage sherry, and birds. But not bad for Manhattan.\n\nLenny and Vinnie, as it turned out, were really good shots, which I suppose I should have known. But I discovered it the hard way after losing about two hundred dollars to them on points.\n\nSo there I was at a Mafia shooting range, blasting away at paper targets with my wife's boyfriend and his Mafia pals, wondering if perhaps I should have taken in a movie instead. Anyway, we were all a little pie-eyed from the wine, and the shots were getting wilder, and one of the club members presented Bellarosa with a silhouette target on which someone had sketched in the features of Alphonse Ferragamo. The drawing was not Michelangelo quality, but it wasn't bad, and you could identify Alphonse with the owl eyes, aquiline nose, thin lips, and all that. Frank hung the target and put four out of six rounds through its heart at thirty feet, much to everyone's delight. It was not bad shooting considering he'd had enough wine to make him unsteady on his feet. But the whole incident made me a little uncomfortable.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe next few days passed with phone calls and meetings, mostly in the suite. I had expected a man like Bellarosa to have a girlfriend, or many girlfriends, or at least to get someone for a night. But I saw no signs of impropriety during the time we were at the Plaza. Maybe he was being faithful to his wife and mistress.\n\nAs for my impropriety, Bellarosa said to me, \"Hey, I don't mind you bringing women up here, but no more lady reporters. She's just trying to get something out of you.\"\n\n\"No, she just likes my company.\"\n\n\"Hey, I know that type. They use their twats to get ahead. You don't find that type in my business.\"\n\nIndeed, no one in Frank's business had female genitalia. If the government couldn't get him on murder or racketeering, maybe they could nail him on discriminatory hiring.\n\nHe went on, \"I'm telling ya, Counselor, I'd rather see you talking to the devil than some _puttan_ ' who's trying to make a name for herself.\"\n\nWell, what was I going to say? That I was infatuated with Jenny Alvarez and it was strictly personal? I mean, it was hard for me to hold the moral high ground after dragging Ms. Alvarez and a bottle of scotch into my room. You know? But did I have to listen to a sermon from Frank Bellarosa? Maybe I did.\n\nThe Bishop went on, \"Men's business is men's business. Women don't play by the same rules.\"\n\n\"Neither do men,'' I informed him.\n\n\"Yeah. But some do. I try to keep my business in the family. You know? My own kind. That's why I had to make you an honorary Italian.'' He laughed.\n\n\"Am I a Sicilian or a Neapolitan?\"\n\nHe laughed again. \"I'll make you a Roman because you're a pain in the ass.\"\n\n\"I'm honored.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nIndeed, everyone in Frank's world was male, and nearly all of them were Italian, and most of them were of Sicilian ancestry or from the city or region of Naples, as Bellarosa's family was. This did make the rules of behavior and business easier, but there weren't many outside ideas that penetrated this closed world.\n\nJack Weinstein's roots, though, were obviously not southern Italian, and he was perhaps Bellarosa's link to the outside. I had learned, incidentally, that Weinstein's family and Bellarosa's family had known one another in Williamsburg. That section of Brooklyn, you should understand, was not predominantly Italian, but was mostly German, Jewish, and a little Irish. A real melting pot, to use an inaccurate term, since no one mixed much, let alone melted. However, because of the proximities of other cultures, the Williamsburg immigrants were not quite as insular as the immigrants in other areas of New York, who created tight little worlds. Thus, the Williamsburg Italians, such as those around Santa Lucia, went to school with and even made friends with non-Italians. This information came from Mr. Bellarosa, who didn't use the words _proximity_ and _insular_ , but I understood what he was saying. Anyway, he and Weinstein went back a lot of years, which I found interesting, and like me, Jack Weinstein did not want to be, nor could he ever be, under Mafia constitutional law, the don. Thus, Weinstein was Bellarosa's Henry Kissinger, if you'll accept that analogy. So how did I fit into the Bellarosa crime family? Well, I was the noblest Roman of them all.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe checked out of the Plaza on Sunday and returned to Long Island in a three-car convoy, each car packed with Italian men and Italian food. I was in the middle car with Bellarosa, and the interior smelled of ripening cheese and cigars. I didn't know if I would have to boil my clothes or burn them.\n\nRegarding Susan, she hadn't called again; at least she hadn't called _me_ again. And I never did return her call and couldn't if I wanted to since I'd thrown away her new unlisted number. So, to be honest, I was a little tense about walking through the front door.\n\nBellarosa said to me, \"The girls will be happy to see us.\"\n\nI didn't reply.\n\n\"They probably thought we were having a good time in the city. Whenever you go away on business, they think you're having a ball. Meantime, you're busting your ass to make a buck. Right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Anyway, Anna's cooking all my favorite things tonight.'' Whereupon he rattled off all his favorite things in this sort of singsong voice that Italians use when talking about food. I actually recognized a few of the things. I'm an honorary Italian. Anyway, this food talk must have made him hungry because he ripped open a bag of _biscotti_ and unwrapped a hunk of cheese that smelled like gym socks. He borrowed a stiletto from Vinnie and went to work on the cheese. Executive lunch. He asked, \"Want some?\"\n\n\"No, thanks.\"\n\n\"You know what a garbage truck is called in an Italian neighborhood?\"\n\n\"No, I don't.\"\n\n\"Meals on wheels.'' He laughed. \"Tell me one.\"\n\n\"Did you hear about the dumb Mafia guy who tried to blow up a police car?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"He burnt his mouth on the tail pipe.\"\n\nHe liked that one and slid the Plexiglas divider open and told it to Lenny and Vinnie, who laughed, though I could tell they didn't get it.\n\nWe rode in silence for a while, and I reflected on the present state of affairs. Despite the unspoken and unresolved issues between Frank Bellarosa and me, I was still his lawyer, and if I took him at his word, his friend. I could believe that if it weren't for the fact that I was also his alibi, and he was protecting his interest in me, which sort of colored things.\n\nActually I didn't want to be his lawyer anymore, or his friend or his alibi. I could have told him that a few days ago, but since his arraignment it had become vastly more complicated for me to cut my ties to him. As a lawyer, and therefore an officer of the court, what I had said in court was perjury, even though I hadn't been under oath. And as a lawyer, if I recanted what I'd said, I'd probably be facing disbarment, not to mention a bullet in the head. There was, of course, this other side to being made an honorary Italian. It wasn't all wine and rigatoni, it was also _omert\u00e0_ \u2014silence\u2014and it was us against them, and it was some sort of unspoken oath of loyalty that I must have taken, accepting Frank Bellarosa as my don. _Mamma mia_ , this shouldn't happen to a High Episcopalian.\n\nBellarosa impaled a hunk of cheese on the point of the knife and held it under my nose. \"Here. You make me nervous when you watch me eat. _Mangia_.\"\n\nI took the cheese and bit into it. It wasn't bad, but it stunk.\n\nBellarosa watched me with satisfaction. \"Good?\"\n\n_\"Molto bene.''_ Not only were we partners in crime, but we were beginning to talk and smell the same.\n\nAfter a few minutes of silence, he said to me, \"Hey, I know you're pissed about some things, you know, things that you think I did to you, like the Melzer thing. But like I told you once, sometimes you can't get even. Sometimes you got to take the hit and be happy you're still on your feet. Then the next time you're a little tougher and a little smarter.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Frank. I didn't realize all you've done for me.\"\n\n\"Yeah, you did.\"\n\n\"Don't do me any more favors. Okay?\"\n\n\"Okay. But here's some more free advice. Don't do me those kinds of favors, either. You don't talk to people like that reporter broad, and you don't even think about ways to even up the score. I'm telling you that for your own good. Because I like you, and I don't want to see nothing happen to you.\"\n\n\"Look, Frank, I'm not into vendetta like you are. I took the hit and I learned my lesson as you said. But if I was into revenge for the Melzer thing and for those other things, I guarantee you, you wouldn't even see it coming. So we let bygones be bygones, and we finish out our business, and we part friends. _Capisce?_ \"\n\nHe looked at me a long time, then said, \"Yeah, you're smart enough to take a shot at me, but you ain't tough enough.\"\n\n\"Fuck me again and we'll find out.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\nI could tell he wasn't real happy with me, but he thought about it and said, \"Well, I'm not going to fuck you again, so we'll never find out. Okay?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\nHe put out his hand and I took it. We shook, but I wasn't sure what we were shaking on, and I don't think he knew either. Neither did he believe me that I wasn't looking for revenge, and I didn't believe that he wouldn't screw me again the first time it was in his interest to do so.\n\nAnyway, as we approached the expressway exit to Lattingtown, Bellarosa said in a tone of conciliation, \"Hey, come on over for dinner tonight. We got lots of food. Anna invited a bunch of people over. All relatives. No businesspeople.\"\n\n\"Are we related?\"\n\n\"No, but it's an honor to be invited to a family thing.\"\n\n\"Thank you,'' I said noncommittally.\n\n\"Good. Susan, too. I think Anna talked to her already.'' He added, \"Hey, I got an idea. Let's make this the picture party. Everybody's going to be there who I want to see the picture. Let's do that.\"\n\nI had the distinct impression everybody knew about this already. In polite suburban society, this would be a sort of friendly ruse to get a couple back together again. But Frank Bellarosa had all sorts of other angles as usual.\n\nHe said, \"Your wife will be the guest of honor. That okay with you?\"\n\nWell, the prospect of spending an evening at an Italian family homecoming party for a Mafia don with my estranged wife as the guest of honor was not that appealing, as you may conclude.\n\n\"Okay? See you about six.\"\n\nVinnie suddenly burst out laughing and slid back the Plexiglas. He looked at me. \"Burned his mouth on the tail pipe. I get it.\"\n\nI should have taken the train home.\n\n**_Thirty-three_**\n\nThe convoy turned into Stanhope Hall and proceeded up the gravel drive of Bellarosa's newly acquired fiefdom until we reached the little enclave of Susan Stanhope, where I bid my felonious friends good-day and carried my suitcase up to the front door.\n\nSusan's Jaguar was out front, but with horse people that doesn't necessarily mean anyone is at home, and as I entered the house, it had that empty feeling about it. So the joyful reunion was postponed.\n\nI went to my den and erased twenty-six messages on my answering machine, then took a stack of faxes and burned them in the fireplace unread. I did go through my mail because I respect handwritten letters. There was only one of those, however, a letter from Emily, which I put aside. Everything else turned out to be business mail, bills, ads, and assorted junk, which I also burned.\n\nI sat down and read Emily's letter:\n\n_Dear John,_\n\n_Where in the name of God did you get that horrid tie? I kept adjusting the color on my TV, but the tie didn't go with the suit unless your face was green. And I see you still don't carry a pocket comb. I saw that Spanish woman\u2014Alvarez, I think\u2014on the affiliate station here, and she hates you or loves you. Find out which. Gary and I are fine. Come on down. Soon!_\n\n_Love,  \nSis_\n\nI put the letter in my desk drawer and went into the kitchen. We have a family message center, formerly known as a bulletin board, but the only message on it said, _Zanzibar, vet, Tuesday_ _A_ _._ _M_ _._ Fuck Zanzibar. He can't even read, and he's not allowed in the kitchen anyway.\n\nI carried my suitcase upstairs and entered the former master bedroom, now called the mistress bedroom, and threw my suitcase in the corner. I changed into jeans, Docksides, and T-shirt and went into the bathroom. My mouth still smelled of that cheese, so I gargled with mint mouthwash, but it didn't do any good. The stuff was in my blood.\n\nI left the house and got into my Bronco, which I had trouble starting after it had sat idle for a while. George Allard was indeed dead. The engine finally turned over, and I headed down the driveway. I was on my way to go see my boat, but as I approached the gatehouse, Ethel stepped out of the door and stood in the drive, wearing her Sunday flower dress. I stopped the Bronco and got out. \"Hello, Ethel.\"\n\n\"Hello, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"How are you?\"\n\n\"I'm fine,'' she replied.\n\n\"You look well.'' Actually she didn't, but I'm pretty easy on recent widows, orphans, and the severely handicapped.\n\nShe said to me, \"It's not my place to say this, Mr. Sutter, but I think the press is treating you unfairly.\"\n\nWas this Ethel Allard? Did she use that George-ism \"it's not my place to say this''? Obviously this woman was possessed by the ghost of her husband. I replied, \"That's very good of you to think so, Mrs. Allard.\"\n\n\"This must be very trying for you, sir.\"\n\nI think my eyes moved heavenward to see if George was up there smiling. I said to Ethel, \"I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you regarding unwanted visitors.\"\n\n\"That's all right, sir. That's my job.\"\n\nReally? \"Nevertheless, I do appreciate your patience. I'm afraid this might go on for some time.\"\n\nShe nodded, actually sort of bowed her head the way George used to do to show he'd heard and understood. This was a little spooky, so I said, \"Well, you take care of yourself.'' I moved back toward the Bronco.\n\nShe informed me, \"Mrs. Sutter and I went to church this morning.\"\n\n\"How nice.\"\n\n\"She said you might be coming home today.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"She asked me to tell you if I saw you that she will be on the property this afternoon. She may be tending her garden or riding or at the stables. She asked that you look for her.'' Ethel added hesitantly, \"She hasn't seemed herself the last few days.\"\n\nNeither have you, Ethel. Neither has anyone else around here. Just then, I would have given anything to go back to April when the world was safe and dull. Anyway, I really didn't want to see Susan; I wanted to see my boat, but I couldn't very well ignore Ethel's message, so I said, \"Thank you. I'll take a look around.'' I got back into the Bronco, turned around, and headed back up the long drive.\n\nI drove to the stable and looked inside, but Susan wasn't there, though both horses were. I put the Bronco into four-wheel drive and drove across the property to Stanhope Hall, but I didn't see her tending her vegetables in the terrace gardens. I drove past the gazebo and the hedge maze, but there was no sign of her.\n\nI was aware, as I drove over the acreage, that this was no longer Stanhope property, but Bellarosa property, and in fact even my access to Grace Lane was by way of the long driveway that was now Bellarosa's, though I assumed that whoever had handled the sale for William was bright enough to put an easement clause into the contract. Actually, since I didn't own the guesthouse, what did I care? Susan and Frank could work out an easement arrangement. How's that for whiny self-pity? But put yourself in my position: landless, moneyless, powerless, jobless, and cuckolded. But I was also free. And I could stay that way unless I was foolish enough to get myself land, money, power, a job, and my wife back. As I skirted around the plum orchard, however, I noticed a straw sun hat on a stone bench at the edge of the grove, and I stopped the Bronco. I got out and saw that beside the hat was a bouquet of wildflowers, their stems tied together with a ribbon from the hat.\n\nI hesitated, then went into the grove. The plum trees were planted far apart, and despite the fact that they had grown wild over the years, there was still an openness inside the grove.\n\nI saw her walking some distance away wearing a white cotton dress and carrying a wicker basket. She was gathering plums, which were few and far between in this dying orchard. I watched her awhile, and though I couldn't see her face clearly at that distance in the dappled sunlight, she seemed to me downcast. If this whole scene seems to you a bit too set, I assure you the same thought occurred to me. I mean, she told Ethel to have me look for her. On the other hand, Susan is not manipulative, not prone to using feminine wiles, or any of that. So if she had gone through the trouble of setting this up, that in itself said something. I mean, if I'd found her tending the vegetables that Bellarosa had given us, then that, too, would have said something. Right? Well, enough horticultural psychology. She seemed to sense she wasn't alone, and she looked up at me and smiled tentatively.\n\nNow picture us running toward each other through the sacred grove, in slow motion, the boughs parting, the wicker basket thrown aside, shafts of sunlight beaming on our smiling faces, our arms outstretched. Picture that.\n\nCut to John Sutter, his hands in the pockets of his jeans regarding his wife with cool detachment. Close-up of Susan's tentative smile getting more tentative.\n\nAnyway, she moved toward me and called out, \"Hello, John.\"\n\n\"Hello.\"\n\nShe kept coming, the basket swinging slightly by her side. She looked more tan than when I'd seen her five days before, and her freckles were all out. I noticed that she was barefoot and her sandals were in her basket. She looked about nineteen years old at that moment, and I felt my heart thumping as she got to within a few feet of me. She took a plum out of the basket and held it toward me. \"Want one?\"\n\nI had an ancestor who once accepted a piece of fruit from a woman in a garden, and it got him into deep trouble, so I said, \"No, thanks.\"\n\nSo we stood a few feet apart, and finally I said, \"Ethel told me you wanted to speak to me.\"\n\n\"Yes, I wanted to say welcome home.\"\n\n\"Thank you, but I'm not home.\"\n\n\"You are, John.\"\n\n\"Look, Susan, one of the first things those of us who were not born in a manor learn is that you can't have your cake and eat it, too. There is a price to pay for indulging yourself. You made your choices, Susan, and you have to accept responsibility for your actions.\"\n\n\"Thank you for that Protestant, middle-class sermon. You're right that I was brought up differently, but I've made my adjustments to the new realities far better than you have. I've been a good wife to you, John, and I deserve better treatment than this.\"\n\n\"Do you? Does that mean you deny any sexual involvement with Bellarosa?\"\n\n\"Yes, I deny it.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't believe you.\"\n\nHer face flushed red. \"Then why don't you ask him?\"\n\n\"I don't have to, Susan, since you told him what I said to you. Am I supposed to believe you or him when it's obvious that you're both in cahoots? Do you think I'm an idiot?\"\n\n\"No, you're a sharp lawyer. But you've become overly suspicious and cynical.'' She paused and looked at me. \"I'll tell you something, though. Frank and I have become good friends, and yes, we talk, and we talk about you and about things, and I suppose that has the appearance of impropriety. I apologize for that.\"\n\nI looked into her eyes and I wanted to believe her, but I had too much circumstantial evidence to the contrary. I said to her, \"Susan, tell me you are having an affair with him and I will forgive you. I mean that unconditionally, and we'll never speak of it again. You have my word on that. But you must tell me now, this minute, with no more lies.'' I added, \"This is a onetime offer.\"\n\nShe replied, \"I told you the extent of our relationship. It was close, but not sexual. Perhaps it was too close, and I will deal with that. Again, I apologize for confiding in him, and if you're angry, I understand. You are all the man I need.'' She added, \"I missed you.\"\n\n\"And I missed you.'' Which was true. What was not true was her confession to a lesser crime. It's an old trick. I could see this was going nowhere. Susan is a cool customer, and if she were on a witness stand for eight straight hours and I were a savage lawyer, I could still not shake her. She'd made her decision to lie, or more accurately, Bellarosa had made it for her, for his own reasons. I felt that if it were anyone else but him, she'd stand up and tell me the truth. But this man had such a hold over her that she could look me in the eye and lie, though it was against everything in her nature and breeding to do so.\n\nI felt worse at that moment than if she had just said, \"Yes, I've been screwing him for three months.'' Actually, I was frightened for her because she was less able to handle Mr. Bellarosa and his corruption than I was. I knew instinctively that this was not the time to push her and continue the confrontation. I said, \"All right, Susan. I understand that you were seduced by him in another way. And yes, I am angry and jealous of your relationship with him, even if it's not sexual. I wish it were simply physical and not metaphysical.'' This was not true, of course, because I'm a man first, and a sensitive, intellectual, modern husband second, or third, or maybe even fourth or lower. But it sounded like the right response to her confession of emotional infidelity.\n\nShe said to me, \"You were seduced by him, too, John.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's right.\"\n\n\"Well, can we be friends?\"\n\n\"We can work on it. But I'm still angry about a lot of things. Maybe you are, too.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm angry that you've accused me of adultery and that you've been emotionally withdrawn for months.\"\n\n\"Well,'' I said, \"maybe we should separate for a while.\"\n\nShe seemed to mull that over, then replied, \"I'd prefer it if we could work out our problems while living together. We don't have to sleep together, but I'd like you to live at home.\"\n\n\"Your home.\"\n\n\"I've instructed my attorneys to amend the deed in both our names.\"\n\nLife is one surprise after another, isn't it? I said to her, \"Instruct them not to.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I don't want assets if I have tax problems. And I don't want your assets under any circumstances. But thank you for the gesture.\"\n\n\"All right.'' She asked, \"Well, will you be staying?\"\n\n\"Let me think about it. I'm going to spend a few days out on the boat. I'm afraid I won't be able to come to your unveiling this evening.\"\n\nShe replied, \"If you'd like, I'll tell . . . Anna to call it off.\"\n\n\"No, Anna would be disappointed. Please pass on my regrets to Anna.\"\n\n\"I will.\"\n\n\"I'll see you in a few days.'' I turned to leave.\n\n\"John?\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"I just remembered. Mr. Melzer came around the other day. Thursday or Friday, I think.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"He said you were supposed to make some sort of initial payment on your taxes.\"\n\n\"Did you tell him we haven't gone to closing on the East Hampton house yet?\"\n\n\"Yes, I did. He said he'd see what he could do, but he sounded concerned.\"\n\n\"I'll get in touch with him.'' I hesitated, then said, \"Susan, we have a long way to go.\"\n\nShe nodded. \"Maybe we can go away together as soon as things settle down, John. Just you and I. We can take the boat to the Caribbean if you'd like.\"\n\nShe was certainly trying, and I was certainly not. But the hurt was too deep, and the lies were not making it any better. I had the sudden compulsion to tell her I'd slept with a famous TV news reporter, and I might have if I thought it would do either of us any good. But I felt no guilt at all and didn't need to confess, and Susan didn't need to hear a confession that was given out of vengefulness.\n\n\"Think about a boat trip, John.\"\n\n\"I will.\"\n\n\"Oh, Edward and Carolyn both called. They send their love to you. They're drafting letters, but that might take awhile.'' She smiled.\n\n\"I'll call them when I get back. See you in a few days.\"\n\n\"Be careful, John. You really shouldn't go out alone.\"\n\n\"I'll stay in the Sound. Nothing tricky. I'll be fine.'' I added, \"Good luck tonight.'' I turned and walked away and heard her call out, \"Don't go to the Caribbean without me.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI pulled into the yacht club an hour later, having stopped at a deli in Bayville to pick up beer, baloney, and bread. You can live on beer, baloney, and bread for three days before scurvy and night blindness set in.\n\nI carried the case of beer and the bag of groceries to the boat in one trip and set everything down on the dock. As I was about to jump aboard, I noticed a cardboard sign encased in a sheet of clear plastic, hanging from the bow rail. I bent down and read the sign:\n\n**WARNING**\n\n**United States Government Seizure**\n\nThis property has been seized for nonpayment of internal revenue taxes due from John Sutter by virtue of levy issued by the District Director of Internal Revenue.\n\nPersons tampering with this property, in any manner, are subject to severe penalty of the law.\n\nI stared at the sign awhile, trying to comprehend how this thing got on my boat. After a full minute, I stood and loaded my provisions on board.\n\nAs I went about casting off, I noticed that people in nearby boats were looking at me. I mean, if I needed a final humiliation, this was it. Well, but it could have been worse. Let's not forget that right here on Long Island in colonial times, people were put in wooden cages and dunked in ponds, they were tarred and feathered, locked in pillories, and whipped in public. So one little cardboard sign was no big deal. At least I didn't have to wear it around my neck.\n\nI started the engine and took the _Paumanok_ out into the bay. I noticed that on the door that led below was the same sign as the one on the bow rail. I saw yet another one tied to the main mast. Well, I couldn't say I didn't see the sign, could I?\n\nI cut the engine and let the boat drift with the tide and wind. It was late afternoon, a nice summer Sunday in August, a bit cooler than normal, but comfortable.\n\nI really missed this while I was in Manhattan: the smell of the sea, the horizons, the isolation, and the quiet. I opened a can of beer, sat on the deck, and drank. I made a baloney sandwich and ate it, then had another beer. After five days of menus, room service, and restaurants, it was nice to make myself a baloney sandwich and drink beer from a can.\n\nWell, I went through about half the case, drifting around the bay, contemplating the meaning of life and more specifically wondering if I'd done and said the right things with Susan. I thought I had, and I justified my not telling her I didn't buy her story by reminding myself that she was borderline nuts even under the best of circumstances. I wasn't looking to destroy her or the marriage. I really wanted things to work out. I mean, on one level, we were still in love, but there's nothing more awkward than a husband and wife living together when one of them is having an affair, and the other one knows about it. (What I had done is called a fling. Susan was having an affair. Bellarosa had explained that when we were all having dinner at The Creek that night. Right?) Well, you don't sleep together, of course, but you don't necessarily have to separate and file for divorce, either. Especially if you're both still emotionally involved. There are other less civilized responses, I know, like having the big scene, or one or the other spouse's going completely psychotic and getting violent. But in this case, the entire mess had evolved in such a bizarre way that I felt I shared in the responsibility.\n\nActually Susan had not verbally acknowledged that she _was_ having an affair with our next-door neighbor, and that sort of complicated the situation. To make a legal analogy, I had made an accusation but had never presented evidence, and the accused exercised her right to remain silent, sulky, and withdrawn. And in truth, though Bellarosa had tacitly acknowledged the affair, my evidence was purely circumstantial as far as Susan was concerned. So, I think we both figured that if we just avoided the issue and avoided each other, we might eventually both come to believe none of this had happened. It was sort of the reverse, I suppose, of our sexual fantasies; it was using our well-developed powers of make-believe to pretend that what was happening was just another sexual melodrama, this one titled, \"John Suspects Susan of Adultery.\"\n\nAnyway, somewhere around the tenth or eleventh beer, I realized that it was Frank Bellarosa who stood in the way of a real and lasting reconciliation.\n\nWell, the sky was turning purple, and the gulls were swooping, and it was time to go back. I rose unsteadily, went below, and retrieved a fire ax that was clipped to a bulkhead. I went into the forward head and swung the ax, cutting a five-inch gash in the fiberglass hull below the waterline. I pulled the ax out and watched the sea water cascade down the hull between the sink and shower. I swung the ax a few more times, cutting a good-size hole in the hull. The sea gushed in, swamping the floor and spilling out into the forward stateroom.\n\nI went topside and opened the flag locker, pulling out seven pennants and clipping them to the halyard. I ran the pennants up the main mast.\n\nProud of my idiocy, and with the _Paumanok_ listing to starboard and me listing to port, I lowered myself onto the aft deck and pulled a small inflatable life raft from under the cockpit seat. I put the remainder of the beer aboard the raft along with two small oars, and I sat in the raft. I popped a beer and drank while my boat settled deeper into the water around me.\n\nThe sea came over the starboard side first, sloshed around the tilting deck and raised the life raft a few inches.\n\nThe _Paumanok_ took a long while to sink, but eventually the stern settled into the water and the lifeboat drifted away over the swamped stern. I watched my boat as it settled slowly into the sea, listing at about forty-five degrees to starboard, its bow rising up out of the water and its mast flying the seven signal pennants that proclaimed to the world, _Fuck you._\n\nIt was nearly dark now, and as I drifted away, it became more difficult to see my boat, but I could still make out the mast and the pennants lying almost perpendicular to the water. It appeared as though the keel had touched bottom and that she was as far down as she was going to go.\n\nI drifted with the tide for a while, working on a fresh beer and thinking about this and that. Obviously, what I had done was a very spiteful thing, not to mention a class A felony. But so what? I mean, someone was being very spiteful toward me. Right? I saw Alphonse Ferragamo's hand in this, and Mr. Novac's hand, too. And perhaps even Mr. Mancuso's hand and possibly Mr. Melzer's influence. _No good will come of your trying to take on forces more powerful than yourself._ True, but I was enjoying the fight.\n\nWhat I didn't enjoy was the loss of my boat, which in some semimystical way had become a part of me over the years. The _Paumanok_ had always been my ace in the hole, my rocket ship to other galaxies, my time machine. That's why they'd taken her from me. Well, as the signal flags said, Fuck you.\n\nOf course, if I hadn't been so spiteful and impulsive, I'd have gotten the boat back after I'd come up with the taxes, but that wasn't the point. The point was that the _Paumanok_ was not going to be used as a pawn or a knife in my ribs. It was a good boat, and it should not suffer the indignity of a government tax-seizure sign on it. So I hoisted a beer to her and lay down in the life raft and drifted around the bay.\n\nAround midnight, after counting a billion stars and wishing on a dozen shooting stars, I stirred myself and sat up.\n\nI finished the last half of a beer, oriented myself, and began rowing for shore. As I pulled on the oars, I asked myself, \"What else can go wrong?'' But you should never ask that question.\n**_Part VI_**\n\nAt two hours after midnight appeared the land at a distance of two leagues.\n\n\u2014Christopher Columbus  \nJournal of the First Voyage, October 12, 1492\n\n**_Thirty-four_**\n\n\"You gotta try the _sfogliatelli_ ,'' said Frank Bellarosa.\n\nSusan took the pastry and put it on her plate beside two other \"gotta try'' pastries. Oddly, this woman, who looks like a poster girl for famine relief, packed down an entire \"gotta try'' meal without even turning green.\n\nAnna Bellarosa was watching her weight, as she announced about six times, and was \"just picking.'' She picked her way through enough food to feed the slums of Calcutta for a week. She also picked out two pastries, then put artificial sweetener in her coffee.\n\nWhere this was taking place was Giulio's, and it was now mid-September. Actually, it was Friday, September seventeenth, to be exact, and you'll see shortly why the day sticks out in my mind.\n\nAs for the great unveiling, I understand everyone loved the painting, and everyone had a good time that night. Terrific. I had a good excuse for missing the art event of the year, of course, if I had wanted an excuse: \"Sorry, but I was busy sinking my boat to piss off the Feds.'' Regarding that, I hadn't heard from the IRS yet, and I doubt they even knew the _Paumanok_ was gone. It didn't mean as much to them as it did to me. Maybe in the end, it was a futile gesture, but I wasn't sorry I'd done it. And if they asked me about it, I'd say, \"Yes, I sunk her, just as my ancestors dumped tea into Boston Harbor. Give me liberty or give me death.'' I'd probably get about a year and a six-figure fine.\n\nBut I did have a closing date on the East Hampton house, and I'd probably be able to settle my tax delinquency within a few weeks. Then I could get out my scuba gear and remove the tax-seizure signs from the _Paumanok_.\n\nRegarding my marital status, I'd accepted Susan's suggestion and remained in residence. However, we were married in name only, as they used to say when describing a couple who shared the same house and attended social and family functions together, but who no longer engaged in conjugal sex. This may have been all right for our ancestors, but to most modern couples, it's the worst of both worlds.\n\nAnyway, back at Giulio's, the fat lady was still singing, belting them out in Italian, a mixture of sweet melodic songs and sad songs that made the old goombahs weepy, plus a few numbers that must have been pretty raunchy judging by the way she sang them and the reaction of the crowd.\n\nThe crowd, incidentally, was slightly different from the lunch group. There were, to be sure, a few suspected mafioso types, but there were also some uptown Manhattanites as well, people who spent their entire urban lives trying to discover new restaurants that nobody knows about yet, except the two hundred people in the place. Well, the uptown crowd was going to have something interesting to report after this meal. Anyway, there were also a lot of greasy young Guidos in the place with their girlfriends, who looked like slim Annas, just dying to get married so they could blow up like stuffed cannelloni.\n\nAnd there was this old geezer with a four-day beard squeezing the whaddayacallit\u2014the concertina\u2014while the fat lady sang. Frank gave the old guy a twenty to play \"Santa Lucia,'' and this must have been on the goombah hit parade because everybody joined in, including Susan, who somehow knew all the words in Italian. Actually, it's a pretty song and I found myself humming it. Well, the place was packed and smelled like garlic and perfume, and everybody was in a very jolly mood.\n\nSusan seemed really fascinated by Giulio's and its denizens. Her infrequent excursions into Manhattan are confined to Midtown, Broadway, and the East Side, and she probably hasn't been down in the old ethnic neighborhoods since my company gave a party in Chinatown five years ago. But if I had thought she would enjoy something like this, I would have taken her to Little Italy, or Chinatown or Spanish Harlem or anyplace other than The Creek. But I didn't know. Then again, neither did she.\n\nWell, a few events of note had transpired since the night I'd sunk the _Paumanok_ that may be worth mentioning. Edward and Carolyn had come home from the southern climes, Edward with a deep tan, and Carolyn with a deeper understanding of the Cuban people, and also with a box of Monte Cristo number fours. So the Sutter clan was reunited for about a week before Labor Day, and we had a good time despite the fact that the _Paumanok_ was at the bottom of the bay and the East Hampton house was sold. Incidentally, I hadn't told Susan that I'd sunk the boat and would not have mentioned it, except that when Edward and Carolyn came home, they wanted to go sailing. So I sat everyone down and said, \"The government slapped a tax-seizure sign on the boat, and it looked so obscene, I took her into the middle of the bay and sunk her.'' I added, \"I think her mast is still above water, and if it is, you can see seven signal flags that say 'Fuck you.' Well, I hope she's not a hazard to navigation, but if she is, the Coast Guard will take care of it.\"\n\nThere was a minute of stunned silence, then Edward said, \"Good for you.'' Carolyn seconded that. Susan said nothing.\n\nAnyway, we took some day trips, saw a matinee in Manhattan, swam at Fox Point, and even played golf one day at The Creek, though I had the distinct feeling some people were snubbing us. I resigned from the club the next day\u2014not because, as Groucho Marx, a onetime Gold Coast resident, once said, \"I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member''\u2014but because if I belonged there, then I _belonged_ there. And I didn't, so I don't. _Capisce?_\n\nAnyway, the day after Labor Day, Susan decided to visit her parental units in Hilton Head, leaving Carolyn, Edward, and me to finish out the last days of school vacation by ourselves. It was a nice few days, and we spent them mostly at Stanhope Hall, riding and walking the property. Carolyn got the idea to do a photographic essay of the estate, and that took two days with me supplying the history and the captions for the pictures as best I could. Carolyn is not the sentimental type, but I think she knew that might be one of the last times that such a thing would be possible. One night, Edward, Carolyn, and I camped out in the mansion with sleeping bags, and we had a picnic on the marble floor of the dining room by candlelight.\n\nSitting around the candles, deep into a bottle of wine, Carolyn said to me, \"You've changed, Dad.\"\n\n\"Have I? How?\"\n\nShe thought a moment, then replied, \"You're more . . . grown-up.'' She smiled.\n\nI smiled in return. \"And my voice is changing.'' I knew what she meant, of course. The last few months had been a time of challenge and change, and so I suppose it had been good for my character. Most American men of the upper middle classes never really grow up unless they are fortunate enough to go to war or go through a bankruptcy or divorce or other major adversity. So this was the summer I got hair on my balls, and it felt good and bad at the same time. I asked Edward, \"Do you think your old man has changed?\"\n\nEdward, who is not usually tuned in to the subtleties of human behavior, replied, \"Yeah, I guess.'' He added, \"Can you change back?\"\n\n\"No. There's no going back.\"\n\nA few days after that, I rented a van and drove the kids to school. We went first to Sarah Lawrence, and Edward was nervous about starting college, but I assured him that the liberal arts curriculum he was taking was similar to the one I took at Yale, and that I slept for four years. Thus assured, he strode confidently into the formerly all-girls school, his hair combed for the first time since his baptism, and his body smelling of some awful lotion.\n\nCarolyn and I drove alone to Yale, and I always enjoy going back to my alma mater, as my college memories are good despite the turmoil of those years in the mid-sixties. Carolyn said to me on the way to New Haven, \"Are you legally separated?\"\n\n\"No. Your mother just went to visit her parents.\"\n\n\"It's sort of a trial separation?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why are you sleeping in separate rooms?\"\n\n\"Because we don't want to sleep in separate cities. End of conversation.\"\n\nSo I drove her up to Yale. As a sophomore this year, Carolyn enters what we call a \"college,'' actually a dorm where she will spend the next three years. She is, in fact, in my old college, Jonathan Edwards. J E, as we call it, is a beautiful, old Gothic building with arches, climbing ivy, and turrets, situated around a large quadrangle. It is, in fact, the greatest place on the face of this earth, and I wished I was staying and not leaving.\n\nAnyway, I helped her unload half a vanful of clothes and electronics, which barely fit in her room. It was a nice suite like my old place down the hall, with oak paneling and a fireplace in the living room. I met her roommate, a tall, blond young woman from Texas named Halsey, and I wondered if I shouldn't go back to Jonathan Edwards to do a little more undergraduate work. You're never too old to learn.\n\nBut I digress. Carolyn and I walked down to Liggett's Drugstore, which is sort of a tradition, and with a few hundred other Yalies and parents, we stocked up on notions and sundries. We stowed the Liggett's bags in the van, then walked the few blocks to York Street, \"to the tables down at Mory's, to the place where Louie dwells.'' Don't ask me what that means.\n\nMory's is a private club, and I've kept my membership for this past quarter of a century, though I doubt if I get there once a year. But though I may have resigned from The Creek, and may eventually resign from my job and my marriage and from life in general, I will never resign from Mory's, for to do that is to sever the ties to myself, to the John Sutter whom I used to know and like. I may indeed be a poor little lamb who has lost his way, but that night I was home again.\n\nSo Carolyn and I had dinner at Mory's along with a hundred other families, many of whom I noticed were missing one or the other spouse. Carolyn is not a member of Mory's, and may never be, as she discriminates against private clubs. Nevertheless, I regaled her with Mory stories, and she sat there and smiled at me, sometimes amused, sometimes bored, and once or twice disapproving. Well, yesterday's high jinks are today's insensitive behavior, I suppose, and maybe the reverse is also true. But it was a nice dinner, an exquisite few hours between father and daughter.\n\nThe oak tabletops at Mory's have been carved with thousands of names and initials, and though we couldn't find mine without clearing off someone else's dinner, I did produce a sharp pocketknife for Carolyn, who carved away while I went around the dining room and said hello to a few old school chums.\n\nI walked Carolyn back to Jonathan Edwards, we kissed good-bye, and I got in the van, opting for the two-hour drive back to Long Island rather than prolonging the nostalgia trip, which could easily have turned from pleasant to maudlin.\n\nRegarding my legal career, my association with Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds seemed to be rather vague, perhaps even tentative. I put myself on half salary, which is, I think, fair since I spend half the week in the Locust Valley office, albeit with my door closed and the phone turned off. But I feel a sense of responsibility to my old clients, and I'm trying to put their affairs in some semblance of order and to parcel them out to other attorneys in the firm. As for my Wall Street business, that's completely gone. My Wall Street clients would fire an attorney after two missed phone calls, so my sense of loyalty and responsibility toward the yellow-tie guys is not deep and not reciprocal. But I have to settle the question of my status with the firm and I suppose if I ever show up at the Wall Street office, I could discuss this with the senior partners.\n\nAs for the _United States_ v. _Frank Bellarosa_ , that seemed to be moving rather more slowly than Mr. Ferragamo promised. Not only did we not have a trial date, but I hadn't had an opportunity to examine any of the five witnesses against my client. Alphonse informed me one day by phone, \"We have them all in hiding under the witness protection program. They're very frightened about testifying in open court against a Mafia chief.\"\n\n\"There is no Mafia.\"\n\nHa, ha, said Alphonse, and he added, \"They didn't mind the grand jury, but now they're getting cold feet.\"\n\n\"Four Colombian drug goons and a gun moll have cold feet?\"\n\n\"Why not? So for that reason, Mr. Sutter, I've asked for a delay in the trial date. I'll keep you informed.'' He added, \"What's your rush? This should make you happy. Maybe the witnesses will refuse to testify.\"\n\n\"Maybe they were lying from the beginning,'' I pointed out.\n\n\"Why would they do that?\"\n\nHe and I both knew why, but I wasn't allowed to bug him. \"Maybe,'' I said, \"it was a case of mistaken identity. All Italians look alike, don't they?\"\n\n\"Actually, they don't, Mr. Sutter. I don't look anything like Frank Bellarosa, for instance. By the way, regarding mistaken identity, I discovered that you were at your country club at about one P.M. on January fourteenth, for lunch with your wife.\"\n\n\"So what? I said I saw Bellarosa at about nine A.M., then again at about noon.\"\n\n\"And you went home, took care of the horse, presumably showered, changed into a suit, and were at your club at one P.M.\"\n\n\"They don't call me superman for nothing.\"\n\n\"Hmmm,'' said Alphonse. I mean, this guy thought he was Inspector Porfiry Petrovich, hounding poor Raskolnikov into a confession, but I found him a bore.\n\nAnyway, I was more convinced than ever that Alphonse was stalling and would continue to stall until somebody out on the street solved his problem. He didn't have long to wait.\n\nRegarding my relationships with friends and family, that was also on hold. Part of the reason for this was that I was keeping out of touch, which is no easy thing to do these days. Try it. But I disconnected my home fax, changed my phone number to an unlisted one, and had all my mail forwarded to a P.O. box in the Locust Valley Post Office, which I never visited. Also, Ethel as gatekeeper proved to be a lot more nasty than George ever was, and nobody gets past the gate while Ethel is in the gatehouse. When she's not around, the gate is locked.\n\nJenny Alvarez. Well, that relationship, too, is on hold, which is best for all concerned, as men and women say to each other when they get involved, panic, run, brood, call, run, and so on. But really, there was no use complicating the situation any more than it was. Actually, I didn't even know if Jenny Alvarez cared anymore, and I would have been relieved to hear that she didn't, and pretty annoyed and hurt, too. But I did watch her nearly every night on the news at eleven, and Susan asked me once if I had suddenly become a news junkie. Spouses who are carrying on often display a change in behavior, as we know, but watching the news is not usually a tip-off. Goes to show you.\n\nBut watch I did, and I hoped that one night Jenny Alvarez would just break down on the air and cry out, \"John! John! I miss you!'' or at least, I thought, perhaps when she was out in the field reporting, and she was turning it back to the anchorman, Jeff what's-his-name, she would say, \"Back to you, John.'' But that never happened, at least not on the nights I was watching.\n\nAnyway, I had moved into one of the guesthouse's guest rooms, the smallest one, badly and barely furnished, where we always put people whom we don't want around for more than twenty-four hours. Susan had said to me, \"I understand your reasons for not wanting us to sleep in the same bed, of course. But I'm glad you decided not to move out. I very much want you to stay.\"\n\n\"Then I will. How much is it a night?\"\n\n\"Twenty dollars would be fair for that room, but I can let you have a better room for only five dollars more.\"\n\n\"I'll stay in the smaller room.\"\n\nWell, we're still making jokes, and that's a hopeful sign. Right? It's when it becomes really grim that it becomes insufferable. So we lived in that sort of cool limbo that husbands and wives have invented and perfected for the purpose of coexisting until the moving van arrives or until they fall into each other's arms and swear undying love forever, which in connubial terms means about thirty days.\n\nIn truth, I was angry, hurt, and vindictive every morning, but by noon I was philosophical, resigned, and willing to let fate take its course. By late evening, however, I was lonely and ready to forgive and forget, unconditionally. But then the next day, the cycle would start over again. Unfortunately, Susan called from Hilton Head about eight A.M. one morning when I was in cycle one, and I said a few things that I regretted by evening. Things like, \"How's William Peckerhead of Hilton Head?\"\n\n\"Settle down, John.\"\n\nOr, \"Did you want to speak to Zanzibar?\"\n\n\"Go have your coffee and call me back.\"\n\nWell, I did that night, but she wasn't in. Anyway, in the week or so since she's been back, I've been civilized.\n\nSo, there we were in Giulio's, having dinner, which was a little bizarre considering the circumstances. But my client had really insisted on this little get-together, though for what reason, I couldn't guess except that he really enjoyed showing off in Little Italy where people knew who he was. Of course, that has a negative side as well, especially if you're a marked man. I mean, if there really was a contract out on this guy, any goombah in that restaurant could have gone out to make a phone call to some other goombah, and eventually the wrong goombahs would get the word, and for the price of a twenty-five-cent call, Frank the Bishop Bellarosa's whereabouts would be fixed. But I don't think that's what actually happened on the night of September seventeenth. I'm pretty sure it was Lenny who fingered his boss, as they say.\n\nBut, anyway, I acquiesced to this dinner because, quite frankly, to say no to it would have been un-Machiavellian; i.e., I was still royally pissed off at old Frank and Mrs. Sutter no matter how much I tried to cool down, but to show it would put them on their guard. What? Revenge? Vendetta? Had I lied to Frank and to myself? Was I still looking to get even? You bet. Though I had no idea what, if anything, I was going to do to or about these two, I wanted to keep their guards down and my options open.\n\nSo we sipped coffee and ate pastry. The normal security was in effect with Vinnie and Lenny at their favorite table near the door, while we were at Frank's favorite table in the rear corner. Frank sat in his very favorite chair, facing the front with his back to the wall.\n\nSusan at one point in the evening had said to Frank, \"That's very good of you to buy your employees dinner. Most men just send their car and driver away until they're ready to leave.\"\n\nThis was either the most facetious or the most naive statement I'd heard all year, and I wasn't sure which. Susan sometimes plays the na\u00eff as I mentioned, but the act was wearing a little thin.\n\nI regarded Anna Bellarosa a moment. I hadn't spoken to her since that morning she tackled me at Alhambra. She was undoubtedly grateful to me for getting her husband sprung, but I was fairly certain that a traditional Italian woman did not telephone, write, or call on a man unless he was her father or brother. How suppressed these women were, I thought, how utterly dependent they were on their husbands for everything including their opinions and maybe even their feelings. I mean, the woman didn't even have a driver's license. I wondered if Anna had an unmarried sister for me. Or maybe I'd ask the don for Filomena's hand.\n\nAnyway, though we seemed to be having a good time during dinner, we weren't. For one thing, Frank was going out of his way to be cool to Susan, and going out of his way to praise me as the greatest lawyer in New York. Obviously the man was trying to demonstrate that there was absolutely nothing going on between him and my wife, and at the same time trying to jolly us back together. Bellarosa was a smart guy in a lot of ways, but this wasn't one of them.\n\nSusan seemed uncomfortable with Bellarosa's obvious bad acting. She also seemed generally nervous, as you might expect.\n\nThere were times when the conversation was strained, as I suggested, and Frank just wasn't his scintillating self as he realized that the evening wasn't going as he'd planned. Anna, I think, noticed this, too, but I wondered if she was smart enough to know why. I had half a mind to announce to her, \"Your husband is fucking my wife.'' But if she didn't believe that her husband was a Mafia boss, why would she believe that he was an adulterer? And if she did, what was she going to do about it?\n\nAnyway, Frank paid the check with cash, and Vinnie and Lenny were already out the door. Frank said, \"You all stay here and finish your coffee. I'm gonna go see about the car.\"\n\nAnna stared down at the table and nodded. She knew the drill. Susan looked antsy to get moving, but like Anna she listened to Big Frank. I, on the other hand, didn't feel like sitting with the women while Mr. Macho went out and secured the beachhead. So stupid John stood and said, \"I'll go with you.\"\n\nAnd I did. Bellarosa and I went to the door, and I saw Vinnie standing on the sidewalk, checking out the block. Our car pulled up, a black stretch Cadillac that Frank had ordered from his limousine company for the occasion. Lenny was at the wheel. Vinnie signaled to us, and we went through the door onto the sidewalk.\n\nIt was a very pleasant evening with a touch of autumn in the air. There were people strolling on the street as there always are in Little Italy, but none of them looked suspicious. And as always, no one knew where Bellarosa would be that night except Frank himself and his wife. Not even Susan or I knew, though I had guessed, of course, that we were going to Giulio's. Vinnie and Lenny may have guessed also, though really, we could have been going to dinner at any one of about three thousand restaurants in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, or Long Island. It was only after we had gotten to Giulio's that Lenny and Vinnie knew for sure, and Vinnie was never out of our sight. Only Lenny was when he parked the car in a garage down the street. As I said, anyone inside of Giulio's could have made the phone call, but I'm pretty sure it was Lenny the Cretin who did.\n\nThere were two of them, both wearing black trench coats and gloves. Where they came from exactly, I'm not sure, but they were standing on the other side of the limousine, and I had the impression they had been crouched behind it on the driver's side and had stood as Vinnie pulled on the rear passenger-side door handle, which caused the interior lights of the limo to go on. This may have been the signal, inadvertently given by Vinnie, for the two men to stand, because I seem to recall a connection between the two. Vinnie was still tugging on the door handle, which was apparently locked, and he banged on the window with his palm. \"Hey, Lenny! Unlock the fucking door. Whaddaya, stupid?'' It was at that moment that Vinnie looked up and saw the two men across the roof of the car, and I heard him say, \"Oh, Mother of God . . .\"\n\nI should tell you that at one point in the evening, when the two women went off to powder their noses (as Anna referred to urinating), I had said to Bellarosa, \"Frank, this is not a good place to be at night.\"\n\n\"You don't like the music?\"\n\n\"Knock it off. You know what I mean.\"\n\nHis reply had been, \"Fuck it.\"\n\nWell, I tried. I really did, because I couldn't stand by and say nothing. But Bellarosa's ego wouldn't allow him to make many changes in his lifestyle, and there was also the matter of Mr. Peacock wanting to impress Mrs. Sutter. Get it?\n\nWell, back to the really bad stuff. I stared at these two guys and found myself looking down the muzzles of two double-barreled shotguns not ten feet away. Both men steadied their aim on the roof of the limo, though with shotguns at ten feet you don't have to do a lot of aiming. This all happened very quickly, of course, though neither man seemed rushed or nervous, just sort of matter-of-fact.\n\nI said, \"Frank . . . ,'' and poked him.\n\nVinnie, of course, had gone for his gun, but the first blast caught him full in the face from about two feet away and literally blew his head off, sending pieces of it at me and Bellarosa.\n\nFrank had turned toward the two assassins just as the first blast decapitated Vinnie. Bellarosa stepped back and held his hands out in a protective gesture, and he yelled out, \"Hey, hey!\"\n\nThe second man fired both barrels at once, and Frank, who had been a foot or two away from my left shoulder, caught both barrels in his chest and was actually picked up off his feet and thrown backward, crashing through the front window of Giulio's.\n\nThe man who had fired the single barrel into Vinnie's face looked at me, and I looked at the shotgun pointing at me. But I'm a civilian, and I had nothing to worry about. Right? Right? Then why was the gun pointing at me? I sort of knew that I'd see the flash of the barrel but would probably never hear the explosion. People who have had similar experiences have described it as \"like waiting for an eternity.'' That's exactly correct. And I even saw my life flash before my eyes.\n\nWell, maybe the reason I'm able to tell you about this is that the guy smirked at me, and I wanted the last word so I flashed him the Italian salute. He smiled, swung the barrel of the shotgun away from me, and fired. I actually heard the buckshot fly past to my left, like buzzing bees, and I heard Bellarosa groan a few feet behind me. I looked and saw him sprawled on his back, half his body inside the restaurant and his legs dangling outside. His trousers were shredded, and I realized the last shot had peppered his legs. In fact, I saw blood running now, over his ankles and socks\u2014he had lost his shoes at some point\u2014and the blood was puddling on the sidewalk.\n\nI heard a noise like another shot from the street and turned back to see that the two gunmen had gotten into the limo and the sound I'd heard was the door slamming shut. The long black car pulled away at a normal speed. I noticed now that the two shotguns were lying in the street. My eyes moved downward, and I looked at Vinnie's body on the sidewalk, blood running out of his headless neck a few feet from my shoes. I stepped back.\n\nNo one on the street or sidewalk around me was screaming or running; they were all just standing very still. Of course, this sort of thing doesn't happen every night on Mott Street, but this was a savvy bunch, and no one around me was going to say later that they thought a car backfired or kids were shooting fireworks. No, everyone knew exactly what had happened, though no one saw a thing, naturally.\n\nInside the restaurant, however, there _was_ a lot of screaming going on, and I could picture the scene in there with glass all over the place and Bellarosa's body sprawled across the window table, blood running onto the white tile floor.\n\nWell, there was nothing to be done out on the street, so I turned and went inside the restaurant. I should point out that from the moment I saw the two gunmen to the time I walked back into the restaurant was probably less than two minutes. Susan and Anna were still at the corner table, though like everyone else, they were standing, and Anna looked at me with wide, terrified eyes. Susan looked at me, too, then her eyes sort of focused over my shoulder as if she were looking for Bellarosa. I realized that neither of them had understood that it was Frank Bellarosa who had reentered the restaurant through the window. I turned toward the window and saw why; there was a small crowd around, of course, but also, when he'd sailed through the window, he had taken the curtain rod and the red caf\u00e9 curtain with him, and the curtain was lying partially over his face and body. His arms were outstretched and his head tilted back over the edge of the table on which he was half lying. Shards of plate glass lay everywhere, on the table, on the floor, and on Frank Bellarosa.\n\nThe pandemonium in the restaurant was dying down except that I could now hear Anna's voice shrieking, \"No! No! Frank! It's Frank! My God, my God!'' and so forth.\n\nAs I moved toward Bellarosa's body, I glanced to my left and saw Susan standing a few feet away now, looking at Bellarosa's upside-down face. Her face was pale, but she seemed composed. Susan turned away from him, looked at me, and our eyes met. I knew I had blood or gore or some wet stuff on my clothes and even on my face, and I was pretty sure it wasn't _my_ blood, but the remains of Vinnie's head. Susan, however, couldn't know that, yet she made no move toward me to see if I was all right.\n\nAnna, on the other hand, broke away from some waiters and rushed toward her husband. She dropped to her knees on the glass and the blood-covered floor and took her husband's head in her hands, shrieking at the top of her lungs, then sobbing as she caressed his bloody face.\n\nI was sort of out of it at this point, and I don't pretend that I noticed everything I'm describing at the exact time it happened, or that my impressions are as precise as they should have been. To give Susan the benefit of the doubt, for instance, she was probably in shock and that would explain her catatonic state.\n\nAnyway, I got a grip on myself and knelt down in a tremendous pool of blood beside Anna, and I was about to comfort her and get her out of there. But then I noticed that the caf\u00e9 curtain had slipped from Frank's face and that his eyes were open; not open dead, but open open. In fact, his eyes were watering and squinting in pain. I saw, too, that his chest was starting to heave. I ripped the red caf\u00e9 curtain away from him and saw that though his tie, jacket, and shirt were full of holes, there was no big, gaping wound where the double-barreled shotgun blast should have punched out his heart and lungs. I ripped his shirt open and saw, of course, a bulletproof vest with dozens of copper shots lying on the silvery-gray fabric.\n\nI looked at Bellarosa's face and saw that his lips were moving, but more important, I saw the source of all that blood on the floor: a pellet or glass had penetrated the side of his throat, and blood was gushing from the wound under the collar and running onto the floor. The man was bleeding to death.\n\nWell, that was too bad, wasn't it? Talk about a quick and simple solution to a complex problem. On the other hand, I hadn't been paid anything he owed me yet, but I could write that off as a life experience. Frank would have wanted it that way.\n\nMeanwhile, all these customers and waiters were standing around, and I guess there wasn't a doctor in the house, and no one understood that Bellarosa needed first aid. Anna was still weeping, still clutching her husband's head.\n\nFrank opened his eyes, and we looked at each other, and I think he smiled, but maybe not. I was certain his ribs were broken from the impact of the blasts, and I knew that if anyone moved him, his ribs would puncture his lungs. But so far, no blood was coming out of his mouth and his breathing was steady, though shallow. So what to do? _You a Boy Scout or something?_ Well, as a matter of fact, yes. Eagle Scout, actually.\n\nSo I opened his collar and saw that the wound was probably in a carotid artery by the way it was gushing, and I felt around for the pulse below the wound and found it. I pressed my fingers on the pulse and the bleeding subsided. I then cradled the back of his neck in the crook of my arm to raise his head level with his heart so his brain could get blood, and I took a table napkin and pressed that against the wound itself. I didn't know if that was going to do the trick, but Mr. Jenkins, my Troop Leader, would have been proud of my effort.\n\nI looked around and said to the crowd in general, \"Please move back. Someone take his wife away. Thank you.\"\n\nSo there I knelt, covered with Vinnie's brains and skull as I saw now in the better light of the restaurant, and smeared with Frank Bellarosa's blood, and my fingers on the don's neck where I'd wanted them for some time, though for different reasons. All things considered, I wasn't having one of my better evenings out.\n\nI managed to get a look at my watch and saw it was a few minutes before midnight. I looked at Bellarosa's face and noticed that his skin was very white, which made his stubble look dark. But his breathing was still regular, and I could feel a good pulse. I also felt the _puttanesca_ sauce rising in my stomach and up my esophagus, but I got it down again.\n\nI glanced back at his face and he was looking at me, although his eyes were unfocused. I said, \"Hang in there, Frank. You're doing fine. You'll be okay. Just relax,'' and so forth. That's what you're supposed to do so they don't go into shock. Meanwhile, no one was giving _me_ much encouragement, and my mouth was dry and my stomach was turning and my head felt light. _Hang in there, Sutter._\n\nI heard a police siren and I looked out through the broken window and saw that a crowd had gathered, and apparently seeing Vinnie's headless corpse on the sidewalk, they had formed a wide semicircle around the restaurant. The siren was right outside now, and I also heard an ambulance horn.\n\nI looked back into the restaurant and discovered Susan a few tables away, sitting in a chair and watching me, her legs crossed and her arms folded across her chest as though she was angry with me for something.\n\nThere were police outside now, and when I glanced up, I saw one of them on the sidewalk and heard him say, \"Jesus Christ! Where's his head?\"\n\nOn my tie.\n\nTwo cops burst through the door, guns drawn. They took stock of the situation and holstered their pistols. I said to one of them, \"This man has a severed artery, so don't tell me to move back. Get the EMS guys in here quick.\"\n\nAnd they did.\n\nThe two EMS guys listened to me for a few seconds, then took charge, getting Bellarosa onto a wheeled stretcher without puncturing his lungs with his ribs, while a cop kept up the pressure on his neck.\n\nI stepped aside and let the pros handle it. Somewhere along the line, the boys in blue discovered the identity of the injured citizen\u2014probably from one of the waiters, not from me\u2014so it was up to them to decide whether or not they wanted to keep don Bellarosa from bleeding to death on the way to St. Vincent's. Not my problem anymore.\n\nWell, I was ready to go home now, having had enough excitement for one night, but my car was gone and my driver, Lenny the Rat, was probably on a flight to Naples by now.\n\nAlso, the detectives had arrived and they had this idea that I should go down to the station house and tell them all about it. \"Tomorrow,'' I said. \"I'm in shock.'' But they were positively insistent, so I worked out a deal whereby they would drive Susan back to Long Island and Anna to St. Vincent's Hospital, in exchange for my going with them. You don't give nothing for nothing in this city, especially with cops. Right, Frank?\n\nWhile all this was going on, Lucio, the owner of the ill-fated establishment, had brought me a nice hot towel, and I got Vinnie off my hands and face, and Frank, too. I said to Lucio, \"Sorry about this,'' though it wasn't my fault, of course. But no one else was around to apologize for the window and the mess, and the free dinners. And I liked Lucio and his wife. But he'd make up the lost revenue now that Giulio's had joined other select dining and shooting establishments, with a Four Bullet rating.\n\nAnd that reminded me of the press. They were undoubtedly on the way, and I didn't want to meet the press and be asked a lot of silly questions like, \"Did you see the faces of the men who shot Frank Bellarosa?'' and so forth. I _might_ have hung around if I thought Jenny Alvarez was on the way, but it was past midnight on a Friday, and she was probably home with a good book by now. Anyway, I said to a detective type, \"Get me out of here.\"\n\n\"Okay. Let's go.\"\n\n\"One minute.'' Still holding my towel, I went to Anna, who was standing, but was being supported by three cops. I said to her, \"He's going to be all right. I promise.\"\n\nShe looked at me as though she didn't recognize me, and in fact, her eyes were swollen nearly shut and blinded by tears. But then she put her hand out and touched my cheek. Her voice was very small. \"John . . . oh, John . . .\"\n\n\"I'll try to see you later at the hospital.\"\n\nI moved away from Anna and walked over to where Susan was still sitting in the same chair. I said to her, \"The police will take you home. I have to go with them to the station.\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\nI said, \"He may make it.\"\n\nAgain she nodded.\n\n\"Are you all right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nI had the impression again that she was annoyed at something. I mean, this was terribly inconvenient and all. I said, \"Okay. I'll see you later.\"\n\n\"John?\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Did you save his life? Is that what you were doing there?\"\n\n\"I suppose that's what I was trying to do. Yes.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"He owes me money.\"\n\nShe said, \"Well, I wouldn't have done it if I were you.\" Interesting. I said, \"I'll see you at home.'' I turned and walked toward the detective who was waiting for me. I heard Susan call out, \"John.\"\n\nI turned and she smiled at me, then puckered those pouty lips in a kiss. _Madonn_ ', she was nuts. But how sane was I to still love her?\n\nI followed the detective out onto the sidewalk where dozens of cops had cleared and barricaded a block of Mott Street. Police cars with revolving lights cast red and blue beams on the buildings, and it was quite a different block than it had been only a short time ago. The detective said to me, \"That your wife?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Nice-looking lady.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\nWe walked toward an unmarked car and he asked me, \"Aren't you the lawyer? Sutter? Bellarosa's lawyer?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Maybe that's why they didn't take you out, too. They don't do lawyers.\"\n\n\"Lucky me.\"\n\nHe opened the passenger-side door for me and said, \"You ruined your suit, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"It's an old one.'' Though the tie was new.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nSo I spent the next few hours at Midtown South with two detectives, describing the events that had taken about ten minutes to happen. I really was being cooperative, though as an attorney, and especially as the victim's attorney, I could have blown them off and left anytime. In fact, when they started asking questions about who I thought had done the deed, I told them to stick to factual questions. One of the detectives, however, kept asking me about Sally Da-da, and I told him to go ask Sally Da-da about Sally Da-da. But Mr. Da-da was in Florida as it turned out. How convenient.\n\nSo we went round and round, and this one detective, the bad-cop half of the team, asked me, \"Why'd you save his life?\"\n\n\"He owes me money.\"\n\nThe good cop said, \"He owes you his life. Collect on that.\"\n\n\"How's he doing?\"\n\nGood cop replied, \"Still alive.\"\n\nI told them the joke about the Mafia guy who tried to blow up a police car, but they seemed sort of weary and barely chuckled. I was getting very yawny myself, but they kept pressing coffee on me.\n\nMidtown South is not an ordinary station house, but is sort of like headquarters for that part of Manhattan, and the joint was bustling with detectives on the second floor where I was. There was also a big room on the second floor where they kept mug-shot books, and I sat in there for about an hour with a detective who was passing me these books labeled \"Wiseguys,'' which I thought was funny.\n\nWell, I looked at more Italian faces in that hour than I see in Lattingtown in ten years, but I didn't recognize any of the photos as either of the two sportsmen with the shotguns. I remembered a phrase I heard in an old gangster movie once, and I said, \"Maybe they used outside talent. You know, a few boys blew in from Chicago. Check the train stations.\"\n\n\"Train stations?\"\n\n\"Well, maybe the airports.\"\n\nAnyway, we went from mug shots to a slide show of a few dozen _paesanos_ caught by the candid camera in their natural habitats. The detective explained, \"These men have never been arrested, so we don't have mug shots, but they're all wiseguys.\"\n\nSo I looked at the slide screen until my eyes were about gone and I was yawning and my head ached. A detective said, \"We really appreciate your cooperation.\"\n\n\"No problem.'' But was I really going to finger the two gunmen if I saw their faces? Did I want to be a witness in a mob murder trial? No, I didn't, but I would. Beyond all the bullshit of the last several months, I was still a good citizen, and had I seen the faces of either of those two men, I would have said, \"Stop! That's one of them.'' But so far, no one looked familiar.\n\nBut then I started to see familiar faces and I blinked. The slides I was looking at now were unmistakably those shot from the DePauw residence with Alhambra in the background. It was, in fact, the Easter Sunday rotogravure, and the enlarged, grainy slides showed a lot of people in their Easter finery getting out of big black cars. I said, \"Hey, I remember that day.'' And there was Sally Da-da with a woman who could well have been Anna's sister, and there was Fat Paulie with a woman who could have been his brother, and there were faces I recognized from Giulio's and from the Plaza Hotel, but none of those faces were the ones I had seen aiming down the barrels of those big cannons.\n\nThen the screen flashed to a night view of Alhambra, and there was wiseass John Sutter waving to the camera with pretty Susan in her red dress beside me, giving me a look of puzzled impatience. I said, \"That's the guy! I'll never forget that face.\"\n\nThe two detectives chuckled. One of them said, \"Looks like a killer.\"\n\n\"Beady eyes,'' agreed the other.\n\nWell, the slide show ended, and to be honest, I couldn't identify the two men, but I said, \"Look, I'm willing to do this all over again, but not tonight.\"\n\n\"It's best to do it while it's still fresh in your mind, sir.\"\n\n\"It's too fresh. All I can see now is four black muzzles.\"\n\n\"We understand.\"\n\n\"Good. Well, good night.\"\n\nBut not quite. I spent another few hours with a police sketch artist, a pretty woman, which made the thing sort of tolerable. I was very tempted to describe to her the features of Alphonse Ferragamo, but cops take this sort of thing seriously, and I guess I do, too. So I tried to re-create in words what two goombahs looked like on a dimly lit street, crouched behind a car with shotguns partially blocking their faces. Linda\u2014that was the artist's name\u2014gave me a book of sketches of eyes and mouths and all that, and it was sort of fun, like a mix-and-match game, and we sat shoulder to shoulder hunched over the sketch pad. She wore a nice perfume, which she said was Obsession. As for me, my deodorant had quit, and the little splatters of mortality on my clothes were getting ripe.\n\nAnyway, she produced two sketches that, with some alterations, looked like the boys with the guns. But by this time, I was so punchy I literally couldn't see straight. Linda said, \"You were very observant considering the circumstances. Most people blank, you know, sort of like a hysterical blindness, and they can't even tell you if the guy was black or white.\"\n\n\"Thank you. Did I mention that the guy on the right had a tiny zit on his jaw?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"Is that so?'' She took a fresh pad and said, \"Sit still,'' then did a quick charcoal sketch of me, which was a little embarrassing. She ripped off the sheet and slid it across the table. I picked it up and studied it a moment. The woman had obviously been drawing felons too long, because the guy in the sketch looked like a bad dude. I said, \"I need some sleep.\"\n\nWell, it was approaching dawn, and again I figured I was through for the night, but who should show up at Midtown South but Mr. Felix Mancuso of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I asked him, \"Slumming?\"\n\nBut he was in no mood for my wit. Neither was I, to tell you the truth.\n\nI inquired, \"How is my client doing?\"\n\n\"Alive, but not very well, I'm afraid. Lots of blood loss, and they're talking about possible brain impairment.\"\n\nI didn't reply.\n\nMr. Mancuso and I spoke in private for ten or fifteen minutes, and I leveled with him, and he believed me that I knew absolutely nothing more than what I'd told the NYPD, and that I really hadn't been able to identify any of the mug shots or the faces on the slides. I did suggest, however, that Mr. Lenny Patrelli was part of the conspiracy.\n\nHe replied, \"We know that. The limo was found parked out by Newark Airport and Patrelli's body was in the trunk.\"\n\n\"How awful.\"\n\nMr. Mancuso looked at me. \"You could have been killed, you know.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\nHe said, \"They still may decide to kill you.\"\n\n\"They may.\"\n\n\"Do you think they're nice guys because they left you alive? Are you grateful?\"\n\n\"I was. But it's wearing off.\"\n\n\"Do you want federal protection?\"\n\n\"No, I have enough problems. I really don't think I'm on the hit list.\"\n\n\"You weren't, but you may be now. You saw their faces.\"\n\n\"But that's not what we're telling the press, are we, Mr. Mancuso?\"\n\n\"No, but the guys who did the hit know you saw them up close, Mr. Sutter. They probably didn't figure you would be that close to them or to Bellarosa, and they couldn't be sure who you were. Pros don't hit people they're not told to hit or paid to hit. You could have been a cop for all they knew, or a priest in civvies. So they let you stand rather than get in trouble with the guys who ordered the job. But now we have a different situation.'' He looked at me closely.\n\nI said, \"I'm really not too concerned. Those guys were pros as you said, and they're from someplace else, Mr. Mancuso. They're long, long gone, and I wouldn't be too surprised if they turned up in a trunk, too.\"\n\n\"You're a cool customer, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"No, I'm a realistic man, Mr. Mancuso. Please don't try to scare me. I'm scared enough.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"Okay.'' Then he made eye contact with me and said, \"But I told you, didn't I? I told you no good would come of this. I _told_ you. Correct?\"\n\n\"Correct. And I told _you_ , Mr. Mancuso, what Alphonse Ferragamo was up to. Didn't I? So if you want to find another accessory to this attempted murder, go talk to him.\"\n\nPoor Mr. Mancuso, he looked sleepy and sad and really disgusted. He said, \"I hate this. This killing.\"\n\nI informed Saint Felix that I didn't care much for it either. And on the subject of mortality, I also informed him, \"I stink of blood. I'm leaving.\"\n\n\"All right. I'll drive you. Where do you want to go?\"\n\nI thought a moment and replied, \"Plaza Hotel.\"\n\n\"No, you want to go home.\"\n\nMaybe he was right. \"Okay. Do you mind?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nSo, after some NYPD formalities, including a promise by me not to leave town, we left Midtown South and got into Mr. Mancuso's government-issued vehicle and went through the Midtown Tunnel, heading east on the expressway. The sun was coming up and it was a beautiful morning.\n\nMr. Mancuso and I must have had a simultaneous thought because he asked me, \"Are you happy to be alive?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear that.\"\n\nSo was I. I asked him, \"How is Mrs. Bellarosa?\"\n\n\"She looked all right when I saw her a few hours ago.'' He asked me, \"And Mrs. Sutter? Was she very upset?\"\n\n\"She seemed composed when I last saw her.\"\n\n\"These things sometimes have a delayed reaction. You should keep an eye on her.\"\n\nI should have kept an eye on her since April, and I think that's what he meant. \"She's a strong woman.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nWe made small talk as we headed into the rising sun, and to his credit, he wasn't taking the opportunity to pump me about this or that, and so I didn't bug him about Ferragamo again.\n\nWhatever we were talking about must have been boring because I fell asleep and awoke only when he poked me as we drove up Stanhope Hall's gates, which Susan had left open. Mancuso drove up to the guesthouse and I got out of the car and mumbled my thanks to him. He said, \"We'll keep an eye on the place. We're here anyway.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Do you want this sketch? Is this supposed to be you?\"\n\n\"Keep it.'' I stumbled out of the car, staggered to the door, and let myself in. On the way up the stairs, I peeled off my bloody clothes and left them strewn on the steps where Lady Stanhope could deal with the mess. I arrived at the guest bathroom stark naked (except for my Yale ring) and took a shower sitting down. _Madonn_ ', what a lousy night.\n\nI went into my little room and fell into bed. I lay there staring up at the ceiling as the morning sun came in the window. I heard Susan in the hallway, then heard her on the stairs. It sounded as if she was gathering up the clothes.\n\nA few minutes later there was a knock on my door and I said, \"Come in.\"\n\nSusan entered, wearing a bathrobe and carrying a glass of orange juice. \"Drink this,'' she said.\n\nI took the orange juice and drank it, though I had a stomach full of coffee acid.\n\nShe said, \"The policeman who drove me home said you were a lucky man.\"\n\n\"I'm definitely on a lucky streak. Tomorrow I'm going skydiving.\"\n\n\"Well, you know what he meant.'' She added, \"I'm lucky to have you home.\"\n\nI didn't reply, and she stood there awhile, then finally asked me, \"Is he dead?\"\n\n\"No. But he's critical.\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"How do you feel about that?'' I inquired.\n\nShe replied, \"I don't know.'' She added, \"Maybe you did the right thing.\"\n\n\"Time will tell.'' I informed her, \"I'm tired.\"\n\n\"I'll let you get some sleep. Is there anything else I can get for you?\"\n\n\"No, thank you.\"\n\n\"Sleep well.'' She left and closed the door behind her.\n\nAs I lay there, I had this unsettling feeling that I _had_ done the right thing, but for the wrong reason. I mean, my instinct as a human being was to save a life. But my intellect told me that the world would be well rid of Mr. Frank Bellarosa. Especially this part of the world.\n\nBut I _had_ saved his life, and I tried to convince myself that I did it because it was the right thing to do. But really, I had done it because I wanted him to suffer, to be humiliated knowing he was the target of his own people, and to face the judgment of society, not the judgment of the scum that had no legal or moral right to end anyone's life, including the life of one of their own.\n\nAlso, I wanted my piece of him.\n\nBut while I was telling myself the truth, I admitted that I still liked the guy. I mean, we had clicked right from the beginning. And if Frank Bellarosa had any conscious thoughts at that moment, he was thinking about what a good pal I was to stop him from bleeding to death. _Mamma mia_ , we should have had a pizza delivered.\n\nWell, trying to clear your head and your conscience at the same time is pretty exhausting, so I tuned in to a fantasy about Linda the sketch artist and fell asleep.\n\n**_Thirty-five_**\n\nThe tough son of a bitch survived, of course, thanks mostly to my Eagle Scout and army first-aid skills. The press had made a big deal about my saving Bellarosa's life, and one of those inane inquiring-photographer pieces in a tabloid asked: _Would you save the life of a dying Mafia boss?_ All six respondents said yes, going on about humanity and Christianity and all that. Sally Da-da might have had a slightly different opinion if asked, and I sort of suspected he was pissed off at me.\n\nAnyway, it was mid-October now, Columbus Day to be precise, and perhaps that had something to do with my deciding to pay a call on Mr. Frank Bellarosa, who had been discharged from the hospital about two weeks before and was convalescing at Alhambra.\n\nI hadn't seen or spoken to him since our unfortunate dinner at Giulio's, and in fact, I hadn't even sent a card or flowers. Actually, he owed _me_ flowers. But I had followed the news accounts of his medical progress and so forth. Also, Jenny Alvarez and I had been meeting in Manhattan for lunch now and then, and she gave me the latest mob gossip. The latest was this: Unlike with some failed Mafia hits where the intended victim survives and is granted a sort of stay of execution in return for acknowledging that he deserved what he almost got, the contract on Frank the Bishop Bellarosa was still in force.\n\nMs. Alvarez and I, incidentally, had progressed in our relationship toward a more spiritual and intellectual plane, which means I wasn't screwing her. Just as well. That really complicates things.\n\nSo, on that sunny, mild Columbus Day morning, I walked across the back acreage to Alhambra, where I was stopped near the Virgin Mary by two men wearing blue windbreakers on which were stenciled the letters FBI. They both carried black M-16s. I introduced myself, and they asked for identification, though they seemed to know who I was. I produced my IDs and one of them used a hand-held radio to call someone. I could hear part of the conversation, and it sounded as if the guy on the other end had to go see if Mr. Bellarosa was receiving, as they say. I guess he was, because one of the FBI guys said he had to frisk me and he did. He then escorted me toward the house.\n\nI knew, of course, that the guard had changed at Alhambra. Well, two of them were dead for one thing. But Tony and the other characters I had seen floating around all summer had disappeared, either of their own volition or by government decree. Anyway, the Feds were in charge now, and Frank, though safer, was less free, like his birds in their gilded cages. He wasn't actually under arrest; he had apparently switched sides according to the press. Hey, would you blame him?\n\nAnyway, the FBI guy with the M-16 said to me as we walked, \"You understand that he has dismissed you as his attorney, and anything he says to you is not privileged information.\"\n\n\"I sort of figured that out.'' Most FBI agents are lawyers, and maybe even this guy, with his government-issued L. L. Bean look-alikes and his rifle, was an attorney. I like to see attorneys do macho things. Good for the profession's image.\n\nI asked, \"Is his wife home?\"\n\n\"Not today. She stays with relatives on and off.\"\n\n\"Is Mr. Mancuso here?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure.\"\n\nWe crossed the patio, which was covered with autumn leaves, and passed by the pizza oven, whose door was rusty. We entered the great house through the rear doors where another agent, wearing a suit, took charge and escorted me into the palm court.\n\nThe palm court was filled with bouquets and baskets of get-well flowers and smelled like a funeral home. _Mamma mia_ , these people were into cut flowers. I peeked at a few cards, and on the biggest flower arrangement was a card that said: _Frank_ , _Welcome home. Feel better. Love, Sal and Marie._ No. Could that be Sally Da-da? What was Anna's sister's name? I think it _was_ Marie. What incredible gall.\n\nAnyway, there were a few other _federales_ in the palm court, and one of them ran a metal detector over me while I admired the flowers.\n\nThe detector went off and the guy said, \"Please empty your pockets, sir.\"\n\n\"It went off because I have brass balls,'' I informed him, but I emptied my pockets just the same. I was wearing a tweed shooting jacket, perhaps not the best choice of attire for the occasion, and sure enough, in the side pocket was a clasp knife, which was missed by the frisk search, and which I use to extract jammed shotgun shells. But I didn't mention that because these guys looked tense enough.\n\n\"May I have that, sir?\"\n\nI gave him the knife and he ran the detector over me again. While this was going on, I spotted a female nurse walking across the palm court. She was an older woman, not a hanky-panky nurse, and she looked tough, the kind who gives ice-water enemas without lubrication.\n\nSo, the gent escorted me up the stairs, but I said, \"If he's in his den, I know the way.\"\n\nHe replied, \"I have to take you all the way, sir.\"\n\nGood Lord, this place was getting grim.\n\nWe walked to the closed door of the den, and the agent knocked once and opened it. I walked in and the agent shut the door behind me.\n\nBellarosa was sitting in the easy chair where he'd sat that night we had grappa together. He was wearing a blue-striped bathrobe, and bedroom slippers, which somehow made him look older or perhaps just benign. I noticed he needed a shave.\n\nStill sitting, he extended his hand toward me and said, \"I can't get up so easy.\"\n\nI took his hand and we shook. I saw now that his usually tanned skin was sallow, and I noticed a few purplish scars on his face and neck where the buckshot had hit him. \"How are you, Frank?\"\n\n\"Not bad.\"\n\n\"You look like shit.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Yeah. I can't get around much. No exercise. They're still finding fucking pellets in my legs, and my chest feels like I got hit by a truck. I gotta use these canes now.'' He grabbed a cane by the side of the chair. \"Like my grandmother.'' He lifted the cane. \"I whack anybody who walks past.'' He swung the cane and tapped me playfully on the hip and laughed. \"Like my old grandmother. Have a seat.\"\n\nI sat in the chair opposite him.\n\n\"You want some coffee? Filomena's still here. She's the only one left. The rest are fucking Feds. Even the nurses are fucking Feds. You want coffee?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\nHe picked up a walkie-talkie and bellowed, \"Coffee!'' He put the radio down and smiled. \"I keep them all busy.\"\n\nHe really did look like shit, but I didn't sense any brain impairment. In fact, he seemed sharp as ever, just a bit subdued, though that might be a result of painkillers.\n\nI asked, \"How's Anna?\"\n\n\"She's okay. She's with her crazy sister in Brooklyn.\"\n\n\"Marie? The one who's married to Sally Da-da?\"\n\nHe looked at me and nodded.\n\nI said, \"You know the Feds think it was your brother-in-law.\"\n\nHe shrugged.\n\nI went on, \"He's in charge now. Right?\"\n\n\"In charge of what?\"\n\n\"The empire.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Empire? I don't know about no empire.\"\n\n\"You better know, Frank, or you'll wake up one morning and nobody's going to be outside with M-16s. It'll just be you and your canes and Sally Da-da paying a call. _Capisce_?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Listen to you. You sound like fucking Mancuso.\"\n\n\"The papers said you were cooperating.\"\n\nHe snorted. \"More bullshit. More Ferragamo bullshit, trying to make me look like a rat. The prick still wants me dead.\"\n\nIn truth, I hadn't given much credence to the possibility that Frank Bellarosa was now working for Alphonse Ferragamo. I said, \"Look, Frank, I'm not your attorney anymore according to Jack Weinstein, but if I were, I'd advise you to cooperate with the government. I assume you're at least contemplating that, or you wouldn't be surrounded by FBI.\"\n\nHe played with the crook of his cane for a while, and he looked like an old man, I thought. He said, \"I'm being protected because I'm a witness to a killing. Vinnie's killing. Just like you. You know? And I'm the target of organized crime.'' He smiled.\n\nI said, \"Frank, you don't owe any loyalty to people who tried to kill you. This is your last chance to stay out of jail, to stay alive, and to go someplace with Anna and start over.\"\n\nHe looked at me for a full minute, then asked, \"What's it to you?\"\n\nGood question. I replied, \"Maybe I care about Anna. Maybe I care about justice.'' I added, \"I'm a citizen.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Citizen. Frank Bellarosa doesn't talk to the Feds.\"\n\n\"Your own people tried to kill you, Frank.\"\n\n\"That was a misunderstanding. You know how that happened. Fucking Ferragamo set me up. But I got it all straightened out now with my people.\"\n\n\"Do you? Then go take a ride in the country with Sally Da-da.\"\n\n\"Hey, Counselor, you don't know anything about this.\"\n\n\"I know I saw the business end of two double-barreled shotguns. I saw Vinnie's head splash open like a pumpkin, and I saw you do a backflip through the window.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"You see why I pay my lawyers so much?\"\n\nSpeaking of which, I hadn't seen a nickel from him so far, but I wasn't going to bring it up. I did say, however, \"I'd like you to explain to me why I was fired.\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"I don't know. Lots of reasons. What did Jack tell you?\"\n\n\"Not much. He just said I caught a break and I should be thrilled. This is true. He also said he would call me as your alibi witness if you wind up standing trial for murder. That is not so thrilling.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Well, we'll see.'' He added, \"The Feds don't like you. So I did them a little favor and let you go.\"\n\n\"That's interesting. And what favor are they doing you in return?\"\n\nHe didn't reply, but said, \"That don't mean we can't still be friends. In fact, we're better off as just friends and neighbors. Right?\"\n\n\"I suppose. Am I still an honorary Italian?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Sure. Hey, better yet, I'm making you an honorary _Napoletano._ You know why? Because you stood there and flipped that guy the bird when he was thinking about putting you away.\"\n\nHow in the name of God could he know that? But I knew better than to ask.\n\nBellarosa was getting himself into a lighter mood and he said, \"Hey, you still fucking that Alvarez broad or what?\"\n\n\"I'm a married man.\"\n\nHe smiled.\n\nI said, \"She did tell me that the word on the street is that your brother-in-law still has a contract out on you. And you let your wife sleep there?\"\n\n\"One's got nothing to do with the other.\"\n\nI guess I still didn't understand Italian family relationships. I tried to imagine a situation where Susan went to stay with relatives who were trying to kill me. Actually, something like that happens every time she goes to Hilton Head. But William Peckerhead only _wants_ me dead; he's too cheap to hire anyone to do the job. I said to Bellarosa, \"Sally sent you flowers. Does he come here and visit you?\"\n\nHe didn't answer my question directly, but said, \"The guy's a Sicilian. The Sicilians have this expression: You hold your friends close, but your enemies closer. _Capisce?_ \"\n\n\"I do, but I think you're all nuts. _I_ am not nuts, Frank. _You_ are all nuts.\"\n\nHe shrugged.\n\nI asked him, \"Do they pay the two guys for a near miss?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"They can keep the half they got up front. They don't get the other half.'' He added, \"I woulda done it different.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\nHe replied as though he'd thought this out. \"Well, the shotguns were all right to knock people down and fuck up everybody's mind. You know? But you gotta finish the guy you're after with a bullet in the head, because lots of guys wear a vest now. Right?\"\n\n\"Techniques vary, I'm sure. Hey, Frank, how come you were wearing a vest and not me?\"\n\n\"I told you, you're a civilian. Don't worry about it. Hey, you want a vest? I'll give you one of mine.'' He laughed.\n\nThere was a knock on the door, and an FBI guy came in followed by Filomena, who was carrying a tray. I stood to help her, but she made it clear I was in her way, so I sat down. There aren't many women whose appearance would be improved by a beard, but Filomena was one of them.\n\nShe put the tray on the table and poured two cups of coffee. Frank said something to her in Italian, and she said something back to him, and they were at it again. While they argued about whatever, she fixed his coffee with cream and sugar and buttered a biscuit for him. I could tell, despite the arguing, that there was affection between the two. I said to Bellarosa, \"Tell her I like her.\"\n\nHe smiled and spoke to Filomena in Italian.\n\nShe looked at me and made a sort of grunt, then snapped something at me.\n\nBellarosa translated, \"She said you have a beautiful wife and you should behave.'' He added, \"Italian women think when you give them a compliment, you want to fuck them. They think all men are pigs.\"\n\n\"They're right.\"\n\nFilomena gave me a glance and left.\n\nI had some coffee, but I noticed that Bellarosa ignored his and ignored the biscuits. I said to him, \"Frank, I'm not here to do the government's work, but I have to tell you, you should put on your Machiavellian thinking cap and consider what's good for you and your wife and your sons.'' I added, \"I tell you this because I like you.\"\n\nHe seemed to be actually thinking about that, then replied, \"I'll tell you something, Counselor, things are different now. Twenty years ago, nobody talked to the DA or the Feds. Now you got guys who want it both ways. They want to make the money, live the life, then they get into a little trouble with the law, and they don't want to do a little time. You know? So they sing. They don't understand that you got to be ready to do twenty years when you get into this business or you don't get into this business. But now they all have middle-class ambitions, these men. They want to sleep with their wives and girlfriends every night, see their kids off to school, play golf even. In my uncle's day, a man did his twenty years without a fucking peep, and he came out and his wife hugged him, his children kissed his hand, and his partners filled him in on the latest. Understand? But who's got that kind of balls today? So the fucking U.S. Attorney offers deals. But I don't make deals with Feds to save my own ass. My friends should've understood that. They should understand that Frank Bellarosa is not a fucking rat like half of them are. You know what I learned at La Salle? You lead by example. You don't compromise your honor. If this thing, this organization, is going to go on, then I got to show everybody how to make it go on. I got to set the example even if they tried to kill me, and even if I'm surrounded now by Feds. That's balls, Counselor. Balls. _Capisce?_ \"\n\nIndeed I did. Misplaced balls, but balls nonetheless. \" _Capisco._ \"\n\nHe smiled. \"Yeah. Hey, the organization may be a little fucked up these days, but you can't say they don't still have some class and style. They left you standing, didn't they?\"\n\nI replied, \"They understand bad press, too. Hitting you is one thing, hitting me is another.\"\n\n\"Yeah. We still get good press. We want good press. We _need_ good press. The _melanzane_ and the Spanish shoot everybody, then they wonder why nobody likes them. Right?\"\n\n\"Techniques vary, as I said.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but those assholes don't have any technique.\"\n\nI really didn't want to debate the merits of competing criminal organizations. But Bellarosa had a point of sorts. To wit: Even if Sally Da-da wanted me dead because I annoyed him, he knew that killing me was not good press and not good business. So Gentleman John Sutter walked through blood and fire with nothing more than a ruined suit and tie, protected by an aura of perceived power and impeccable social credentials. No blue blood on the sidewalks of Little Italy. No wonder Frank didn't think I needed a bulletproof vest. Just the same, I would have preferred to be wearing one when the goombah pointed the gun at me.\n\nI regarded Bellarosa a moment. Though his face looked drawn and his frame looked somehow diminished to me, his paunch was trying to get out of his bathrobe. Truly, getting hit by three 8-gauge shotgun blasts, even when wearing a vest, was not good for one's health. Seeing him there, a physical wreck, I couldn't help but wonder if his mental state hadn't deteriorated as well. I mean, he seemed okay, but there was something different. Maybe it was the Feds in the house. That would depress anyone.\n\nHe asked me to get him a bottle of sambuca, which was hidden behind some books on a shelf, and I found it. I also saw a vase of freshly picked marigolds on the shelf, big yellow marigolds of the type George and I planted at Stanhope Hall. Interesting.\n\nI gave him the bottle, and he poured a good shot of it into his coffee cup and drank it, then poured another. \"You want some?\"\n\n\"It's a little early.\"\n\n\"Yeah.'' He said, \"That bitch of a nurse won't let me drink. Because of the antibiotics I'm taking. Shit, the fucking sambuca is an antibiotic. Right? Here, put this back.\"\n\nI put the bottle back behind the books. My, how things had changed at Alhambra. Now _I_ was depressed. I looked at my watch as if I had to leave. He saw me and said, \"Sit down a minute. I gotta tell you something.'' He motioned me by his side and said, \"Sit here on this hassock.'' He jerked his thumb at the ceiling, which I took to mean the place might be bugged.\n\nI sat on the hassock close to him.\n\nHe leaned toward me and spoke softly, \"Let me give you some advice, Counselor. I don't hear much from the outside these days, but I do hear that Ferragamo is after your ass. And he ain't doing that just to blow my alibi, he's doing it because you pissed him off in court, and because you saved my life and fucked up his whole thing. So now he's got vendetta on his brain. So watch yourself.\"\n\n\"I know.'' Irony of ironies; Frank Bellarosa was being offered a deal, and I was looking at ten years for perjury. And the one man who could testify against me was Frank Bellarosa. Bellarosa understood this, of course, and I'm sure the irony wasn't lost on him. In fact, he smiled and said, \"Hey, Counselor, I won't rat you out. Even if they get me by the balls and I got to give up some people, I won't rat you out to Ferragamo.\"\n\nI mean, this guy first got you into serious trouble, then got you out of it, then told you that you owed him a favor for his help, then you did him a favor that got you into more trouble, and round and round it went. Now I think he wanted me to say thank you. Speaking in the same low volume as he was, I said, \"Frank, please don't do me any more favors. I can't survive many more of your favors.\"\n\nHe laughed, but his ribs must have been busted up pretty bad because he winced, and his face went even whiter. He swallowed the last of the sambuca, stayed motionless awhile until his breathing steadied, then sat up a bit and asked me, \"How's your wife?\"\n\n\"Which one?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Susan. Your wife.\"\n\n\"Why are you asking me? She comes here.\"\n\n\"Yeah . . . but I haven't seen her in a while.\"\n\n\"Neither have I. She just got home yesterday.\"\n\n\"Yeah. She went to see the kids at school. Right?\"\n\n\"That's right.'' She had also taken another trip to Hilton Head before that, which included a journey to Key West to see her brother, Peter, who is apparently phototropic.\n\nSusan and I never really did have a long talk, but we had a few sentences, and I suggested that she not come here anymore. She seemed to agree, but had probably come anyway; as recently as yesterday, in fact, if those flowers were from her. It must have slipped Frank's memory.\n\nOf course, I should have moved out, but moving out is hard to do. For one thing, I knew I was partly responsible for everything that had happened to us since April. Also, Susan was gone more than she was home, so moving out wasn't a pressing issue. And Susan and I can go weeks and weeks without speaking, and my finances, to be honest, were shaky, and bottom line, I still loved her and she loved me and she had asked me to stay.\n\nSo there I was, a lonely house husband, living in my wife's residence, nearly broke, still on the hook as a witness for a Mafia don, the possible target of a rubout, a social pariah, a captain without a boat, and an embarrassment to my law firm. The firm, incidentally, had sent me a registered letter at the Locust Valley office, which I decided to open. The letter asked me to disassociate myself from Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, forthwith. The letter was signed by all the senior partners, active and retired, even the ones who couldn't remember their own names, let alone mine. One of the signatures was that of Joseph P. Sutter. Pop's a great kidder.\n\nWell, screw Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. They all needed a few whacks with a lead pipe. Meantime, they could offer me some incentives to leave.\n\nBellarosa said, \"I'm glad she's not pissed at me.\"\n\nI looked at him. \"Who?\"\n\n\"Your wife.\"\n\n\"Why should she be?\"\n\nHe replied, \"For almost getting her husband killed.\"\n\n\"Don't be silly, Frank. Why, just the other day she was saying to me, 'John, I can't wait for Frank to get better so we can all go to Giulio's again.'\"\n\nHe tried to keep from laughing, but he couldn't and his ribs hurt again. \"Hey . . . cut it out . . . you're killing me . . .\"\n\nI stood. \"Okay, Frank, here's something that's not so funny. You know fucking well that Susan and I are barely speaking and you know fucking well why. If she wants to come here, that's her business, but I don't want you talking to me about her as if you're making polite small talk. Okay?\"\n\nBellarosa stared off into space, which I had learned was his way of showing that he wanted the subject changed. I said to him, \"I have to go.'' I moved toward the door. \"Should I tell your nurse you need to use the potty?\"\n\nHe ignored the taunt and said to me, \"Hey, did I ever thank you for saving my life?\"\n\n\"Not that I recall.\"\n\n\"Yeah. You know why? Because 'thank you' don't mean shit in my business. 'Thank you' is what you say to women and outsiders. What I say to you, Counselor, is I owe you one.\"\n\n\"Jesus Christ, Frank, I hope you don't mean a favor.\"\n\n\"Yeah. A favor. You don't understand favors. Favors are like money in the bank with Italians. We collect favors, trade favors, count them like assets, hold them and collect on them. I owe you a big favor. For my life.\"\n\n\"Keep it.\"\n\n\"No. You gotta ask a favor.\"\n\nI looked at him. This was like having an Italian genie. But you can't trust genies. I said, \"If you went to trial for murder, and I asked you not to have Jack Weinstein call me as your witness, would you do that even if it meant your getting convicted for a murder you didn't commit?\"\n\nHe didn't even hesitate. \"You ask, you get. I owe you my life.\"\n\nI nodded. \"Well, let me think about it. Maybe I can come up with a bigger and better favor.\"\n\n\"Sure. Hey, stop by again.\"\n\nI opened the door, then turned back to him. \"Hey, these Indians are standing on the beach, you know, and Columbus comes ashore and says to them, ' _Buon giorno_ ,' and one of the Indians turns to his wife and says, 'Shit, there goes the neighborhood.'\" As I closed the door behind me, I heard him laughing and coughing.\n\n**_Thirty-six_**\n\nI finally decided to go to my Wall Street office to tidy up my affairs there. I sat in my office, my father's old office, and wondered how I could have wasted so many years of my life in that place. But by an act of pure will, I got down to work and did for my firm and my clients basically what I'd done in the Locust Valley office; that is, I wrote memos on each client and each case, and I parceled everything out to specific attorneys who I thought would be best suited to each case and each client. That was more than my father had done, and more than Frederic Perkins had done before he jumped from the window down the hall.\n\nAnyway, despite my loyalty and conscientiousness, I was as welcome at 23 Wall Street as a four-hundred-point drop in the Dow. Nevertheless, I soldiered on for over a week, speaking to no one but my secretary, Louise, who seemed annoyed at me for having left her holding the bag for the last several months, trying to answer all sorts of questions from clients and partners regarding Mr. Sutter's files and cases.\n\nAnyway, in order to put in long days in the Wall Street office, and for other reasons, I was living at the Yale Club in Manhattan. This is a very large and very comfortable establishment on Vanderbilt Avenue, and the rooms are quite nice. Breakfast and dinner aren't bad either, and the bar is friendly. There's a stock market Teletype off the cocktail lounge so you can see if you can afford the place; there's a gym with a swimming pool and squash courts, and the clientele is Yale. What more can a man ask for? One could almost stay here forever, and many members in my situation would do just that, but the club discourages overly long stays for wayward husbands, and in recent years, wayward wives. Regarding the latter, one could get into trouble at the club, but I had enough trouble, so after dinner I would just read the newspapers in the big lounge and have a cigar and port like the other old tweedbags, then go to bed.\n\nI did bring Jenny Alvarez to dinner one night, and she said, apropos of the club, \"What a world you live in.\"\n\n\"I guess I never gave it much thought.\"\n\nWe chatted about the World Series, and she needled me about the Mets' pathetic four-in-a-row loss to the Yankees. Who would have believed it?\n\nAnyway, we talked about everything except Bellarosa, television news, and sex, just to show each other, I guess, that we had a solid friendship based on many mutual interests. Actually as it turned out, other than baseball, we shared almost no interests. We wound up talking about kids, and she showed me a picture of her son. And though it was obvious that we were still hot for each other, I didn't ask her up to my room.\n\nWell, I wound up spending nearly two weeks at the Yale Club, which was convenient in regard to not having to deal with friends and family on Long Island. On the weekend, I visited Carolyn and Edward at their schools.\n\nBy the middle of the following week, I had about run out of excuses for staying away from Lattingtown, so I checked out of the Yale Club and went back to Stanhope Hall to discover that Susan was about to leave for another visit to Hilton Head and Key West. You may envy people like us for the time and money we have to spend avoiding unpleasantness, and you may be right in being envious. But in my case, at least, the money was running out and so was the time, and the hurt was no less acute than if I'd been a contractor or a civil servant. Clearly, something had to be done. I said to Susan before she left, \"If we move away from here, permanently, I think I can come to terms with the past. I think we can start over.\"\n\nShe replied, \"I love you, John, but I don't want to move. And I don't think it would do any good anyway. We'll solve our problems here, or we'll separate here.\"\n\nI asked her, \"Are you still visiting next door?\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"I'd like you not to.\"\n\n\"I have to do this my way.\"\n\n\"Do what?\"\n\nShe didn't reply directly, but said to me, \"You visited next door. And you're not his attorney anymore. Why did you go?\"\n\n\"Susan, it's not the same if I go there as when you go there. And don't piss me off by asking why it isn't.\"\n\nShe replied, \"Well, but I will tell you that perhaps you shouldn't go there either.\"\n\n\"Why not? Am I complicating things?\"\n\n\"Maybe. It's complex enough.\"\n\nAnd on that note, she left for the airport.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWell, despite Susan's good advice, about a week later, on a raw, drizzly day in November, I decided to go collect the money that Bellarosa still owed me and, more important, to collect a favor. Because of the wet weather I went by way of the front gate. The three FBI men there were particularly officious, and I was briefly nostalgic for Anthony, Lenny, and Vinnie.\n\nAs I stood under the eave of the gatehouse, I could see this one FBI guy inside glancing at me through the window as he spoke to someone on the phone. Two other FBI guys stood near me with their rifles. I said to them, \"Is there something wrong with my passport? Is Il Duce not receiving? What's the problem here?\"\n\nOne of the agents shrugged. After a while, the other guy came out of the gatehouse and informed me that Mr. Bellarosa was not available. I said, \"My wife comes and goes here as she pleases. Now you get back on that fucking telephone and get me cleared pronto.\"\n\nAnd he did. Though he seemed upset with me for some reason.\n\nSo I was escorted up the cobble drive by one of the guys with the rifles, was turned over to another guy with a tie at the door, and got myself processed for dangerous metal objects. What they didn't understand was that if I wanted to kill Bellarosa, I would do it with my bare hands.\n\nI noticed that the flowers were all gone now and the palm court looked somehow bigger and emptier. Then I realized that all the bird cages were gone. I asked one of the FBI men about that, and he replied, \"There's no one to take care of them. And they were getting on some of the guys' nerves.'' He smiled and added, \"We only have one songbird left. He's upstairs.'' So I was escorted up the stairs, but this time to Bellarosa's bedroom.\n\nIt was about five P.M., but he was in bed, sitting up though not looking well.\n\nI had never been in the master bedroom of Alhambra, but I could see now that the room I was in was part of a large suite that included a sitting room off to my left and a dressing room to my front that probably included a master bath. The bedroom itself was not overly large, and the heavy, dark Mediterranean furniture and red velvets made it look smaller and somewhat depressing. There was only a single window against which the rain splattered. If I were sick, I'd rather be lying in the palm court.\n\nBellarosa motioned me to a chair beside the bed, the nurse's chair I suppose, but I said, \"I'll stand.\"\n\n\"So, what can I do for you, Counselor?\"\n\n\"I'm here to collect.\"\n\n\"Yeah? You need that favor? Tell me what you need.\"\n\n\"First things first. I'm also here to collect my bill. I sent you a note and an invoice over two weeks ago.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah.'' He took a glass of red wine from the night table and sipped on it. \"Yeah . . . well, I'm not a free man anymore.\"\n\n\"Meaning what?\"\n\n\"I sold myself like a whore. I do what they say now.\"\n\n\"Did they tell you not to pay my bill?\"\n\n\"Yeah. They tell me what bills to pay. Yours ain't one of them, Counselor. That's your pal Ferragamo. But I'll talk to somebody higher up for you. Okay?\"\n\n\"Don't bother. I'll write this one off to experience.\"\n\n\"You let me know.'' He asked, \"You want some wine?\"\n\n\"No.'' I walked around the room and noticed a book on his night table. It was not Machiavelli, but a picture book of Naples.\n\nBellarosa said to me, \"What really hurts me is that I can't take care of my people anymore. For an Italian, that's like cutting off his balls. _Capisce?_ \"\n\n\"No, and I never want to _capisce_ a damned thing again.\"\n\nBellarosa shrugged.\n\nI said, \"So you work for Alphonse Ferragamo now.\"\n\nHe didn't like that at all, but he said nothing.\n\nI asked him, \"Can you tell me what those bulldozers are doing at Stanhope Hall?\"\n\n\"Yeah. They're gonna dig foundations. Put in roads. The IRS made me sell the place to the developers.\"\n\n\"Is that a fact? My whole world is fucked up, and now you tell me I'm about to be surrounded by tractor sheds.\"\n\n\"Whaddaya mean tractor sheds? Nice houses. You'll have plenty of good neighbors.\"\n\nIt wasn't my property that was being subdivided or surrounded anyway, so I didn't really care. But I asked him, \"What's happening to the Stanhope mansion?\"\n\n\"I don't know. The developer has some Japs interested in it for a kind of rest house in the country. You know? Those people get all nervous, and they need a place to rest.\"\n\nThis was really depressing news. A rest house for burned-out Japanese businessmen, surrounded by thirty or forty new houses on what was once a beautiful estate. I asked him, \"How did you get the zoning changed?\"\n\n\"I got friends in high places now. Like the IRS. I told you, they want big bucks, so I got to get rid of everything with their help. And Ferragamo started a RICO thing against me so he's trying to get his before the fucking IRS gets theirs. They're like fucking wolves tearing me apart.\"\n\n\"So you're telling me you're broke?\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"Like I said once, Counselor, give unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. Well, Caesar is in the next fucking room, and he wants his.\"\n\nI smiled. \"But never more than fifteen percent, Frank.\"\n\nHe forced a smile in return. \"Maybe this time he got more. But I can do all right on what's left.\"\n\n\"That's good news.'' I regarded him a moment, and indeed he looked like a beaten man. No doubt he was physically not well, but in a more profound way his spirit seemed crushed and his spark was gone. I guess this was what I'd hoped to see when I saved his life, but I wasn't enjoying it. In some perverse way we can all relate to the rebel, the pirate, the outlaw. His existence is proof that this life does not squash everyone and that today's superstate cannot get us all into lockstep. But life and the state had finally caught up with the nation's biggest outlaw and laid him low. It was inevitable, really, and he had known it even as he made plans for a future that would never come.\n\nI said to him, \"And Alhambra?\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah, I had to sell this place, too. The Feds want this house bulldozed. What bastards. Like they don't want people saying, 'Frank Bellarosa lived there once.' Fuck them. But I worked it out with them that Dominic gets to build the houses for the guy who's going to buy the land. I'm going to make Dominic put up little Alhambras, nice little stucco villas with red tile roofs.'' He smiled. \"Funny, huh?\"\n\n\"I guess. And Fox Point?\"\n\n\"The Arabs got it.\"\n\n\"The Iranians?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Fuck them. So all you bastards that didn't like me here on this street, you can all watch the sand niggers driving to their temple in their big cars, wailing all over the place.'' He laughed weakly and coughed.\n\n\"Are you all right?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Just a goddamned flu. That fucking nurse is a bitch. They fired Filomena one day without telling me and deported her or something, and they only let Anna come a few days at a time. She's in Brooklyn again. I got nobody to talk to here. Except the fucking Feds.\"\n\nI nodded. The Justice Department could indeed be nasty and petty when they chose to, and when you had the IRS on your case at the same time, you might as well put your head between your legs and kiss your ass good-bye. I said, \"And you let all this happen in exchange for what? For freedom?\"\n\n\"Yeah. For freedom. I'm free. Everything's forgiven. But meantime I got to rat out everybody, and I got to let them play with me like I was a toy. Jesus Christ, these guys are worse than commies.'' He looked at me. \"That was your advice, wasn't it, Counselor? Sell out, Frank. Start a new life.\"\n\nI replied, \"Yes, that was my advice.\"\n\n\"So, I took it.\"\n\n\"No, you made your own decision, Frank.'' I added, \"I think the operative part\u2014the thing that is important\u2014is that you start a new life. I assume you'll be leaving here under the new identity program.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I'm under the witness protection program now. Next, I graduate to new identity if I'm good. In my new life I want to be a priest.'' He forced a tired smile and sat up straight. \"Here, have some wine with me.'' He took a clean water tumbler from his nightstand and poured me a full glass. I took it and sipped on it. Chianti _acido_ , fermented in storage batteries. How could a sick man drink this stuff?\n\nHe said, \"I'm not supposed to tell nobody where I'm going, but I'm going back to Italy.'' He tapped the book on his nightstand. \"Funny how we say 'back,' like we came from there. I'm third-generation here. Been to Italy maybe ten times in the last thirty years. But we still say 'back.' Do you say back to . . . where? England?\"\n\n\"No, I don't say that. Maybe sometimes I think it. But I'm here for the duration, Frank. I'm an American. And so are you. In fact, you are so fucking American you wouldn't believe it. You understand?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Yeah. I know, I know. I'm not going to like living in Italy, am I? But it's safer there, and it's better than jail and better than dead, I guess.'' He added, \"The Feds got it all worked out with the Italian government. Maybe someday you can come visit.\"\n\nI didn't reply. We were both silent awhile, and we drank our wine. Finally, Bellarosa spoke, but not really to me, I think, but to himself and maybe to his _paesanos_ , whom he was selling out en masse. He said, \"The old code of silence is dead. There're no real men left anymore, no heroes, no stand-up guys, not on either side of the law. We're all middle-class paper guys, the cops and the crooks, and we make deals when we got to, to protect our asses, our money, and our lives. We rat out everybody, and we're happy we got the chance to do it.\"\n\nAgain I didn't reply.\n\nHe said to me, \"I was in jail once, Counselor, and it's not a place for people like us. It's for the new bad guys, the darker people, the tough guys. My people don't lay their balls on the table no more. We're like _you_ people. We got too fucking soft.\"\n\n\"Well, maybe you can work that farm outside of Sorrento.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Yeah. Farmer Frank. Fat fucking chance of that.'' He looked me in the eye. \"Forget the word 'Sorrento.' _Capisce?_ \"\n\n\"I hear you.'' I added in a soft voice, \"A word of advice, Frank. Don't trust the Feds to keep your forwarding address secret either. If they send you to Sorrento, don't stay too long.\"\n\nHe winked at me. \"I was right to make you a _Napoletano._ \"\n\n\"And I suppose Anna is going with you, so watch the postmarks on the letters she sends home. Especially to her sister.'' I asked, \"She _is_ going, right?\"\n\nHe hesitated a moment, then replied, \"Yeah. Sure. She's my wife. What's she going to do? Go to college and work for IBM?\"\n\n\"Is she as unhappy about the move as she was about moving here?\"\n\n\"You got to ask? She never wanted to leave her mother's house, for Christ's sake. You know, you think about them immigrant women coming here from sunny Italy with nothing and making a life here in the tenements of New York. And now those women's daughters and granddaughters have a fit when the fucking dishwasher breaks. You know? But hey, we're no better. Right?\"\n\n\"Right.'' I said, \"Maybe she'll adjust better to Italy than to Lattingtown.\"\n\n\"Nah. All Italian married women are unhappy. They are happy girls and happy widows, but they are unhappy wives. I told you, you can't make them happy, so you ignore them.'' He added, \"Anyway, my kids are still here. Anna is going nuts about that. Maybe they'll want to come over and live. Who knows? Maybe someday I can come back. Maybe someday you'll walk into a pizza joint in Brooklyn, and I'll be behind the counter. You want that pie cut in eight or twelve slices?\"\n\n\"Twelve. I'm hungry.'' Actually I couldn't picture me in a pizza joint in Brooklyn, nor could I picture Frank Bellarosa behind the counter, and neither could Frank Bellarosa. Some of this was just an act, maybe for me, maybe for the Feds if they were listening. A guy like Bellarosa may be down for a while, but never out. As soon as he got out from under the thumb of the Justice Department, he'd be back in some shady business. If he was ever in a pizza joint, it would be to shake down the owner.\n\nHe said, \"Well, you got me wondering about that favor I owe you.\"\n\nI put down my glass of wine and said, \"Okay, Frank, I'd like you to tell my wife it's over between you two and that you're not taking her with you to Italy, which is what I think she believes, and I want you to tell her that you only used her to get to me.\"\n\nWe stared at each other, and he nodded. \"Done.\"\n\nI moved toward the door. \"We won't see each other again, but you'll forgive me if I don't shake your hand.\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\nI opened the door.\n\nHe called out. \"John.\"\n\nI don't think he'd ever called me by my first name before, and it took me by surprise. I looked back at him sitting in bed. \"What?\"\n\n\"I'll tell her I used her if you want, but that wasn't it. You gotta know that.\"\n\n\"I know that.\"\n\n\"Okay.'' He said to me, \"We're both on our own now, Counselor, and in years to come we'll think of this time as a good time, a time when we took and we gave and we got smarter by knowing each other. Okay?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"And watch your ass. You got some of my _paesanos_ on your case now\u2014Alphonse and the other guy. But you can handle it.\"\n\n\"I sure can.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Good luck.\"\n\n\"You, too.'' And I left.\n\n**_Thirty-seven_**\n\nI had decided to visit Emily in Galveston, and I was packing enough clothes for an extended trip. Visiting relatives is sort of like walking out but under cover. Susan had her turn at it, and now that she was back, it was my turn.\n\nI was going to take the Bronco rather than fly, because maybe the states west of New York were not just fly-over states, but places that should be seen, with people that should be met. It was a step in the right direction, anyway.\n\nI was looking forward to my first stop at a McDonald's, to staying at motels made out of concrete blocks, and to buying an RC Cola at a 7-Eleven. The thought of self-service gasoline, however, was a bit anxiety-producing, because I wasn't sure how it was done. I suppose I could watch from the side of the road and see how everyone else did it. I think you pay first, then pump.\n\nAnyway, I intended to leave in the morning at first light. It had only been a few days since my last call on Frank Bellarosa, and in that time, Susan had come home from her trip to Hilton Head and Florida looking very fit and tan. Her brother, she informed me, loved Key West and had decided to finally settle down and do something with his life.\n\n\"Like what?'' I asked. \"Get a haircut?\"\n\n\"Don't be cynical, John.\"\n\nShe had greeted the news of my cross-country trip with mixed emotions. On the one hand, my absences removed a lot of strain from the situation, but she honestly seemed to miss me when we were separated. It's not easy to love two people at the same time.\n\nAnyway, as I was packing that night, Susan came into the guest room where I was still in residence and said, \"I'm going for a ride.\"\n\nShe was wearing riding breeches, boots, a turtleneck, and a tailored tweed jacket. She looked good, especially with her tan. I replied, \"The bulldozers have changed the terrain, Susan. Be careful.\"\n\n\"I know. But it's bright as day tonight.\"\n\nWhich was true. There was a huge, orange hunter's moon rising, and it was such a beautiful, haunting sort of night that I almost offered to join her. With the two estates about to become subdivisions, and Fox Point about to become Iranian territory, and with the remaining landed gentry not speaking to us, the days of horseback riding were drawing to a close, and even I was going to miss that. But that night, I decided not to ride. I think I had sensed she wanted to be alone.\n\nShe said, \"I may be late.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\n\"If I don't see you tonight, John, please wake me before you leave.\"\n\n\"I will.\"\n\n\"Good night.\"\n\n\"Happy trails.\"\n\nAnd she left. In retrospect, she had seemed perfectly normal, but I told you she was nuts, and that full moon didn't help.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAt about eleven P.M., I was contemplating retiring for the night as I wanted to be up before dawn and I had a long day on the road ahead of me. But Susan still wasn't home, and you know how husbands and wives are about falling asleep before the other is home. I suppose it's partly concern and partly jealousy, but whatever it is, the person at home wants to hear the car pull up in the driveway, even if they're not speaking to the other person.\n\nIn this case, I wasn't waiting for a car to pull up, of course, but for the sound of hoofbeats, which I can sometimes hear now that the stable is closer to the house. But it _was_ a car that pulled up in front of the house, and I saw its headlights coming up the drive long before I heard the tires on the gravel. I was in my second-floor bedroom at the time, still fully dressed, and as I came down the stairs, I heard the car door shut, then heard the doorbell ring.\n\nA strange car in the driveway at eleven P.M. and a ringing doorbell is not usually good news. I opened the door to see Mr. Mancuso standing there with an odd expression on his face. \"Good evening, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\n\"What's up?'' was all I could think to say with my heart in my throat.\n\n\"Your wife\u2014\"\n\n\"Where is she? Is she all right?\"\n\n\"Yes. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . . she's not hurt. But I think you should come with me.\"\n\nSo, wearing corduroy jeans and a sweatshirt, I followed him out to his car, and we got in. We didn't speak as he made his way down the dark drive. As we went past the gatehouse, I saw Ethel Allard looking out the window, and we were close enough so that our eyes met, and I wondered if I looked as worried as she did.\n\nWe swung onto Grace Lane and turned left toward Alhambra. I said to Mr. Mancuso, \"Is he dead?\"\n\nHe glanced at me and nodded.\n\n\"I guess he wasn't wearing a bulletproof vest this time.\"\n\n\"No, he wasn't.'' He added, \"Do you have a good stomach?\"\n\n\"I saw a man's head blown off on a full stomach.\"\n\n\"That's right. Well, he's uncovered, and I guess you'll see him, because we held off on calling the police. I came and got you as a courtesy, Mr. Sutter, a favor, so you can speak to your wife before the county detectives arrive.\"\n\n\"Thank you.'' I added, \"You didn't owe me any favors, so I guess I owe you one now.\"\n\n\"All right. Here's the favor. Get what's left of your life together. I'd like that.\"\n\n\"Done.\"\n\nMancuso seemed in no hurry, as if he were unconsciously hesitating, and it took us a while to get up the long cobble drive. I noticed, irrelevantly, that every window in Alhambra was lit. Mancuso said to me, \"What a place. But like Christ said, 'What is a man profited if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'\"\n\nI didn't think St. Felix understood the true nature of Frank Bellarosa. I replied, \"He didn't sell his soul, Mr. Mancuso. He was more in the buying business.\"\n\nHe glanced at me again. \"I think you're right.\"\n\nI said, \"Is Mrs. Bellarosa here?\"\n\n\"No. She's in Brooklyn.\"\n\n\"Which was why my wife was here.\"\n\nHe didn't reply.\n\nI added, \"In fact, it was very convenient for Mr. Bellarosa and Mrs. Sutter having Mrs. Bellarosa packed off to Brooklyn for extended visits.\"\n\nAgain no reply.\n\nI said, \"You not only allowed that, you aided and abetted it.\"\n\nHe replied this time, \"That was not our business, Mr. Sutter. It was your business. You knew.\"\n\n\"I know you have to keep your witnesses happy, Mr. Mancuso, but you don't have to pimp for them.\"\n\n\"I understand your bitterness.\"\n\n\"Understand, too, Mr. Mancuso, that neither you nor I are as clean and pure as we were last Easter.\"\n\n\"I know that.'' He added, \"This was a very dirty case. And I can't even say that the ends justified the means. But I'll make my peace in my own way. I know you'll do the same.\"\n\n\"I'll give it a shot.\"\n\n\"Professionally, no one is very happy that Frank Bellarosa died before he could tell us everything he knew. No one is very happy with what Mrs. Sutter did. So maybe we got what we deserved for what we did, for bending the rules and letting her come here and never even running a metal detector over her. We have some answering to do for this. Maybe that makes you feel better.\"\n\n\"Not a bit.\"\n\nThe car stopped in front of Alhambra, and I got out quickly and went into the house. In the palm court were six FBI men, two in casual clothes with rifles slung across their backs and four in suits. They all turned and looked at me. I was approached by two of them and frisked, then got the metal detector routine that they should have given to my wife.\n\nThe first thing I noticed as I looked around was a large potted palm lying on its side near the archway that led to the dining room. The clay pot was cracked open, and soil and palm fronds were spread over the red tile floor. Partially hidden behind the big pot and the foliage was a man sprawled on the floor. I walked over to him.\n\nFrank Bellarosa was lying on his back, his arms and legs outstretched and his striped robe thrown open, revealing his naked body. I could see the healed wounds and pockmarks where the shotgun blasts had hit his arms, neck, and legs some months before. There were three new wounds, one above his heart, one in his stomach, and one right in his groin. I wondered which shot she had fired first.\n\nThere was a lot of blood, of course, all over his body and his robe, all over the floor, and even on the plant. The three wounds had partly coagulated and looked like red custard. I noticed now that there was blood splattered some distance from his body, and I realized he had fallen from the railed mezzanine above. I looked up and saw that I was standing under where his bedroom door would be.\n\nI looked back at Bellarosa's face. His eyes were wide open, but this time there was no life or pain in them, no tears, only eternity. I kneeled down and pressed his eyelids closed, and I heard Mr. Mancuso's voice behind me, \"Please don't touch anything, Mr. Sutter.\"\n\nI stood and took a last look at Frank Bellarosa. It occurred to me that the Italians had always understood that at the core of life's problems are men with too much power, too much charisma, and too much ambition. The Italians made demigods of such men, but at the same time they hated them for these very same qualities. Thus, the killing of a Caesar, a don, a duce, was a psychologically complex undertaking, embodying both sin and salvation in the same act.\n\nPerhaps Susan, not the sort of person to think of harming anyone for any reason, had absorbed some of her lover's psyche along with his semen, and had decided to use a Bellarosa solution to solve a Bellarosa problem. But how do I know that for sure? Maybe John is projecting.\n\nMancuso tapped my arm and drew my attention to the far side of the palm court.\n\nSusan was sitting with her legs crossed in a wicker chair, between a pillar and a potted tree, out of the line of sight of the corpse. She was fully dressed in her riding outfit, though I did not know then nor would I ever know if she had been fully dressed earlier. Her long red hair, however, which had been tied up under her riding cap, was now loose and disheveled. Otherwise she looked very composed. Very beautiful, actually. I walked toward her.\n\nAs I got within a few feet of her, she looked up at me but made no move to meet me. I saw now that an FBI man was standing near the pillar, watching her, guarding her actually. She glanced up at him, and he nodded, and she stood and came toward me. Odd, I thought, how even the highborn learn so quickly how to become prisoners. Depressing, actually.\n\nWe stood a few feet apart, and I saw that she had been crying, but she looked all right now. Composed, as I said. I suppose our audience was waiting for us to embrace or for someone to break down or maybe go for the other's throat. I was aware that six or seven men were ready to spring into action in the event of the latter. These guys were tense, of course, having already lost one person they were supposed to be safeguarding.\n\nFinally I said to my wife, \"Are you all right?\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"Where did you get the gun?\"\n\n\"He gave it to me.\"\n\n\"When? Why?\"\n\nShe seemed a little out of it, which was normal under the circumstances, but she thought a moment and replied, \"When he came home from the hospital. The FBI men were searching the house, and he had a gun hidden so he gave it to me to keep for him.\"\n\n\"I see.'' You blew it, Frank. But really, if it weren't a gun, it would have been a knife or a fireplace poker, or anything she could get her hands on. Hell hath no fury like a redheaded woman scorned. Believe it. I asked her, \"Did you make any statement to anyone here?\"\n\n\"Statement . . . ? No . . . I just said . . . I forgot . . .\"\n\n\"Don't say anything to them or to the police when they arrive.\"\n\n\"The police . . . ?\"\n\n\"Yes, they're on the way.\"\n\n\"Can't I go home?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\"Am I going to jail?\"\n\n\"Yes. I'll try to get you out tomorrow on bail.'' Then again, maybe I won't.\n\nShe nodded and smiled for the first time, a forced smile, but genuine nonetheless. She said, \"You're a good lawyer.\"\n\n\"Right.'' I saw that she was pale and shaky, so I led her back to the chair. She glanced over at the mess at the far end of the palm court, then looked at me and said, \"I killed him.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know.'' I sat her down in the chair, knelt, and took her hand. \"Do you want something to drink?\"\n\n\"No, thank you.'' She added, \"I did this for you.\"\n\nI chose to ignore that.\n\nThe county police arrived, uniformed officers, plainclothes detectives, the forensic unit, ambulance attendants, police photographers, and other assorted crime-scene types. The grandeur of Alhambra seemed more interesting to them than its dead owner, but eventually they got down to business.\n\nSusan watched the activity as though it had nothing to do with her. Neither of us spoke, but I stayed with her, kneeling beside her chair and holding her hand.\n\nI saw Mancuso speaking to a big beefy guy with a ruddy face, and they kept glancing over at Susan and me as they spoke. Finally, the big guy walked over to us and I stood. A uniformed female police officer joined him. The big guy said to me, \"You're her husband?\"\n\n\"And her attorney. Who are you?\"\n\nHe obviously didn't like my tone or my question, but you have to get off on the wrong foot with these guys, because that's where you're headed anyway. He said, \"I'm Lieutenant Dolan, County Homicide.'' He turned to Susan and said, \"And you are Susan Sutter?\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"Okay, Mrs. Sutter, I'm going to read you your rights in the presence of your husband, who I understand is your attorney.'' Dolan had one of those little cheat cards like Mancuso had and began reading from it. Good Lord, you'd think they could remember a few simple lines after twenty years of saying them. I mean, I can still recite the entire prologue of the _Canterbury Tales_ twenty-five years after I learned it, and that's in Middle English.\n\nDolan asked Susan, \"Do you understand your rights?\"\n\nAgain she nodded.\n\nHe looked at me. \"She understands?\"\n\n\"Not really,'' I replied, \"but for the record, yes.\"\n\nHe turned back to Susan. \"Do you want to make any statements at this time?\"\n\n\"I\u2014\"\n\nI interrupted. \"No. She is obviously not going to make any statements, Lieutenant.\"\n\n\"Right.'' Dolan signaled to the uniformed policewoman, who approached, somewhat self-consciously I thought. Dolan turned back to Susan. \"Please stand, Mrs. Sutter.\"\n\nSusan stood.\n\nDolan said to her, \"You are under arrest for murder. Please turn around.\"\n\nThe policewoman actually turned Susan by the shoulder and was going to cuff her hands behind her back, but I grabbed the woman's wrist. \"No. In the front.'' I looked at Dolan. \"She won't try to strangle you with the cuffs, Lieutenant.\"\n\nThis didn't go over very well, but after a little glaring all around, Dolan said to the policewoman, \"In front.\"\n\nBefore Susan was cuffed, I helped her off with her tweed jacket, and then the woman cuffed Susan's hands in front of her. This is more comfortable, less humiliating, and looks better because you can throw a coat over the cuffs, which I then did with Susan's jacket.\n\nBy this time, Dolan and I were getting to understand each other a little better, and we didn't like what we understood. Dolan said to the policewoman but also so I could hear, \"Mrs. Sutter was searched by the federal types when they grabbed her, and they tell me she has no more weapons, but you have her searched again at the station house, and you look for poison and other means of suicide, and you keep a suicide watch on her all night. I don't want to lose this one.'' He glanced at me, then said to the policewoman, \"Okay, take her away.\"\n\n\"Hold on,'' I said. \"I want to speak to my client.\"\n\nBut Lieutenant Dolan was not going to be as cooperative as Mr. Mancuso had been under similar circumstances in this very spot some months before. Lieutenant Dolan said, \"If you want to talk to her, come to the station house.\"\n\n\"I intend to speak to her now, Lieutenant.'' I had my hand on Susan's left arm, and the policewoman had her hand on Susan's right arm. Poor Susan. For the first time since I'd known her, she actually looked as if she wasn't in control of a situation.\n\nWell, before the situation got out of everyone's control, Mancuso ambled over and put his arm around Dolan, leading him away. They chatted a minute, then Dolan turned back toward us and motioned to the policewoman to back off.\n\nI took Susan's cuffed hands in mine, and we looked at each other. She didn't say anything but squeezed my hands. Finally, I said, \"Susan . . . do you understand what's happening?\"\n\nShe nodded. Actually she did seem more alert now, and she looked me in the eye. \"John, I'm so sorry for the inconvenience. I should have waited until you left.\"\n\nThat would have been a good idea, but Susan had no intention of letting me off that easy. I said, \"Maybe you shouldn't have killed him at all.\"\n\nHer mind was either elsewhere or she didn't want to hear that, because she said, \"Could you do me a favor? Zanzibar is tethered out back. Will you ride him home? He can't stay there all night.\"\n\nI replied, \"I'll certainly take care of Zanzibar.\"\n\n\"Thank you. And could you see to Zanzibar and Yankee in the morning?\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\n\"Will I be home by afternoon?\"\n\n\"Perhaps. If I can make bail.\"\n\n\"Well, my checkbook is in my desk.\"\n\nI replied, \"I don't think they take personal checks, Susan. But I'll work something out.\"\n\n\"Thank you, John.\"\n\nThere really wasn't much else to say, I suppose, now that the horses were taken care of and I knew where her checkbook was. Well, maybe this wasn't the time for sarcasm, but if I told you I wasn't enjoying this at all, I'd be a liar. Still, I couldn't really enjoy it, nor for that matter could I weep over it unless I fully understood it. So, against my better judgment, I asked her, \"Why did you kill him?\"\n\nShe looked at me as though that were a silly question. \"He destroyed us. You know that.\"\n\nOkay. So leave it at that. From that we had a chance to rebuild our lives together if we chose to. She did it for us. End of story. But you can't build on lies, so I said, \"Susan, don't lie to me. Did he tell you he was leaving you? Did he tell you that he was not leaving Anna for you? That he was not taking you with him to Italy? Did he tell you that he only used you to get to me?\"\n\nShe stared at me, through me actually, and I saw she was off again in Susan land. I suppose we could have this conversation some other time, though I was curious to discover if Bellarosa's telling Susan that he only used her to get to me was the proximate cause of his death. And you may wonder if I knew or suspected what would happen when I set that in motion. That is a complex question. I'd have to think about that.\n\nI looked at Susan. \"If you did it for us, Susan, then thank you for trying to save our marriage and our life together. But you didn't have to _kill_ him.\"\n\n\"Yes, I _did._ He was evil, John. He seduced us both. Don't take his side. He was always taking _your_ side about something or other and now you're taking his side. Now I'm angry with you both. Men are all alike, aren't they, always sticking up for one another, but he _was_ different from other men, and I was obsessed with him, but I tried to control myself, I really did, but I couldn't keep away from him, even after you asked me to, and he took advantage of me, and he used me, and he promised me he was going to save Stanhope Hall, but he didn't, and he used you, too, John, and you knew what was happening, so don't look at me like that.\"\n\nSusan went on like this for a while, and I realized I could enter an insanity plea, but by morning she'd be herself again, which is not to say any less crazy, but at least she'd be quieter about it.\n\nI took her head in my hands and played with her soft red hair. She stopped babbling and looked at me. Those catlike green eyes stared right into me, and with crystal-clear sanity now, she said to me, \"I did this because you couldn't, John. I did this to return your honor to you. _You_ should have done it. You were right not to let him die, but you should have killed him.\"\n\nWell, if we had been living in another age or another country, she would be right. But not in this age, not in this country. Though perhaps like Frank Bellarosa, and like Susan, I _should_ have acted on my more primitive instincts, on fifty thousand years of past human experience. Instead, I rationalized, philosophized, and intellectualized when I should have listened to my emotions, which had always said to me, \"He is a threat to your survival. Kill him.\"\n\nI looked at Susan and she said, \"Kiss me,'' and pursed those magnificent pouty lips.\n\nI kissed her.\n\nShe pressed her head into my chest and cried for a minute, then stepped back. \"Well,'' she said in a crisp, cool voice, \"off to jail. I want to be out tomorrow, Counselor.\"\n\nI smiled.\n\n\"Tell me you love me,'' she demanded.\n\n\"I love you.\"\n\n\"And I've always loved you, John. Forever.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\nThe policewoman approached and took Susan's arm gently, then led her toward the front door.\n\nI watched until she was gone, but she never looked back at me. I was aware of a lot of quiet people around the palm court and thought it best if I left quickly so they could get back to their business.\n\nI turned toward the rear of the house to go fetch Zanzibar as I had promised. As I walked across the court, I could hear my footsteps echoing on the tile floor, and I saw out of the corner of my eye Bellarosa's body still lying off to my left, uncovered. Frank Bellarosa was surrounded by people who found him interesting: the police photographer, two laboratory women, and the coroner.\n\nAs I walked past the body, I passed something off to my right. I stopped and turned back to look at it. It was a large brass display easel that held an oil painting framed in a soft green and white lacquered frame, quite a nice frame actually. The painting was of Alhambra's ruined palm court, of course, and I studied it. It was really quite good, perhaps one of the best that I've seen of Susan's works. But what do I know about art?\n\nI stared at the painting of the ruined palm court, the streams of sunlight coming in from the broken glass dome, the decayed stucco walls, the vines twisting around the marble pillars, and the cracked floor sprouting scraggy plant life amid the rubble. And I saw this now not as a whimsical or romantic rendition of physical decay, but as a mirrored image of a ruined and crumbling mind; not a vanished world of past glory, but a vanished world of mental and spiritual health. But what do I know about psychology? I hauled off and put my fist through the canvas, sending it and the easel sprawling across the court.\n\nNo one seemed to mind.\n\n**_Thirty-eight_**\n\nIt was January, and the days were short and cold. It was about four P.M., and already the sunlight was fading, but I didn't need or want much light.\n\nThe wrought-iron gates of Alhambra had been sold by the developer and replaced with steel security gates that were fastened together with a chain but not tightly enough to prevent me from slipping through.\n\nI walked past the gatehouse, which was now being used as the builder's sales office, but it was Sunday and the small house was dark. I walked up the long drive, bundled in my wool parka. The cobblestones, too, had been sold, and the drive was frozen mud, slippery in places, so I took my time. The flowers that bordered the drive were all gone, of course, but the poplars still stood, bare now, gray and spindly.\n\nIn the forecourt at the end of the drive, the ornamental fountain was still there, but someone had forgotten to drain it last autumn, and the marble was cracked and filled with dirty ice. And beyond the forecourt, where Alhambra had once stood, was a great heap of rubble: red roofing tile, white stucco, rafters, and beams. Indeed, they had bulldozed the entire mansion as Bellarosa had said they would. But I had no way of knowing if it was a spiteful act or if the developer simply wanted to be rid of the white elephant.\n\nAs it was Sunday, the earth-moving equipment was silent, and no one seemed to be around. It was very quiet, that sort of deep winter quiet where you can hear the ground crackle underfoot, and the trees creaking in the cold wind. I could tell you I heard ghostly hoofbeats on the solid earth, too, but I didn't, though I thought about Susan and me on one of our winter rides.\n\nI thought, too, of last January, and of the black Cadillac that was here, or wasn't here, and the man whom I saw or didn't see. And it occurred to me that if he hadn't been lost that day and hadn't seen this place, then things would have been different today, most probably better since I couldn't imagine how they could be much worse.\n\nRegarding Bellarosa's death, I still had mixed feelings about that. Initially, I had been relieved, nearly glad, to be honest. I mean, the man had caused me much unhappiness and had seduced my wife (or was it the other way around?), and his death solved a good many problems for me. Even seeing him lying there on the floor, half naked and covered with gore, had not affected me. But now, after some time, I realized that I actually missed him, and that he's gone forever, and that I lost a friend. Well, but as I say, I still have mixed emotions.\n\nAnyway, I noticed four long crates lying near the rubble and moved closer to them and saw that they held the four Carthaginian columns, all ready for shipping, though I didn't know where they were headed this time. Not back to Carthage, that was for certain, but maybe to a museum or to another rich man's house, or maybe the government had declared them a salable asset and they'd sit forgotten in a warehouse forever.\n\nI continued my walk, veering around the heap of rubble toward the rear of the property. All around me were stacks of building materials and earth-moving equipment. I noticed engineer stakes stuck in the ground, connected by string with white strips of cloth hanging from the string, and there were surveyors' stakes as well, and masonry stakes and all sorts of other things stuck in the ground like dissecting pins on the carved-up earth.\n\nAs I walked, I could see that most of the fifty or so foundations had been dug and poured, and though many of the trees had been spared, the land was irrevocably altered, suffused with water and gas pipes and cesspools, and crisscrossed with power lines and paved with blacktop and concrete. Another few hundred acres had gone from rural to suburban, from pristine to scarred, and hundreds of people from someplace or another were on their way here, though they didn't know it yet, bringing with them their worries and their future divorces, and their propane barbecue grills and their mailboxes with numbers on them, and their hopes for a new life in a nicer place than the last. The American dream, you know, constantly needs new landscapes.\n\nStanhope Hall's acreage is gone, too, of course, and a few of the houses there are nearly complete, wood and Thermopane contemporaries with lots of skylights and oversize garages and central air-conditioning; not too bad, I admit, but not too good either.\n\nThe big house, the former Stanhope Hall, has indeed been sold intact to a Japanese firm of some sort, but I see no sign of twitchy Nipponese businessmen strolling around the paths or doing calisthenics on the great lawn. In fact, the place looks as deserted as it has been for nearly twenty years. Local rumor at McGlade's Pub, where I spend too much time, has it that the little people are going to dismantle the mansion stone by stone and send it to Japan, though nobody at McGlade's seems to know why.\n\nThe love temple, too, has survived, and the developer of the Stanhope acreage has used a picture of it in his ads, promising the splendor and the glory of Gold Coast living to the first hundred people who can come up with the down payments and mortgages on the half-million-dollar tractor sheds he's building.\n\nThe sacred grove is gone, however, as no one is interested in ten acres of dying plum trees in their backyards. But the gazebo and hedge maze are part of the great house, so they might survive, though I don't recommend the maze for strung-out Oriental businessmen.\n\nSo the Stanhope and Alhambra estates are divided like spoils in an ancient war, their walls and gates no longer useful for keeping people out, and their great structures destroyed or used for sport or for building material elsewhere. But that's not my problem anymore.\n\nI kept walking over the hard ground until I came to where Alhambra's reflecting pool and fountain had been, or where I thought they had been, but there was an open foundation there, and an unpaved road passed through where the classical garden and imitation Roman ruins had once stood. Neptune and Mary were gone, probably having left in disgust.\n\nI turned around and headed back toward the rubble heap, walking along the path on which Anna had walked when she spotted me that Easter morning, and a smile came to my lips. I continued on and reached the back patio, which was still intact, though the post lights and pizza oven were gone.\n\nI walked across the patio and looked at the demolished house. Half the rubble had been carted away, but I could still identify most of the rooms, especially the central palm court, and I could actually see where Frank Bellarosa had lain dead.\n\nTo my right was the kitchen and the breakfast room where the Bellarosas had entertained us in more ways than one, and to the left was the ballroom, sometimes known as the living room, where I had done a little soft-shoe for Susan. Behind this room was the conservatory, crushed now, a pile of broken glass, plant tables, and clay pots.\n\nI turned away from the house and picked my way around the construction debris in the failing light until I was back in front of the mansion, in the forecourt, near the broken fountain, where Susan's Jaguar had once sat and where she and I once stood, in a picture-perfect setting, like an ad for something good and expensive, and I fancied I saw Susan and me standing there waiting for someone to answer the door on that spring evening.\n\nI walked back down the long drive hunched against the wind. Beyond the gates and across Grace Lane I saw the DePauw house, lights shining from its big colonial windows, a cheery sight unless you weren't in the mood for cheery sights.\n\nAs I walked, I thought of Susan the last time I'd seen her. It was in November, in Manhattan. A hearing had been convened at Federal Court in Foley Square, at which I was present, though not as Susan's attorney or husband, but as a witness to the events surrounding the death of a federal witness, Mr. Frank Bellarosa. As it turned out, I was not even asked to give testimony, and the commission took only a few hours to recommend that the case not be presented to a grand jury, finding that Susan Sutter, while not justified in her actions, was not responsible for them. This seemed a little vague to me, but there was some talk of diminished capacity and a promise from the Stanhopes to seek professional help for their daughter. I hope William and Charlotte don't think that means art lessons or pistol practice. Anyway, the government took a dive on the case, of course, and Lady Justice didn't miscarry; she had an abortion. But I don't blame the government for aborting this tricky and sensitive case, and I'm happy they did, because my wife doesn't belong in jail.\n\nI had made a point of running into Susan on the steps of the courthouse. She was surrounded by her parents, three of her parents' lawyers, and two family-retained psychiatrists. William didn't seem awfully thrilled to see me for some reason, and Charlotte stuck her nose in the air, I mean literally, like you see in old movies. You've got to be careful when you do that walking down steps.\n\nAnyway, Susan broke away from the Stanhope guard and came over to me on the steps. She smiled. \"Hello, John.\"\n\n\"Hello, Susan.'' I had congratulated her on a successful court appearance, and she had been cheery and buoyant, which was to be expected after walking free on a murder that was witnessed by about six federal agents, who fortunately couldn't seem to recall the incident clearly.\n\nWe'd spoken briefly, mostly about our children and not about our divorce. I asked her at one point, \"Are you really crazy?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"Just enough to get me out of that courthouse. Don't tell.\"\n\nI smiled in return. We agreed that we both felt bad for Anna, but that maybe she was better off, though that wasn't true, and Susan asked me if I had gone to Frank's funeral, which I had. Susan said, \"I should have gone, too, of course, but it might have been awkward.\"\n\n\"It possibly could have been.'' Since you killed him. I mean, really, Susan. But maybe she had already disassociated herself from that unpleasant incident.\n\nShe was looking very good, by the way, dressed in a tailored gray silk skirt and jacket, appropriate for courtroom appearances, and wearing high heels, which she probably couldn't wait to kick off.\n\nI didn't know when or if I'd see her again, so I said to her, \"I still love you, you know.\"\n\n\"You'd better. Forever.\"\n\n\"Yes, forever.\"\n\n\"Me, too.\"\n\nWell, we parted there on the steps, she to go back to Hilton Head, and me to Long Island. I was sharing the Stanhope gatehouse with Ethel Allard, who had insisted on taking me in when Susan sold the guesthouse. Ethel and I are getting along a little better than we had in the past. I drive her to the stores and to church on Sunday, though I don't go to stores or churches much myself anymore. The arrangement seems to be working out, and I'm glad for the opportunity to help someone who needs help, and Ethel is glad she finally got a chance to take in a homeless person. Father Hunnings approves, too.\n\nThe guesthouse, incidentally, where Susan and I had spent our twenty-two years of married life, and where we had raised our two children, has been bought by an intense young couple who are here on a corporate transfer from Dubuque or Duluth or someplace out there, working their way up the corporate game of chutes and ladders. They both leave for Manhattan before dawn and return after dark. They're not quite sure where they are geographically or socially, but they seem anxious that the Stanhope subdivision be completed so they can have friends and start a bowling team or something.\n\nJenny Alvarez and I still see each other from time to time, but she's involved with a baseball star now, a Mets infielder of all things, but I don't rub that in when I see her.\n\nI had actually gone to Bellarosa's funeral as I told Susan. The Mass was at Santa Lucia, of course, and Monsignor Chiaro gave a beautiful service and spoke well of the deceased, so I guess the check cleared.\n\nThe burial itself was at an old cemetery in Brooklyn, and it was a real mafioso affair with a hundred black limousines and so many flowers at graveside that they covered a dozen other graves in all directions. Sally Da-da was there, of course, and we nodded to each other, and Jack Weinstein was there, and we made indefinite plans to have lunch. Anthony was there, too, out on bail for some charge or other, and Fat Paulie was there, and a guy whose face was half eaten away who I guess was my godfather, Aniello, and there were whole faces, too, that I recognized from the Plaza soiree, and from Giulio's. Anna did not look particularly good in black, or particularly good at all for that matter. She had been surrounded by so many wailing women that she never saw me, which was just as well.\n\nAlso with Anna, of course, were her three sons, Frankie, Tommy, and Tony. I recognized Frankie as the oldest, a sort of big lummox who looked more benign than dangerous. Tommy, the Cornell student, looked like an all-American kid, the sort who might wind up working for a Fortune 500 company. Tony, whom I had met, was in his La Salle uniform, looking very ramrod straight and clean-cut, but if you looked past the uniform and the short hair, you saw Frank Bellarosa. You saw eyes that appraised everyone and everything. In fact, he looked at me for a while as though he were sizing me up, and the resemblance to his father was so uncanny that I actually had to blink to make certain I wasn't seeing a ghost. At one point in the graveside service, I saw Tony staring at his uncle Sal, aka Sally Da-da, and if I were Uncle Sal, I'd keep an eye on that kid.\n\nAnyway, Mr. Mancuso was present, but tactfully stood some distance away with four photographers recording the event for posterity or other reasons.\n\nI recalled what old Monsignor Chiaro had said at graveside, quoting from Timothy: _We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out._ Which was the best news I'd heard since \"We pass this way but once.\"\n\nAnd so, I thought, as I walked between Alhambra's stately poplars that had so impressed Frank Bellarosa, there is an ebb and flow in all human events, there is a building up and a tearing down, there are brief enchanted moments in history and in the short lives of men and women, there is wonder and there is cynicism, there are dreams that can come true, and dreams that can't.\n\nAnd there was a time, you know, not so long ago, as recently as my own childhood in fact, when everyone believed in the future and eagerly awaited it or rushed to meet it. But now nearly everyone I know or used to know is trying to slow the speed of the world as the future starts to look more and more like someplace you don't want to be. But maybe that is not a cultural or national phenomenon, only my own middle age, my present state of mind combined with this dark winter season.\n\nBut spring follows as surely as winter ends. Right? And I have my eye on a used Allied fifty-five footer that I can pick up for a song in the winter months if I can get my prestigious law firm to settle up with me. And Carolyn and Edward will crew for me over Easter week on a shakedown cruise, and by summer I'll be ready to set out again with my children if they want to come, or with anyone else who wants to crew aboard the _Paumanok II_. I'll stop in Galveston to see Emily, then if I can shanghai her and Gary or any two or three people who are game enough, we'll do a circumnavigation of the globe. Hey, why not? You only live once.\n\nI slipped out through the gates of Alhambra and began the walk up Grace Lane toward the gatehouse and Ethel's Sunday roast.\n\nAnd maybe, I thought, when I come back to America, I'll put in at Hilton Head and see if forever is forever.\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \n# _Acclaim for Jay McInerney's wine writing_\n\n\"[He] provides some of the finest writing on the subject of wine.... Brilliant, witty, comical, and often shamelessly provocative.\"\n\n\u2014Robert M. Parker, Jr.\n\n\"It is a pleasure to see the wine world through a novelist's playful eyes, and to feel the infectious joy he finds in great wines, places and personalities from around the world.\"\n\n\u2014Eric Asimov, _The New York Times_\n\n\"McInerney has become the best wine writer in America.\"\n\n\u2014 _Salon_\n\n\"Throughout _[A Hedonist in the Cellar]_ , he casts off elegant similes the way John Lennon used to spin gorgeous melodies.... What makes [McInerney] better than a mere wordsmith is his ability to let a concept breathe and then to finish it with the entire idea distilled into a sentence or two.\"\n\n\u2014Wes Marshall, _The Austin Chronicle_\n\n\"To the fruity, buttery world of wine writing, there's nothing else like it.\"\n\n\u2014 _The Atlanta Journal-Constitution_\n\n\"We're fortunate that Jay McInerney has chosen to shower his immense gifts on a new source of pleasure: the grape.... He's a wry companion who is clearly at home with and enjoying the subject.\"\n\n\u2014Danny Meyer\n\n# JAY MCINERNEY  \n _A Hedonist in the Cellar_\n\nJay McInerney, whose wine column appears monthly in _House & Garden_, is the author of seven novels, the most recent of which is _The Good Life._ The 2006 recipient of the James Beard Foundation's M.F. K. Fisher Distinguished Writing Award, he lives in New York City.\n\n# ALSO BY JAY MCINERNEY\n\nNONFICTION\n\n_Bacchus and Me_\n\nFICTION\n\n_The Good Life  \nModel Behavior_  \n _The Last of the Savages_  \n _Brightness Falls_  \n _Story of My Life_  \n _Ransom_  \n _Bright Lights, Big City_\n\nFOR LORA\n\"I can certainly see you know your wine. Most of the guests who stay here wouldn't know the difference between Bordeaux and claret.\"\n\n\u2014JOHN CLEESE AS BASIL FAWLTY\n\n# CONTENTS\n\nIntroduction\n\n_One_ FOREPLAY\n\nMy Favorite White\n\nFriuli's Favorite Son: Tocai Friulano\n\nThin Is In: The New Wave of California Chardonnays\n\nThe Whites of the Andes\n\nThe Forgotten Whites of Bordeaux\n\nNo Respect: Soave\n\nGray Is the New White: Pinot Gris\n\nTranslating German Labels\n\n_Two_ \"ALL WINE WISHES IT COULD BE RED\"\n\nThe Shedistas of Santa Barbara\n\nThe Roasted Slope of the Rh\u00f4ne\n\nThe House Red of the Montagues and the Capulets\n\n\"An Extreme, Emotional Wine\": Amarone\n\nCape Crusaders: South African Reds\n\nThe Black Wine of Cahors\n\nMajor Barbera\n\nGo Ask Alice: The Dark Secret of Bandol\n\nThe Spicy Reds of Chile\n\nMalbec Rising\n\nPersonality Test: Julia's Vineyard\n\n_Three_ HOW TO IMPRESS YOUR SOMMELIER\n\nHow to Impress Your Sommelier, Part One: German Riesling\n\nNo More Sweet Talk, or How to Impress Your Sommelier, Part Two: Austrian Riesling\n\nThe Semi-Obscure Treasures of Alsace\n\nThe Discreet Charms of Old-Style Rioja\n\nThe Mysterious Beauty of Sagrantino di Montefalco\n\n_Four_ LOVERS, FIGHTERS, AND OTHER OBSESSIVES\n\nOedipus at Hermitage: Michel Chapoutier\n\nGhetto Boys: Greg Brewer and Steve Clifton Get Radical\n\nJilted Lover: Auberon Waugh\n\nThe Obsessive: Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza\n\nBerkeley's French Ambassador: Kermit Lynch\n\nThe Mad Scientist of Jadot\n\nVoice in the Wilderness: Willy Frank and the Finger Lakes\n\nFinessing the Fruit Bombs\n\nMountain Men: The Smith Brothers of Smith-Madrone\n\nDo the Brits Taste Differently? Michael Broadbent and Jancis Robinson\n\nRobert Mondavi's Bizarro Twin: The Passions and Puns of Randall Grahm\n\n_Five_ EXPENSIVE DATES\n\nFirst Among Firsts? The Glories of Cheval-Blanc\n\nThe Name's Bond\n\n\"A Good and Most Perticular Taste\": Haut-Brion\n\nThe Maserati of Champagne\n\nBacchanalian Dreambook: The Wine List at La Tour d\u2032Argent\n\n_Six_ MATCHES MADE IN HEAVEN\n\nFish Stories from Le Bernardin\n\nWhat to Drink with Chocolate\n\nProven\u00e7al Pink\n\nOdd Couples: What to Drink with Asian Food\n\n_Seven_ BIN ENDS\n\nBaby Jesus in Velvet Pants: Bouchard and Burgundy\n\nStrictly Kosher\n\nBody and Soil\n\nNew Zealand's Second Act\n\n_Eight_ BUBBLES AND SPIRITS\n\nNumber Two and Bitching Louder: Armagnac\n\nWhite on White: Blanc de Blancs Champagne\n\nMonk Business: The Secrets of Chartreuse\n\nTiny Bubbles: Artisanal Champagnes\n\nThe Wild Green Fairy: Absinthe\n\nEPILOGUE\n\nWhat I Drank on My Forty-eighth Birthday\n\nSelected Bibliography\n\n# INTRODUCTION\n\nMy careers as a novelist and as a wine writer could both plausibly be said to have their humble beginnings in the Westcott Cordial Shop in Syracuse, New York. While studying with Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff in the Graduate Writing Program at Syracuse University, I was working behind the counter of this boozeteria, located in a marginal neighborhood a mile or two from the university campus, when I heard that my first novel had been accepted for publication by Random House. And it was there, in between working on the revisions of the novel and riding out the occasional stickup at gunpoint, that I read through the proprietor's dusty collection of wine books. A significant portion of our business was in the sale of that spirit-fortified grape juice which sustained hardcore, low-budget alcoholics: Night Train, Wild Irish Rose, MD 20\/20. But we also sold some real wine\u2014that is, grape juice that had actually undergone fermentation\u2014and it was a tradition among the clerks to take home a bottle each night. I started with, as I recall, a two-dollar bottle of Yugoslavian Cab and worked all the way up to Freixenet, a Spanish sparkler that sold for $5.95 at the time. The owner also kept a small stock of Bordeaux and Burgundy on a shelf near the cash register, dusty bottles that had never moved during my tenure in the store. The day I heard my novel was to be published I bought one of them, a 1978 Smith-Haut-Lafitte, and while, objectively speaking, it was far from the best Bordeaux I've ever had, I don't for a minute believe that wine appreciation is a strictly objective enterprise: I've gotten far less pleasure out of more expensive and highly regarded bottles of Bordeaux in the years since.\n\nBad as some of the wine I was lifting from the store shelves was, it was probably an improvement, in an aesthetic and toxicological sense, from the harder stuff to which I subscribed in my early years in Manhattan. Oenophilia was a way of channeling the hedonistic impulse, of refining and intellectualizing it to some extent. Wine is an intoxicant, and we shouldn't pretend otherwise, although you might never know it on the basis of most of what's written in the wine journals. And let's face it: if it weren't, we wouldn't be drawn to it. But it can provide intellectual as well as sensual pleasure; it's an inexhaustible subject, a nexus of subjects, which leads us, if we choose to follow, into the realms of geology, botany, meteorology, history, aesthetics, and literature. Ideally, the appreciation of wine is balanced between consumption and pleasure on the one hand and contemplation and analysis on the other.\n\nMy interest in the grape has led me to some of the more beautiful parts of the world\u2014Alsace, Tuscany, Provence, the Cape of Good Hope, the Willamette Valley, to name a few\u2014 and brought me into contact with some of the most stimulating and congenial eccentrics of our time. Wine people are as a rule gregarious, generous, and passionate. The cult of Bacchus doesn't include many anal-retentive personalities. I learned a lot about viticulture from Angelo Gaja over dinner at a trattoria in Barbaresco, but what I remember most vividly was the story of how he smashed his television set with a sledgehammer after he decided his kids were watching it too much. And I'll never forget Joan Dillon at Ch\u00e2teau Haut-Brion talking about hijinks on President Kennedy's yacht, or Allen Ginsberg disrobing in the offices of the _Paris Review._ Our love of wine is the fraternal bond that brings us together, and it is the lubricant that stimulates our conversation, but it's a polygamous relationship that encourages and enhances our other passions. It leads us to other subjects and leads us back to the world. It lifts us up and delivers us from the mundane circumstances of daily life, inspires contemplation, and, ultimately, returns us to that very world, refreshed, with enriched understanding and appreciation.\n\nFermented grape juice is a far more potent catalyst for contemplation and meditation than a highball, or an eight ball. It is a sacramental beverage, a sacred and symbolic liquid. \"Do this in memory of me,\" Jesus said as he lifted a chalice of wine, and indeed wine can serve as a mnemonic device, a catalyst of memory. But that shouldn't prevent us from enjoying it unself-consciously. Wine is as serious or as frivolous as we wish to make it. Like sex, it has far too often been shrouded in mystery, hemmed in by taboo, obfuscated by technical blather, and assailed by puritans, though its enjoyment is, or should be, simple, accessible, and entertaining. Michel Chapoutier, one of the world's most serious and successful winemakers, once ordered me to stop thinking so hard about a glass of wine I was nosing. \"If you think too much you kill it,\" he said. We were sitting on the terrace of his sprawling house at the crest of a ridge high above the Rh\u00f4ne River, just south of the town of Tain l'Hermitage, digesting a spectacular lunch with the aid of his \u203299 Hermitage _vin de paille._ \"The brain is a pleasure killer,\" he said, before concluding with the sort of politically incorrect analogy French wine-makers seem to adore: \"You don't need to be a gynecologist to make love.\" In Europe, where wine has been a part of daily life for thousands of years, American oenophiles are sometimes viewed as monomaniacs\u2014zealous and somewhat narrow-minded converts to a generous and pantheistic faith. American wine lovers need to broaden their vision and relax: to see wine as just another aspect of the well-lived life.\n\nSome ten years after my stint at the Westcott Cordial Shop\u2014 ten years ago, in fact\u2014my friend Dominique Browning, who had just been named editor in chief of _House & Garden_, asked me if I would consider writing a wine column for the magazine. I demurred, believing that I wasn't nearly knowledgeable enough to set myself up as an authority on wine. It was true that I spent far too much time reading wine books, wine catalogs, and weather reports from Bordeaux; I sometimes bored my dinner guests with rapturous encomiums to whatever I was serving them; and on the average night I drank more wine than my doctor would have recommended. I'd been known to jump on a plane to London if my friend Julian Barnes, who has a world-class cellar and isn't afraid to uncork his treasures, invited me to dinner. But I'd never taken a class, or attended a wine tasting, or spit into a bucket, and for the life of me I had no idea what was meant by the phrases \"malolactic fermentation\" or \"volatile acidity.\" And I had very little knowledge of flowers or floral scents, which seemed a prerequisite for a certain kind of wine writing. Besides, I already had a job.\n\nAround the time Dominique brought up the wine-column idea I was asked to write a profile of Julia Roberts, a request I initially turned down out of... well, I don't know what the hell it was\u2014a sense of highbrow self-importance, I guess. \"I don't do celebrity profiles,\" I sniffed to the editor. \"Are you insane?\" my agent said to me later, when I told her the story. \"Somebody wants to pay you good money to hang out with Julia Roberts and you said no?\" In that light, I suddenly decided that my scruples were foolish. And on second thought, the wine column seemed like a similar opportunity. A good friend was offering to pay me to indulge one of my obsessions, and to travel to stunning places to taste wine and meet kindred spirits. It seemed like a no-brainer. Still, I was a little nervous about my scanty qualifications. So I decided to write as a passionate amateur and to employ a metaphoric language; I was more comfortable comparing wines to actresses, rock bands, pop songs, painters, or automobiles than I was with literal parsing of scents and tastes \u00e0 la \"bouquet of American Beauty roses.\" If I'd had a role model here it would have been Auberon Waugh, the son of novelist Evelyn Waugh, whom I first met at a lunch for the satirical magazine _Private Eye._ As I recall, Waugh had just published a pretty fierce parody of my latest book, but I couldn't help being charmed by him and grateful that in person he was as benign and charming as he was savage in print.\n\nAs it happens, he was friends with my oenophiliac mentor Julian Barnes, and I subsequently shared a number of bottles with him over dinners at Julian's house. As a guest he was always vague and complimentary about the wine. Not so in print. Again, I couldn't help liking him, if only because he wrote some of the sharpest and funniest wine criticism of all time, collected in a slim volume called _Waugh on Wine._\n\nIn his essay \"Perils of Being a Wine Writer,\" he declares, \"Wine writing should be camped-up. The writer should never like a wine, he should be in love with it; never find a wine disappointing but identify it as a mortal enemy, an attempt to poison him; sulphuric acid should be discovered where there is the faintest hint of sharpness. Bizarre and improbable side-tastes should be proclaimed: mushrooms, rotting wood, black treacle, burned pencils, condensed milk, sewage, the smell of French railway stations or ladies underwear.\" As a wine writer I consider Waugh a forebear of sorts, although I have to admit that I am more of a lover than a killer. While I have encountered many despicable wines in the course of pursuing my duties as a wine columnist, I've written more often about those that make me drool, that make me weak in the knees, that make the hair on the back of my arms stand at attention. That make me want to howl at the moon and kiss my girlfriend repeatedly.\n\nThe title under which I hoped to write my column, \"An Idiot in the Cellar,\" reflected my ambition to be honest about my own ignorance relative to the acumen of professional critics like Robert Parker and Jancis Robinson. Dominique quashed the title, and I suppose that now, ten years later, it would be disingenuous to pretend I haven't learned what malolactic fermentation is, or that I can't usually distinguish a Burgundy from a Bordeaux.\n\nAnyone who drinks and tastes as often as I do is bound to have the equivalent of a fish story, a tale of a blind-tasting triumph, and mine dates back to a moment some four years ago. Watching me that night at New York's La Grenouille restaurant, a stuffy temple of the old-style haute cuisine, you might have believed I was truly an expert. I had arrived late for a dinner party thrown by a deep-pocketed friend. The other guests were already seated and had red wine in their glasses. A carafe sat on the table. \"Here's Jay,\" my friend announced. \"He knows wine. He'll guess what we're drinking.\" Somehow this announcement coincided with a lull in the converstational din throughout the room; it seemed to me that all eyes from the surrounding tables, in addition to those of my dinner companions, were turned on me. The sommelier, who happened to be standing nearby, handed me a glass and poured from the carafe, then stood back and smirked, while the entire restaurant, or so it seemed to me at the time, looked up at me expectantly. Unable to think of any graceful escape, I stuck my nose in the glass. \"Haut-Brion,\" I declared, eliciting a chorus of gasps. I examined the color and took a sip. \"Nineteen eighty-two,\" I added. From the expressions of surprise and wonder I could see that I'd scored. I sat down to bask in the general admiration, and felt that perhaps all my years of drinking and tasting and spitting and reading had not been entirely wasted. Of course, there was a story behind this story, a bit of a trick involved, as there often is, and you'll find it in the following pages in my essay on Haut-Brion.\n\nA far more typical story, which demonstrates the precariousness of my claim to expertise, was a recent dinner that involved Haut-Brion's sister property, La Mission\u2013Haut-Brion. I was visiting my friend Julian once again at his home in North London. My dinner partner, Jancis Robinson, the excessively modest and exceedingly attractive wine authority, had just correctly guessed that the wine we were drinking was a Bordeaux from the Graves district. \"Well, it can't be La Mission,\" I said confidently\u2014La Mission\u2013Haut-Brion being among my favorite wines. \"Well, it is,\" Julian happily informed me. So much for impressing my new girlfriend, who had never seen me in full wine wonk mode before.\n\nAs much sadomasochistic fun as I find it to be, comparing and contrasting old Bordeaux vintages is less and less a part of the job description for the postmodern wine writer, and I think my own interests and tastes reflect certain trends. I still have a lot of Bordeaux in my cellar, right up to vintage 2003, and come August I start to follow weather reports from that part of the world. Bordeaux was my first love, and it remains a kind of touchstone. But increasingly I am drawn to its rival Burgundy, the Turgenev to Bordeaux's Tolstoy, and when I'm looking for sheer power and exuberance and less finesse, to the Dostoyevskian southern Rh\u00f4ne. If my first collection of columns devoted inordinate space to the cult Cabernets of the Napa Valley (think Hemingway), whose emergence more or less coincided with my own career as a wine writer, it seems to me that Sonoma and Santa Barbara County Pinots (Fitzgerald) are the new cultish reds. These wines are inspired in part by the great red wines of France's Burgundy region, and the renaissance there, driven in part by a younger generation inheriting the old domains, is another heartening development. Pinot has become a household word since its starring role in Alexander Payne's _Sideways._ Syrah, meanwhile, keeps threatening to become a Californian star, but so far its career has been a little like that of the actor Orlando Bloom, more promising than happening. Or even\u2014Syrah being a high-testosterone grape\u2014more like that of Colin Farrell, a putative star who has yet to produce a major hit.\n\nFrance and the Napa Valley are increasingly sharing the wine lists of major restaurants and the hearts of wine lovers with other regions. Stellenbosch, Solvang, Mendoza, Priorat, and Alba are among my recent destinations. When I started the column Argentina was a joke and Spain was still emerging from the shadows of the Franco era; now Argentinian Malbec, grown in the high foothills of the Andes, is a hot commodity and Spain has probably overtaken Italy as a fashionable food-and-wine destination among grape nuts and foodies. Fruit-bombastic Barossa Valley Shiraz and grapefruity New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc from Marlborough have become two of the world's great wine types, even as other regions in both countries produce increasingly noteworthy juice. And South Africa, a country that has been under vine since the seventeenth century, seems to be well on its way to becoming the new Australia. My friend Anthony Hamilton Russell is making incredible Burgundian Pinot Noirs and Chardonnays at the southernmost tip of Africa, in vineyards from which he regularly excavates half-million-year-old hand axes and other artifacts of our earliest ancestors.\n\nIn all of these places, advances in viticulture have inevitably been accompanied by the evolution of gastronomy. And in fact my own wine education has brought me gradually into a greater appreciation of food, as has my association with Lora Zarubin, the food editor of _House & Garden_, who almost inevitably accompanies me on these trips. Lora was, for all too brief a period, the owner and chef of Lora's, one of my favorite New York restaurants of the eighties. At the time downtown restaurants were divided into those places where you went to see and be seen and those you went to for the food. Lora's had a surfeit of celebrity patrons, but the food was the real draw; it was a homey place with a refreshingly simple menu at a time when chefs were competing to see how many diverse and incompatible ingredients they could cram into one dish, when every meal seemed to be topped with something along the lines of raspberry chili cilantro vinaigrette with green-tea anchovy sorbet. Ah, yes, the eighties. Who can remember them? Strangely enough, I do remember a sublime grilled chicken I had upstairs at Lora's. When I first saw the menu I didn't know what to make of it\u2014so devoid of frills and flourishes. Where the hell was the chipotle mango pesto? When I later learned she was from San Francisco and a friend of Alice (Chez Panisse) Waters's, her endeavor started to make a lot more sense.\n\nLora was later recruited by Dominque Browning for _House & Garden_, and it was she who suggested that the magazine should have a wine column, although she was initially highly skeptical when Dominique proposed my name. Ten years later we've spent hundreds of pleasurable hours together\u2014and a few unpleasant ones when we were lost and exhausted and sick of each other on some back road in Provence or Piedmont. (We once spent the better part of a night in a French police station, but that's another story.) Lora's passionate belief that food and wine are inseparable companions has resulted in our working and traveling together. (I suspect she has also convinced upper management at _House & Garden_ that I am far too scatterbrained to travel by myself, which is at least half true.) She's organized where I'm improvisational; she is the superego to my id. She drives because my driving makes her nervous. Much of what follows is the result of our travels, racing from winery to trattoria, pilgrims of the palate, devout hedonists in search of the next ecstatic revelation.\n\nIt's my ambition to share some of those epiphanies in this book and to encourage readers to seek out their own.\n\nLet's be honest: there's only one activity more satisfying than drinking good wine with good food; and if you're drinking wine in the right company, the one pleasure, more often than not, will lead to the other.\n\n#  \n# MY FAVORITE WHITE\n\nI hate when I'm asked to pick a favorite anything: a book, movie, or song. Sure, I love \"Norwegian Wood,\" but do I like it more than \"Angie\" or \"Alison\"? How am I supposed to choose between Kurosawa's _Seven Samurai_ and Fellini's _8\u00bd_? But I think I can actually say with some certainty that Condrieu is my favorite white wine. I really shouldn't be telling you this, because there's not very much of it made and there never will be: the steep hillsides above the Rh\u00f4ne River on which it's grown are extremely hard to work and the appellation is tiny and nowhere else in the world, not even on similar slopes half a mile north or south of Condrieu, does the Viognier grape produce such sublime juice. Viognier has shown some promise in certain sites in California and elsewhere, but drinking these non-Condrieus is kind of like watching _The Magnificent Seven;_ fun, perhaps, but it makes you long for the original.\n\nWhy do I like it so much? you may ask. Parsing out the pleasures of Condrieu is a little bit like trying to explicate a haiku. But I can tell you that I love it because white peaches are my favorite fruit and Condrieu frequently tastes like white peaches, though it sometimes verges on apricot. I like its texture, which is fleshy, viscous, and round in the mouth. I like the floral bouquet, which often reminds me of honeysuckle. Certain English tasters equate the aroma with May blossoms, but for me, nonhorticulturalist that I am, it simply reminds me of certain gardens in springtime. I like it because it evokes Gauguin's Tahitian paintings. And finally, perversely, I like it because it lacks two qualities that great wines are supposed to possess; namely, acid and the ability to improve with age. High-acid Riesling is much food-friendlier, and white Burgundy from Meursault or Puligny will last much longer and gain complexity over time. But so what? Love isn't based on practical considerations. Condrieu is a wine for romantics.\n\nLike C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie, the red wine appellation that borders it on the north, Condrieu was nearly moribund after the Second World War, its steep vineyards largely abandoned and its exotic wine on the verge on extinction, until Georges Vernay took over his family domain in the early fifties and became chairman of the appellation, encouraging other landowners to replant the old vineyards even as he lobbied to tighten regulations. Less than twenty acres of Viognier remained on the hills of Condrieu at the time. In 1988 the boundaries of the appellation were limited to the steep hillsides. By the time Vernay's daughter Christine took over the domain in 1997, Condrieu was back in business, the object of a devoted cult of discriminating hedonists.\n\nBased in nearby Ampuis, the Guigal family also deserves credit for resurrecting the great wine of Condrieu. While best known for its C\u00f4te-R\u00f4ties, the domain founded by \u00c9tienne Guigal in 1946 and raised to eminence by son Marcel, who appears to have been born with a beret on his head and a glass wine thief in his hand, is now the largest producer of Condrieu. (Marcel's son Philippe is now working full-time at the domain.) It was a bottle of Guigal Condrieu accompanying a smoked haddock, at the home of novelist Julian Barnes, that initiated my love affair some twenty years ago. In addition to the regular bottling, Guigal produces a luxury cuv\u00e9e, La Doriane, a rich, decadent bottle of wine that's perfect with foie gras. Certain labels for me are strangely mimetic and inextricably bound up with my sense memories of the wine: Guigal's exotic and wildly floral La Doriane is to my mind perfectly conjured forth by the label, with its intricately detailed and colorful faux\u2013Art Nouveau floral design based on a painting by the Italian painter Moretti.\n\nAnother contender for most luxurious Condrieu is Andr\u00e9 Perret's Coteau de Ch\u00e9ry, from a single vineyard on the Condrieu hillside. The modest and affable Perret has only been making wine since 1983, but the vines for this top cuv\u00e9e are more than sixty years old. Perret's neighbor Yves Cuilleron produces four separate Condrieux, which ascend the scale from delicate to decadent. His La Petite C\u00f4te is a lighter wine that gets an old-fashioned upbringing in tanks and old barrels, while his full-throttle Vertige, which he suggests is perfect for fish in heavier cream sauces (it's also great with many Cantonese dishes) gets the full new-oak treatment. Cuilleron also makes a late-picked Condrieu called Les Ayguets, all honey and hazelnuts, which is essentially a dessert wine, though personally I prefer it on its own or alongside stronger cheeses.\n\nLast May, after a morning tasting in his new winery, the forty-something Cuilleron took me to see one of the vine-yards, Les Chaillets, a steep southeast-facing slope looking down over the steely Rh\u00f4ne that was spangled with bright orange poppies. A series of ancient stone terraces seemed to be precariously holding the sandy, granitic soil of the hillside in place. At ten-thirty the sun was just beginning to cut through the morning chill. \"They say the Romans built these terraces,\" Cuilleron said. Perhaps, I said, but I doubt the Romans ever tasted anything quite as honeyed and peachlike and delicate as Cuilleron's \u203204 Les Chaillets, the memory of which was still vivid an hour after I'd tasted it. It's possible they might not have really appreciated it, Condrieu being decidedly a wine for lovers rather than for fighters.\n\n# FRIULI'S FAVORITE SON  \n _Tocai Friulano_\n\nHidden away in the northeastern corner of Italy between the Alps and the Adriatic, bordered by Austria and Slovenia, Friuli is an anomaly. Part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire until 1918, it has a culture and cuisine that seem more Slavic than Latin. Local pasta tends toward dumplinghood; butter and lard are at least as common as olive oil. Friuli's prosperity is based in part on the manufacture of chairs and, increasingly, wine. So far there's no monument to the latter, but you can see the world's largest chair on the road between Cormons and Udine\u2014an unnerving and surreal sight if you first encounter it at one in the morning after a festive night at La Frasca, the taverna owned by winemaker Valter Scarbolo and his wife. Although some interesting reds are made here, Friuli is best known to wine lovers as the source of Italy's finest white wines, the most distinctive of which is Tocai Friulano.\n\nFriulian wines, unlike most of the wines of Europe, are usually named for their grape varietals. Because of its complicated history and vine-friendly climate, Friuli is home to many French and German varietals, such as Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc, and Chardonnay, as well as to local grapes like Ribolla, Picolit, and Malvasia. Most Friulian wineries turn out varietals as well as blended \"super-whites.\" With the exception of the Loire Valley, Friuli may be the best place in Europe for Sauvignon Blanc; but for most wineries, Tocai is the benchmark\u2014the hometown favorite. The locals often start the day with a glass of Tocai, calling out in the local dialect for a _tai di vin_ \u2014but it's not just for breakfast anymore.\n\nThe history of Tocai is obscure, and its name seems to come from the Hungarian region that produces dessert wines from the Furmint grape, but the Friulians consider Tocai their signature local grape, an indispensable accompaniment to the salami and prosciutto that start every meal here. Indeed, prosciutto and Tocai seem to be one of those magical marriages made in the soil, like Sancerre and ch\u00e8vre, or Chablis and oysters. Sipping a Zamo Tocai at the tiny Enoteca Lavaroni in the village of Manzano, with a platter of Lorenzo d'Osvaldo artisanal prosciutto, I experienced one of those moments of sensual satori that gourmands live for. The Friulians insist on the superiority of the local Prosciutto San Daniele over Prosciutto di Parma, but Tocai works very nicely with both, as it does with speck, Spanish ham, Virginia ham, and most things fatty, smoky, and salty. And that's just for starters. Appropriately, for a grape born so close to the Adriatic, Tocai is also a dream date for seafood.\n\n\"Tocai is crisp, but it also has weight on the palate,\" says Morgan Rich, the wine director at Del Posto in New York, which generally features a dozen or so Tocais from Friuli on its list. Tocai's pearlike fruit is balanced by a refreshing lemony acidity and mineral highlights. It can resemble a blend of Riesling and Sauvignon Blanc. Friuli made its reputation with bright, refreshing, stainless-steel-fermented whites, and most winemakers think Tocai is best kept away from wood, although Borgo San Daniele and Miani both make compelling barrel-aged examples.\n\n\"Tocai is absolutely one of the great food wines,\" claims Joseph Bastianich, a first-generation American whose family hails from Friuli. \"It's versatile and flexible\u2014you can make young, fruity, early-drinking wine or a bigger wine that ages.\" The burly baron of a food-and-wine empire that encompasses some of New York's most acclaimed Italian restaurants, including Babbo and Felidia, Bastianich has an eponymous wine estate in the hills of the Colli Orientali region of Friuli, where he makes an old-vine Tocai that he turbocharges with a healthy dose of late-harvest, botrytis-infected grapes. Bastianich's Tocai Plus, grown on steep hillsides in the town of Buttrio, is a prime example of the fatter style of Tocai\u2014a Botero of a wine\u2014which can stand up to dishes like _stinco di vitello_ (roasted veal shank) and which Bastianich likes to drink with full-flavored cheeses. His young winemaker, Emilio Del Medico, makes a similarly rich and powerful Tocai called Tocai Vigne Cinquant'Anni, at the nearby property Zamo, as well as the more typical, lighter-style Tocai Friulano. The Zamo family made their fortune manufacturing chairs, and they seem to have spent a fair chunk of it on a new, computerized, underground winery just down the hill from the thirteenth-century Abbey of Rosazzo.\n\nThe most complex Tocais come from the hillside vineyards of Collio and Colli Orientali, a kind of meteorological inter-section of the cool Alpine climate and the warm Adriatic. The other prime area is the Isonzo Valley, which is naturally air-conditioned by an Alpine breeze called the bora that funnels through a gap in the foothills. Some other names to seek out: Ronco del Gelso, Villa Russiz, Edi Keber, Polencic, Scubla, and Marco Felluga.\n\nThe best way to get acquainted with Tocai is to sit down with a bottle alongside a plate of salami or prosciutto. But almost any grilled fish would be happy to make the acquaintance of this versatile grape.\n\n# THIN IS IN  \n _The New Wave of California Chardonnays_\n\nMy very first wine column was about California Chardon-nay, a genre about which I was somewhat skeptical. In the mid-1990s, the typical premium Napa or Sonoma Chardon-nay had much in common with a vanilla milk shake or, figuratively speaking, with the then reigning queen of _Baywatch_ , Pamela Anderson. Such superpremium winemakers as Marcassin, Kistler, Peter Michael, and Talbott transcended the genre\u2014creating a new standard of richness, power, and concentration through the application of Burgundian methods to superripe California grapes\u2014with uniquely opulent results. Too many of their neighbors, however, were making whites that were merely fat, loud, and sunburned.\n\nIt may be a coincidence that I started noticing a new generation of Chardonnays at about the same time that Pamela Anderson announced her plans for a breast reduction. (I know, Pam reaugmented. I can live with that.) But in tastings and in talking with some of the makers of newly minted Chardonnay labels, I am finding a refreshing emphasis on finesse and subtlety. The wine world, like any other, has its trends and fashions, and in the realm of high-end Cal Chard, thin is in. Words like _elegant_ and _racy_ and _lean_ are now being held up as ideals. Even _nervous_ is good. It means\u2014I think\u2014 acidic, and _acidity_ is no longer a bad word. (Acid is essentially the skeleton on which the sugary flesh of the grape is draped.)\n\nCalifornia Chardonnay makers have always talked about Burgundy as a model; it is, after all, the homeland of Chardonnay, and of such great Chardonnay wines as Montrachet and Meursault. But even the cooler areas of California, like Carneros, the Russian River Valley, and the Santa Ynez Valley, are warmer than Burgundy\u2014and of course the soils are different. Applying the same techniques will yield different results. Seldom does California achieve the crisp sculptural definition or the mineral notes of white Burgundy; nor does Burgundy often achieve the tropical-fruit decadence of California Chard. \"You can't make Montrachet in much of California\u2014it's just too warm,\" says David Ramey, who started making Chardonnay under his own name in 1996. \"But you can still aim for a balance between richness and finesse.\"\n\nRamey's recent Chardonnays exemplify the new, crisp, elegant style, although he likes to call it \"retro,\" since his methods are traditional and minimalist. With his wire-rim specs and salt-and-pepper hair, Ramey is pretty elegant and crisp himself, dressing with a certain minimalist, expensively casual flair, which is unusual in Napa wine cellars. He developed his winemaking chops at Chalk Hill, Simi, Matanzas Creek, and Dominus. Until recently he was a consultant at Rudd, which he propelled into the spotlight, but he parted to concentrate on the Ramey label. Although Ramey's Chards have plenty of ripe fruit, they also have a vibrant wire of acidity, which distinguishes them from many California Chards. Tasted against a Kistler Durell Vineyard, Ramey's Hyde Vine-yard Chardonnay seems like a Modigliani displayed beside a Botero.\n\nAnother rising Chardonnay star is Robert Sinskey, who first made his name with Pinot and Merlot. The wine from his biodynamically farmed Three Amigos Vineyard in Carneros has a Puligny-Montrachet-like steeliness, sort of like a Ginsu blade concealed in a pineapple. Sinskey gets his zingy acidity in part by skipping malolactic, the secondary fermentation that softens the malic acid. \"In California,\" he says, \"our challenge is maintaining acidity. It doesn't make sense to soften the acid only to add it back artificially\"\u2014which is what many California makers do (the addition of tartaric acid being SOP in California). Sinskey's style is more food-friendly\u2014almost the raison d'\u00eatre for acid in a wine. \"You don't want a milk shake with your fish,\" Sinskey says. \"It used to be about competition, about creating blockbusters. Now it's about consumption and cuisine.\" Sinskey attributes the new subtlety of many California Chards in part to a new appreciation for the vineyard itself, and a de-emphasis on high-tech interventionist techniques.\n\nTed Lemon at Littorai is as qualified as anyone to toss the word _Burgundian_ around, having been the winemaker for Domaine Guy Roulot in Meursault from 1982 to 1984. In cool Meursault he tried to pick as late as possible, but in Littorai's western Sonoma vineyards he picks earlier than many of his neighbors, in order to keep the wines from getting too flabby. Like Sinskey, Lemon tries to avoid the blockbuster style\u2014the big, fat, oaky, buttery fruit bomb. However impressive, these buxom Chardonnays overwhelm everything but lobster with butter. \"There's _a_ disconnect,\" Lemon says, \"between the elegance and finesse in our cuisine and in our wine.\"\n\nDown in the cool valleys north of Santa Barbara, a leaner, edgier style of Chardonnay has been more common than in Napa and Sonoma. Relative newcomers Greg Brewer and Steve Clifton, under the Brewer-Clifton label, are making some of the most radically nervous New World Chardonnays ever\u2014so crisp and vibrant that I have mistaken them for Chablis. Hirsute, voluble Jim Clendenen, whose personal style is heavy metal\/Hell's Angel, makes some of the most subtle and ageworthy Chardonnays in the New World. Once literally a voice in the wilderness\u2014in the Santa Maria Valley\u2014 he has been making svelte Burgundian Chardonnays for two decades, and has influenced many of those who have followed him to this region. \"The most important thing is to pick grapes in balance,\" says Clendenen, who scoffs at the notion that a Chardonnay with 15 percent alcohol could possibly have balance, and who has often been criticized for picking underripe grapes. Clendenen, who has been in and out of fashion several times since his start in 1982, believes that the American wine world is definitely coming back in his direction.\n\n# THE WHITES OF THE ANDES\n\nLos Andes, the snowcapped, skyscraping mountain range that separates Chile from Argentina, is one of the few things the two countries have in common. Chile is sometimes called the Switzerland of South America; Argentina is a lot like Italy, only more so. International bankers love Chile; Argentina not so long ago welshed on some $151 billion in loans. Chileans generally respect traffic signs and speed limits, while Argentines drive the way bats fly, hell-bent, obeying their own personal radar. But thanks to the Andes, the countries have something else in common: the lower slopes and plateaus on both sides are a viticultural paradise. The French, not exactly famous for respecting terroir other than their own, have been paying close attention to this bounty, and at this point you can hardly pop a Champagne cork in a hotel lobby on either side of the Andes without hitting a winemaker or ch\u00e2teau owner from Bordeaux.\n\nWhile the red wines of the two countries are distinct enough to merit separate treatment, the whites produced from French varietals on both slopes are fairly similar in quality and style, and more than ready to compete in world markets. Viognier, Pinot Gris, and Chenin Blanc may make the cut someday, but Sauvignon Blanc and especially Chardonnay are the smart buys for now.\n\nThe Argentine landscape is characterized by sweeping, big-sky American vistas, whereas on the Chilean side the vineyards of the Central Valley are bounded on one side by the coastal range and on the other by the Andes, frequently shrouded in mist. The vines arrived with the missionaries who followed the conquistadors and flourished in idyllic isolation, miraculously escaping the worldwide phylloxera blight of the nineteenth century. This viticultural Eden was home to a half dozen huge domestic wineries, like Cousi\u00f1o Macul and Concha y Toro, which prospered by quenching the local thirst for heavy reds. But it was the founding of Montes by a quartet of Chilean wine-industry veterans, including Aurelio Montes, in 1988 that signaled the beginning of the modern, export-oriented era. In the early \u203290s, as Augusto Pinochet's long dictatorship gave way to a democratically elected government, Chile began to attract foreign wine capital.\n\nThe ocean-cooled Casablanca region, north of Santiago, has proven ideal for Chardonnay\u2014Montes sources its Chardonnay grapes from the area, as does the venerable firm Err\u00e1zuriz. Today, Casablanca is the source of the best Chilean Chards, many the product of French and American investment. Chilean-born Agust\u00edn F. Huneeus, who became a major figure in Napa as president of Franciscan, cofounded the Veramonte estate in Casablanca in 1990. Almost simultaneously, Alexandra Marnier-Lapostolle, granddaughter of the creator of Grand Marnier, founded Casa Lapostolle and hired Michel Rolland, the world's most famous flying oenologist, as consulting winemaker. They chose Casablanca for the Chardonnay vineyards, planting on a series of steep hillsides. Chilean viticulture has been largely a valley-floor affair, but Lapostolle's example is being followed by others. This past April, on the verge of the harvest, I spent a morning tromping those hilly vineyards with the wry, multilingual Rolland. Long after his neighbors on the flats had harvested, he plucked and tasted grapes, deciding which parcels to pick first. This hillside farming is expensive, requiring drip irrigation, but the results speak for themselves.\n\nJacques and Fran\u00e7ois Lurton, scions of the great Bordeaux family, have wineries on both sides of the Andes. Their Gran Araucano Sauvignon Blanc is probably Chile's best\u2014no surprise, since their family produces some of the finest white Bordeaux. Fortunately for the brothers, the plane trip between Santiago, Chile, and Mendoza, Argentina, is just about an hour.\n\nThe low-rise, canal-laced city of Mendoza is the center of fine-wine production in Argentina. The canal system, which dates back to the original Indian inhabitants, extends throughout Mendoza Province, bringing runoff from the Andes to the orchards and vineyards of the arid region. The \"terraces,\" or plateaus, that rise toward the eastern slopes of the Andes in a series of climactic gradations provide successively cooler microclimates that can essentially be matched to the ripening requirements of different grapes. Vines have flourished here since the late 1500s, but the dawn of modern viticulture might be dated from the arrival of the French firm Mo\u00ebt & Chandon, which established a huge sparkling-wine facility in 1960. In the mid-1990s, Chandon founded a still-wine domaine, Terrazas de Los Andes, refurbishing an 1898 winery and planting new vineyards. Its Chardonnay vineyards occupy the highest terraces, above three thousand feet.\n\nCatena Zapata, with its new Jetsons-meets-the-Mayans winery, traces its roots back to 1899, although its modern era begins in 1982, when third-generation Nicol\u00e1s Catena had an epiphany while visiting the Robert Mondavi winery in Napa and decided to take the family's plonk factory upmarket. The three Chardonnays produced here, starting with the ten-dollar Alamos bottlings, represent exceptional value. Bodega Norton, founded in 1895 by an Englishman to satisfy the Argentine thirst for cheap, oxidized reds, has undergone a similar transformation and now produces the best Sauvignon Blanc that I encountered in Argentina.\n\nAt prices ranging from ten to twenty-five dollars, Chilean and Argentine Chardonnays represent a great value these days, in part because of low land and labor costs. They also seem to have more natural acidity than other New World examples, which makes for more refreshing summer drinking. You don't have to picture the snowcapped Andes in the background as you sip them in the dog days, but I know I will.\n\n# THE FORGOTTEN WHITES OF BORDEAUX\n\nThe white wines of Graves have an image problem. Bordeaux is practically synonymous with red wine, which accounts for about 85 percent of its vast production. Made from Sauvignon Blanc and S\u00e9millon, white Bordeaux remains something of an enigma to the average American consumer\u2014less glamorous than the reds or the Chardonnay-based whites of Burgundy.\n\nSituated to the south of the city of Bordeaux, the Graves appellation is the home of most of the best Bordeaux whites. Connoisseurs have long sought out the ageworthy whites from Haut-Brion, Laville-Haut-Brion and Domaine de Chevalier. I've been collecting them just long enough to start appreciating their amazing potential. At a recent dinner party I hosted, the \u203283 Laville, which was like liquified cr\u00e8me br\u00fbl\u00e9e and peaches, aroused far more favorable comment among the grape nuts than the mature (and expensive) Burgundies that followed.\n\nThe best vineyards of the Graves district are set in the midst of the congested suburbs of Talence and Pessac. The vineyards of Haut-Brion, with its sixteenth-century ch\u00e2teau, occupy a gravelly hillock amidst a rising tide of boxy housing complexes. Best known for its first-growth red wine, Haut-Brion also makes small quantities of ethereal white. Across the treacherously busy street are the vineyards of La Mission\u2013 Haut-Brion (red) and Laville-Haut-Brion (white), which in 1983 were purchased by Haut-Brion's owners, the Dillon family. Winemaking on both sides of the street is overseen by one of the great statesmen of Bordeaux, Jean Delmas, who was born at Haut-Brion.\n\nLike the reds\u2014for that matter, like most siblings\u2014Haut-Brion blanc and Laville-Haut-Brion have separate and distinctive personalities, despite their physical proximity and a shared winemaking team\u2014a good argument for the importance of terroir. Laville has a higher percentage of S\u00e9millon, which is fleshier and oilier than the snappy, high-strung, citric Sauvignon Blanc; in partnership, these two grapes help give white Bordeaux its unique, balanced, food-friendly character.\n\nDrive down the road, turn right at the _rocade_ , or ring road, and if you watch very carefully you'll eventually see the sign for Domaine de Chevalier\u2014a sea of vines surrounded by dense pine forest. The single-story ch\u00e2teau is modest and homey by Bordeaux standards, although proprietor Olivier Bernard and his wife, Anne, must be one of the best-looking couples in the region. Their domain has the benefit of deep gravelly soil and the misfortune to be among the most frost-and hail-ridden patches of all Bordeaux. In those years when neither affliction strikes, Domaine de Chevalier produces, in addition to its red, a complex and haunting white, which improves and develops in bottle for years. As in nearby Sauternes, the grapes here are picked in several _passages_ to guarantee optimal ripeness.\n\nThe Big Three whites of Graves, all located in the recently created Pessac-L\u00e9ognan appellation, are relatively expensive and hard to find; but for about half the price of a village Mersault you can find some smokin', early-drinking white Graves, thanks in no small measure to the work of white-wine-making guru and consulting oenologist Denis Dubourdieu. Dubourdieu invented a technique\u2014rare for whites\u2014that leaves the skins in contact with the juice. Besides his own properties, Clos Floridene and Reynon, Dubourdieu consults for many of the best white-wine producers, including Domaine de Chevalier. He was responsible for making de Fieuzal a collector's favorite, beginning with the \u203285 vintage, and for improving the supple and fragrant whites of the ancient domain of Car-bonnieux, the largest producer of white Graves. Dubourdieu's son Jean-Philippe produces another fine white at Ch\u00e2teau d'Archambeau.\n\nSmith-Haut-Lafitte, one of Graves' many underperformers over the years, has cleaned up its act since changing hands in 1990. Its white wine represents an extreme of the modern trend toward bright, sassy Sauvignons fermented in new oak, which are aimed at the international palate. Tasty as it is, I think the genius of the region is better reflected in a blend with a larger proportion of S\u00e9millon and a lesser proportion of new oak\u2014\u00e0 la Dubourdieu. But this new style is certainly preferable to the oversulfured, fruit-deficient wines that were the norm fifteen years ago. It's worth mentioning that the Cathiard family opened a luxurious modern spa on the property in 1999\u2014a godsend for a region seriously underendowed with good hotels. Although, having not yet visited, I can't begin to guess what \"vinotherapy\" might be. Bathing in wine?\n\nSome stars and rising stars: Chantegrive, Coubins-Lurton, La Louvi\u00e8re, Malartic-Lagravi\u00e8re, Pape-Cl\u00e9ment, and La Tour Martillac. Outside of the Graves appellation there are a few whites worth seeking out, including those of the famed Ch\u00e2teaux Margaux and Lynch-Bages. Although not a great red-wine vintage, 2004 was a significantly better year for white Graves, and the 2005s should be at least as good. Either of these vintages will drink well over the next few years in conjunction with white fish, grilled chicken, or sheep's milk and goat's milk cheese. The Big Three usually taste delicious in youth and then go into hibernation for several years. If you should be lucky enough to find an older vintage, like an \u203289 Chevalier or a \u203294 Haut-Brion, treat it with all due respect\u2014get some turbot or Dover sole and share it with someone whose gratitude you'd like to cultivate.\n\n# NO RESPECT  \n _Soave_\n\nThe view from the exit ramp of the autostrada is emblematic of the problem with Soave. The first thing you see through your windshield is a huge lime-green warehouse with a batwing roofline that looks like some kind of retro-futuristic vision from the animators of the Powerpuff Girls. Off in the hazy distance, floating dreamlike above the big SOAVE BOLLA sign atop the warehouse, you can see the medieval ramparts of Soave castle perched on a distant hilltop. From the ridiculous to the sublime...\n\nThey ought to post a CAVEAT EMPTOR sign beside the exit.\n\nSoave is the \"the most maligned, misunderstood and polarized wine district in Italy,\" according to Italophiles Joe Bastianich and David Lynch, authors of the indispensible _Vino Italiano._ Most of us think of Soave as the insipid white beverage of our ignorant youth. But there are a handful of stubborn idealists who produce exceptional wines from the native Garganega grapes in the rolling hills just east of Verona.\n\nIt says a lot about the current situation in Soave that one of the two finest producers has recently divorced himself from the appellation, removing the Soave name from his labels. \"It's water,\" he says of the average Soave. \"No aroma, no taste.\" Roberto Anselmi is a Porsche-driving, black-Prada-clad native of the region whose genial and gregarious nature keeps rubbing up against his fierce perfectionism. Shortly after he welcomes me into his sleek modernist suite of offices in the village of Monteforte, he throws a small tantrum about the faint ammoniac residue of some cleaning products in the tasting room and instructs his daughter to move our tasting to the nearby winery, while making a note to chastise the cleaning staff. In many ways he reminds me of Angelo Gaja, another hypomanic Italian who inherited a wine estate in a backwater appellation and decided to conquer the world.\n\nAnselmi's father was a successful negotiant who turned out millions of bottles of undistinguished plonk from purchased grapes. After returning to the family seat with an oenology degree and high moral purpose, Roberto closed down the negotiant business and set about, in concert with his friend and neighbor Leonildo Pieropan, \"to make a revolution.\"\n\nThe revolution started, as is so often the case, in the hills. Or maybe it was a counterrevolution: the traditional Soave Classico district encompassed only the hillsides, with their poor volcanic and calcareous soils. In 1968, when the official Soave DOC was created by the Italian authorities, pressure from the big growers resulted in a huge expansion of the zone to include vast swatches of fertile, overproductive flatland. (Ignoring the ancient Roman maxim: Bacchus loves the hills.) Anselmi concentrated his efforts on the steep hillsides and adapted new viticultural practices to replace the old super-productive pergola system. Beginning in the late seventies he started producing serious, rich Soaves and lobbied fiercely for stricter regulations.\n\nAnselmi failed to convince the authorities to hold his neighbors to a higher standard. \"After twenty-five years I decided to divorce Soave,\" he says. So you will just have to take my word for it that Anselmi's wines are essentially Soaves\u2014the essence of what garganega (accented with a little aromatic Trebbiano di Soave) from this region can produce\u2014a wine with more body and fruit than the average Italian white and mineral highlights that can make it reminiscent of a good Chablis.\n\nAnselmi's friend Leonildo Pieropan remains married to the Soave appellation; he and his forebears are undoubtedly the best thing that ever happened to this slatternly tramp of a wine region. Stylistically and temperamentally he is the opposite of his friend Anselmi: a shy, bespectacled homebody who favors cardigans and lives with his family in a meticulously restored villa just inside the crenelated medieval walls of the town of Soave.\n\nDespite his reputation as the ultimate traditionalist, Pieropan loves technology, and the medieval outbuildings around the house are crammed with the latest in computer-controlled, stainless-steel fermentation tanks. His vineyards, like Anselmi's, are located exclusively in the hills of the Classico region, and his wines have long been cherished by connoisseurs around the world for their purity, delicacy, and balance. His single-vineyard La Rocca is one of Italy's greatest white wines. Unlike most Soaves, Pieropan's wines have the ability to age for ten years and beyond, becoming increasingly minerally over time. They are the best possible proof that the region is worth saving.\n\nA few other producers are making noteworthy wines, including brothers Graziano and Sergio Pra, whose single-vineyard Monte Grande Soave, made from grapes with a serious case of vertigo, is consistently one of the best wines of the region. The Gini brothers, Sandro and Claudio, make a rich, plump style of Soave, as does Stefano Inama. Inama's regular Soave is very good, but he has made a name for himself in a hurry with two supercharged, wood-aged, single-vineyard wines, Foscarino and Vigneto du Lot, which are deemed freakish by some traditionalists, tasting somewhat like superripe New World Chardonnays. Whether you like this style or not, they are an excellent antidote to the notion that Soave is a dilute and boring quaff.\n\nA few other names to look for: Cantina del Castello, Coffele, and Suavia. There may be a few good makers I'm unaware of, but the six and a half million bottles a year from other sources are probably worth avoiding. Soave's reputation as a reservoir of cheap mouthwash works in favor of the consumer; the regular bottlings of the top producers sell for ten to fifteen bucks and the single vineyard wines are in the twenty-dollar range. They are perfect summer whites\u2014especially in this market.\n\n# GRAY IS THE NEW WHITE  \n _Pinot Gris_\n\nBack in the 1980s, I remember seeing a graffito in Milan that read no more gray. The slogan was a young fashionista's battle cry against the muted palette of Armani and his followers, but it might also have applied to the Pinot Grigio (gray Pinot) that was coming out of Italy at the time, which was at least as dull as a gray suit. When I first tasted a great Pinot Gris from Alsace, I didn't even make the connection between this ambrosia and the stuff we used to swill by the bucket at Elaine's. Pinot Gris, Tokay (as it is sometimes called in Alsace), and Pinot Grigio are from one and the same grape\u2014although the northern and southern styles vary considerably. Some brilliant PGs have begun to emerge from Friuli, in northern Italy. And, in recent years, the grape has also found a new home in Oregon's Willamette Valley, alongside Pinot Noir.\n\nPinot Gris, a.k.a. Pinot Grigio, is, in fact, a mutation of Pinot Noir that probably first appeared in the vineyards of Burgundy. It is so named because the grapes, when ripe, can often appear gray-blue (as well as brownish pink). In rare instances, a producer may leave the juice on the skins long enough for it to pick up some color; but, generally speaking, Pinot Gris makes a food-friendly white wine. Pinot Gris reaches its apogee in Alsace, where it yields rich, full-bodied, profound wines\u2014some in a sweeter, dessert style\u2014that can age for decades. The average Pinot Grigio is made in a crisper, lighter style. Oregon, where the French name is used, seems to be staking out some middle ground.\n\nPinot Gris was introduced in Oregon by the same man who first planted Pinot Noir there back in 1965: former philosophy major, dental student, and University of California at Davis oenology graduate David Lett of Eyrie Vineyards. (Lett's Pinot Gris, like his Pinot Noir, seems to be built for aging, and can be ungenerous in its youth.) Today there are more than a thousand acres planted in the Willamette Valley, and Pinot Gris has surpassed Chardonnay as the signature white grape of the region. The Alsatians don't seem to be trembling in their boots just yet, and the hype is well ahead of the overall quality, but Oregon Pinot Gris has become popular enough to inspire vintners in California and Washington State to plant the varietal.\n\nAt its best, Oregon Pinot Gris tastes a little like ripe pears, with spicy, smoky highlights, and it complements a wide variety of foods, especially when the winemakers lay off the new oak barrels. The food match of choice in the Pacific Northwest is grilled salmon, but Pinot Gris also suits\u2014far better than the average Chardonnay\u2014Dungeness crab, oysters, and even grilled pork and sausages. \"It has a unique spicy quality that goes well with Asian and fusion cuisine,\" says Mark Vlossak of St. Innocent Winery, in Salem, Oregon. \"It works really well with fish and game birds and even vegetarian cuisines. Pinot Gris also transmits the signature of the land better than Chardonnay.\" Generally, it is made in a dry style, in keeping with American tastes, although one or two late-harvest sweet-style wines from the 1999 vintage were available recently, notably at St. Innocent, where Vlossak, a genial and intense native of Wisconsin, is producing Oregon's finest Pinot Gris.\n\nVlossak's love of the grape was inspired back in 1991 by an encounter with a bottle of Livio Felluga's benchmark Pinot Grigio from Friuli. \"We had it with gravlax, and it blew everything else on the table away,\" he says. \"I spent two years searching for the right vineyard. In \u203293, I made the first Pinot Gris. I started making it from this vineyard in a northern Italian style. My distributor in Seattle said to me, 'You should go to Alsace. You don't know shit about Pinot Gris in Oregon.'\" Vlossak's trip to Alsace, and his meeting with the charismatic Andr\u00e9 Ostertag\u2014who has since become a friend\u2014expanded Vlossak's perception of the potential for Pinot Gris. \"I decided it's possible to make the dry, _grand cru_ style of Pinot Gris here,\" he says. The problem is that Oregon Pinot Gris is perceived by both winemakers and the public to be an inexpensive Chardonnay alternative. In order to make great Pinot Gris, good sites need to be chosen and yields have to be slashed, which represents a sacrifice. The catch-22 is that growers and winemakers need an economic incentive to raise quality, but until quality improves, it's tough to sell a bottle of Pinot Gris for more than fifteen bucks, while Oregon Pinot Noir can sell for fifty or sixty dollars a bottle. St. Innocent's recent Shea Vineyard bottlings\u2014from a site also famous for Pinot Noir\u2014 could help change perceptions of the future of this grape in Oregon.\n\nFortunately, a handful of Oregon wineries\u2014including Belle Pente, Evesham Wood, and Lemelson\u2014are also making very good Pinot Gris. Oregon winemakers haven't yet agreed to standardize the bottle shape for this varietal. Some use the slope-shouldered Burgundy bottle, while others favor the long, tall, Alsatian bottle. My unscientific conclusion, after tasting twenty bottles of the 2000 vintage, is that the best makers favor the Alsatian bottle, bravely flying in the face of its negative association\u2014at least in the minds of many American wine drinkers\u2014with cheap German wine. Remember Blue Nun? Forget it. Try a Pinot Gris the next time you grill a fish.\n\n# TRANSLATING GERMAN LABELS\n\nHugh Johnson once remarked that he was surprised that no university had endowed a chair in German wine labeling. For most English speakers, such is the perceived complexity of the Gothic-looking labels, with their information overload and their terrifying terminology, that they make Burgundy seem simple by comparison. Trockenbeerenauslese Graacher Himmelreich, anyone? Even hardened wine wonks ask themselves whether life is long enough to learn the difference between _Sp\u00e4tlese_ and _Auslese._ (Admit it\u2014you're scared already.) German winemakers have long recognized this dilemma without necessarily knowing what the hell to do about it. Lately, though, some of Germany's best Riesling producers are wooing American consumers with simplified labels.\n\nOne technical term that's worth mastering is _Kabinett_ , the lightest of five \"predicates\" indicating levels of ripeness. For midsummer drinking, a low alcohol, off-dry _Kabinett_ from the Mosel region is, to my mind, one of the few beverages that can compete with a nice dry pilsner. And Riesling _Kabinetts_ are quite possibly the most versatile food wines in the world\u2014 perfect not only for lighter fish, chicken, and pork preparations but also for sweet and spicy Asian, Mexican, and fusion dishes.\n\nThose of you who won't be able to remember the term _Kabinett_ five minutes after you finish this column are not necessarily out of luck. Raimund Pr\u00fcm, of S. A. Pr\u00fcm in the Mosel, understands your anxiety about German labels. Prum owns vines in some of the greatest vineyards in Germany, perched on steep, sun-trapping slopes high above the Mosel River, including Wehlener Sonnenuhr, named after the now famous sundial that his great-great-grandfather Jodicus Pr\u00fcm constructed in the vineyard in 1848. And one of these days, after you've developed an appreciation for great Riesling, you may remember the name of this vineyard, planted on blue slate, which is believed to impart a distinctive stony flavor to the wines. In the meantime, you can probably remember the term _Blue Slate_ , which is the name of the off-dry _Kabinett-level_ Riesling that had its debut in this country with the \u203203 vintage, and risk the fifteen bucks to give it a try. Pr\u00fcm also makes a lighter, slightly sweeter, nicely fruity ten-dollar bottle called Essence, which is my new Chinese-takeout default beverage setting.\n\nPr\u00fcm's roots in the region go deep; he says his family has been in the Mosel for 850 years. His roots also go tall\u2014his grandfather Sebastian A., who served in Kaiser Wilhelm's Dragoon Bodyguard, stood six foot nine. Pr\u00fcm himself tops out at a mere six-four, crowned with unruly flaming red hair, which has earned him the nickname \"der Specht\"\u2014the woodpecker. I suspect the name also derives from the way he bobs his head as he gets excited talking about his wines, which can be pretty damned thrilling at the higher end. (The wines, not his head bobbing.) Every wine lover should eventually taste a great _Eiswein_ (ice wine) like his 1998 from the Graacher Himmelreich vineyard, the frozen grapes of which were picked the morning of December 16.\n\nThe affable, puckish Raimund has a slew of relatives in the area who are also making Riesling under various, somewhat confusing Pr\u00fcm-inflected labels, including the great Joh. Jos. Pr\u00fcm and Dr. F. Weins-Pr\u00fcm. (They take their doctorates seriously in Germany, and every other winemaker seems to use the title.) Another great Mosel producer is Dr. Ernst Loosen, _Decanter_ magazine's 2005 Man of the Year. Loosen's Wehlener Sonnenuhrs are always brilliant, long-lived wines, but he also bottles a _Kabinett-level_ wine made from several vineyards, called Dr. L., which is a good value and a great, not-too-serious summertime quaff. In collaboration with Chateau Ste. Michelle, in Washington State, Loosen also makes a very fine Riesling, Eroica.\n\nSimplified labeling, of course, is hardly a guarantee of quality. It was Blue Nun and Black Tower, after all, that created the stereotype of German whites as the vinous equivalent of Dunkin' Donuts. The most important element on a German wine label is the maker's name, and in order to experience the torquey and transcendent pleasures of Geman Riesling you need to memorize a few. Lingenfelder's Bird Label and Selbach's (of Selbach-Oster) Fish Label are two entry-level Rieslings from serious makers, and both offer good value at about ten bucks.\n\nAt a slightly more ambitious level are Dragonstone from Leitz, J. J. Riesling from Christoffel, and \"Jean Baptiste\" from Gunderloch. Robert Weil's top Rieslings from the Rheinghau are among the most sought after and expensive in Germany, but he bottles a _Kabinett_ and a wine called simply Riesling, which, particularly in the last three vintages\u2014\u203202,\u203203, and \u203204\u2014 should be approached with caution, lest you find yourself developing a serious Riesling habit. It's a little like reading _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man._ Next thing you know, you're neck-deep in _Ulysses_ or, God forbid, _Finnegans Wake_ , which, come to think of it, is the literary equivalent of _Trockenbeerenauslese._\n\n#  \n# THE SHEDISTAS OF SANTA BARBARA\n\nIn recent years the archetypal fantasy of starting a small winery has become more and more fantastic; in Napa the start-up cost for a small vineyard with a winery is now generally reckoned at around seven to ten million dollars and the ATF bonds required to open new wineries are scarcer than magnums of Screaming Eagle. But down the coast in Santa Barbara County there are dozens of tiny new bootstrap wineries operating out of sheds and warehouse spaces in rural industrial parks, and they seem to be multiplying like Kennedys. While Pinot Noir has become the established star of the region, these upstarts are mostly making Syrah, in their aluminum-sided sheds\u2014in part out of necessity, good Pinot grapes having become scarce and expensive, and in part out of a conviction of its great potential in the area, thanks to pioneering Rh\u00f4ne Rangers like Alban and Qup\u00e9.\n\nThe typical Santa Barbara shedista narrative goes like this: you start working in the cellar of a bigger winery and learn the ropes: the region, the vineyards, and the growers. Eventually you borrow from relatives and max out your credit cards to rent a shed, buy a few tanks and a few tons of Syrah, design a label, and make your own wine. You share equipment and wine notes with friends. And you keep your day job in the meantime.\n\nA classic example is Kenneth-Crawford, started in? I by Joey Gummere and Mark Horvath. (The name combines their two middle names.) \"Mark and I met working in the cellars of Babcock,\" Gummere told me recently. \"You see how things on a smaller scale can be so much better.\" Gummere moved on to Lafond, another midsized winery, before teaming up with Horvath in **?I** to produce four barrels of Syrah from the Lafond and Melville vineyards, two relatively cool sites in the Santa Rita Hills appellation. As of the \u203205 vintage they are producing fifteen hundred cases\u2014quite a lot on the shedista scale. When I visited a couple of years ago, Kenneth-Crawford was sharing a 2,400-square-foot shed with Jason Drew, another Babcock alum, who started Drew Family Cellars (sounds better than Drew Family Shed, I guess) in 2001 and who has been producing beautiful red monsters ever since.\n\nBenjamin Silver, of the eponymous Silver Wines, identifies 2001 as a watershed vintage for the new landless winemakers; that's when a number of non\u2013winery affiliated vineyards started producing Syrah in sufficient quantities to sell. \"This offered access to Rh\u00f4ne varietals to us smaller guys and gals,\" Silver says. Some of these vineyards were planted in \u203295, when the \u203293 Zaca Mesa Syrah made the No. 6 slot of _Wine Spectators_ Top 100 list, at the same time that Manfred Krankl's first Sine Qua Non bottlings were drawing attention to the potential for Syrah in the Santa Barbara area. Silver, who worked at Zaca Mesa at the time, has since gone on to create his own label, which includes several Syrahs.\n\n\"I used to make Pinot under my own label, and then it got hard to find,\" says Santa Barbara native Kris Curran, who turned to Syrah after losing her Pinot sources in the 2000 vintage. Curran made a name for herself as the winemaker for Sea Smoke, the new Santa Rita Hills star. She makes Sea Smoke Pinot and Curran Syrah in an industrial park in Lompoc, which its winemaking denizens refer to as the \"ghetto.\" The ghetto is home to half a dozen small, ambitious Syrah producers, including Steve Clifton of Brewer-Clifton fame, who makes a Syrah under the Alder label, and Chad Melville, who serves as the viticulturalist for his family's eponymous winery by day and makes several Syrahs with his wife, Mary, under the Samsara label. Melville shares his shed in the ghetto with three friends: Sashi Moorman and Peter Hunken, who pay the rent with jobs at Stolpman Vineyards, and Jim Knight, whose family owns Wine House, a Los Angeles wine store. Knight, a former rock-and-roll drummer and cellar rat at Lafond, makes a Syrah under the Jelly Roll label, while Moorman and Hunken's label is Piedrasassi. (Confused yet?) And together they make a wine called Holus Bolus. \"We're all good friends,\" Melville says. \"We purchased equipment and formed an LLC. Our press and destemmer alone cost us $130,000. None of us could do it on our own, but collectively we could afford good equipment.\"\n\nThe other HQ for the shedista movement is Central Coast Wine Services, a so-called custom-crush facility in Santa Maria, which provides winery equipment and storage space to many of Santa Barbara County's low-budget oenologists, including Benjamin Silver and Seth Kunin, a transplanted New Yorker who bailed on med school to work at the Wine Cask in Santa Barbara, the retail headquarters of the local wine revolution. Kunin fermented his first batch of purchased grapes in a garbage can at the store and later got a job in the cellar at the Gainey Vineyard. As a fan of the northern Rh\u00f4ne, he was drawn to Syrah, and now makes several C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie wannabes under his own label while maintaining his day job at Westerly Vineyards.\n\nYou get the distinct feeling that this scrappy communal spirit and note sharing must be good for the wine. Some great juice is coming out of these unglamorous sheds, and at an average price of around thirty-five dollars for a single-vineyard, small-production wine they make cult Cabs seem grossly overpriced. Santa Barbara County in the first decade of the twenty-first century is sort of the oenological equivalent of Silicon Valley in the \u203270s or Paris in the \u203220s. If you want to get in on a very good thing, get on some of these mailing lists.\n\n# THE ROASTED SLOPE OF THE RH\u00d4NE\n\nI'm supposed to meet two different C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie winemakers on the same day in the same church parking lot in the same tiny village\u2014one at eleven and another at two in the afternoon. Easy enough, except that they are former friends, i.e., mortal enemies. Their American distributor has repeatedly warned me not to mention the name of one to the other\u2014 they had a nasty falling-out over the purchase of a vineyard. I guess this is what _The Oxford Companion to Wine_ means when it calls C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie \"a hotbed of activity and ambition.\"\n\nAs recently as twenty years ago, no one was fighting very hard to buy land on the steep hillsides above the village of Ampuis. C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie, the \"roasted slope,\" was so named because its southeast exposure provides brilliant, grape-ripening sun. These hillsides above the Rh\u00f4ne River can reach a gradient of 55 degrees; the picturesque, terraced vineyards, first cultivated during the Roman era, produce a wine celebrated for its perfume and longevity, attracting the notice of connoisseurs from Pliny to Thomas Jefferson. Along with Hermitage, some twenty miles to the south, C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie is the ultimate terroir for Syrah, which may be indigenous, although this is a matter of hot dispute in ampelographical circles. I think of C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie as Fitzgerald to Hermitage's Hemingway; like Fitzgerald's, C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie's reputation was almost moribund at mid-century. The steep, rocky hillside vineyards require punishing manual labor, and after the Second World War many vintners abandoned the vines and planted apricots.\n\nAny wine that can somehow harmonize the flavors of raspberry and bacon\u2014not to mention aromas like violet and leather\u2014is worth saving, in my book. The white knight in this story is Marcel Guigal, heir to the firm that his father established in 1946. Traditionally, the wines of C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie depended on a blend from different parcels all over the hillside to achieve complexity and balance. The sandy limestone soils of the southerly C\u00f4te Blonde are supposed to provide finesse; those of the larger C\u00f4te Brune, with more clay and iron, breed power and longevity. Guigal began bottling his finest parcels separately, starting with the vineyards La Mouline and La Landonne and, later, La Turque. He aged these wines in 100 percent new oak barrels for as long as forty-two months. When Robert Parker started raving about these new-wave C\u00f4te-R\u00f4ties and giving them 100 point ratings, the wine world sat up and drooled. They are now among the most prized\u2014 and expensive\u2014wines on the planet, and their fame has rubbed off on their neighbors.\n\nStill, the Guigal wines were controversial; romantics complained that the taste of new oak masked the distinctive characteristics of C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie. Importer and author Kermit Lynch, who praises traditional C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie for its seductive combination of vigor and delicacy (blonde and brunette), complained that Guigal produces \"an inky, oaky, monster.\" He finds it ironic that the appellation has been saved from desuetude by a wine that is freakishly uncharacteristic. Lynch has a point, though it has to be said that traditional C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie vinification too often resulted in nasty flavors from old, unsanitary barrels and green flavors from stems. And I have to admit that I'm a slut for a good vintage of La Mouline or La Turque. Over the past decade, others have emulated Guigal: Yves Gangloff, Jean-Michel Gerin, Delas Fr\u00e8res, Tardieu-Laurent, and the Hermitage firm of Chapoutier are producing big, modern Syrahs. But the largest group, exemplified by the domaine of Ren\u00e9 Rostaing, has struck a balance between the old and new styles. In fact, a kind of counterreformation has recently begun\u2014some of the new Young Turks are pragmatists who talk a lot about tradition and finesse.\n\nA bullet-headed man of solid build and military demeanor, Eric Texier made a big splash among American oenophiles with his debut vintage \u203299 C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie. (Curiously, 95 percent of his wine is exported.) A native of the Bordeaux region and a former nuclear engineer, Texier first traveled to Oregon and California to get a New World perspective. He became fascinated with the Rh\u00f4ne region, and started studying the nineteenth-century literature in order to determine the best vineyard sites. Texier uses 40 percent new oak in his lush, elegant C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie, which always showcases the signature C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie taste of raspberry.\n\nThe father-and-son team of Michel and Stephane Ogier is similarly pragmatic. Until 1980, Michel sold his grapes to negotiants, including Guigal. Now, he and twenty-four-year-old Stephane, who towers over his wiry, balding father and looks a lot like Brendan Fraser, produce several seductive estate-bottled C\u00f4te-R\u00f4ties using a combination of traditional and new techniques. Another rising star of the appellation is Texier's former friend Pierre Gaillard, a gregarious, good-natured man whose fingernails are as dirty as any of the local farmers', although he is a well-traveled cosmopolitan who likes to debate the merits of Opus One versus Margaux. (He prefers the former.) Gaillard worked as vineyard manager at the old firm Vidal-Fleury, where he planted the famed La Turque vineyard. He worked for Guigal after it bought Vidal-Fleury, and eventually began to purchase his own vineyard parcels, the most prized of which, C\u00f4te Rozier, produced one of the best wines of the 2000 vintage. Other makers to look for are Burgaud, Clusel-Roch, Jamet, Bernard Levet, and\u2014 my desert-island C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie\u2014-Jasmin.\n\nC\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie typically takes five to ten years to show its potential (and shed that nasty young Syrah burnt-rubber smell). As for recent vintages, 2001 was classic, while the superhot 2003 wines are more massive and voluptuous and roasted. The 2005 may prove superior to both. C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie is one of the smallest appellations in France, and the output is minuscule. Guigal's C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie Brune et Blonde is the only wine made in enough quantity to appear at retail outlets throughout the country. Most other C\u00f4te-R\u00f4ties take work to find and are best reserved in advance. The following importer-retailers are among the best sources. You should be on their mailing lists.\n\nNorth Berkeley Imports, 1601 Martin Luther King Jr. Way, Berkeley, CA 94709; 800-266-6585; northberkeley imports.com. (Texier and Gaillard)\n\nKermit Lynch Wine Merchant, 1605 San Pablo Ave., Berkeley, CA 94702; 510-524-1524; kermitlynch.com; fax: 510-528-7026. (Jasmin, Rostaing)\n\nSam's Wines & Spirits, 1720 N. Marcey St., Chicago, IL 60614; 800-777-9137; samswine.com. (Chapoutier, Gerin, Burgaud, others)\n\nRosenthal Wine Merchant, 318 E. 84th St., New York, NY 10028; 212-249-6650. (Cuilleron, Bernard Levet)\n\n# THE HOUSE RED OF THE MONTAGUES AND THE CAPULETS\n\nWhen \u00fcber-restaurateur Danny Meyer entertained his childhood idol, St. Louis Cardinals right-hander Bob Gibson, he thought long and hard about what wine to serve to the pitcher, whom he knew to be a serious oenophile. Gibson had arrived at Meyer's Gramercy Park apartment with a bottle of Turley Cellars Hayne Vineyard Zinfandel, a big purple Hummer of a wine that's always a hard act to follow. Meyer, whose restaurants, such as Gramercy Tavern and Union Square Cafe, are known for having some of the best wine lists in the country, finally decided on a 1990 Quintarelli Recioto della Valpolicella. Gibson must have been pleased. I know I was ecstatic when Meyer brought the second of his three cherished bottles to my apartment recently for dinner; it was probably the best wine I've had this year.\n\nOkay, I can hear some of you snickering out there. It's true that Valpolicella has pretty much the same image problem in this country as Soave, which is no coincidence, since the two regions adjoin each other and the same giant corporation has been shipping vast quantities of bland Valpolicella and Soave to this country since the 1970s. For some of us, the wine is a part of our history that we'd rather forget, a name associated with dim memories of embarrassing dates\u2014like certain hair-styles from the era of Foreigner and Leo Sayer. But anybody who has recently tasted a Valpolicella from Quintarelli or dal Forno has a different impression.\n\nQuintarelli and dal Forno are the Plato and Aristotle of Valpolicella, and the legitimate question is whether they are superfreaks who happen to make great wine here or whether they are pioneers in a region that is catching up to them. Romano dal Forno's father and grandfather made Valpolicella on their small family estate, but dal Forno says that he knew virtually nothing about wine until he met Giuseppe Quintarelli, the genial genius who lived a couple of valleys away near the town of Negrar, back in 1981. \"He basically adopted me,\" the stocky and intense dal Forno told me when I visited him last year. Dal Forno speaks about wine as if it were a matter of life and death: \"I tried to absorb everything.\" He seems to have succeeded. His Valpolicellas are more intense than most Amarones, and his Amarones should be opened only in the presence of gods and stinky cheeses.\n\nThe Valpolicella region encompasses a series of picturesque north-south ridges that are often described as resembling the fingers of an open hand. The dominant red grape here is Corvina, which shares the hillsides with cherry trees. Valpolicella is the hometown red in Verona, the ancient city that Romeo and Juliet made famous, which has lately become the setting for Vinitaly, a gigantic trade fair that fills the hotels and ties up the streets every March. The two-story \"booth\" of the Valpolicella-based Allegrini winery is literally and figuratively the biggest thing at the fair. But just as Valpolicella is starting to get sexy, it's also getting a little complicated. We're starting to hear the phrase \"super-Valpolicellas,\" and some of the most interesting wines from the region don't even carry the V-word on their label. The Recioto della Valpolicella mentioned above is a sweet version, made from dried grapes. And some dry Valpolicellas are turbocharged with dried grape skins left over from the production of Recioto, a method known as _ripasso._ Got that?\n\nProbably the easiest way to understand the wines of Valpolicella is to think of a continuum between the lightest and the richest. On the lightest end of the scale are wines labeled simply Valpolicella, like the notorious Bolla (which is improving under American ownership). At the other end of the scale are Recioto della Valpolicella, produced from grapes that are dried on mats for three or four months after the harvest in order to concentrate the sugars before fermenting, and Amarone, its dry cousin, made by the same process, except that the grapes are allowed to ferment until the sugar is gone.\n\nAmarone\u2014or, to use its full name, Amarone della Valpolicella\u2014was the first wine from the Valpolicella appellation to get respect. But in recent years the quality and the reputation of ordinary Valpolicella have improved as well. \"The wines used to stink,\" says Sergio Esposito of New York's Italian Wine Merchants. \"Literally\u2014they smelled like feet.\" Esposito suggests that just as Barolo producers started to pay attention to the quality of their Barberas and Dolcettos in the 1990s, the top Amarone producers are boosting the quality of their dry reds with lower yields and improved cellar work. Allegrini has all but abandoned the appellation name, turning out some brilliant Corvina-based wines under the names La Grola, Palazzo della Torre, and La Poja.\n\nValpolicellas that have been turbocharged by the _ripasso_ method (usually indicated on the label) can taste like junior Amarones, with hints of tar, leather, dates, and figs, and can stand up to a grilled rib eye or lamb chops. The Reciotos make a tremendous accompaniment to a cheese plate. But don't overlook the simpler pleasures of a good Valpolicella Superiore\u2014with an obligatory 12 percent alcohol and at least a year of aging\u2014from makers like Brigaldara, Nicolis, Tedeschi, and Zenato, which typically sells for about fifteen dollars. Any one of these might become your new house red.\n\n# \"AN EXTREME, EMOTIONAL WINE\"  \n _Amarone_\n\n\"Amarone is an extreme wine,\" Romano dal Forno warns, pausing as we descend the spiral staircase of his villa to the chilly depths of the wine cellar, where I'm suddenly struck by how much he looks like a weather-beaten version of James Gandolfini. \"It's an emotional wine,\" he continues. For a moment, I wonder if he's implying that I may not be man enough for the job ahead. After sampling several vintages from the barrel, I'm indeed a little emotional\u2014exhilarated and also saddened by the knowledge that, rare and expensive as it is, I will seldom taste dal Forno's radical juice again.\n\nAmarone is an anomaly: a dry wine that mimics sweetness; a relatively modern creation that seems deeply primitive and rustic, like some kind of rich pagan nectar or the blood of a mythological beast. While Italians consider food and wine to be inseparable, Amarone overwhelms most dishes. \"With Amarone, you don't think about food,\" dal Forno says. \"Cheese, maybe.\"\n\nDal Forno is the most extreme proponent of this extreme red, made from dried grapes\u2014mostly Corvina\u2014in the Valpolicella hills outside Verona. His turbocharged Amarones, produced only in the better vintages, tip the scales above 15 percent alcohol and make most cult Cabernets seem dainty by comparison. In the past decade, thanks to Robert Parker, dal Forno's wines have become as revered as those of his mentor, Giuseppe Quintarelli, with whom he worked before assuming responsibility for his father's vineyards.\n\nQuintarelli's estate sits in the hills of the Valpolicella Classico region, at the end of a long driveway lined with meticulously pruned olive trees\u2014holy ground for the wine geek. Sticking his head out the window in answer to my repeated ringing of his doorbell, the resident saint sports a large bib across his green herringbone jacket and a smear of tomato sauce on his chin. A genial baldie in his seventies, Quintarelli seems to have no recollection of our appointment but cheerfully agrees to show me around after he has finished lunch and, presumably, the game show that is blaring in the background.\n\nQuintarelli's cellar is pleasingly cluttered and medieval-looking, full of giant old Slovenian casks. I don't see any steel tanks. Nor any of the new oak barriques that dominate dal Forno's pristine cellar. Although the family resemblance is unmistakable, Quintarelli's Amarones are more earthy than dal Forno's, and even more complex, suggestive of figs and dates, bittersweet cherry and black licorice. They inspire contemplation and wonder. To my mind, they are the ultimate expression of this extreme concept. My visit overlaps with that of two French wine writers whose initial irritation at sharing the cellar with an American is eventually overridden by their pleasure in the wine, which they acknowledge is unlike anything produced in la belle France.\n\nThe courtly, tweedy Stefano Cesari, proprietor of the nearby Brigaldara estate, shows me the real secret of Amarone, leading me up a flight of stairs to a loft in the barn behind his fourteenth-century villa, where thousands of wooden trays are suspended, one atop another. If most wines are made in the cellar, Amarone is made in the attic.\n\nEvery fall, the choicest grapes of the vintage are set out in racks to dry for a period of months. This process, which dates back at least to the time of Pliny, who commended it, concentrates the sugar\u2014and often induces botrytis, the noble rot responsible for the flavor of the great whites of Sauternes. (Botrytis is not welcomed by all makers; some, like Allegrini, have installed humidity-controlled drying chambers to prevent its formation.) Drying does for the grapes what a turbo-charger does for a V-8 engine. Traditionally, a sweet wine resulted, because the grapes stopped fermenting before the sugar was consumed. Called Recioto della Valpolicella, this sweet red is still produced. Cesari tells me the first cask of Amarone was a mistake\u2014a barrel that fermented all the way to dryness sometime in the early part of the century (other sources point to much earlier origins). This style became known as amaro (bitter) recioto and was eventually produced in commercial quantities in the 1950s.\n\nJust as its exact origins are obscure, Amarone remains a mysterious, almost schizophrenic wine. As Bastianich and Lynch suggest in _Vino Italiano_ , \"It behaves like a sweet wine without technically being sweet.\" The bouquet of dried fruits and the syrupy texture suggest port; it tends to trick the palate by seeming sweet in the beginning and finishing dry, even slightly bitter, like unsweetened chocolate.\n\nWhen I get in the Amarone mood, I often look for Allegrini, one of the most innovative and exciting estates in Valpolicella, or Brigaldara, which excelled not only in the stellar \u203297 vintage but also in the less opulent \u203298 and \u203299 vintages. Bussola, Masi, and Tedeschi make powerhouse Amarones in the dal Forno mold, while Accordini, Bertani, Bolla (yup, that Bolla), and Speri produce slightly lighter, more approachable versions.\n\nAs complex as it is, I like to think of Amarone as the perfect primer wine for those who are suspicious of the cornucopia of flavor analogies that wine critics come up with. I'm often baffled myself when I read wine notes full of huckleberries and hawthorn blossoms. But give me a glass of Amarone and I'm the man! Step back, Bob Parker! Even the beginning taster can feel like a professional as he effortlessly identifies the intense flavors and aromas of the most extreme red wine on the planet. Cherries! Dates! Figs! Black licorice! Leather! Coffee! Bittersweet chocolate! Tobacco! Et cetera, et cetera.\n\n# CAPE CRUSADERS  \n _South African Reds_\n\nNelson Mandela, Charlize Theron, and Pinotage are among South Africa's distinctive contributions to global culture. The last is an unlikely hybrid of two French grape varietals: finicky, noble Pinot Noir and mulish Cinsault\u2014imagine the love child of Jean Seberg and Congressman Bob Barr. Who knows what Professor Abraham Perold was drinking when he came up with this idea. While Pinotage can sometimes smell like nail polish remover au poivre, at its best it improves with age and is actually capable of provoking contemplative enjoyment.\n\nThe best way to see if you're fond of Pinotage is to look for a bottle from Kanonkop, a winery located in Stellenbosch. (I assume the name has something to do with the seventeenth-century cannon that greets you at the end of the driveway of this beautiful estate.) Kanonkop is to Pinotage what Petrarch is to the sonnet, although the winery also makes a very good Bordeaux-style blend, which has twice won France's Pichon Longueville Comtesse de Lalande trophy. These victories suggest that South African reds have arrived on the international scene, but the news has been slow to reach these shores.\n\nFor several years now my favorite South African red has been the Pinot Noir from Hamilton Russell Vineyards, a hill-side estate in the Walker Bay region, less than two miles from the Indian Ocean. A relative newcomer in a country whose wine history spans almost four hundred years, the property was established in 1976 by Tim Hamilton Russell, who struggled tirelessly against restrictive and irrational regulations; it's now run by his son Anthony, an Oxford-educated whirling dervish who likes to say he's just a farmer, although I've observed firsthand that he cuts a very stylish figure on dance floors from Cape Town to Manhattan.\n\nThe cool microclimate of this area, with its marauding baboons and its clay soil studded with prehistoric hand axes, produces the most Burgundian New World Pinot I've ever tasted, with the kind of earthiness, complexity, and age-worthiness rarely found outside Burgundy. The neighboring estate of Bouchard Finlayson, started by Hamilton Russell's former winemaker, is also producing fine Pinot, as is newcomer Flagstone, a winery to watch for its Pinotage and blends as well.\n\nCabernet and Bordeaux blends are currently attracting the lion's share of capital and energy, and the warmer region of Stellenbosch is probably the top appellation for these wines. It's also among the most dramatic landscapes I've ever seen, where green valleys with white stucco Cape Dutch farmhouses could almost pass for Flemish landscapes, except that they are framed by jagged, vertiginous gray mountain ridges. The pioneer of Bordeaux-style wines in the Cape is Meerlust, an estate more than three hundred years old that makes earthy, slow-maturing reds, including a Merlot, and its standard-bearer, Rubicon (not to be confused with Francis Coppola's wine of the same name). Another historic Stellenbosch estate, a few kilometers up the road, Rustenburg is producing serious, curranty Cabernet blends that are drawing international interest. Nearby, Rust en Vrede makes rich, powerful Cabernet, Shiraz, and Merlot, and, finally, an estate wine that is a blend of all three\u2014which seems to be the new Cape trend. None of these wines will cost as much as a good _cru bourgeois_ Bordeaux from the 2003 vintage.\n\nRupert & Rothschild, in the adjacent Paarl appellation, is a joint venture between one of South Africa's wealthiest families and the Baron Edmond branch of the Rothschilds from France. Until his death in a car accident, it was run by Anthonij Rupert, the gruff, Charles Barkley\u2013sized black sheep of the family. This historic estate is producing very good Cab blends, with the help of Pomerol's ubiquitous Michel Rolland. Rupert sometimes took longer than his wines to show his charming side, but I spent a hugely entertaining day with him, talking about wine, Italian tailoring, and African wildlife after turning into his driveway unannounced, and I was saddened to hear of his death. The winemaking continues to be in the capable hands of Schalk-Willem Joubert and Rolland. Another deep-pocketed venture producing Bordeaux-style blends is Vergelegen, owned by hydra-headed Anglo-American Industries. Winemaker Andr\u00e9 van Rensburg, hired a few years back, comes with a reputation as a serious Shiraz specialist, and is planting plenty of this varietal, which is gaining ground in South Africa, as everywhere else. In fact, I suspect that Cabernet-Shiraz blends may have a big and delicious future in the Cape.\n\nOf the many hours I have spent lost on back roads of wine regions around the world, I doubt if I ever felt more lost in the wilderness than I did looking for the property of pro golfer David Frost in the remote foothills of Paarl. Frost gives lousy directions, but his Cabernet is a big currant bomb, and he is what the South Africans call a rugger bugger and what we would call a good old boy\u2014a generous and gregarious host despite the fact that he was feeling the effects of a long night with his good friend Anthonij Rupert the night before. After the long hangover from apartheid-era isolation, South Africa's red wines, like its actresses and golfers, are ready to compete internationally.\n\n# THE BLACK WINE OF CAHORS\n\nWhen the estate of the late Bill Blass was auctioned by Sotheby's, I couldn't help wondering about the fate of a certain item\u2014a medal he had received at a ceremony in New York inducting him into the Confr\u00e8res des Chevaliers du Cahors some five or six years ago. I was also inducted into the society that night, though, like Blass, I was slightly baffled by the honor, and hardly knew where Cahors was at the time. I have since visited the region and sampled many of its wines, and when I drink the big wines of Cahors I often think of Blass, a big man who exuded a hypermasculine sense of personal style.\n\nCahors is butch. Peter the Great was one of its many admirers, and his enthusiasm was shared by his countrymen. The \"black wine\" of Cahors was renowned for its power and density and was sometimes used to punch up the wimpier reds of Bordeaux. This muscular, tannic red wine of Cahors developed alongside the hearty, fatty cuisine of the southwest: foie gras, cassoulet, confit, and maigret de canard.\n\nFrom the Middle Ages until the middle of the nineteenth century the reds of Cahors were as famous as any in Europe, until phylloxera wiped out the vineyards. When initial attempts to graft the local Auxerrois vines onto disease-resistant American rootstocks failed, many growers planted hybrids that produced insipid _vim ordinaires._ By the middle of this century the big inky drink that was _le vrai_ Cahors was almost extinct.\n\nAfter devastating frosts in 1956 and 1957, a Cahors native named Jos\u00e9 Baudel left his post as the head of the government research center in Bordeaux to take over the local cooperative wine cellar and to save the wine of his homeland from oblivion. Baudel worked to banish the hybrids and propagate Auxerrois (known elsewhere as Malbec), a tannic grape that seems to have a particular affinity for the soils and climate of the Lot River Valley and the adjacent plateau.\n\nIn the last decade Cahors has made a comeback, as its winemakers groped to integrate their traditions with new technology and the international marketplace. \"Ten years ago there was a midlife crisis,\" says Ariane Daguin, proprietor of D'Artagan in New York, which specializes in the cuisine of her native region. \"The wines, which had evolved in symbiosis with that heavy cuisine, were big and tannic. When people started eating lighter, they had to learn to lighten them up a little.\" That said, Cahors will never be a dainty, aperitif kind of drink. It will never make a nice accompaniment for a plate of steamed vegetables, nor should it go to the beach. But it ought to find favor with advocates of high-fat, high-protein diets \u00e0 la Atkins.\n\nLocals consider Cahors to be the logical accompaniment to foie gras, and to most dishes involving black truffles\u2014 Cahors being more or less the heart of the P\u00e9rigord region. The preternaturally boyish Pierre-Jean Pebeyre is a fourth-generation truffle negotiant; dining with Pebeyre and his wife, Babethe, in the town of Cahors I have experienced some stunning food-and-wine pairings involving black truffles and Cahors. The Pebeyres taught me to make a sauce of butter whisked into warm truffle juice (available in tins) with pureed black truffles, which eroticizes almost any simple dish.\n\nStendahl once remarked on the resemblance of this part of France to Tuscany, and as in Chianti, the wine story here is partly one of deep-pocketed outsiders coming in to reinvigorate the area. Alain Senderens, proprietor-chef of three-star Lucas Carton in Paris, bought Ch\u00e2teau Gautoul in 1992.\n\nThe hyperactive Alain Dominique Perrin, former president of Cartier, who bought Ch\u00e2teau Lagr\u00e9zette, with its impressive fifteenth-century ch\u00e2teau, in 1980, has become the Robert Mondavi of the region, the chief promoter and innovator of Cahors. Perrin seems to know nearly everyone of interest on the planet and has the photos in the ch\u00e2teau to prove it. His luxury cuv\u00e9e Le Pigeonnier has set a new standard, with high ratings and a price to match. The superconcentration and 100 percent new oak treatment make this wine seem almost as international and polished as its proprietor, as if it were wearing a Cartier Panther watch around its neck; but in some ways I prefer the regular cuv\u00e9e of Lagr\u00e9zette, which seems more distinctively regional and less like something that could have come from Australia.\n\nAlain Gayraud, the wildly enthusiastic proprietor of Lamartine, at the western edge of the appellation, still uses the cement fermentation tanks his grandfather built, and employs new oak barrels sparingly. His wines are among the most distinctive I encountered in my visit, muscular but a little reserved, requiring time to reveal their considerable charms and distinctive regional character. Gayraud makes three different cuv\u00e9es, the lesser of which is more accessible on release, as does nearby Domaine Pineraie, where they've been making wine continuously since 1456. Among the domaines worth looking for are Ch\u00e2teaux du C\u00e8dre, Clos Triguedina, Croix de Mayne, Haute-Serre, and Ch\u00e2teau Peche de Jammes, owned by Americans Sherry and Stephen Schechter.\n\nAs with Bordeaux, the vintages to seek out are the 2000, the 2003, and the 2005. Although these wines will be decidedly young and somewhat wild, they should behave well in the company of a cassoulet or a charred slab of prime beef.\n\n# MAJOR BARBERA\n\nGiuseppe Rivetti, the proprietor of La Spinetta, describes Barbera as \"the anti-Merlot\"\u2014which is as good a starting point as any other for a discussion of this provincial grape with multiple personalities. It's easier to say what it isn't than what it is. I take Rivetti's comment to mean that Barbera is not the kind of mellow international beverage you order by the glass at the bar of a revolving cocktail lounge while listening to a pianist cover Billy Joel. Certainly Rivetti's Barberas, with their rustic exuberance and feisty acidity, are more likely to evoke a noisy trattoria redolent of roasted goat.\n\nThe poor relation of noble Nebbiolo, Barbera had long been the workhorse of Piedmont, accounting for half of the region's red-wine production. Barbera ripens earlier than the fussy Nebbiolo, the grape used in Barolo and Barbaresco, and was traditionally planted on cooler slopes and lesser sites. (The dirty little secret of Piedmont is that Barbera was\u2014and, many say, still is\u2014added to Barolo and Barbaresco to boost the color and add body.) Barbera typically produced a rustic plonk that was acidic enough to stand up to tomato sauce. Insofar as it was known outside the region, it was known as a pizza wine. Lacking in natural tannins\u2014which extend the life of red wines\u2014it was meant to be consumed young, and often.\n\nA few wistful growers had Cinderella visions for this local grape. They wondered if, with the proper upbringing, it might not be capable of stardom. What if it was raised on prime real estate? What if it went to finishing school to learn French? Angelo Gaja, who revolutionized the treatment of Nebbiolo, told me recently that he was the first person to experiment with Barbera and French oak barrels back in 1969\u2014the wood supplying the tannins that were missing from the grape itself. The idea was also proposed by French oenologist \u00c9mile Peynaud, who was consulting for a winery in Asti in the early 1970s. By most accounts, the man who actually placed the glass slipper on Cinderella's foot was the late Giacomo Bologna, a motorcycle-riding, jazz-loving, barrel-chested bon vivant.\n\nA native of sleepy Rocchetta Tanaro, some ten miles east of the town of Asti, Bologna inherited a property called Braida and experimented with practices that seemed radical at the time. He planted Barbera on prime, sun-drenched slopes; picked the grapes late, to alleviate some of their acidity; and aged the juice in toasted new French oak barrels, which further softened the hard edges while lending the wine some wood tannins, giving it more structure. In 1982, the same year that changed the face of Bordeaux, Bologna created Bricco dell'Uccellone, a barrel-aged, vineyard-designated Barbera that rapidly caught the attention of the international wine world, and of Bologna's neighbors. Bricco was the first super-Barbera. Call it Barbarella. (They're big on nicknames in the Piedmont. L'Uccellone is named for the crowlike old woman who used to own the vineyard; _l\u2032uselun_ means big bird.)\n\nMore than two decades after Bologna created this new, sophisticated, smoking-jacket style of Barbera, it's hard to generalize about this grape except to say that quality is better at all levels. Barbera is as stylistically all over the map as Zinfandel, another blending grape that has achieved recent renown. Many makers continue to produce the lighter-style Barbera\u2014which can be a tremendous value, particularly given the recent string of stellar vintages in Piedmont. The 2000,2001, and 2003 vintages all achieved a ripeness that should counterbalance the natural acidity of the grape; good examples, like Michele Chiarlo's Barbera d'Asti Superiore and Icardi's Barbera d'Asti Tabarin, retail for about fifteen dollars. Barbera d'Asti is often fatter and fruitier than Barbera d'Alba, in part because the best, sunniest slopes in Alba are reserved for Nebbiolo, producing Barolo and Barbaresco. Many of the greatest producers of Barolo\u2014Scavino, Clerico, Mascarello, Sandrone, and Aldo and Giacomo Conterno, among others\u2014 make supple, sophisticated Barbera d'Alba at a fraction of the price. The most concentrated, powerful Barberas are usually identified by vineyard name\u2014often involving some variation of the word _brie_ , which means hilltop in the local dialect. Price is another key indicator\u2014the Barbarellas, like Franco Martinetti's powerful Montruc, can sell for upwards of fifty dollars.\n\nBricco dell'Uccellone has proven itself over the past two decades to be a serious, ageworthy wine. Tasting at the winery this past spring with Raffaella and Giuseppe, Giacomo Bologna's children, I was deeply impressed by the complexity and freshness of the \u203289 and \u203290 Bricco dell'Uccellone. The \u203201 is another classic. The Bologna family makes several other excellent Barberas, including Bricco della Bigotta and Ai Suma. The most mind-boggling Barberas I've tasted recently were from La Spinetta, which in 2001 was named winery of the year in the Italian wine bible _Gambero Rosso._ My teeth are still stained from the experience of tasting the \u203299 Barbera d'Alba Gallina and the \u203299 Barbera d'Asti that spring; both reminded me in some ways of great, old-vine Zinfandels, and also reminded me of a blackberry fight I had with two fifth-grade classmates in Vancouver, Canada. We were picking blackberries, and after we'd filled two buckets and eaten several handfuls, we started throwing the surplus at one another. Thirty years later, Giuseppe Rivetti's Barberas made me almost that exuberant.\n\n# GO ASK ALICE  \n _The Dark Secret of Bandol_\n\nMany of you fashionable diners and sophisticated travelers are probably familiar with the refreshing, slightly bitter ros\u00e9s of Bandol. From West Hollywood to Sardinia, Domaine Ott ros\u00e9 is the official summertime beverage of the Prada and Herm\u00e8s brigades. But fewer are aware that Bandol\u2014a middle-class resort and fishing town between Marseille and Toulon\u2014 is home to one of the world's great red wines.\n\n\"Bandol rouge has been the love of my life,\" says Alice Waters, one of the great epicures of our time. Indeed, Domaine Tempier rouge has been more or less the house wine at Chez Panisse, in Berkeley, since it opened, some thirty years ago. \"They have incredibly long lives and incredible perfume,\" Waters says of red Bandols. \"I can always pick them out blind in a tasting.\" Waters particularly likes them with lamb, strong cheese, and figs. \"And a young one slightly chilled can be incredible with bouillabaisse.\"\n\nI would add dry-rubbed spare ribs and beef stew to this list.\n\n\"Kind of like a cross between Barolo, Brunello, and Ch\u00e2teauneuf-du-Pape\" is how Will Helburn of Rosenthal Wine Merchant describes red Bandol. Like Ch\u00e2teauneuf-du-Pape, it is the product of hot Proven\u00e7al summers, redolent of the wild herbs (known collectively as _garrigue)_ that perfume the hillsides, and probably best appreciated in the cooler months, alongside red meat or wild game. Like Barolo or Brunello, it is stubborn, sulky, and slow to evolve, which may account for its wallflower status.\n\nTwo centuries ago, Bandol reds were ranked alongside those of Bordeaux and Burgundy and were prized for their longevity\u2014a quality attributable to the Mourv\u00e8dre grape, which is highly resistant to oxidation. However, the vineyards of Provence were replanted with higher-yielding and less-demanding grape varieties after phylloxera wiped out the Mourv\u00e8dre late in the nineteenth century, and Bandol never really recovered its luster.\n\nThe story of Bandol's resurrection is murkier than a fermenting barrel sample of young Mourv\u00e8dre. (Importer Kermit Lynch, who owns a house in the region, recounts at least two and a half different versions in his classic book _Adventures on the Wine Route)_ All that need concern us here is that two or three determined growers worked together to restore the noble Mourv\u00e8dre to the hillsides and set strict regulations for the appellation.\n\n\"Bandol is about Mourv\u00e8dre,\" says Neal Rosenthal, who imports one of the finest\u2014Ch\u00e2teau Pradeaux. While the regulations allow up to 50 percent Grenache and Cinsault, the best wines are mostly Mourv\u00e8dre. When young, Bandol Mourv\u00e8dre tastes like ripe blackberries squashed up with old tea bags. With age, after growing up in a microbiologically active cellar in Provence, it can smell like old sweaty saddle leather, dry-aged beef, and even wet fur. And I mean that as a compliment.\n\nFans of the increasingly expensive great Ch\u00e2teauneuf of Ch\u00e2teau de Beaucastel will probably love Pibarnon, Pradeaux, or Tempier\u2014three of the top Bandols. Beaucastel is about 30 percent Mourv\u00e8dre, and like the other three is made without new oak, which can mask flavors and aromas. Fans of clean, technically perfect, tutti-frutti New World winemaking may well be horrified by the slightly funky herbal characteristics of a great aged Bandol. If you're the kind of person who would never consider sharing a room with a wet Labrador retriever or a lit cigar, then I advise you to skip the rest of this column.\n\nLike Nebbiolo, Mourv\u00e8dre is a late-ripening, tannic grape that doesn't do well much north of the Mediterranean. \"Mourv\u00e8dre needs to smell the sea,\" claims poetic Randall Grahm of Bonny Doon Vineyard, who has made some fine California versions of Bandol rouge.\n\nCh\u00e2teau Pradeaux is a mere three-iron away from the Mediterranean. The vineyard has been in the Portalis family since before the French Revolution, and the big, gamy, backward wines made there may well resemble those of the nineteenth century\u2014what the French call _les vins de garde._ Hold the saliva for a couple of decades; Rosenthal is just now uncorking his \u203282s, while waiting for the monster \u203289s and \u203290s to open up. Not exactly a wine for instant gratification, but worth the wait. \"You can actually smell the sun,\" says Rosenthal of a mature Pradeaux. \"Beeswax and tiger lilies are the high notes, animal fur and saddle leather underneath.\"\n\nA little farther from the ocean, Domaine Tempier is a relatively recent creation. As part of his dowry upon his marriage to Lulu Tempier, Lucien Peyraud received several hectares of neglected vines in the hills outside Bandol. By all accounts one of the great personalities of the past century, Peyraud started researching the history of the area and replanting the vineyards with Mourv\u00e8dre. By the time he died, he had created a great domaine and a global cult of aficionados for his bold, long-lived reds and his carpe diem ros\u00e9s\u2014a tradition that continues with his sons Fran\u00e7ois and Jean-Marie. A few years back I shared a bottle of truffly, rosemary- and Montecristo-scented 1969 with Kermit Lynch in the cellar of the domaine and guessed it to be fifteen years younger.\n\nOther excellent Bandols include Domaines Bunan and Ch\u00e2teau La Rouvi\u00e8re. Prices are generally lower than for Ch\u00e2teauneuf-du-Pape or Barolo. No one would be happier than I to see them remain so. On the other hand, development pressure in the area is so fierce that increasing renown and prices for the wines of Bandol may be the only hope for preserving some of these beautiful hillside vineyards.\n\n# THE SPICY REDS OF CHILE\n\nI once speculated that the grapes for a certain luxury Champagne were harvested individually, by vestal virgins, never suspecting that I would one day witness something close to this whimsical vision. Arriving at the winery of Casa Lapostolle in Chile's Colchagua Valley one morning in March, I encountered some ninety women lined up on either side of a narrow table about the length of a tennis court, plucking Cabernet grapes one by one from dewy clusters that were handpicked that morning, saving the best and discarding those that were damaged or unripe. High-end winemakers around the world employ sorting tables and manual labor to roughly edit out the leaves from the clusters, but I've never seen it done literally grape by grape. The grapes in question were destined for the winery's Clos Apalta, one of Chile's new wave of luxury reds. The radically meticulous sorting process was one more piece of evidence, if I needed it, that Chilean wine is not just for swilling anymore.\n\nChile's Central Valley\u2014located in the center of this tall, skinny country, and crisscrossed by rivers and subvalleys\u2014is a paradise for grapes. The climate, moderated by the Andes to the east and the Pacific to the west, is often described as being a cross between those of Napa and Bordeaux. Wine grapes arrived with the missionaries who followed the conquistadors, and the importation of vines (and winemakers) from France in the mid-nineteenth century created an invaluable viticultural resource; what never arrived in Chile was phylloxera, the disease that subsequently devastated most of the world's vineyards. The raw material was in place, although it remained underexploited until the end of the Pinochet era, when domestic wineries began to look to the international market and foreign wine interests started pouring money into the Central Valley.\n\nAlexandra Marnier-Lapostolle, whose great-grandfather invented Grand Marnier, began scouting Chile in the early 1990s and then brought in Michel Rolland, the renowned and ubiquitous oenologist. In 1994 she and her husband, Cyril de Bournet, founded Casa Lapostolle and secured Rolland's services as a consultant. As you follow her through a dusty vineyard while she tastes grapes and talks about prephylloxera rootstocks, you keep thinking that Lapostolle is one of those chic, svelte, and devastatingly attractive women you see on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honor\u00e9. It seems appropriate that she describes Clos Apalta as her \"haute couture wine.\" (Lapostolle also produces two lines in the ten- to twenty-dollar range.) The grapes, which are so tenderly plucked at the winery, come from a nearly hundred-year-old vineyard of gnarled Cabernet, Merlot, and Carmen\u00e8re vines in the Colchagua Valley, which is bounded by a horseshoe of snowcapped mountains.\n\nCarmen\u00e8re is Chile's secret weapon, a varietal once widespread in Bordeaux that in 1991 was rediscovered in Chile, where for years it had been mistaken for Merlot. Like Cabernet Franc, Carmen\u00e8re can be a little vegetal and rustic, but when properly ripened it has a silky texture and peppery, raspberry flavor. Whether it can be a solo star for Chile's wine industry remains to be seen, but the spectacular Clos Apalta, which contains up to 40 percent Carmen\u00e8re, is testament enough to this grape's potential as a blending component. The monster 2001 Apalta is already a wine-world legend; the 2002 is slightly less powerful but just as complex, a wine that might be mistaken for a blend of a Napa cult Cab and a first-growth Pauillac.\n\nSe\u00f1a, a joint venture between Napa's Robert Mondavi and Eduardo Chadwick, president of the venerable Chilean winery Err\u00e1zuriz, was the first of the superpremium (i.e., fifty dollars plus) Chilean reds, and is likewise a blend of Cabernet, Merlot, and Carmen\u00e8re. The New World\u2013style 2001 vintage is the finest offspring of this marriage to date. If any Chilean winery can claim more distinguished bloodlines, it would be Almaviva, the love child of Bordeaux's Baron Philippe de Rothschild (Mondavi's Opus One partner) and Chile's Concha y Toro, the first winery to be listed on the New York Stock Exchange. The monumental 2001 Almaviva, made by Mouton-Rothschild's Patrick L\u00e9on with Enrique Tirado of Concha y Toro, tastes a lot like a fine Pauillac\u2014a structured (read: slow to evolve), complex, and earthy blend of roughly 80 percent Cabernet Sauvignon and 20 percent Carmen\u00e8re. The grapes come from a thirty-year-old vineyard located on the outskirts of Santiago in the Maipo Valley, Chile's traditional Cabernet region; they undergo their miraculous transubstantiation in a beautiful wooden cathedral of a winery designed by Chilean architect Mart\u00edn Hurtado Covarrubias, best known for his churches.\n\nThe young prodigy among Chile's homegrown wineries is unquestionably Montes, founded in 1988. Montes Alpha \"M\" is the flagship wine of the estate, a rich, powerful red made from relatively young vines planted on hillsides above the Apalta Valley in Colchagua. My pick for the most promising of Chile's newer estates is Haras de Pirque, in the Maipo Valley, best known at present for its Thoroughbred stud farm. Founded in 1991 by entrepreneur-equestrian Eduardo Matte, Haras currently produces a Cabernet aptly named Elegance and has recently announced a joint-venture, single-vineyard wine with Italy's Antinori family.\n\nMost of these new-wave Chilean luxury cuv\u00e9es are as yet made only in small quantities, but they are worth seeking out, and they bode well for Chile's future as a source of premium reds. Seventy or eighty dollars may seem like a lot to pay for a Chilean wine\u2014until you compare the best of them with similarly priced New World reds.\n\n# MALBEC RISING\n\nI hear that South America is coming into style.\n\n\u2014Elvis Costello\n\nArgentinean Malbec may not quite rank with the tango and the collected works of Jorge Luis Borges as a cultural landmark, but at this point I'd judge it a not-too-distant third\u2014particularly when it is served alongside the fire-grilled, grass-fed beef of the pampas. To experience this combination among the svelte, stylish, late-dining patrons of La Caba\u00f1a in Buenos Aires, or better yet at an _asado_ \u2014a traditional outdoor barbecue\u2014in the lean, limpid air of the high Andes, is to flirt with some kind of primordial carnivore bliss.\n\nWith its tragic, underachieving history and its malfunctioning political and economic institutions, Argentina is years behind neighboring Chile as a producer of world-class wines. But its natural endowments and its potential are probably greater. And while grape varieties like Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardon-nay thrive on the arid plateaus of the Andes' eastern flanks, Malbec\u2014unloved and almost forgotten in its homeland of southwestern France\u2014seems to have found its perfect adoptive home here. Not to mention its perfect foil in Argentinean beef.\n\nArgentina is a vegetarian's worst nightmare. Salads can be found in the fashionable restaurants of Buenos Aires, and good French- and Italian-style pastry is widely available, but, generally speaking, beef\u2014with a smattering of pork and lamb\u2014is what's for lunch and dinner. And lots of it. The fresh, grass-fed beef of the endless pampas is leaner, gamier, and chewier than the aged, corn-finished American product. For centuries, Argentines have washed it down with rustic, oxidized plonk, but in the past decade there has been an increasing emphasis on quality wines for the export market\u2014 the most exciting of which are undoubtedly old-vine Malbecs. The best of these spicy, voluptuous reds are made in small quantities, although they are easier to find in the States than high-quality grass-fed beef. And they harmonize brilliantly with a Black Angus sirloin or a USDA prime rib eye. Malbec was once widely grown in Bordeaux and is the main ingredient of the big, tannic, rustic wines of Cahors that enjoyed great popularity in Russia during the reign of Peter the Great but have been struggling to find an identity ever since. Sometime in the nineteenth century the grape made its way to Mendoza, roughly six hundred miles west of Buenos Aires, across the sweeping grasslands of the pampas. The province is crisscrossed with an elaborate network of canals, first developed by the Huarpe Indians, which cools the city and irrigates the surrounding vineyards. As they descend toward the plains, the lower slopes of the Andes foothills provide a series of microclimates that can be matched to the ripening characteristics of different grapes.\n\nAt roughly three thousand feet above sea level in the Mendoza region, Malbec seems to find its ideal home and achieve a complexity and richness that make it a candidate for one of the world's great wine types. Particularly in its youth, Mendoza Malbec tends to be a much friendlier, more cuddly beast than Cahors, and it is almost always rounder, richer, less astringent, and more complete than Cabernet Sauvignon from neighboring Andean vineyards. Not that you'd mistake it for Merlot, which is inevitably less spicy and tannic\u2014a waltz to Malbec's sultry tango.\n\nSo much for generalizations. A tasting of top Malbecs and Malbec blends that I attended at Terroir, a by-appointment-only Buenos Aires wine shop, revealed a multitude of styles, not to mention a wide range of quality, which suggests that Argentinean Malbec is a work in progress. The wines that scored highest were boutique wines crafted by transatlantic winemakers: the 2000 Ach\u00e1val Ferrer Finca Altamira Malbec, made from the fruit of eighty-year-old vines by Tuscan wine-maker Roberto Cipresso, and the 2000Yacochuya, crafted by the ubiquitous, genial genius Michel Rolland from similarly antique, high-altitude northern vineyards. The tiny production makes these wines more of an inspiration to their rivals than a regular libation for American drinkers.\n\nAlmost as impressive\u2014and widely available here\u2014are the top Malbecs from Catena Zapata and Terrazas de Los Andes, two of Mendoza's largest and most innovative wineries. Catena Zapata, which operates out of a high-tech, Mayan pyramid\u2014think I. M. Pei\u2014winery, introduced the world to the concept of luxury Mendoza Malbec in the early 1990s. Its 2000 Catena Alta Malbec is a worthy successor to previous vintages, a full-bodied, earthy spice box of a wine. The Mo\u00ebt Hennessy\u2013financed Terrazas de Los Andes began production in the mid-1990s, although its top bottling, the stunning, sexy Gran Malbec, comes from seventy-year-old vineyards that have managed to survive the frequent hailstorms plaguing the region. In partnership with Bordeaux's legendary Ch\u00e2teau Cheval-Blanc, Terrazas also produces a rich, complex, and polished blend of Malbec, Cabernet, and Petit Verdot\u2014 Cheval des Andes.\n\nVisiting Mendoza this past spring, bumping into Connecticut wine-store owners and French winemakers in the Park Hyatt, I couldn't help reflecting that the experience must have been a little like visiting the Napa Valley in the \u203270s, at the dawn of a major international wine scene. Not quite as sexy, perhaps, as watching Carlos Gardel revolutionize the tango in the Abasto Quarter of Buenos Aires in the \u203220s. But pretty exciting, nonetheless.\n\n# PERSONALITY TEST  \n _Julia's Vineyard_\n\nI have yet to meet the young lady in question, although by her mother's account she is a beautiful brunette, feisty and high-strung\u2014in the best possible way, naturally\u2014all of which seems appropriate for someone who has a Pinot Noir vineyard named after her. Seventeen-year-old Julia Jackson is the daughter of Barbara Banke and Jess Jackson, of Kendall-Jackson renown. I was fortunate enough to have dinner recently with her mother, her grandmother, and several of the men and women who make wines from the grapes of Julia's Vineyard, one of the oldest in Santa Barbara County and part of the Cambria estate, which was purchased by her parents in 1987.\n\nLocated some fifteen miles from the ocean, Julia's Vineyard sits on the Santa Maria Bench, which, along with the Santa Rita Hills to the south, has proved to be the coolest and choicest Pinot Noir real estate in Santa Barbara County. The bulk of the fruit from Julia's Vineyard goes into Cambria's Pinot Noir, making it the answer to the question \"Is there such a thing as a good, nationally distributed twenty dollar Pinot?\" The Jacksons also sell fruit from these prized old vines to smaller, artisanal producers, including Foxen, Silver, Hartley-Ostini (Hitching Post), and Lane Tanner. Tasting all these wines side by side at the Jackson family's estate just across the road from the vineyard, in the company of the winemakers, provided me with a number of lessons in winemaking, _terroir_ , and wine writing, as well as a surfeit of social and sensual stimulation.\n\nSeated to my right was hostess Barbara Banke, the guiding force behind Cambria; she reminds me much more of a first-growth Bordeaux\u2014Ch\u00e2teau Margaux, specifically\u2014than of a Pinot. A former lawyer who once argued in front of the U.S. Supreme Court, Banke is regal and intellectual, but also extremely warm and approachable (unlike, say, Latour). The Cambria Julia's Vineyard, served with a pumpkin risotto, seemed to me the most delicate and lacy of the 2002 Julia's Pinots, an observation that I have since confirmed in a blind tasting, although I might have been influenced that night by the soft-spoken aspect and gamine appearance of wine-maker Denise Shurtleff, who kept reminding me of a thirty-something Mia Farrow. By comparing Shurtleff to her wine, I realized, I was committing the crudest form of the imitative fallacy that afflicts wine writers: the tendency to equate wine-makers with their wines.\n\nBut, hell, my dinner companion Lane Tanner made it all but impossible to resist these easy analogies between wine and winemaker. \"My wine is basically the other woman,\" said the earthy, outspoken forty-something Tanner, whose Web site features a picture of her lying naked in a fermentation tank. \"It's definitely not the wife.\" Although I listened dutifully while Tanner explained that she picks earlier than the other Julia's vintners\u2014this would account for the bright tingle of acidity\u2014her description of her wine as \"the perfect mistress, someone you'd pick up in a bar,\" made a stronger impression than the technical stuff, and I know that when I drink her Pinots in the future, early picking and 23-point Brix sugar levels aren't what I will be thinking about.\n\nThe vintners of Foxen (Bill Wathen) and Hitching Post (Gray Hartley and Frank Ostini) were unable to attend the dinner, so my tasting of their wines was untainted by personal impressions. Yet I'm almost embarrassed to say, looking back on my notes, that I found both wines more \"masculine\" (in the stereotypical sense of the word) and structured than the Cambria and Tanner: a strong note of bacon in the former and a very leathery bouquet to the latter. Tanner, meanwhile, explained that she once lived with Dick Dor\u00e9, the coproprietor of Foxen Vineyard, who is now married to Jenny Williamson Dor\u00e9, seated on my right that night, who is Foxen's marketing director and who used to work for Cambria. And Tanner was once the winemaker for the Hitching Post, the restaurant that features so prominently in Alexander Payne's _Sideways_ , about which everyone was talking that night. Hitching Post also buys grapes from Julia's Vineyard. Got that?\n\nAs I listened to Tanner run through the professional and amorous partnerships and breakups of the Santa Maria and Santa Ynez valleys, my head was spinning. I sympathized with Benjamin Silver, the only male winemaker at the table that night (the Hitching Post boys were in New York for the premiere of _Sideways)_ , when he said that as a matter of principle he never dated anyone in the close-knit, not to say incestuous, valley wine community. The boyish thirty-three-year-old Silver, who lives in Santa Barbara proper, was clearly something of a pet here among the pioneer winemakers of Santa Maria. His Pinot was the darkest, ripest, and most potent of the evening; whatever happens in his love life, I predict a brilliant future for him as a winemaker.\n\nThe next morning, sitting on a hilltop, looking out over the blanket of fog that was gradually receding down the Santa Ynez Valley at about the same rate as the early morning fog in my head, I reflected on the lessons of the previous night. I knew I had discovered a great Pinot Noir terroir. All the wines had impressive structure and balance and shared a certain smoky quality. But the personal signatures of the wine-makers were at least as distinctive as those of the soil and climate, which is by no means a bad thing, particularly when the winemakers have such distinctive personalities.\n\n#  \n# HOW TO IMPRESS YOUR SOMMELIER,  \nPART ONE  \n _German Riesling_\n\nAnyone who has been to the movies in the last seventy years knows that the two stererotypes that represent fine-dining anxiety in America are the snotty ma\u00eetre d' and the snotty sommelier (pronounced some-el-yay). Assuming you get past the ma\u00eetre d', the guy with the silver ashtray around his neck is supposed to be a consumer guide, not a bully or a social arbiter. Waiters with a little bit of wine learning can be far more obnoxious than an experienced sommelier. Should you find yourself in a restaurant with an actual sommelier, chances are the wine list is serious. If you're having trouble getting over your fear of sommeliers, here are a few tips on how to make him think you are cool:\n\nIf sommeliers have a consistent point of snobbery, it's a slight disdain for or at least weariness with Chardonnay. Tease yours by asking about Austrian Rieslings. All sommeliers love Austrian Rieslings. Then, bring it on home. Ask him to recommend a German Riesling.\n\nDon't roll your eyes. Get over your Blue Nun\/Black Tower prejudice. I'd urge you to try German Riesling because it's delicious, but I fear you'll be more impressed if I tell you it's cutting-edge. That, after all, is what we want to know\u2014what's _now_ and happening. (Do you _really_ think clunky square-toed shoes make your feet look better than those with slimming, tapered toes? You just wear them because that's what fashion dictates, you slut.)\n\nYour sommelier knows that German Riesling in its semidry form currently represents the best white wine value and that it's the most food-friendly wine on the planet. The classic \u203204 vintage affords a great opportunity to get aquainted with it.\n\nLet's deal with the allegedly vexing problem of sweetness. Many relatively sophisticated drinkers insist that they only like dry white wines. But the fact is that a superripe, low-acid California Chardonnay imparts more sweetness on the palate than many German Rieslings, in which the residual sugar is balanced by a bracing jolt of acidity\u2014which reminds you, if you've ever had the experience, of inhaling a small electric eel. After years of going back and forth, the best German makers have learned to balance these two elements\u2014and while superdry _(trocken)_ Riesling continues to attract German winemakers playing against their own strengths, it can be mouth-puckeringly unpleasant.\n\nGet over your fear of residual sugar. A touch of sugar is the perfect complement to most Asian cuisines, especially those dishes with hot pepper. Dry whites turn nasty and bitter in the presence of lemongrass or sweet-and-sour sauce. Given the way we eat now, German Riesling is a far more useful food wine than white Burgundy. (German sweet dessert wines are glorious\u2014but that's another story.)\n\nConcentrate on the _Kabinetts, Sp\u00e4tlesen_ , and _Auslesen_ \u2014the middle three of the seven official categories of ripeness. _Kabinetts_ are light, refreshing, and low in alcohol and range from dry to semidry\u2014I especially like those from the Mosel region. _Sp\u00e4tlese_ grapes are picked later; the wines have more body and richness and are often slightly sweeter. Finally, the even riper, richer _Auslesen_ can also be drunk with your more robust starters or even your main course. Sweetness varies in these two categories, generally in inverse relation to the alcoholic strength listed on the label. A _Sp\u00e4tlese_ with 8 percent alcohol will have more residual sugar than one of 11 percent. But don't worry too much about it. Explore.\n\nOne of the reasons wine professionals love Riesling is that no grape (other than Pinot Noir) seems to have a greater ability to communicate the differences between individual vineyard sites. (The French call this _terroir.)_ Riesling is the carrier not just of its own grapey DNA but the signature of the soil, subsoil, and even bedrock in which it was raised. Germany's major wine regions present huge variations in geology, providing endless sources of study and tasting debate among well-lubricated professionals. But anyone with taste buds can easily detect, in various combinations, such fruit flavors as lemon, lime, green apple, grapefruit, apricot, and even pineapple in the glass\u2014the latter flavors more likely in the later-harvest _Sp\u00e4tlese_ and _Auslese._ But what makes German (as well as Austrian and Alsatian) Riesling profound, like great Chablis, are the permutations of minerality. All have a vibrating, zingy acidity that focuses the other flavors in the wine as well as in your food.\n\n_Kabinetts_ are excellent aperitifs. _Sp\u00e4tlesen_ and _Auslesen_ go well with a tremendous variety of food: most Asian food, white fish, pork, chicken, and almost anything in a cream-based sauce or cooked with fruit. (The Germans even drink them with beef.)\n\nNowhere except in Burgundy is the name on the bottle so important. The simplest way to be safe is to look at the back of the bottle for the names of importers Terry Thiese and Rudi Wiest. On the West Coast, Old Vine Imports represents some great growers. Some of my favorites include Christoffel, Schlossgut Diel, Donhoff, Gunderloch, Dr. Loosen, Fritz Haag, Lingenfelder, M\u00fcller-Catoir, Selbach-Oster, J. J. Pr\u00fcm, von Simmern, von Shleinitz, and Robert Weil. Or just ask your sommelier. He'll perk up, as you will when you take that first electric-shock sip.\n\n# NO MORE SWEET TALK, OR HOW TO  \nIMPRESS YOUR SOMMELIER, PART TWO  \n _Austrian Riesling_\n\nOne of the distinguishing characteristics that set wine professionals apart from the drinking public is a fondness for the Rieslings of Alsace, Germany, and Austria. At tribal gatherings the pros frequently bemoan the resistance of the punters to anything that comes in a tall, thin bottle. \"Whenever I notice someone ordering Riesling, I find that I end up talking to him,\" says John Slover, a sommelier at Cru, chef Shea Gallante's foodie and wine-geek mecca in Greenwich Village. When I dined there with British wine critic Jancis Robinson, I challenged her to pick a heroic white from a wine list that looks longer and thicker than my last novel; she eventually opted for an F. X. Pichler Riesling from Austria's Wachau district. For the past few years, Austrian Rieslings have been the hottest insider's secret in the wine game.\n\nIn the preceding chapter I declaimed the glories of German Riesling, but I have found that even those who remain resistant, and sugarphobic, almost always warm to the unique charms of the Austrian juice. Austrian Riesling is generally much drier and more full-bodied than its German counterpart, reflecting warmer weather, while slightly more racy and minerally than the Alsatian stuff. Another way to put it: Austrian Rieslings have great bone structure, but they also have flesh on their bones. The best examples have the precision and mystery of an early Charles Simic poem. _Purity and precision_ are two words that recur in tasting notes. Think of a samurai sword. Then imagine it simultaneously slicing a lime and a peach. Anyway, I did the other day when I tasted a \u203299 Hirtzberger.\n\nOne prominent critic detects \"stones, gravel, and underlying minerals\" in a 2000 Nigl Riesling. This splendid redundancy (gravel _is_ stone, dude) illustrates the signal feature of great Austrian Riesling: minerality. Tasters like Slover can parse out the traces of granite and gneiss that impart a smoky, tarry taste to a Wachau Riesling, or the limestone and loess underlying vineyards in nearby Kremstal. Any of us can detect the general note of slaty stoniness, which may remind some of drinking directly from a mountain spring.\n\nAs far as dry Riesling is concerned, there are three wine regions in eastern Austria that need concern us: the Wachau and the Kremstal, where the best vineyards rise above the Danube River, and the Kamptal, farther north along the river Kamp. Wachau is the most celebrated region for Austrian whites, with vineyards as steep and picturesque as those of C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie and the Mosel-Saar-Ruwer. It's home to the Big Four: F. X. Pichler, Hirtzberger, Prager, and Emmerich Knoll. Close on their heels are Alzinger, Jamek, and Rudi Pichler. Also located here is one of the world's few great wine cooperatives, Freie Weing\u00e4rtner Wachau, whose excellent wines are a relative bargain.\n\nWachau has its own classification system of ripeness. The lightest, lowest-alcohol wines are called _Steinfeder. Federspiel_ is riper and richer. The highest classification, _Smaragd_ , named after a local emerald-green lizard, is roughly equivalent to a German _Sp\u00e4tlese; Smaragds_ are full-bodied, rich, and powerful, and can stand up to all manner of spicy dishes and oily fishes.\n\nThe Kremstal, to the east of Wachau, also produces some brilliant wines. The soils here are more limestone and clay, as opposed to the gneiss and granite that underlie the hillside vineyards of Wachau. Nigl and Salomon are my favorite producers. The Kamptal region, best known for its Gr\u00fcner Veltliners, also produces great Rieslings\u2014especially those from Br\u00fcndlmayer, Hiedler, and Hirsch. Sadly, there is no universally observed classification system that I can discern in these two regions\u2014generally the best wines are named for single vineyards, like the great Z\u00f6binger Heiligenstein, in Kamptal. Alcohol content is a good guide to body and power\u2014not that you will be able to determine this from a wine list. The words _alte reben_ \u2014 \"old vines\"\u2014are probably a good sign. And once in a while you will see the German designations of ripeness\u2014 _Kabinett, Sp\u00e4tlese, Auslese_ , etc.\u2014on a bottle.\n\nThe easiest system to follow is to seek out the wines of importers Vin Divino and Terry Theise, the latter a self-described Riesling \"wacko\" (his company motto is \"We spit so you can swallow\"). Most of the makers listed above also produce fine Gr\u00fcner Veltliners, Austria's unique peppery contribution to the wine world. Theise informs me that the Austrians tend to start a meal with Riesling and move on to Gr\u00fcner. He believes that German Riesling is more compatible with the sweeter dishes of the \"modern eclectic multiculti\" restaurants. But many new-wave chefs and sommeliers declaim the versatility of the drier Austrian product, and let's face it, some of you will never be converted to the German team.\n\nAustrian Riesling is a natural with the Austrian-influenced food at David Bouley's Danube in New York; it can also get down with many spicier Latin and Asian fusion dishes. \"It's the king of wines,\" says chef Jonathan Waxman, who goes so far as to recommend it with slow-cooked spring lamb. \"It can go the distance from white wine food to red wine food.\" The worst thing I can say about Austrian Riesling is that it doesn't come cheap. A great bottle from F. X. Pichler can cost as much as seventy-five dollars. But you can catch the buzz with examples in the twenty-dollar range from Dom\u00e4ne Wachau or Salomon. The qualitative distance between the good and the great is relatively short. Impress your sommelier or your wine merchant by calling out for a Wachau or a Kamptal Riesling. And prepare to impress yourself.\n\n# THE SEMI-OBSCURE TREASURES OF ALSACE\n\nA few years ago I wrote about the impossibility of finding a wine to compliment asparagus. That was before I went to Alsace and before I had lunch with Olivier Humbrecht and his Scottish born wife, Margaret, in the garden of the Domaine Zind-Humbrecht. Margaret, who looks quite a bit like T\u00e9a Leoni, apologized for the simplicity of the lunch, which consisted of just-picked local white asparagus and speck\u2014a light, prosciutto-like ham that is a local delicacy\u2014while Olivier, who is big enough to create his own weather, opened a couple bottles of 1990 Zind-Humbrecht Muscat (which looked, in his massive paws, like half bottles). Apparently, everyone in Alsace knows what I was about to discover\u2014that asparagus and Alsatian Muscat are boon companions. And most wine critics and sommeliers know that Alsatian white wines are more versatile and food-friendly than those of any other wine region in the world, even if they haven't yet convinced the average American wine drinker of this fact.\n\nAlsace has always had a bit of an identity problem, sitting as it does on the border of France and Germany, which have traded it back and forth for centuries. It is in many ways a world unto itself, a north-south ribbon of land studded with medieval villages straight out of Grimm's fairy tales, separated from France by the Vosges Mountains and from Germany by the Rhine River. It the only major wine region in France where wines are labeled by grape varietal\u2014the most important of which are Riesling, Gew\u00fcrztraminer, Pinot Gris, Pinot Blanc, and Muscat.\n\nOceans of plonk are produced here for the supermarkets of Europe, but several dozen small domaines turn out complex, site-specific wines that can age for decades. Connoisseurs argue late into the night about the relative merits of Ostertag, Kreydenweiss, Boxler, Beyer, Dirler, Barm\u00e8s Buecher, Trim-bach, Hugel, Marcel Deiss, and Schlumberger. All of these domaines produce great wines. As for me, let's just say I got goose bumps when I turned in the driveway of Zind-Humbrecht, on the outskirts of the little town of Turckheim.\n\nZind-Humbrecht is a good place to initiate a love affair with Alsatian wines, because it makes virtually every type\u2014 thirty-five different cuv\u00e9es in the \u203299 vintage\u2014almost half of which is exported to these shores. It's also a showcase for artisinal, natural winemaking; although it doesn't flaunt the fact, Zind-Humbrecht, like several of its neighbors\u2014including pioneers Barm\u00e8s Buecher and Ostertag\u2014strictly adheres to biodynamic principles of viticulture, a radical form of organic farming. Just in case you like the idea of a chemical-free wine that's been nurtured with the ash of butterfly wings.\n\nOlivier Humbrecht is a twelfth-generation winegrower; in 1947 his father, L\u00e9onard Humbrecht, stopped selling grapes to the local cooperative and started buying more vineyards and making his own wines. After a stint in the army and a year in London, where he met his wife, Margaret, at a bus stop on the Kings Road, Olivier returned to the family business, inheriting more than fifty different vineyards in Alsace. Like an indulgent parent, Olivier sees his job as standing back and letting those plots speak for themselves. I could name six Sonoma Chardonnay makers whose wines taste more similar to one another than do Humbrecht's half dozen cuv\u00e9es of Riesling, each expressing the soil of its vineyard, fermented by its own local yeasts.\n\n\"In twenty years they will make a standardized Chardonnay everywhere,\" Olivier complained, the only time I saw him scowl in five hours. \"In another twenty years there will only be two strains of yeast.\" Except, presumably, in Alsace. Chardonnay is against the law here. Riesling, which can age for decades, is considered by many to be the most noble variety in Alsace; Alsatian Riesling tends to be a little richer and fatter than its German counterparts. It's also, many of us believe, among the most versatile food wines in the world; though, of course, some pairings are more sublime than others. With his Riesling Herrenweg Turckheim Olivier likes Cantonese food and dim sum; he recommends Gew\u00fcrztraminer for Vietnamese and Thai food. Essentially unique to Alsace, Gew\u00fcrztraminer is a rich, heady, and perfumey grape that overwhelms some palates; on the other hand, it can complement powerful flavors like curry and saffron. The third noble grape variety of Alsace is Pinot Gris\u2014which to me often tastes like a smoky cousin of Riesling and which both Olivier and his neighbor Andr\u00e9 Ostertag recommend as a companion to Peking duck. (Pinot Blanc, a much lighter wine, is better suited to shellfish.)\n\nThe three noble varietals are usually fermented till they are relatively dry. However, in certain years good weather allows growers with well-exposed vineyards to leave selected grapes on the vines to produce special Vendange Tardives\u2014 late-harvest\u2014wines, which have a higher level of ripeness and sugar. These rich wines fall somewhere between dry and dessert wines. A VT Pinot Gris is excellent with foie gras, less cloying than the average Sauternes, while a VT Gew\u00fcrztraminer is the perfect companion for Muenster cheese. Every few years the weather suits the production of sublime, extremely late harvest dessert wines called S\u00e9lections de Grains Nobles (SGN). These sweet wines will evolve for decades. As for the drier wines\u2014I'm just starting to drink my \u203299s, although they were perfectly delicious on release. Last night I popped a \u203296 Trimbach Gew\u00fcrztraminer Cuv\u00e9e des Seigneurs de Ribeaupierre, which had a fine dialogue with my Szechuan garlic shrimp.\n\n# THE DISCREET CHARMS OF OLD-STYLE RIOJA\n\nDon't get me wrong, I have nothing against fruit. But I sometimes get tired of all this superextracted, alcoholic grape juice that seems like it ought to be served on toast rather than in a glass, and that tastes like it doesn't come from anywhere in particular. These are wines that somehow remind me of the blind date I had recently with a woman exactly half my age. Our conversation had lots of italics and exclamation marks and very few parentheses or semicolons. Much as I like some of the bold new postmodern Riojas from producers like Artadi, Allende, and Roda, I sometimes crave the sepia tones of old-school Rioja. Todd Hess, wine director for Sam's Wine & Spirits in Chicago, is one of many who appreciate these discreet charms: \"Old traditional Rioja tastes like old Burgundy should taste but seldom does\u2014and for a lot less money.\"\n\nWhat we now think of as the old style in Rioja was created in the 1850s, when French wine brokers arrived in Spain after o\u00efdium and, later, phylloxera had devastated their native vineyards. The French introduced oak-barrel aging to the region, which had previously specialized in light, fruity, short-lived plonk. Two nobles, the Marqu\u00e9s de Murrieta and the Marqu\u00e9s de Riscal, helped develop and market this Bordeaux-style Rioja. (Both bodegas are still flourishing.) The Riojans took to barrel aging the way the Italians took to noodles, substituting American for French oak and developing an official hierarchy that culminates with _reserva_ (at least twelve months in oak, two years in the bottle) and _gran reserva_ (at least twenty-four months in oak and three years in the bottle). _Crianzas_ , released just two years after vintage, are apt to have a strawberry-vanilla freshness, whereas the _reservas_ and _gran reservas_ will exhibit the mellow, secondary flavors associated with age\u2014flavors evocative of autumn rather than summer. And those with bottle age can suggest practically the entire spice rack, not to mention the cigar box and the tack room. Somehow you get the idea that this is how red wine used to taste.\n\nIf the old school had a central campus, it would be a series of buildings clustered around the railroad tracks at the edge of the medieval town of Haro, including the bodegas Muga and L\u00f3pez de Heredia. Both wineries keep several coopers employed year-round, making and repairing barrels and maintaining the huge _tinas_ \u2014the swimming-pool-sized oak vats in which the wine is fermented and stored; old oak doesn't impart a woody flavor to wine, and both wineries believe it's superior to stainless steel. Both houses are also run by the direct descendants of their founders. If some evil genie told me I could drink just one producer's Rioja from now on, I would certainly choose Muga. In addition to its old-school wines, notably the _gran reserva_ , which spends three years in old American oak barrels, Muga does make a more modern expression of Rioja with French oak under the Torre Muga label, including a new postmodern luxury cuv\u00e9e called Aro. Not so L\u00f3pez de Heredia, the hardest-core reactionaries of Rioja, makers of Vi\u00f1a Tondonia.\n\nTondonia is one of those secret passwords whereby serious wine wonks recognize their own kind. (Impress your sommelier, or put him on the defensive, by asking for it.) The winery was founded in 1877, and apparently very little has changed in terms of winemaking since. The Tondonia vineyard is beautifully situated on a high south-facing plateau outside Haro. For reasons not entirely clear to me, the winery complex resembles a Swiss or Bavarian village. Inside, it resembles the set of a low-budget horror movie, with ancient and vaguely sinister-looking machinery, huge blackened _tinas_ , and a fluffy black mold blanketing almost everything. Some of the vats are as old as the winery itself, and pixieish Mar\u00eda Jos\u00e9 L\u00f3pez de Heredia, great-granddaughter of the founder, is convinced that the petrified sediments and natural yeasts in the _tinas_ are an important part of the distinct flavor profile of the wines.\n\nFar below the fermentation and storage vats, in a series of tunnels carved out of the limestone, tens of thousands of bottles dating from the 1920s slumber beneath the pillowy mold. \"The spiders eat the cork flies,\" L\u00f3pez de Heredia explains cheerfully as I swipe a vast cobweb off my face. Any minute now, I feel certain, Vincent Price is going to jump out at me. The sense of eeriness is gradually dispelled, replaced by a mounting sense of exhilaration and wonder as L\u00f3pez de Heredia uncorks bottles in the subterranean tasting room. I start with, of all things, a 1995 ros\u00e9\u2014this being her idea of a young wine\u2014and move on to the \u203281 Gran Reserva Blanco, made mostly from the indigenous white grape called Viura, which tastes fresh and lively for its age. The tasting of reds begins with the ethereal \u203285 Tondonia, which has an amazing nose of cinnamon, clove, leather, tobacco\u2014the whole spice box. While this may sound like one of those annoying instances where you have to listen to a wine writer tease you with descriptions of stuff you will never see or taste, the fact is that all of these wines have been recently released. In this regard, L\u00f3pez de Heredia reminds me of Orson Welles's embarrassing ad for Paul Masson: \"We sell no wine before its time.\"\n\nAcross the street, Muga is releasing its _gran reservas_ on a slightly more accelerated schedule. You can find the \u203295 and the \u203296 on retailers' shelves; both have the kind of spicy complexity that develops only with age and both taste kind of like fruitcake, only much better. And if you are lucky, you may find older vintages. A \u203276 _gran reserva_ that I shared with the bearish, gregarious thirty-year-old Juan Muga at a restaurant in Haro lingers in my memory as one of the best old Burgundies I never drank. Marqu\u00e9s de Riscal, Marqu\u00e9s de Murr\u00edeta, and Bodegas Montecillo are also good sources of traditional Rioja. Next time you're feeling palate fatigue from trying to chew the latest superextracted New World Merlot, you might consider checking out the subtle and delicate charms of an old _gran reserva._\n\n# THE MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY OF  \nSAGRANTINO DI MONTEFALCO\n\nIf you haven't heard of Sagrantino di Montefalco you're in excellent company. \"I've had sommeliers from Italy come into the restaurant who don't know about these wines,\" says Roberto Paris, the urbane, soft-spoken manager and sommelier of Il Buco, in New York's East Village. Paris had the advantage of being born a few miles from the town of Montefalco, about halfway between Perugia and Spoleta in Umbria. \"The very first bottled wine I ever drank was a Sagrantino,\" he says, wincing at the memory. \"It was terrible.\"\n\nA few years ago, when Paris poured me my first Sagrantino, a \u203295 Paolo Bea, I had a very different reaction. I felt kind of like Keats encountering Chapman's Homer. Or like I did when I first encountered the work of Umbrian painter Piero della Francesca, which was so singular and weird compared to that of his Roman and Florentine contemporaries. The Bea was a dark beauty in a homemade dress\u2014I was thinking of Michael Corleone\/Al Pacino's smoldering, rustic Sicilian bride in _The Godfather._ In an era when Italian wines were starting to taste like Napa wines, this was a wine with soul.\n\nWhen I went home that night and tried to learn more, my reference library wasn't much help. _The Oxford Companion toWine_ devoted an uncharacteristically uninformative inch of column space to the Sagrantino grape, noting that Sagrantino di Montefalco received its DOCG status only in the mid-1990s. (It was 1992, actually.) Oz Clarke's _New Wine Atlas_ covers Umbria in a single paragraph. Paolo Bea wasn't even listed in _Gamberro Rosso_ , the Italian wine bible, although three other makers of the mysterious Sagrantino di Montefalco had entries.\n\nI started looking for Sagrantino on Italian wine lists here in New York and discovered a small, diverse range of wines, most of them fleshy, powerful, bitter, and spicy. Sometimes I was reminded of Syrah, or even Petite Sirah. Sagrantino is fatter, richer, and more tannic than Sangiovese, the dominant grape in neighboring Tuscany. The ideal Sagrantino, to me, tastes like blackberries and bitter chocolate dusted with cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove.\n\n\"The origin of the grape is very mysterious,\" Paris told me recently. \"One theory is that the Crusaders brought it back from the Middle East.\" Presumably, if it were of Roman or Etruscan origin it would have been disseminated more widely. For whatever reason, the cultivation of Sagrantino is limited to a tiny area around the town of Montefalco. Until recently most of the grapes were dried to produce a sweet _passito; a_ small fraction was used to make communion wine for the _sacgramenti._ The recorded history of the dry red begins in 1971, when Arnaldo Caprai founded his winery. Caprai is the pioneer who essentially created Sagrantino di Montefalco as we know it\u2014if we know it. The relative obscurity of Montefalco is partly a function of small production; as far as I can tell, there are only ten or twelve serious producers, and most of them are making no more than a couple thousand cases. According to Paris, the other problem\u2014this is Italy, after all\u2014 is that \"squabbling prevents them from working together.\"\n\nCaprai is the only producer turning out enough wine to make much of an impact on the marketplace, and the only one who has really taken a scientific approach, experimenting with clones and rootstock. More to the point, the wines are superb and, unlike those of his neighbors, somewhat consistent in character; the funky wines of Paolo Bea, Caprai's rival for the esteem of Sagrantino buffs, can taste very different not only from vintage to vintage but even from bottle to bottle. I imagine him stomping the grapes with his feet and bottling by hand\u2014and I prefer to retain those images rather than calling his importer, Neal Rosenthal, to get the actual facts. In matters of the heart, and of the lower appetities, mystery can often be more stimulating than knowledge.\n\nOne thing I can swear to: Bea doesn't use new oak barriques, which is one of the reasons his wines are so je ne sais quoi. Other producers are doing so, and while new oak can round out the rough edges of Sagrantino, it can also, in the wrong hands, make them taste dangerously similar to Tuscan Cabernet or Australian Shiraz. Such is the case with C\u00f2lpetrone, which regularly gets the top three-glass award from _Gambero Rosso_ (which, scandalously, as of 2005 still has no listing for Bea) and tastes to me like a good Cabernet from, say Stellenbosch, South Africa. Scacciadiavoli switched to new barriques with the \u203298 vintage without losing too much funky Sagrantino soul.\n\nThis is supposed to be the part of the essay where I tell you what a great value these obscure wines are. Sorry. A good Sagrantino costs more than a famous Chianti, if less than a famous Napa Cabernet. The most reasonable Sagrantino right now is Antonelli, not to be confused with the giant Florentine firm of Antinori. But the big firms are getting into the area\u2014recently the Cecchi family from Tuscany bought Tenuta Alzatura, in Montefalco.\n\nVintage conditions in Montefalco are usually similar to those in nearby Chianti. Some producers are raising prices in the wake of several good vintages and the growing cult status of the wines, not to mention the sickening decline of the dollar relative to the euro. Frankly, I'm ambivalent about helping to spread the word and thereby increase the demand\u2014but, hey, that's my job. Just try not to tell too many of your friends.\n\n#  \n# OEDIPUS AT HERMITAGE  \n _Michel Chapoutier_\n\nMichel Chapoutier has a quick answer for one of the thorniest food-and-wine-pairing questions ever: what to drink with asparagus. \"The perfect match for asparagus is my competitors' wines,\" he says. The point is that asparagus tends to make wine taste metallic and hollow, and this little joke seems to me to illustrate not only Chapoutier's keen and dry sense of humor, but also his fierce competitive spirit. Opinionated and driven, he's an inspiring and controversial figure in the world of wine. Even his pronounced limp is a manifestation of his willfulness: he walked around for two months on a broken leg before finally going to the doctor, where an X-ray revealed four different fractures. But though he needs a cane to get around now, he seems anything but debilitated; I found myself at times almost running to keep up with him as he bounced around the winery and down the sidewalk of Tain l'Hermitage.\n\nWhile some writers have invoked Napoleon in describing the diminutive and fiercely ambitious wine baron, I couldn't help thinking of Oedipus as Chapoutier described taking control of the family domaine from his father, \"a lazy, violent man\" who belittled his youngest son's capacities and was an indifferent caretaker of the extensive vineyards he inherited in the northern Rh\u00f4ne\u2014most notably on the venerable hill of Hermitage, a terroir whose reputation in the nineteenth century was as celebrated as that of Bordeaux. We sat on the porch of his sprawling farmhouse perched on a ridge high above the Rh\u00f4ne, and Chapoutier's anger flared and then faded as he sipped a glass of Trimbach Clos Sainte-Hune Riesling, periodically glancing over at his wife, Corrine, a transplant from Basque country; he met her when he was shopping for an engagement present for his fianc\u00e9e.\n\nThe Chapoutier family arrived in Tain l'Hermitage, in the Rh\u00f4ne Valley, two hundred years ago. They gradually accumulated some five hundred acres of vineyards up and down the valley while establishing a negotiant business in which they bought grapes from other growers and vinified them. The reputation of the house languished under the direction of Michel's father; Michel returned home after oenology school and internships at several California estates to discover the business in a shambles. He took over the winemaking and in 1990, with the help of his American importer, bought the company from his grandfather. (His older brother Marc, who ran the business side, has since been demoted.) Chapoutier consulted with winemakers G\u00e9rard Chave in Hermitage and Marcel Guigal in nearby C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie, who introduced the use of new oak barrels in the cellar and lowered yields in the vineyards. Like Guigal, Chapoutier stopped filtering his wines on the principle that it stripped them of character. \"Filtering wine,\" he says, \"is like screwing with a condom.\" (He likes sexual metaphors; when one of his guests struggles to identify the components of a wine's bouquet in the tasting room he urges him to relax and just enjoy the wine. \"If you think about it too much you can kill it. The brain is a pleasure killer. You don't need to be a gynecologist to make love.\")\n\nChapoutier went way further than his mentors in his approach to viticulture, virtually banning the use of sprays and chemicals and adopting biodynamics, the radical system of organic farming based on the teachings of Rudolf Steiner. \"Biodynamics,\" Chapoutier explains, \"is homeopathy applied to plants.\" While a number of small producers in Alsace and Burgundy have adopted the system, which is based in part on following lunar cycles, Chapoutier is perhaps the biggest and the most vocal proponent of them all.\n\nBeginning with the strong 1989 vintage, the results of Michel's stewardship were dramatic. In 1996, Robert Parker wrote, \"I have never witnessed a more significant jump in quality and change in winemaking philosophy than what has occurred in the Chapoutier cellars since the 1989 vintage.\" Chapoutier's single-vineyard estate wines (those from his own vineyards, as opposed to those he makes from purchased grapes) are among the most sought-after wines of the Rh\u00f4ne, and the exuberant, hypomanic five-foot-two Michel has become a towering figure in the wine world. Along with his neighbor Gerard Chave, he has helped to reestablish the reputation of Hermitage, a domelike hill best known for its powerful and long-lasting Syrah-based reds, although I find myself most in awe of Chapoutier's white Hermitages, made from Marsanne grapes, wines that are dominated by a striking mineral quality. They don't taste like any other white wines in the world, which to Michel is the whole point of biodynamics\u2014to let the site and the soil speak for itself. \"Hermitage was first known for its white wine,\" Chapoutier says\u2014a claim I haven't been able to corroborate. But no matter. His single-vineyard red and white Hermitages are stunning, powerful, and earthy wines, even better now that he has dialed back a little on his use of new oak. Of his winemaking evolution he says, \"I used to be able to make noise, but now I make music.\"\n\nChapoutier also makes two superb C\u00f4te-R\u00f4ties from \"the roasted slopes\" north of Hermitage, and some of the best wines from the less exalted appellations of Saint-Joseph and Crozes-Hermitage, which are far more affordable than the Hermitages, which can sell for as much as three hundred dollars. And his Ch\u00e2teauneuf-du-Pape, Barbe Rac, made from hundred-year-old Grenache, is usually one of the best. All of these wines are made in fairly small quantities; in recent years he has purchased vineyard land in Aix-en-Provence and in Banyuls, and he now has two different winemaking projects in Australia. \"I'm a soil discoverer,\" he says. He's been called better\u2014and worse. Somehow I don't see him slowing down anytime soon, this whirling dervish who seems driven as much by passion as by his demons.\n\n# GHETTO BOYS  \n _Greg Brewer and Steve Clifton Get Radical_\n\nThe Brewer-Clifton winery is unprepossessing, to say the least\u2014located in an aluminum-sided warehouse in a small industrial park at the edge of Lompoc, California, a town best known for its prison. You definitely didn't see it in _Sideways_ , Alexander Payne's movie set in the more picturesque stretches of the Santa Barbara County wine country. Call me perverse, or postmodern, but after all these years of visiting hypertrophied, gated ch\u00e2teaus in Bordeaux and Napa, I actually find Brewer-Clifton kind of romantic. The warehouse complex also includes ten other wineries and is affectionately known among its denizens as the \"wine ghetto.\" Three decades after Richard Sanford and Michael Benedict proved the area's potential for Burgundian varieties, Steve Clifton, Greg Brewer, and other landless overachievers are working in rented sheds and warehouses to push the limits with radical new stylings of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay.\n\nBefore he caught the wine bug, Brewer was a professor of French at the University of California at Santa Barbara; Clifton played guitar in a rock band and was part owner of a nightclub in Laguna Beach. Brewer, who is built like a greyhound, thanks in part to a fanatic cycling regimen, is the kind of guy who wakes up at three in the morning to check on his daughters and then his vats. Clifton, who looks like a younger version of _CSI_ star William Petersen and likes to surf, is liable to be climbing into bed at about that time\u2014or so I imagine on the basis of a couple of nights I spent with him over the past few years, including a chance encounter in Friuli, Italy, that lasted about nine hours. This Apollonian\/Dionysian contrast is reflected in the wines, which are almost paradoxical in their juxtaposition of ripeness and acidity, of voluptuousness and bone structure\u2014in other words, wines that speak French but also know how to shake their booty on the dance floor.\n\nWhen I arrived in the middle of harvest last year, both Brewer and Clifton were hopping between tightly packed tanks and barrels to the rhythm of a loud drum-and-bass beat, courtesy of a CD mixed by Clifton's wife, Crystal, the air thick with the heady funk of fermenting Pinot Noir grapes. Their wine ghetto neighbor Kris Curran, who makes a hot new Pinot called Sea Smoke, stopped by to ask if she could borrow some red wax. (Wax?) Yup, the boys have wax; they use it to hand-seal the corks. Clifton pours me a glass of their Santa Rosa Chardonnay\u2014which starts out deceptively fleshy and round, then zaps me awake with a towel snap of acidity\u2014 and explains that the Santa Ynez Valley, with its east-west orientation funneling Pacific air inland, \"is a very extreme place; there's some crazy fruit grown here, and you gotta go for it.\"\n\nGo for it they do\u2014the Brewer-Clifton wines are controversial, and extreme. The duo first met at a Rotary Club tasting in Goleta when they were both working for other wineries. Both dreamed about how they would push the limits if they could make their own wine, and that's just what they've done now that they're on their own. One extreme practice: whole-cluster fermenting for Pinot\u2014i.e., leaving in all the stems, since stems can contribute a green taste, which they believe gives the Pinots additional texture. The Brewer-Clifton grapes come from steep, cool-weather sites, and only a third of the crop is mellowed in new oak before being blended with the rest, which may partly account for the wine's vibrancy.\n\nClifton drives me east from Lompoc to view some of Brewer-Clifton's sources, the valley getting warmer\u2014as much as a degree warmer per mile, he says. East of the kitschy town of Solvang it's more than warm enough to grow Syrah and even Cabernet, but it's the cool, fog-drenched Santa Rita Hills, between Lompoc and Buellton, that are ideal for the Burgundian varietals. The Chards and Pinots of this region usually have greater natural acidity than their north coast counterparts. None has more zing, more precision and tension, than Brewer-Clifton's. Lovers of fat, buttery Chardon-nays and voluptuous Pinots may find them too high-strung.\n\nClifton points out Ashley's Vineyard, owned by Fess Parker, of Davy Crockett renown, from which Brewer-Clifton purchases Chardonnay and Pinot grapes. On the other side of the highway is the mustard-yellow, Tuscan-style winery of Melville Vineyards, where Brewer is the winemaker and from which the dynamic duo also purchase grapes for their own label. Fortunately, for those who love the Brewer-Clifton style, Melville's Pinots and Chardonnays are made in slightly larger quantities.\n\nAs a winemaker, Brewer likes to compare himself to a sushi chef: he's a minimalist who wants to let the grapes and the vineyard express themselves without interference. Whether consciously or unconsciously, the former professor seems to be echoing Flaubert when he says, \"I want to be invisible, I want to get out of the way, I don't want a stylistic stamp.\" The most radical expression of this philosophy is a Melville Chardon-nay called Inox, which gets no oak and doesn't undergo malolactic fermentation\u2014the secondary fermentation that creates that familiar buttery taste. Naked Santa Rita Chardonnay, as it were.\n\n\"We want to show provenance,\" Clifton says. The twelve single-vineyard Brewer-Clifton whites and reds \"are treated exactly the same, so that what comes through is the vineyard.\" You'd never mistake their Sweeney Canyon Chardon-nay for their Mount Carmel Chardonnay, which comes from a steep hillside dominated by an eerie, unfinished convent overlooking the famous Sanford & Benedict Vineyard. Nor, once you have tasted them a few times, are you likely to mistake Brewer-Clifton's wines for anybody else's.\n\n# JILTED LOVER  \n _Auberon Waugh_\n\nNovelist Evelyn Waugh, in his fiction and correspondence, provided us with some fine observations on wine and its enjoyment, but perhaps his greatest service to the world of wine was to sire Auberon Waugh. Best known as a novelist, columnist, book reviewer, and curmudgeon, Auberon Waugh wrote a wine column for _Tatler_ and later for _Harpers & Queen._ His vinous writing is collected in _Waugh on Wine_ , which, page for page, is the liveliest and most pungent wine writing of the century. Waugh called himself \"a practitioner of the vituperative arts\"; an article he wrote about Islam incited an angry mob to burn down the British council building in Rawalpindi. He believed that wine writing should be no less extravagant and intemperate than political commentary.\n\n\"The purpose of the aperitif is definitely not to make one drunk,\" he says of the first drink of the day. \"This should come with the wine, or, failing that, with the port and other delights afterward.\" This passage displays Waugh's rhetorical powers in all their glory, the first sentence misleading us into imagining that Waugh has gone Methodist or politically correct on us, the second putting that idea to rest with a right jab and a quick left hook. This is called humor, for those of you who have been reading too many wine publications.\n\n\"Wine writing should be camped up,\" he wrote in one essay. \"The writer should never like a wine, he should be in love with it; never find a wine disappointing but identify it as a mortal enemy, an attempt to poison him. Bizarre and improbable side tastes should be proclaimed: mushrooms, rotting wood, black treacle, burned pencils, condensed milk, sewage, the smell of French railway stations or ladies' underwear.\"\n\nHe made good on this pledge. \"A tremendous amount of unnecessary suffering goes on under the name of liebfraumilch,\" he declared. \"Filthy\" and \"disgusting\" were his favorite descriptors. As the head of a wine club, he once proclaimed an offering \"anal,\" and was delighted to report that it immediately sold out, a fact that, he felt, said a lot about his countrymen. In a _Tatler_ column, he described his cousin's house wine as a drink of \"stupendous horror... the foul beverage itself tasted of vinegar, blue ink, and curry powder.\" Not content with this, he said that it reminded him \"of a bunch of dead chrysanthemums on the grave of a stillborn West Indian baby,\" a remark that got him fired from _Tatler._ (He explained to the press council, who called him up on charges of racism, that it was the curry taste that suggested the image.)\n\nBron, as everyone called him, was more vivid in insult than in praise, but in his wine writing, unlike his literary criticism, he was always looking for love. He described red Bandol as \"a beautiful, swarthy, scorched-earth red, which improves with keeping.\" He could wax rapturous about Condrieu and Ch\u00e2teauneuf-du-Pape. His first love was Burgundy or, rather, a swarthy beverage of that name that he remembered from his father's cellar. He called himself a \"jilted lover of red burgundy.\" In his search for this mythical beverage of bygone country house dinners, he resembled Gatsby in his quest for Daisy Buchanan. Anyone reading Waugh's description of these old Burgundies would imagine he was describing Ch\u00e2teauneuf-du-Papes, and in a sense he was; until the 1930s, Burgundy was regularly beefed up with ripe, two-fisted juice from the Rh\u00f4ne and the Midi. And, naturally, upper-class curmudgeon that he was, he loved port.\n\nBron's snobbery was tempered by his maniacal thrift\u2014he liked nothing better than a bargain, a cheap Spanish Cabernet or an Italian Merlot that outperformed the great growths of Bordeaux. In fact, what seemed to drive him as an oenophile was the quest for inexpensive substitutes for the wines of Burgundy and Bordeaux. Although he blamed rich Americans for the rising prices of these treasures, and for many of the ills of civilization, he eventually became a fan of Napa Valley Cabernets.\n\nWhen Bron died in 2001, the vast outpouring of affection in the English press was puzzling to many who had never met him. He had an extraordinarily diverse and devoted army of friends, and they invariably commented on the disparity between his public and private personae. In person his wit was gentle and self-deprecating; he would sooner have drunk liebfraumilch all night than offend a dinner companion. Having once been the target of his satire in print, I was still stinging when I met him at a _Private Eye_ luncheon in London a few months later. By the end of lunch I was practically apologizing for having written the book that had elicited his parody.\n\nAnd I subsequently shared several meals and many bottles of wine with him. At dinner parties, he was invariably polite, appreciative, and vague about the host's wine. He was far more specific, and pungent, in _Waugh on Wine_ , which lovers of the language and the grape should keep at their bedside, to remind us that wine is a subject to inspire passion and polemic.\n\n# THE OBSESSIVE  \n _Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza_\n\nIn eight years of writing about wine, I've met more than my share of obsessive perfectionists\u2014Angelo Gaja, Helen Turley, and Michel Chapoutier spring immediately to mind. But I've never met anyone more fanatic in his attention to detail than Fernando Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza of Rioja. Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza has the shrewd expression of a wheeler-dealer who made his living buying and selling small plots of vineyard land from his neighbors until he finally got hooked and decided to keep the best vineyards for himself and start a winery. He is solidly constructed along the lines of a young Raymond Burr, having the build of a man who possibly enjoys food more than he enjoys exercise\u2014and who sensibly insists that his wines be tasted with food. At the Asador Alameda, in the town of Fuenmayor, he pours five vintages to accompany a multi-course orgy that culminates with the entrec\u00f4te of a twenty-four-year-old cow\u2014the owner actually shows us the cow's birth certificate. \"Shall we order another one?\" Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza asks me, after we polish off the first platter of meat. _\"Si,\"_ I say. The rare, charred, geriatric beef is possibly the most flavorful I've ever eaten, and there's more wine to go with it. Each vintage is completely distinct\u2014the ethereal 2000 almost Burgundian, the powerful 2001 more like a Ch\u00e2teauneuf; they show different proportions of _a_ spice rack that includes clove, sage, cinnamon, and balsam.\n\nEveryone I talked to in Rioja told me to visit Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza despite the fact that he doesn't like anyone else's wines very much. In fact, he insists he has only recently started to like his own wine, the first vintage of which was produced in 1991; he'll admit he likes Latour in a good year, and Vega Sicilia, the venerable property in Ribera del Duero.\n\nOnce or twice I've heard other winemakers refer to the fact that the lower third of the grape bunch, the pointy part, sometimes called the foot, is slightly less mature than the upper part, which gets more sun. But until I visited Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza, I'd never encountered anyone who actually sliced off this bottom tip. In addition to being less ripe, the foot, Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza explains, is also likely to contain more residual dust and sulfur from the vineyard. After rinsing the foot with the juice on the bottom of the fermentation tank, Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza sells off this unwanted fruit to the less fastidious wine-makers of Rioja. Only the upper \"shoulder\" goes into his top wine, the _reserva_ , which since \u203298 has been one of the most complex and powerful Riojas. But even before the grapes have arrived at his winery, in Samaniego, they have endured a two-tiered selection process. He harvests the bunches on the southern exposure, those that receive the most sun, first, going back a few days later for the rest.\n\nWhen it comes time to press his grapes after fermentation is complete, Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza, who used to be an industrial draftsman, uses a system of his own invention: he inserts a giant rubber bladder in the tank and gradually fills it with water. The grapes are thus pressed gently enough to avoid crushing the bitter pips, and the wine has as little contact as possible with oxygen\u2014which ages grape juice as it does us.\n\nNo matter how much care a winemaker takes in the vineyard and the cellar, the fact is that 5 to 7 percent of his bottles will likely be ruined by corks infected with TCA, a cork-loving compound that makes wine taste like moldy cardboard. So not only does Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza visit the cork producers, but he orders test batches of five hundred corks, each of which he cooks in a small, water-filled glass jar in his lab oven. Any TCA-infected cork betrays its identity by a stench the moment the lid is removed. If more than three of the five hundred corks are tainted, he starts over again, ordering a new batch of corks. Much of this mad science takes place in the beautiful stone cellar beneath Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza's house in the tiny medieval town of Samaniego. The house appears to be many centuries old, but Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza designed it himself; it was constructed from stones he bought from an old winery nearby. \"Old cellars are too damp,\" he explains, \"and you can't control the humidity.\" Insofar as it's possible, he's leaving nothing to chance.\n\nThis attention to detail is hardly the norm in Rioja, although the 1990s witnessed a revolution in the area, with many new boutique bodegas like Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza's pushing the Tempranillo grape to new heights of expression. New wineries like Allende, Artadi, Remelluri, and Roda have reinvented the concept of Rioja and have won fans around the world, even as older houses like Muga and Sierra Cantabria have started to produce powerful, fruit-driven Riojas along-side the more traditional and mellower _reservas_ and _gran reservas._ The latter, aged in oak for at least two years and in bottle for three more, evoke for me the library of an old house scented with leather volumes and pipe smoke, a style that is faithfully represented by L\u00f3pez de Heredia, whose winemaking style hasn't changed since the 1870s, when Rioja rose to prominence after phylloxera devastated the vineyards of Bordeaux.\n\nRem\u00edrez de Ganuza has no patience for this mellow old-school stuff His wines do have some of the same hints of leather and tobacco, along with a medley of spices, but even in a lesser vintage they are packed with fruit\u2014cassis, plums, black cherries, as well as the kind of preserved plums you get in Chinatown. It's as if he both put a massive stereo system in the old library and shelved some copies of Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez alongside the Cervantes. Me, I'm happy to live in an era that offers both styles, and that has room for fanatics like Fernando Rem\u00edrez de Ganuza.\n\n# BERKELEY'S FRENCH AMBASSADOR  \n _Kermit Lynch_\n\n\"Why is it,\" asks Kermit Lynch, \"that most men don't like fat women, but they think they like fat wines?\" We're tasting in the cellars of Domaine Tempier in Bandol, near his home in Le Beausset, France, talking about the tendency of the American wine press to celebrate big, superripe wines at the expense of those demonstrating delicacy and finesse. His choice of metaphors reflects the way wine is spoken about in the cellars of Burgundy and the Rh\u00f4ne, though it might not go down so well in liberal Berkeley\u2014where his eponymous wine shop is located, and where he lives half the year.\n\nLynch is a contrarian of long standing, a California native who doesn't stock a single California wine at his store on San Pablo Avenue, a wine-mad Francophile who thinks Bordeaux has gone to hell, and an admirer of Robert Parker who thinks the man has a fat fetish.\n\nHis name alone, encountered on the labels of some of the greatest wines of France, piques curiosity. His appearance is just as distinctive. There is something elfin about the features: the prominent, outthrust ears; the high forehead; the Gothically pointed arches of his eyebrows, which give him a perpetually quizzical, skeptical, leprechaunish mien. His friend Olivier Humbrecht describes him as inscrutable. Lynch claims to be antisocial, though he and his wife, Gail, along with their two children, live a kind of Gerald and Sara Murphy life between Provence and Berkeley, entertaining friends like Boz Scaggs, Alice Waters, and Aubert de Villaine.\n\nAs a retailer, importer, and author, Lynch has followed his nose and his palate, discovering and introducing Americans to some of the greatest, most distinctive wines of France. Zind-Humbrecht, Raveneau, Vieux T\u00e9l\u00e9graphe, Mas de Daumas Gassac\u2014these are among his finds. And he has memorably described his quest in _Adventures on the Wine Route_ , to my mind one of the best books on wine in the English language, with its uncommon combination of poetic insight and skeptical common sense.\n\nHe is a pioneer in his appreciation of the regional traditions of French wine, and his position in the wine world might almost be described as reactionary. Of California wines he says, \"I taste them and I wonder, Can a white man sing the blues?\" As for the Bordelaises, he thinks they are trying to imitate the Californians. \"Bordeaux doesn't taste like Bordeaux,\" he says over a lunch of grilled vegetables. \"It tastes like California Cabernet. The last real Bordeaux vintage was \u203281. Now they dress their wines up with lipstick and high heels.\" (Less metaphorically, he thinks the Bordelaises are growing too much, and tarting up the juice with sugar and gimmicks like reverse osmosis, which removes water from the juice.) Describing the old style, he quotes Cardinal Richelieu, who commended the wines of Bordeaux as having \"an indescribably sinister, somber bite that is not at all disagreeable.\" Lynch misses the sinister bite with today's flirty Bordeaux. He gives Marcel Guigal credit for reviving interest in C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie, while criticizing his heavily oaked blockbusters as lacking regional and varietal character. Opinions like these, not to mention his tendency to corner the market on certain desirable wines, have made Lynch a somewhat controversial figure in the wine world.\n\nBy his own description, Lynch was a Berkeley hippie when he first became interested in wine. A musician who wrote for the _Berkeley Barb_ and made purses out of Oriental rugs, he found a buyer for his handicrafts business and went to Europe on the proceeds. He returned to California in 1972 and borrowed five thousand dollars to open a tiny wine store. Alice Waters, who had just launched Chez Panisse, was one of his early customers. At the time, the California wine boom was barely in its infancy, and the American market for French wines was largely restricted to the top growths of Bordeaux. Lynch created a niche by visiting the less celebrated regions of France and importing distinctive regional wines. He says his decision to concentrate on European wines was almost accidental; the late California winemaker Joseph Swan was a friend, and Lynch loved his Zinfandels. But when Swan ripped up his best Zinfandel vineyard and planted Pinot Noir, Lynch hated the results. \"So rather than lose a friend,\" he says, \"I made a rule: no California wines.\" One suspects this isn't the whole story, but Lynch gives good anecdote.\n\nIn another happy accident, Lynch met the legendary expatriate food writer Richard Olney when looking for a translator on one of his wine-buying trips. (He has since become fluent enough to fend for himself.) Olney's knowledge of French regional wines was as invaluable as his linguistic skills. \"He would listen to a wine to see what it had to say,\" says Lynch. \"He changed the way I taste.\" Like Olney, Lynch believes in context\u2014the context of a wine's origins, and the context of its consumption with certain foods. He scoffs at blind tastings, vintage charts, and numerical wine ratings. \"It's ridiculous to rate a Muscadet on the same scale as a Montrachet,\" he says. \"One of the great things about wine is diversity.\" _Diversity_ is his mantra. Yes, he imports Coche-Dury, the hottest white Burgundy on the planet, but he seems just as excited by the inexpensive wines of Corsica, with their unique native grape varietals and herbal aromatics. He recently acquired Les Palli\u00e8res, an estate in funky Gigondas, in partnership with the Brunier family of Vieux T\u00e9l\u00e9graphe.\n\nIs Kermit Lynch winning his war against homogeneity or losing it? On the one hand, he helped stem the tide in France toward filtration, which he believes\u2014as most authorities now do\u2014strips wines of their character. French regional wines like Sancerre, Chinon, and Bandol have found a place on American wine store shelves. On the other hand, despite local rebellions, the hegemony of oaky Cabernet and Chardonnay advances apace. If you're tired of the same old chocolate and vanilla, you might look for that amazing name on a label the next time you're in a wine store.\n\n# THE MAD SCIENTIST OF JADOT\n\n\"The tension in the ground\u2014do you feel it?\" asks Jacques Lardi\u00e8re, his intense interrogatory gaze almost lifting me off my feet. We are standing in the middle of Clos-de-Malte, a walled amphitheater of a vineyard in Santenay. \"You can feel the pulse of the earth,\" Lardi\u00e8re says, bobbing his head with its wild growth of silver locks while pumping his hands rhythmically in front of his chest. I feel _something_ here, looking out at the valley beyond the Romanesque church, basking in the May sunshine and listening to the bees, though it may be the magnetic force of personality of the intensely passionate Lardi\u00e8re, the winemaker for Louis Jadot.\n\n\"The minerals,\" he says, pointing to the ground with one hand and the sky with the other, \"must be connected to the light.\" If only on a metaphorical level, this makes perfect sense. \"We are seeking,\" he says, \"the unconscious of the earth.\" I don't understand all of Lardi\u00e8re's proclamations, but I think he's a better poet than many Bollingen Prize winners, and a genius of a winemaker.\n\nMaison Louis Jadot is one of the oldest and most respected houses in Burgundy, a beacon of consistent quality in a notoriously unreliable region. Jadot is both a domain, producing and bottling wines from its own estates, and a negotiant, vinifying grapes purchased from other growers. Since 1985 the firm has been owned by its American importer, Kobrand, and almost half of the wine, luckily for us, comes here. Burgundy snobs sometimes underrate Jadot's wines because of the firm's relatively large production, but some of us believe that Jadot Burgundies are among the best and longest-lived in the region. And they represent great value at every level, from the humble Beaujolais to the exalted Musigny. If Domaine Roman\u00e9e-Conti is the Ferrari of Burgundy, Jadot is the Mercedes.\n\nI found it significant that given all the vineyards Lardi\u00e8re could have taken me to, he started in relatively obscure Santenay. \"We have to have the same approach for the lesser wines as for the _grand crus,\"_ he said. And as if to prove his point, later, at lunch in the fifteenth-century Counvent des Jacobins in downtown Beaune, he opened a 1971 Gevrey-Chambertin, a so-called village wine, the third ranking in the Burgundy hierarchy, below _grand_ and _premier cm._ Conventional wisdom would suggest that such a relatively modest wine (especially in the half-bottle format he opened) would be over the hill, but this wine was not only still vibrant and fleshy but amazingly nuanced.\n\nWhat Lardi\u00e8re cherishes\u2014and this is the glory of Burgundy\u2014are the differences between the wines from one piece of ground to the next. As we drive from Santenay north through Chassagne-Montrachet, Puligny-Montrachet, and Meursault, he points out the different vineyards: \"That's Combettes... that's Charmes... _\u00e7a c'est_ Genevri\u00e8res.\" The untrained eye often can't see any logical borders, but a thousand years of empirical observation and tasting have drawn the lines. Later, in the Jadot cellars, Lardi\u00e8re demonstates the indisputable distinctions as we taste the \u203204s in barrels. There's probably no other cellar in Burgundy where the religion of _terroir_ can be so effectively illustrated. Lardi\u00e8re makes over a hundred different wines. The \u203204 Chassagne-Montrachet tastes much more mellow than the minerally, high-strung Puligny, and the distinctions only become more interesting as we move up the hierarchy. \"This is freedom, this is individuality,\" Lardi\u00e8re shouts, waving his arms and spraying me with some residual Mersualt Charmes. \"The grape disappears. It's not Pinot, it's not Chardonnay\u2014it's about expressing the place.\" (He tries to get out of the way of the process by using the least manipulative techniques.) Considering that he started tasting at seven this morning, his enthusiasm, and the precision of his palate, is impressive.\n\nLardi\u00e8re can seem alternately\u2014and even at the same time\u2014like a mad scientist and an overstimulated poet; his alter ego at Jadot is Pierre-Henri Gagey, who was preceded in the post by his father, Andr\u00e9, and who comes across as the most urbane and polished of French diplomats, although he too is a true believer. \"Burgundy is a place of great spirituality,\" he tells me over a glass of honeyed, minerally \u203276 Chevalier-Montrachet at his home in Beaune. \"Pinot Noir was here in a wild stage when the monks came in the eleventh century. The key of Burgundy is the mutation of Pinot Noir to the environment.\"\n\nConnoisseurs are pretty unanimous in their praise of Jadot's top whites; in recent years, as I have tasted more and more of the older reds, I've become a devotee. They are darker and slower to blossom than some of their peers because of their long stay in vats and their high fermentation temperature, but they evolve and improve for decades. The \u203259 Chambertin that Gagey poured with dinner was still brimming with sweet red fruit and hauntingly complex, somehow reminding me of a Val\u00e9ry sonnet. (Gagey is a bibliophile and we'd been discussing favorite authors.) \"It's a very emotional wine,\" Gagey says\u2014not a bad description. He opened it in part to provide a context for imagining the future development of the 2003 vintage\u2014\u203259 being a similarly hot and dry year.\n\nThe 2003 Jadots were released this past fall\u2014later than most of their neighbors\u2014and I can't recommend them highly enough, especially the reds. The summer was the hottest on record, and while many growers freaked out and picked as early as August 16, when the grapes were technically ripe in terms of sugar content but deficient in flavor development, Lardi\u00e8re and company waited until August 28 and got amazingly ripe and complex flavors. As great as Jadot's 2002s were across the board, some of these will be even better and will be more generous in their youth; yet I already envy the lucky few who will drink the \u203203 Chambertin Clos-de-B\u00e8ze forty or fifty years from now.\n\n# VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS  \n _Willy Frank and the Finger Lakes_\n\nI usually start yawning when wine people talk about stuff like yeast and sulfur, but Willy Frank gets my attention when he explains, \"Sulfur gives wild yeast a headache so they don't go into an orgy.\"\n\nLike most voices in the wilderness, Willy Frank's is colorful and more than a little strident. \"I can prove every word I say\" is one of his favorite sentences. His father proved that fine wines can be made in New York State's Finger Lakes region, but the message hasn't really gone wide yet, in spite of periodic encomiums to Dr. Konstantin Frank Vinifera Wine Cellars in the wine press. Nevertheless, the parking lot of the ramshackle winery and tasting-room complex, overlooking riverine Keuka Lake, is jammed with tourists\u2014bikers with antlers mounted on their helmets and parents in matching polo shirts loading up the minivan with cases of wine.\n\n\"This region is much better for classic Champagne varieties than Champagne,\" the highly caffeinated Willy declares within moments of meeting me in the jam-packed tasting room one Saturday afternoon in July. The spry, birdlike seventy-eight-year-old looks like a cheery version of Junior Soprano. \"What Champagnes do you like... Krug? Bollinger? We can beat them. The grapes never ripen in Champagne.\" As someone whose parents used to serve Great Western \"Champagne,\" formerly the best-known product of this region, I am skeptical, but Willy never stops talking long enough for me to demur. He reels off a list of gold medals and awards. And the 1997 Chateau Frank Blanc de Blancs he thrusts upon me is a subtle and toasty sparkler, if not necessarily cause for utter despair at the house of Krug. His seriousness in pursuit of sparkling-wine quality is attested to by the permanent blood blisters on his hands, caused by riddling\u2014the _champenoise_ process of hand-turning the racked bottles to work the sediment down into the neck. But it is nonbubbly whites, particularly Rieslings, that put Dr. Konstantin Frank Vinifera Wine Cellars\u2014to some extent\u2014on the map.\n\nThe Frank family originally hailed from Alsace, migrating to Ukraine some three hundred years ago at the invitation of Catherine the Great, who wished to repopulate the region after a scorched-earth Turkish invasion. Willy's father, Konstantin, a botanist, brought his family to America in 1951 and was drawn to the Finger Lakes region, which was already producing vast quantities of sweet plonk\u2014remember Taylor?\u2014 from hybrid French-American grapes.\n\nThe area was thought to be too cold for the noble _Vitis vinifera_ grape varieties from which the world's great dry wines are made. But Frank realized that the great depth of the glacially carved Finger Lakes moderated temperatures on the hillsides above them, and he eventually planted sixty varieties of _vinifera_ above Keuka Lake, making wines that astonished critics and connoisseurs. Nelson Rockefeller regularly sent a plane to pick up cases of late-harvest Riesling, and Frank's wines triumphed in international competitions. A young Robert Mondavi made the pilgrimage to Hammond-sport before starting his own winery in Napa. When Konstantin died, in 1985, his son Willy, a manufacturer's rep based in Manhattan, inherited a run-down and financially precarious estate.\n\nWilly, who often refers to himself in the third person, explains how he turned his father's experimental winery into a commercially viable enterprise: \"Willy rips up fifty of the varieties and keeps ten. He replants the vineyards. He busts his chops seven days a week.\" Switching to first and second person without seeming to pause for breath, he says, \"I took a lesson from the theater: I stayed away from New York City till I was ready. You try out in Boston and Philly before you open on Broadway.\" Frank's wines are now ready for the big time. Le Cirque pours his dry Riesling by the glass, and in 2000 the _New York Times_ chose it as best American Riesling\u2014and this is a wine that retails for thirteen bucks.\n\nFrank's other whites are all worth checking out; his barrel-fermented Chardonnay, made from forty-year-old vines planted by his father, could pass for a village Burgundy from Chassagne. And I'm hoping others will follow his lead and plant Rkatsitelli (pronounced ar-kat-si-TELL-lee), a grape from Mount Ararat, which produces a powerful, spicy white suggestive of a dry, more dignified Gew\u00fcrztraminer. One wine writer has argued that the area's future resides in Gew\u00fcrztraminer, but Frank points out that aside from being cold-sensitive (and not exactly _hot_ in the marketplace), this highly aromatic late-ripening grape is the hands-down favorite of the wild turkeys that outnumber the humans hereabouts. \"It's like they have the latest up-to-the-minute cell phones,\" Willy complains. \"They call their friends from miles around to come and eat the Gew\u00fcrz.\"\n\nWhat astonished me on my visit was the quality of the Pinot Noirs, from his fruity twelve-dollar Salmon Run to the herbal and backward forty-dollar reserve, made from forty-year-old vines. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that this region could have a great future with this most temperamental, sublime\u2014and lately fashionable\u2014red grape. (Cabernet seems less suited to the climate\u2014although this year Frank's 2001 Cab won the gold medal at the San Francisco International Wine Competition.)\n\nWhile a lot of his neighbors are still turning out fermented Kool-Aid from hybrid grapes, the Franks' example is having an effect. Herman Weimer, a German immigrant who arrived in the area in 1968, produces beautiful Rieslings on the western side of Seneca Lake. The deep-pocketed Fox Run Vineyards, also on Seneca Lake, is turning out some good whites and reds\u2014including a fine Pinot\u2014which can only improve as the vines mature. Other up-and-comers: Glenora, Leidenfrost, and Chateau Lafayete Reneau. Dr. Konstantin Frank Vinifera Wine Cellars should continue to flourish under Fred Frank, Willy's son, who may eventually find that he doesn't have to talk quite so fast as his father to convince a skeptical wine world about the virtues of the Finger Lakes.\n\n# FINESSING THE FRUIT BOMBS\n\nWhen they shoved _a_ metal tray with his dinner through a slot in the door of his room, Benjamin Hammerschlag was beginning to think that he'd probably made a big mistake and that he'd be going back to his day job in a Seattle grocery store. He was staying in what passed for a hotel in the Franklin River region of Western Australia, \"a pub full of misshapen humanity, pretty much the end of the earth,\" as he describes it, while seeking out premium wines to import into the States. A week later, with only two prospects in his sights, he woke toward dawn in yet another crummy hotel room, this one in the Barossa Valley, to find the walls literally seething with millipedes. \"By this time I was pretty depressed,\" he says. Fortunately, winemaking in both regions was more advanced than the hospitality industry, and Hammerschlag is a persistent and highly competitive son of a bitch with a very good palate. Over the past five years he has assembled a portfolio, Epicurean Wines, that represents something of a new wave in the Australian invasion.\n\nAt the time of his unpromising first visit, Hammerschlag was working as a wine buyer for the QFC supermarket chain in Bellevue, a wealthy suburb of Seattle. In a few years he almost doubled QFC's wine business, deciding in the process that he had a \"popular palate.\" Among the most crowd-pleasing wines he discovered for his clients were old-vine Shi-razes from Australia's Barossa Valley, which had just begun to trickle into this country, thanks to a few boutique importers like John Larchet's Australian Premium Wine Collection and Dan Philips's Grateful Palate. \"It was a style of wine that Americans loved,\" Hammerschlag says, \"rich and powerful and generous and all about instant gratification.\" Some Aussies, according to Hammerschlag, refer to these big Barossa Shirazes as \"leg spreaders\" or, when they are feeling more politically correct, as \"T & A\" wines. However, given the sheer size and power of these behemoths, stereotypically masculine metaphors seem more appropriate to me; high-octane reds like Kaesler's Old Bastard Shiraz remind me more of a muscle car like a Dodge Charger or a Viper than of a starlet, more of Russell Crowe than Naomi Watts.\n\nThe only problem with these South Australian reds, it seemed to Hammerschlag, was that they were pretty hard to find. Potions like Elderton's Command Shiraz or Clarendon Hills' Astralis were made in small quantities from vines, including Shiraz and Grenache, planted in the early twentieth century. (Old vines, it's generally conceded, make more intense and powerful wines than younger ones.)\n\nAlthough Grange, Penfolds's prototype for premium Australian Shiraz, dates back to 1951, when Penfolds's chief wine-maker, Max Schubert, came home from a visit to Bordeaux determined to make a world-class wine, it remained something of a one-off until the 1980s, when others began making big, rich Barossa Shirazes. In just a couple of decades, Australia has become a winemaking superpower, and Australian winemakers circumnavigate the globe spreading their fruity, high-tech gospel.\n\nMuch as Hammerschlag loved the big, badass Barossa Shi-razes, he was presumptuous enough to believe that there was room for some finesse and more of a specific sense of place in the wines (Grange uses grapes from all over South Australia) and that he could coax even better wines from the country if he could find the right talent. \"I consider myself a talent agent,\" he says. Upon his arrival in Adelaide in \u203299, he made the rounds of the wine stores and accumulated thirty-six bottles of the local red, which he tasted in his millipede-infested hotel room. Then he started working the phone. He was lucky enough, and early enough, to find a core of extremely talented young winemakers, including Dan Standish, the wine-maker at Torbreck; Ben Glaetzer, who was involved with his family's estate; Ben Riggs; and Reid Bosward. In the years since he signed them, Hammerschlag has become more and more involved in the winemaking process, a commitment that has nearly ruined his teeth\u2014the result of tasting through thousands of barrels of tannic young reds.\n\n\"I go for that tightrope quality,\" he says through his dingy choppers one spring evening at the SoHo Grand Hotel, as we slurp the \u203202 Kaesler Avignon Proprietary Red, which would make a really good Ch\u00e2teauneuf-du-Pape. \"Pushing the limits, but still maintaining balance and harmony.\" To put it another way, Ben's Froot Loops have fiber, and his muscle cars have precise handling and even, sometimes, luxurious interiors. Dan Standish's \u203201 The Standish, for instance, is the most satisfying young Aussie red I've ever tasted\u2014an old-vine Shiraz that has complex leather and coffee aromatics, an unbelievably voluptuous and viscous texture, and a long, lingering finish that left me alternately giddy and awestruck.\n\nAfter just two vintages, Ben Glaetzer's Amon-Ra and Mitolo's G.A.M., two old-vine Shirazes, have become instant legends, earning exceptional ratings in the _Wine Advocate_ , although like many of Epicurean's wines they are made in tiny quantities. Mitolo also bottles an Amarone-style Cabernet called Serpico that will drive your tasting group into raptures. Fortunately, Hammerschlag has been just as energetic in finding wines for budget-minded hedonists\u2014seriously fun reds like the Black Chook and the aptly named Woop Woop Shiraz. Competitive as he is, Hammerschlag will be furious with me for mentioning that there are some other fine importers, like Appellation Imports, Click Wine Group, Old Bridge Cellars, Old Vines Australia, and Weygandt-Metzler, but nobody is bringing in more consistently thrilling Australian wines than Epicurean.\n\n# MOUNTAIN MEN  \n _The Smith Brothers of Smith-Madrone_\n\nThe temperature plummets as I make the steep ascent of Spring Mountain in my rented Explorer; the redwood forest becomes thicker, damper, and more verdant, threatening to overrun the narrow switchbacks of the road. It's hard to believe I'm just a couple of miles from the arid valley floor and the chic boutiquey hamlet of St. Helena. By the time I reach the top of the Mayacamas Ridge and follow a rutted dirt road down to the Smith-Madrone property, I feel I've traveled back in time to a prelapsarian Napa, a wild paradise with an alley of giant unkempt olive trees and islands of vines\u2014an impression that is only reinforced by the sight of the bearded mountain man on an ancient tractor who looks at me askance, as if I've just beamed down from another planet, and then chugs away without comment.\n\nI'd decided to come here after being knocked sideways by a bottle of the spectacular \u203297 Smith-Madrone Riesling. I'd never heard of the estate and I was frankly amazed that any American Riesling, let alone one from the warm Napa Valley, could taste this complex\u2014like a great Austrian Riesling from the Wachau. Standing at the top of Spring Mountain in early October freezing my ass off, I felt the Riesling concept (it's a cool-climate grape) beginning to make sense. I'd learned that the estate also made Cabernet and Chardonnay\u2014at prices that hadn't been seen in Napa since the Reagan era. Smith-Madrone is an anachronism in several regards, and I fervently hope it never joins the avant-garde.\n\nEventually another Grizzly Adams look-alike emerges from the ramshackle barn and introduces himself as Stuart Smith. The taciturn tractor driver, he tells me, is his brother Charlie. \"We've been here since \u203271,\" Stuart says. \"I graduated from Berkeley and came up here. There was a revolution going on. A food-and-wine revolution was starting, too. We wanted to join.\" What little of his face isn't covered in beard is deeply tanned; and he's wearing a flannel shirt that doesn't appear to have been washed in recent decades. Some of the machinery scattered about the property looks as if it was designed by Rube Goldberg. For a while I imagine that he and his brother have been hiding out here since the Vietnam era, living off the land, a fantasy that is punctured only when he refers to his family in St. Helena, at the base of the mountain. Still, there's no question that the Smith brothers, who arrived just a few years after Mondavi set up shop on the valley floor, are pioneers, and that they have a very distinctive _terroir._\n\n\"There is no actual Spring Mountain,\" Matt Kramer tells us in his _New California Wine._ \"Instead it's a colloquial term used in Napa Valley to refer to a section of the Mayacamas range at the midpoint of the valley just west and north of St. Helena. The name derives from the numerous springs and creeks on the mountainside.\" Stuart says that vines were first planted here in the 1880s\u2014they found old wooden stakes among the redwoods and the madrone trees. California's first great Chardonnay estate, Stony Hill, was established here in the 1950s, just below the property that is now Smith-Madrone. Nearby Pride, a relative newcomer to the ridgetop, is producing massive, high-scoring Cabs and Merlots. Meanwhile, the Smith brothers have built a loyal following with distinctive, modestly priced reds and whites without attracting a whole lot of wine media attention.\n\nIf Riesling were more fashionable, this estate would be famous. Smith-Madrone's comes from a six-acre dry-farmed vineyard. (\"If you irrigate the vines they don't ripen as nature intended,\" Stuart says.) While it is delicious on release, bursting with green apple and peach flavors, it develops tremendous depth and complexity with age. The \u203297 is still youthful, stony and vibrant, while the \u203293, which Stuart opened for me with his Swiss Army knife after rummaging around the ramshackle barn that serves as a winery, tastes like deep-dish apple pie with an enlivening splash of lemon juice, a dusting of sugar, and an underlying minerality. \"Riesling's for aging,\" Stuart says, \"and Chardonnay for drinking.\" Smith-Madrone makes a fine Chardonnay as well; it has more fruit up front but is better balanced with acidity than most Napa Chardonnays.\n\nSpring Mountain is best known for its Cabernet, and Smith-Madrone's are fine examples, with the area's massive depth and tannin along with a hint of dill, the signature of the American oak barrels. Stuart says they started with American oak barrels for reasons of economy, French oak being much more expensive. I point out that fans of Silver Oak Cabernet happily pay sixty to a hundred bucks a bottle for the taste of American oak. Stuart shakes his head censoriously, dislodging a few drops of the Cabernet from the mustache covering his upper lip. \"We think thirty-five bucks is a lot to pay for a bottle of wine,\" he says. \"Maybe we're crazy. People were stopping my son Sam on the street in St. Helena and saying, 'You've got to charge more for your wines.' But then, after 9\/11, when everyone was having trouble selling wine, we had our best year.\"\n\nWhen I woke up the next morning in my hotel room in Yountville I actually wondered if I had dreamed the whole Smith-Madrone experience\u2014the grizzly brothers, the wild mountaintop, the hypertrophied olive trees, the unreal prices, the anamolous and ambrosial Riesling. I have since confirmed that it was all real and wrestled with the question of whether or not to share this information with my readers. I advise you to get on their mailing list before the Smith brothers realize it's the twenty-first century.\n\n# DO THE BRITS TASTE DIFFERENTLY?  \n _Michael Broadbent and Jancis Robinson_\n\nSo far as I know, none of the online wine chat rooms has ever hosted a spirited debate about whether Michael Broadbent is a babe. That's just one of the ways in which he differs from his fellow Master of Wine Jancis Robinson, although they are both extremely snappy dressers: Broadbent favors Savile Row tailoring, while Robinson is a devotee of Issey Miyake. If there is an English, as opposed to an American, palate, these are its two avatars, representing the traditional and the new wave of British wine writing, respectively.\n\nNow that the second great American Revolution\u2014the one in which Robert Parker played George Washington\u2014has become the new wine orthodoxy, it can be curiously refreshing to check in on the old country. At New York's Veritas, a holy site for American wine drinkers, Broadbent's entrance causes a stir. Even those diners who don't recognize him pause to take in the tall, stately figure who somewhat resembles the late Ralph Richardson, with the addition of a full head of silver hair. After a few minutes, Broadbent pierces the churchly hush with a loud declaration. \"You Americans bloody well should drink more,\" he says. \"There's too much talking and writing and sniffing and tasting. Drink!\"\n\nAs, since 1966, the head and later the executive director of Christie's wine department in London, Broadbent has tasted more old bottles than almost anyone on earth, and has kept notes on all of them\u2014137 identical red notebooks full of scrawled commentary, transcribed by his wife, Daphne. His _Vintage Wine_ is an incomparable record of fifty years of tasting that covers some three centuries. At one point in the evening we found ourselves discussing the \u203267 Yquem. I thought we were talking about the 1967, whereas Broadbent was referring to the 1867.\n\nBroadbent is one of the last representatives of a great tradition of Bordeaux-centric British oenophiles. Above all else he loves the slightly austere, Cabernet-based wines of the M\u00e9doc, which have been the backbone of the English wine trade for centuries. His was a generation, as Jancis Robinson told me recently, \"who thought even Pomerol slightly vulgar.\" When I ask him about this he concurs, saying that the wines of Pomerol and Saint-\u00c9milion \"are too easy. Even P\u00e9trus, it's a little like Gew\u00fcrztraminer: after a few sips, I'm tired.\" This sounds shocking in 2004. For the past two decades the small-production, Merlot-based wines of the right bank, like P\u00e9trus and Le Pin, have become more fashionable and expensive than Latour and Lafite. He is similarly skeptical about many of the \"garage wines\" of Saint-\u00c9milion and the cult Cabernets of California, although he is open-minded enough to judge them individually. (He loves Screaming Eagle.) Here's his note on the \u203297 vintage of the superfashionable Le Tertre Roteboeuf: \"One of those modern, chocolaty, very sweet, very fleshy, over-the-top wines. Frankly awful.\" (I agree with the first sentence and disagree with the second.)\n\nAlthough _a_ Robert Parker blurb graces the back of _Vintage Wine_ , and Broadbent says of Parker, \"I admire his honesty and thoroughness,\" Broadbent is, for all intents and purposes, the anti-Parker. At Veritas he tells me, \"Parker doesn't understand the difference between fruit and wine.\" Most of the wine that Broadbent admires has long since lost its youthful fruit. The new international style of wine, he claims, tastes like the product of \"two machines, one with black currant and one with vanilla.\"\n\nJancis Robinson was the first wine professional I ever met\u2014at the table of novelist Julian Barnes some fifteen years ago. Although I found her dauntingly attractive, I was relieved that she was modest and unpedantic; in the end we almost had to beg her for some comments on the wine. Besides being entertaining, her remarks somehow made me feel smarter. That evening helped demystify wine appreciation for me. I suspect Robinson has done the same for many readers over the years. Robinson passed the grueling Master of Wine exam in 1984, back when the MW was largely a badge of the hyper masculine Brit wine trade. In the past two decades she has become a major star in the dowdy world of wine. The wine columnist for the _Financial Times_ , she is best known to American oenophiles as the editor of _The Oxford Companion to Wine_ and for her former column in the _Wine Spectator._\n\nThe glamorous, scholarly Robinson has helped shape a more wide-ranging, global thirst in Britain; it might be said that she has an international palate. (Which is not to say that she can't identify a \u203261 Cheval-Blanc blind, as I once watched her do, although she is the first to admit that her husband, restaurateur and food writer Nick Lander, is the champion blind taster in the family.) She was one of the first non-Aussies to take Australian wines seriously, making her initial visit there in 1981. She was also an early champion of the Langue-doc, and she recently traveled to China to explore the vineyards there.\n\nShe believes that the new wave of British wine enthusiasts is more adventurous than its American counterpart: \"The Brits fall all over themselves to view the vinously newfangled in a favorable light. Ecuadoran Viognier, yes please! Just so long as it doesn't cost more than \u00a34.99.\" Americans can keep abreast of these kinds of insights through her excellent Web site, jancisrobinson.com. On the other hand, if you should ever find yourself considering the purchase of, say, an 1899 Lafite and wondering how it compares with the 1898 or the 1900, or if you just want to indulge in some literate wishful thinking along these lines, her friend and colleague Michael Broadbent is your man.\n\n# ROBERT MONDAVI'S BIZARRO TWIN  \n _The Passions and Puns of Randall Grahm_\n\nRandall Grahm's plans for world domination have suffered numerous setbacks at the hands of litigious wine barons, the hegemonic California Cab\/Chard axis, and glassy-winged sharpshooters, but he doesn't seem remotely discouraged. At forty-nine, he has the youthful appearance of an underfed grad student, ponytailed late-1960s University of California at Santa Cruz edition, and exudes an enthusiasm only slightly tempered by wry wit and skeptical intelligence. When we met for lunch recently at the Union Square Cafe in New York, he was greeted like a rock star, not only by the staff but by fellow diners, who repeatedly interrupted us to kiss his ring. (Not that it bothered me. Really. Even though New York is supposed to be _my_ turf. I was totally fine with that.)\n\nGrahm is one of the eccentric visionaries of the wine world, in the same unclubbable club as Didier Dagueneau, Sean Thackrey, and Stanko Radikon. He is the founder and proprietor of Bonny Doon Vineyards, godfather of California's Rh\u00f4ne Rangers, the Bizarro Universe's evil twin of Robert Mondavi. Readers of his newsletter may suspect that Grahm got into the wine business in order to indulge his literary bent, marked by a taste for outrageous puns (\"carneros knowledge,\" \"mail freud,\" \"entre noose\") and abstruse references to literature, philosophy, and Chinese medicine. A recent issue includes a Salinger parody entitled \"A Perfect Day for Barberafish.\" Grahm also penned a parody of _The Bridges of Madison County_ back in the heyday of that tear-jerker, with \u00fcbercritic Robert Parker cast as the romantic lead.\n\nGrahm's wine jones kicked in when he was studying philosophy at USC and took a job at a wine store in Beverly Hills. \"It seemed like a good way to meet girls,\" he says. At the store, Grahm tasted some of the great French wines. \"I realized that the only way I was ever going to be able to afford wines like those was to make them myself,\" he says. Pinot Noir was his first love, but he discovered the wines of the Rh\u00f4ne Valley through his friend Kermit Lynch. Grahm decided that Rh\u00f4ne grape varietals were better suited to California, and the rest is wine-geek history. He wasn't the first California Rh\u00f4nephile\u2014he credits David Bruce\u2014but he was probably the Elvis Presley of the so-called Rh\u00f4ne Rangers.\n\nWhile Napa was becoming famous for its Cabernets and Chardonnays, Grahm sought out old vineyards of Grenache and Mourv\u00e8dre, and planted his own grapes near Santa Cruz. Among his first successes were two New World versions of Ch\u00e2teauneuf-du-Pape that, besides impressing the critics, demonstrated his talent for outrageously clever names. His Old Telegram is an homage to Vieux T\u00e9l\u00e9graphe; Le Cigare Volant is a reference to an ordinance passed by the town council of Ch\u00e2teauneuf-du-Pape banning alien spacecraft, known in France as flying cigars, from landing within the town limits. Grahm's dessert wines, particularly his sweet Muscat, have received outstanding scores from Robert Parker.\n\nGrahm's airship of a career seemed to lose altitude in the \u203290s. His vineyards were among the first to be wiped out by Pierce's disease, spread by a nasty insect called the glassy-winged sharpshooter. (I was clever enough to purchase the last vintage, a case of his 1994 Bonny Doon Syrah, one of the best New World Syrahs I've tasted.) Parker stopped reviewing Grahm's wines for many years\u2014either through lack of interest or because of the _Bridges of Madison County_ parody. The movement Grahm had begun made it harder for him to purchase grapes.\n\nOn the other hand, he started Ca' del Solo, a line of Cal-Ital wines made from Nebbiolo, Barbera, and Pinot Grigio. He planted more than eighty acres of grapes in Soledad, illuminated at night by the prison's spotlights. And he was the first American winemaker to experiment with microoxygenization, a method of oxygenating wine to soften its tannins and (theoretically) extend its life.\n\nThe most innovative move for this inveterate innovator was the creation of his wine club\u2014called DEWN (get it?), for Distinctive Esoteric Wine Network\u2014a new paradigm for marketing wine and a new winemaking concept of one-off creations. The DEWN wines are single-performance tours de force, sometimes made in collaboration with European winemakers. To create his \u203299 Fish out of Water Ripasso, Grahm passed Nebbiolo juice over raisiny dried Barbera skins. \"Why?\" he asks. \"Because we could.\" The massive, black curranty 2000 Le Monstre was made in the Languedoc in collaboration with a French winemaker, while the voluptuous \u203299 My Favorite Marsanne nearly earned its title for this taster. The good news is that anyone can join the club, and the wines are ridiculously reasonably priced. The weird news is that they are made only once\u2014wine as performance art. \"Traditionally, winemaking is about tradition and continuity,\" Grahm acknowledges. But he seems to believe that life is too short to exhaust all of his winemaking concepts, not to mention his store of wacky names. The labels, by artists such as Ralph Steadman, are just as\u2014how you say?\u2014inventive. As a philosophy major\u2014and a Riesling lover\u2014I can't resist a wine called Critique of Pure Riesling. But Grahm's wit has cost him points in snottier corners of the wine world. Show-offs don't break out a wine called Macho Nacho for client dinners.\n\nFor all of his iconoclasm, Grahm is ultimately a wine conservative. He rails against the overuse of new oak barrels and oenological \"Viagrafication.\" \"Both Parker and the _Wine Spectator_ have oversimplified wine,\" he says. \"It's all about intensity and power. Valuing a wine for intensity is like judging music on how loud it is. Strangely,\" says the posthippie, who regularly gets his chi adjusted, \"I'm kind of a Tory about wine.\"\n\nKind of.\n\n#  \n# FIRST AMONG FIRSTS?  \n _The Glories of Cheval-Blanc_\n\nPlatonic absolutism ultimately seems foolish in the ecstatic realm of Bacchus. There's an ineradicable, subjective component to the appreciation of wine. That said, no wines in the world command quite the respect of Bordeaux's Big Eight. And, speaking strictly subjectively, I can say that no wine has given me more pleasure than Cheval-Blanc.\n\nLafite, Latour, Margaux, and Haut-Brion were the original first growths in the 1855 classification of Bordeaux; by the time Mouton-Rothschild was added to the list, more than a hundred years later, three other properties\u2014P\u00e9trus, Ausone, and Cheval-Blanc\u2014enjoyed unofficial first-growth status. These three mavericks came from the right bank of the Gironde River\u2014from the communes of Pomerol and Saint-\u00c9milion. Before the Second World War, the right bank was essentially Burbank to the left bank's Beverly Hills, Brooklyn to the M\u00e9doc's Manhattan.\n\nAlthough Cheval-Blanc steadily gained recognition after its purchase by the Fourcaud-Laussac family in the mid-nineteenth century, the real fame of the ch\u00e2teau was established with the 1947 vintage\u2014probably the most coveted wine of the century. Despite a string of brilliant incarnations since, Cheval was somewhat overshadowed by neighboring P\u00e9trus, which became the most expensive wine of Bordeaux, and by the left bank aristocrats who, through the \u203280s and early \u203290s, duked it out for 100-point Parker scores. In the mid-\u203290s, Saint-\u00c9milion\u2014like Brooklyn\u2014became fashionable, thanks in part to ambitious winemaking, clement weather, and the accessibility of its Merlot-based wines. In 1998\u2014one of the greatest right bank vintages of recent years\u2014Cheval-Blanc was purchased by luxury-mad Bernard Arnault, of LVMH, and Baron Albert Fr\u00e8re, a Belgian tycoon. As of 2006, no wine property is hotter than Saint-\u00c9milion's premier ch\u00e2teau, although Cheval-Blanc is in some ways a republic unto itself, resembling no other wine in the world.\n\nLocated on the border of Saint-\u00c9milion and Pomerol, Cheval-Blanc has qualities of both\u2014and of neither. Its combination of earthiness and sophistication reminds me (note earlier comment re subjectivity) of Turgenev, who had one foot in Russia and one on the Continent\u2014and who has probably never been _a Jeopardy!_ answer, like Tolstoy (Lafite? P\u00e9trus?) or Dostoyevsky (Mouton-Rothschild?). The pretty, modest nineteenth-century manor house and the modern winery next door probably won't show up on the cover of a design magazine. The real beauty is underground: the estate encompasses three different soil types; 40 percent of its subsoil is the same clay that pops up a few hundred yards away at P\u00e9trus. But Cheval-Blanc is unique among the wines of Bordeaux in part because of its high percentage of Cabernet Franc\u2014usually more than 50 percent of the blend. The wines of the left bank are predominantly from Cabernet Sauvignon; those of Pomerol and Saint-\u00c9milion are mostly Merlot.\n\nUnlike the other big Bordeaux, which take half a lifetime to get sexy, Cheval-Blanc is approachable and even delicious in its youth, and yet it continues to develop over the decades. Imagine a child star who remains a top box-office draw into her sixties. I can't explain the chemistry, but I know from experience that the tannins in the typical Cheval-Blanc are like cashmere compared with the scratchy Harris tweed tannins of Latour or Mouton-Rothschild (and even P\u00e9trus), which take twenty years or so to mellow and drape correctly. Which is not to say you should guzzle Cheval soon after it is bottled. The aromatic complexity of a forty-year-old Cheval-Blanc in a great vintage such as \u203264 or \u203255 is like a catalog of minor vices: tobacco, menthol, coffee, truffles, and chocolate, to name a few.\n\nMany tasters claim that the \u203249 is at least as great as the \u203247\u2014a freakish hot-vintage wine that stopped fermenting before all the sugar was converted to alcohol, leaving some three parts per thousand residual sugar, which makes it resemble nothing so much as a great port. It was clearly a one-off, a spectacular wine that lingers on the palate for minutes and in the mind forever. Generally, Cheval-Blanc is more lyric than epic, more Andrew Marvell than Milton. I love the \u203255, my birth year. The \u203261, gorgeous as it is, is not as profound as the \u203264, one of my top three wines of all time; I have tasted it several times, thanks to Julian Barnes, who loves it beyond all other Bordeaux and has a stash in his cellar.\n\nThe \u203275 is one of the few wines of that vintage that has lived up to expectations. Parker gives 100 points to the \u203282 Cheval, but I find it less rich and concentrated than the \u203283, the \u203289, or the \u203290. (The latter appears to be evolving very rapidly, in my recent tasting experience, seeming far more mature than most vintages of the \u203280s.) Pierre Lurton, the dynamic young director of the estate and scion of a famous Bordelais family, told me at a recent tasting at New York's Veritas that he too feels the \u203282 may be slightly less than perfect. Nineteen eighty, he points out, was a monstrously prolific vintage, and it was the last one at Cheval-Blanc in which no green harvest or barrel selection was made. Since then the ch\u00e2teau has lowered its yields in the vineyard and been more selective in the cellar.\n\nAfter years of being a connoisseur's wine, Cheval seized the spotlight with the 1998 and 2000 vintage. There have been, alongside the kudos, grumblings that the new regime is determined to become the P\u00e9trus of Saint-\u00c9milion, in terms of price as well as quality. Thanks to Parker and others, the 1998 was a legend almost before it had been pressed, and the 2000 looks like the star of that great vintage. \"You can't make the price stick if nobody wants to buy it,\" says Todd Hess, wine director of Sam's in Chicago, who can't satisfy the demand from customers who want to pay six thousand dollars for a case of the 2000 vintage.\n\nUnfortunately for those of us who have to ask about the price of things, the days of Cheval-Blanc as the sleeper star of Bordeaux are over. But for those who aren't hung up on famous vintages, the \u203299 is a great claret and a great Cheval for less than half the price of its famous siblings, and the 2001 appears to be another sleeping beauty. Other great vintages can be purchased at auction for far less than the cost of the 2000. Any Cheval-Blanc that you can afford will reward your investment lavishly, and its pleasures will probably outlast your capacity to enjoy them.\n\n# THE NAME'S BOND\n\nHarlan Estate was the first of the cult Cabernets that swept into the Napa Valley in the nineties like guerrillas coming down from the hills, challenging the preeminence of such valley-floor aristocrats as Mondavi and Heitz. Less than two decades later it's a classic, the most consistently celebrated and coveted Napa Cab of them all. Meanwhile, owner Bill Harlan and winemaker Bob Levy have been creating a new wine\u2014or, rather, three new wines\u2014along with what may be a new paradigm or, at the very least, a new name to make connoisseurs and collectors salivate. The name is Bond.\n\nThe Harlan team recently released three Bond wines from the great 2001 vintage under the names St. Eden, Melbury, and Vecina. Having tasted them at the winery, I can vouch for the fact that they are all Harlanesque\u2014an adjective Robert Parker defines as \"meaning first-growth Bordeaux complexity combined with Napa ripeness and power\"\u2014but they are also noticeably different from Harlan and from one another. They are basically single-vineyard wines from special hillside sites around Napa, a fact that reflects the trend of increasing site specificity as you travel up the price-and-prestige scale (a wine labeled \"Oakville\" being presumably more singular than one that lists California as its provenance). When I say \"basically\"\u2014well, hold that thought.\n\nEver since he'd started visiting the great vineyards of France as a wine loving real estate developer, Harlan had dreamed of creating a California \"first growth\u2014a property to rival the great domaines of Bordeaux.\" Before he created Harlan Estate, stitching together prime hillside parcels overlooking the famed Martha's Vineyard, Harlan founded Merry-vale Vineyards in 1983. He conceived Merryvale as a learning experience. Harlan and his partners bought grapes from more than sixty different growers in Napa, discovering what they considered some extraordinary grape real estate. \"Bob Levy said to me, 'You know, some of these vineyards are first growths,'\" Harlan says. \"But I put that behind me for a while.\" Not for long, though.\n\nWhile some critics wondered if Harlan Estate and similarly ultrarich, small-production boutique Cabs that emerged in the nineties were flashes in the pan, Bill Harlan was thinking about the future. \"For Harlan to last for generations we had to make sure we didn't become too insular,\" he says. \"And we had to groom the next generation. Harlan Estate was too small for that.\" Harlan had no desire to expand the production (about fifteen hundred cases) of his estate wine at the risk of compromising quality. But he and Levy hadn't forgotten about some of those great vineyard sites from their Merryvale days, and they began talking to the owners.\n\nThe Bond concept, which Harlan began to develop more than a decade ago, was of \"a stable of Thoroughbreds.\" The stable would be run by the Harlan team, including Bob Levy and superstar consultant and _Mondovino_ star Michel Rolland, but it would be entirely separate from Harlan Estate. It would be a brand with individual stars.\n\nThe challenge they faced was that it's very difficult to create great wine using other people's grapes, since the buyer's and seller's motives are basically at odds. Growers, especially if they are paid by the ton, want to maximize their yields to maximize their profit, and high yields are the enemy of concentrated wine. The solution, as many grape buyers have concluded, is to pay by the acre and not by the ton, encouraging the growers to strictly limit yields. In creating Bond, Harlan seems to have gone a step further than usual by devising a long-term profit-sharing plan with his growers.\n\nThe name Bond, besides being a family name on his mother's side, is intended to convey this idea of a mutual partnership between the Harlan team and the various growers. Harlan speaks of it as \"a convenant.\" If this sounds a little fervent, all I can say is that great wines are inevitably the result of an obsessive vision. And Harlan has figured out a way to keep these vows intact. \"It takes ten to twenty years,\" Harlan says, \"to build a name, for us to make these vineyards recognized.\" Under his agreement with the owners, the vineyard names under which Bond produces the wines can only be used jointly. If a grower and Bond later part ways, neither can use the name again. Even more unusual is that Harlan reserves the right to tinker with the blending of the Bond wines if vintage conditions call for it, in order to maintain a Bond standard. Thus the possibility exists that a future Bond Melbury may be fine-tuned with juice from Bond or Harlan vineyards\u2014a fairly radical concept, since it mixes the seemingly contradictory single-vineyard ideal with the idea of a proprietary house style, making for a kind of a virtual single-vineyard wine. \"It hasn't happened yet, but we're allowing ourselves the option to make a better wine,\" Harlan says, and hence there is no actual geographical information on the label. Wine purists may balk at this concept. But Harlan believes that \"the discerning wine consumer of the twenty-first century wants a consistency of quality.\" And he should probably expect it at a hundred and fifty a bottle.\n\nBond started with two vineyards, Vecina and Melbury, about eight acres each, and added a third, St. Eden, with the 2001 vintage. (The eventual goal is six Bond wines.) Based on the '01 and '02 vintages, the only ones I've tasted, the Vecina is the powerful, structured, action-film vineyard, the Latour of the group, while the Melbury (my favorite) is more lush and delicate, like a great Pomerol; the St. Eden (which has garnered the highest Parker rating) seems to split the difference. The \u203203 wines may be even sexier than the \u203202s and are eminently worthy of their illustrious pedigree. Just when I think I'm bored by Napa Cabernets, along comes Bond and its stable of Thoroughbreds. After tasting the wines, I'm thinking that rules are best left to the French.\n\n# \"A GOOD AND MOST PERTICULAR TASTE\"  \n _Haut-Brion_\n\nHaut-Brion saved my life. Well, maybe not my life, exactly, but certainly my dignity. I'd arrived late for a dinner at La Grenouille, the stuffy New York temple of haute cuisine. Eleven other guests were seated; the hostess, an Asian princess, announced, \"Here's Jay\u2014he knows wine. He'll guess what we're drinking.\" Before I could find a heavy object with which to bludgeon her, the sommelier handed me a glass and poured from a carafe. He stood back and smirked, while the other guests looked up at me expectantly, as did diners at nearby tables.\n\nThe whole setup reminded me of the dream in which I stand naked in front of a classroom. With a sense of resignation bordering on despair I stuck my nose in the glass. \"Haut-Brion,\" I declared, eliciting a chorus of gasps. I examined the color, and took a sip. \"Nineteen eighty-two,\" I pronounced.\n\nI sat down and basked in the general admiration without bothering to explain my methods\u2014but now the secret can finally be revealed. I knew my hostess generally drank first-growth Bordeaux and I knew she knew her vintages. But I was very lucky that the wine was Haut-Brion\u2014the most aromatically distinctive and unmistakable of all the first growths; as the great English diarist and bad speller Samuel Pepys put it, in the first brand-name reference to a wine in English literature, \"Ho-Bryan... hath a good and most perticular taste that I never met with before.\" To be more specific, a mature Haut-Brion smells like a cigar box containing a Montecristo, a black truffle, and a hot brick, sitting on top of an old saddle. It's as earthy and complex as a Shakespearean sonnet. Once you've had it you never forget it, and you never stop yearning for more.\n\nIn the seventeenth century owner Araud III de Pontac created the first Bordeaux brand, refining winemaking techniques and sending his son to London to tout the product; Daniel Defoe, Jonathan Swift, and Thomas Jefferson were among its early, vocal fans. Contemporary advocates include the Wachowski brothers\u2014the 1959 Haut-Brion makes a cameo appearance in _The Matrix Reloaded._\n\nIn 1855 Haut-Brion was officially listed as one of the four first growths of Bordeaux. In 1935, after a long period of decline, the property was purchased by American banker Clarence Dillon and has remained in the Dillon family ever since.\n\nWhen I had lunch at the restored sixteenth-century ch\u00e2teau this past spring with Clarence's granddaughter, Joan, the Duchess of Mouchy, I asked about the legend that Dillon had not even bothered to get off the train in Bordeaux in order to see the property before he purchased it. \"That's absurd,\" she said. \"He looked at several properties, including Haut-Brion. He was in the middle of the Atlantic on his way home when he got a telegram from his agent saying that Haut-Brion was still available but he would have to act fast. He sent a two-word reply: act fast.\"\n\nDillon, who spent some of her formative years in Paris when her father was the American ambassador and was formerly married to the Prince of Luxembourg, has a voice evocative of a privileged transatlantic upbringing, as deep and burnished as an old Vuitton steamer trunk. She also has a cache of anecdotes that would have made Truman Capote wild with jealousy\u2014unfortunately, she's probably far too well brought up to write a memoir. Since 1975 she has run the estate with the aid of Jean Delmas, the most respected wine-maker in Bordeaux, who inherited the _r\u00e9gisseur_ duties from _his_ father, George, and claims to have been born \"in a vat\" on the estate.\n\nThe continuity of the Haut-Brion tradition is clearly a sacred duty to the stately, impeccably tailored Delmas, whose son Jean-Philippe seems poised to succeed him, though, like Arnaud de Pontac, he has pioneered many innovations, being among the first to employ stainless-steel fermentation tanks and green harvesting\u2014the pruning of excess grape bunches to ensure concentration. He maintains an experimental garden of some 350 vine clones out behind the ch\u00e2teau; they are vinified and tested, and the results charted by computer. He tried to explain the process to me, but I got dizzy just looking at the charts.\n\nFor centuries, connoisseurs like John Locke, Jefferson, and McInerney have made the pilgrimage to this holy ground in the Graves region, just south of the city of Bordeaux, to examine the sandy glacial soils, full of gravel, which range in color from ash white to espresso brown; today, the vineyards are hemmed in on all sides by the dreary suburban sprawl of the town of Pessac. But the wine retains its subtle, inimitable, lonely majesty.\n\nHaut-Brion's elegant, supple house style is, in my opinion, often undervalued by wine critics, vis-\u00e0-vis the more masculine wines of the M\u00e9doc (and its former rival and next-door neighbor La Mission\u2013Haut-Brion, which was bought by the Dillon family in 1983). For all its earthiness, Haut-Brion has always been more about nuance than power. (The 100-point Parker-rated 1989 being a turbocharged exception.) It is the first growth of poets and lovers, as opposed to, say, CEOs and trophy collectors.\n\nMore so than any other first growth, Haut-Brion maintains its unique character from vintage to vintage\u2014look for unheralded vintages like \u203281, \u203283, \u203291, and \u203294 on wine lists or at auctions. I have yet to be disappointed by a bottle of Haut-Brion. Unlike its northerly peers, it can be delicious in its youth, and yet it improves for decades, becoming\u2014like a person of strong character, like Joan Dillon or Jean Delmas, I suspect\u2014more idiosyncratic with the passing years, more unmistakably itself. More perticular, as Pepys would say.\n\n# THE MASERATI OF CHAMPAGNE\n\nBefore I'd ever tasted Salon, I was entranced by the name, evocative as it is of the intersection of the social life with the life of the mind\u2014of George Sand entertaining Flaubert and Turgenev, or Gertrude Stein hosting Picasso and Hemingway. The literal fact is that Salon is named for its creator, Eug\u00e8ne-Aim\u00e9 Salon, who established this tiny Champagne domaine in 1921 after making his fortune as a furrier.\n\nSalon might plausibly claim to be the first cult wine of the twentieth century; it was the house Champagne at Maxim's in the 1920s and \u203230s and has always been made in such small quantities as to make Cristal seem mass-market by comparison. If you've even heard of it, you probably qualify as a wine wonk.\n\nHonestly, until recently I don't think I'd tasted Salon more than three or four times, although I was never less than mesmerized when I did. Certainly, the rarity (and expense) enhances its mystique, but in my experience, the moment you taste it the question of whether any bottle of Champagne could be worth two hundred bucks will probably cease to be an issue. My first glass of Salon (the 1982, in 1996) reminded me in many ways of my first white truffle, and in fact this pairing is one of the great food-and-wine matches. Risotto, white truffle, Salon. Oh. My. God.\n\nSalon's singularity is the result of several factors. It was the world's first Blanc de Blancs Champagne made entirely from Chardonnay grapes from the midslopes of vineyards in Le Mesnil-sur-Oger, the preeminent village for Chardonnay in the region (and also the home of Krug's Clos du Mesnil). Unlike Krug, the other cult Champagne, it never comes near a barrel, old or new. It is made only in the greatest years. (All the luxury cuv\u00e9es make this claim, even as they declare vintages in less than stellar years, like \u203292.) It's generally released some ten years after the vintage (the current vintage is 1996) and in the opinion of connoisseurs is at its best some ten to twenty years after that.\n\n\"If Dom P\u00e9rignon is the Mercedes of Champagne,\" says Didier Depond, the effervescent director of Salon, \"then Salon is the Ferrari or the Maserati.\" Most of us may never get the chance to drive either one, but Salon is a relatively accessible luxury and one that needn't be framed by pomp and ceremony, a point that Depond probably wanted to emphasize when he invited me to share a couple of bottles with him at J'Go in Paris\u2014a hip, noisy bistro in the Ninth Arrondissement. I was kind of expecting to drink this august nectar at Ducasse or L'Ambroisie, and Depond is a regular at both these places, but he's also a bullfighting aficionado with a pretentiousness deficit. There's something really invigorating about a great luxury Champagne in an informal setting.\n\nThe \u203295 Salon that we started with was something to savor in itself, full-bodied and incredibly silky in texture, with a mousse of tiny bubbles; but given its stiletto acidity it proved to be a pretty amazing accompanist to a succession of tapas.\n\nEven more intriguing was the 1988, the aromas of which reminded me\u2014nutty as it sounds\u2014of walking through the New England woods in October with a fresh loaf of sourdough bread under my arm. It was incredibly lush in the mouth, younger and fresher than you'd expect from the nose. Depond said we'd be drinking it with the toro course, and I thought tuna belly and Champagne were a very sensible combination. The toro turned out to be a flavorful and earthy piece of bull that had recently perished in the ring. It was first served in a carpaccio version, then sliced and char-grilled, both offerings nicely framed by the toasty, earthy \u203288 Salon. I'm pretty sure I'll never be confronted with this particular pairing again, but I'll certainly never forget it. Perhaps the point I'm making, courtesy of Depond, is that everything tastes good with Salon\u2014or, perhaps, that in this era of high-low aesthetics, of couture denim and Harley-Davidson motorcycles at the Guggenheim, we shouldn't be too reverent or prissy about great Champagne.\n\nFor most of us, Salon will always be something of a special-occasion wine rather than a breakfast, lunch, and dinner staple. But connoisseurs on a budget can experience the pr\u00eat-\u00e0-porter version of Salon via Champagne Delamotte, which was founded in 1760. Most years, the grapes that in a great year become Salon go instead to its sister winery, both of which are now owned by Laurent-Perrier. Delamotte Blanc de Blancs is a very satisfying substitute for Salon, and an excellent expression of Le Mesnil Chardonnay at less than half the price. The nonvintage brut and the ros\u00e9 are also extremely good. That's my Christmas present to you this year\u2014the insider's tip. If you can find one, by all means treat yourself to a bottle of Salon for Christmas. And be sure to lay in a case of Delamotte for the new year.\n\n# BACCHANALIAN DREAMBOOK  \n _The Wine List at La Tour d'Argent_\n\nThe most exciting wine book I've read in recent years, without question, is the _carte de vin_ at La Tour d'Argent, the renowned Paris landmark on the quai de la Tournelle in the Fifth Arrondissement. Founded in 1582, the restaurant is famous for the views of the Seine from the sixth-floor dining room, for its elite clientele, and for its _caneton press\u00e9_ , a.k.a. pressed duck, the millionth of which was served last April to great fanfare. I personally consumed duck no. 999,426, and have the commemorative postcard to prove it. The more exciting number, to my mind, is the half million plus bottles that reside in its wine cellar. The five-pound document that catalogs these riches is pure porn to wine geeks.\n\nThe keeper of this legacy is David Ridgway, an Englishman with twenty-five years of service at La Tour d'Argent, who puts me in mind of Bob Hoskins playing a French sommelier. It's hard to believe anyone younger than Methuselah could have tasted all the wines on the list, let alone have perfect and detailed recall of each of them, but after quizzing him for a few hours last spring I'm inclined to believe Ridgway has and does. His manner, on first encounter, seemed to combine a bit of British reserve with Gallic institutional pride bordering on hauteur. (No, he will not be shaking your hand and saying, \"Hi there, my name's Dave.\") After an hour or so, I began to see the passionate fanaticism of a true Bacchanalian initiate.\n\nIt was Easter lunch; I had planned to attend Sunday Mass at Notre-Dame but was discouraged by the throngs. Fortunately, my table commanded an excellent view of the cathedral; I was able to hear the bells if not the homily. And the meal, with its accompaniment of wines, was pretty close to a religious experience.\n\nMy friend and I were greeted by the late proprietor Claude Terrail, an octogenarian wearing a perfectly draped Huntsman suit and shod in purple velvet slippers with the toes sawed off to reveal his socks\u2014an ensemble that seemed emblematic of his public personality, combining courtly formality with self-deprecating humor. Terrail talks about Clark Gable and Ernest Hemingway as if they had just left the room. The guests that Sunday were mostly Parisian families and American tourists; for us, the big stars were down in the cellar.\n\nWith a certain kind of customer\u2014rich American collectors who come specifically to plunder the stores of rare Burgundies from Coche-Dury and Henri Jayer, for instance\u2014one can imagine sommelier Ridgway keeping his own counsel. \"Americans can be a little too obsessional,\" he says. \"But when they relax they can be the most knowledgeable.\" And if you're not knowledgeable\u2014Ridgway shows his softer side. When an American at a nearby table remarks that the wine list is daunting, Ridgway says, \"That's why I'm here,\" in the sommelier equivalent of a soothing bedside manner. \"Tell me how much you want to spend\" is his straightforward advice for the novice. And if the sight of Ridgway in his tuxedo intimidates you, keep in mind that this is a guy who told me that what he liked best about school was getting drunk at the end of the term.\n\nWith the exception of Ports, the cellar at La Tour d'Argent is stocked exclusively with French wines, with a special emphasis on Burgundy, that most ethereal and temperamental of all beverages. The list opens with a hundred-odd pages (they're unnumbered) of _vin de Bourgogne rouge_ , including twenty-three vintages of Roman\u00e9e-Conti stretching back to 1945 and ten vintages of Jayer's Cros Parantoux, including the 1990 for 410 euros. These are some of the reasons Burghounds from around the world jump on planes to Paris for the weekend. Bargain hunters like myself will find a huge selection of modestly priced mature Burgundies, like the \u203285 Pousse d'Or Clos de La Bousse d'Or Volnay for 105 euros, or the 1990 Ecard Savigny les Beaune aux Serpenti\u00e8res for 94 euros, both of which Ridgway gently steered me toward.\n\n\"I get more excited by Burgundy,\" Ridgway says, relaxing after lunch with a glass of 1947 Armagnac in his tiny window-less office down in the labyrinthian cellars, beneath the quai de la Tournelle. \"It's a more living wine.\" It's also a relative bargain since he buys direct from the domaines\u2014something that's not possible in Bordeaux, with its long-standing negotiant system. Every Monday Ridgway and some of his staff visit a different wine region to taste and hunt for new treasures.\n\nThe staggering collection of white Burgundies (Lafon, Coche-Dury, d'Auvenay, Raveneau) provides hundreds of complementary matches to the classic pike quenelles. When I selected the pike for my first course, Ridgway hooked me up with an \u203283 Drouhin Puligny-Montrachet Caillerets, all honeyed flesh around a core of limestone. The signature pressed duck, an extremely rich, _ancien-cuisine_ concoction\u2014the sauce is thickened with the blood of three-week-old ducklings\u2014 is probably most easily matched with one of the thousands of Bordeaux or Rh\u00f4nes on the list, like a \u203275 Meyney for 136 euros or an \u203281 Beaucastel for 184. For a special occasion, there's a \u203247 P\u00e9trus (14,680 euros) or \u203261 Mouton (8,342 euros). You'll definitely want Ridgway's advice if you're eating the duck and drinking Burgundy. This is even more true of the duck \u00e0 l'orange, a tricky dish for dry reds, though the version served here is less sweet than many.\n\nLa Tour d'Argent's dedication to the wine drinker's pleasure is perhaps best reflected by the number of bottles that are unavailable for immediate drinking; recent, immature vintages are listed without price, alongside the phrase _en vieillissement._ They are maturing. Want to drink a \u203296 Bordeaux? You'll have to wait. La Tour d'Argent is one of the few restaurants in the world that truly sells no wine before its time. Wish I could think of an American restaurant of which I could say the same.\n\n#  \n# FISH STORIES FROM LE BERNARDIN\n\nWhat's so exciting about eating a cow? She stands all day chewing, waiting to be led into the slaughterhouse. That's not exciting food. But a wild thing swimming in the water\u2014now that's _passionnant_ !\n\n\u2014Gilbert Le Coze\n\nSince Brittany-born siblings Maguy and Gilbert Le Coze brought their fishy act to New York in 1986, no restaurant has done more to elevate and celebrate the role of seafood in this country than Le Bernardin, the four-star midtown temple to Poseidon, which consistently captures the top food rating in Zagat and earned Alain Ducasse's vote as the best fish restaurant in America. Where better to ask the question, What do you drink with fish? And whom better to ask than Michel Couvreux, the diminutive, dynamic sommelier? In a puckish mood, Couvreux likes to flout conventional wisdom and pair chef Eric Ripert's baked red snapper in a spicy-sour Puerto Rican _sancocho_ broth with a powerful red such as Jean-Luc Colombo's 1999 Cornas Les M\u00e9jeans. But he is the first to admit that white wine is the default setting for seafood\u2014and to argue for the complexity of whites\u2014or, as some of us prefer to call them, golds and silvers.\n\nThe iconographers of the vast right-wing conspiracy have demonized white wine as the drink of the effete Martha's Vineyard liberal elite; even self-professed wine enthusiasts like myself often regard white wine as, at best, foreplay, much the way some carnivorous gourmands have regarded fish\u2014as mere prelude to the crimson climax of the menu. Poor misguided bastards. They've probably never eaten at Le Bernardin, never experienced the electric epiphany of Ripert's meaty steamed wild striped bass with a pineapple-lime nage, paired with a racy, stony 1985 Ampeau Meursault Les Per-ri\u00e8res. Wimpy? I think not. Just about the only thing more exciting than experiencing this epiphany in the serene dining room of Le Bernardin\u2014a cross between a Zen teahouse in Kyoto and a teak-lined corporate boardroom\u2014is fighting a big striper on a fly rod while standing on the deck of a skiff in eight-foot swells.\n\nThe simple fact is that eight out of ten sea creatures prefer white wine to red, in part because the bright acidity of white wine acts like lemon juice in highlighting the flavor, particularly of white-fleshed fish. \"Some people say white wine is boring,\" Couvreux marvels, a look of boyish astonishment on his face. \"This is simply not true. The purity, the complexity, the minerality of great white wine...\" He shrugs Gallically, rubbing what is left of his dark hair as if to say, What more can one say?\n\nIf Couvreux, who was sommelier at three-star L'Arp\u00e8ge in Paris, were limited to one wine for all fish, it would undoubtedly be white Burgundy. \"Puligny-Montrachet, Chassagne-Montrachet, and Mersault,\" he says, \"account for almost half of our sales.\" For all the Asian spices, and the Spanish influence of Ripert's childhood in Andorra, this is a French restaurant, after all. And the fact is, the complex, neurasthenic Chardonnays of the C\u00f4te d'Or, with their subtle fruit, their racy acidity, and their trilling minerality, are about as fish-friendly as any wine in the world. At Le Bernardin, you can get a 2001 Chassagne from Michel Niellon for $125, or a \u203292 Montrachet from Etienne Sauzet for $1,000 (not bad for one of the greatest makers and one of the greatest vintages of the greatest white vineyard in the world). Couvreux generally reserves the big, buxom New World Chardonnays for lobster: \"With its rich texture and its heavy, almost meaty flavor, lobster can stand up to the fruit and the oak of wines like Kistler Les Noisetiers or Peter Michael.\"\n\nIn the eight years that he has been the sommelier at Le Bernardin, Couvreux has developed some rules of thumb that can be applied in the real world, for those of us who, unlike a corporate lawyer of my acquaintance, can't manage to dine daily at Le Bernardin. Most important, what I call the lover\/ fighter rule: \"Sometimes you want the wine to match the food, or the sauce, and sometimes the wine must stand up to the food. Zey must challenge each ozer; zey must fight.\" For example, in the latter category, Couvreux likes to offset heat with sweetness, as when he pairs Ripert's hamachi tartare with wasabi and a ginger-coriander emulsion with a 2003 Chateau Ste. Michelle Eroica Riesling from Washington State. \"With spicy dishes I like Riesling with a little residual sweetness. The sugar balances out and fights the spices.\"\n\nWhen fish is served in richer sauces, Couvreux concentrates on matching the flavor and texture of the sauce, as with Ripert's poached halibut with a lobster cardamom emulsion, which he pairs with a rich, floral-scented, almost oily Condrieu La Doriane from Guigal. Condrieu, made from the fragrant, glycerol-rich Viognier grape, is one of his secret weapons. For those who still yearn for red wines, heavier sauces involving red wine and mushrooms provide a bridge. Salmon always takes well to Pinot Noir; with Ripert's morel truffle sauce it can handle even a big earthy Burgundy like the 1999 Leroy Gevrey-Chambertin Le Fonteny.\n\nIf you're a red-wine-drinking fish lover, you have a role model in chef Eric Ripert, who trained with Joel Robuchon and Jean-Louis Palladin before joining the late Gilbert Le Coze at Le Bernardin in 1991. Like many of his countrymen, Ripert drinks red Bordeaux with just about everything\u2014 much to the exasperation of Couvreux. On the other hand, Ripert did admit to me that a 1972 Domaine de la Roman\u00e9e-Conti Montrachet he drank recently was the most profound wine he has ever had in his life, so there may be hope for him yet.\n\n# WHAT TO DRINK WITH CHOCOLATE\n\nNot far from the spot where Romeo secretly married Juliet, in the Valpolicella hills overlooking Verona, I discovered a more fortunate and successful match. I had just finished lunch with Stefano Cesari, the dapper proprietor of Brigaldara, in the kitchen of his fourteenth-century farmhouse, and I was trying to decide if it would be incredibly uncouth to ask who made the beautiful heather-toned tweed jacket he was wearing, when he put some dark chocolates from Perugia in front of me and opened a bottle of his 1997 Recioto della Valpolicella. One hesitates to describe any marriage as perfect, but I was deeply impressed with the compatibility of his semisweet, raisiny red and the bittersweet chocolates. Cesari later took me up to the loft of the big barn and showed me the hanging trays where Corvina and Rondinella grapes are dried for several months after harvest, which concentrates the grape sugars and ultimately results in an intense, viscous wine that, like Tawny Port, Brachetto, and a few other vinous oddities, enhances the already heady and inevitably romantic experience of eating chocolate.\n\nThe Cabernet, Merlot, or Shiraz you drank with your steak may get along well with a simple chocolate dessert, especially if the wine is young and the fruit is really ripe, but real chocoholics should check out the dried-grape wines, many of which are fortified\u2014that is, dosed with brandy, in the manner of Port, a process that stops fermentation and leaves residual sugar. \"Fortification seems helpful in terms of matching chocolate,\" says Robert Bohr, the wine director at Cru, in Greenwich Village, which has one of the best wine lists in the country, if not the world. Bohr likes Tawny Port with many chocolate desserts, finding Vintage Port too fruity. (McInerney does too, and advises that some of the best Tawnies come from Australia's Barossa Valley.) But most of all Bohr likes Madeira.\n\nIf you were to order the Hacienda Concepci\u00f3n chocolate parfait at Cru, Bohr would direct you to a vintage Madeira like the 1968 d'Oliveiras Boal. Madeira has become so unfashionable in the past century that many putative wine lovers have never tasted it, but I'm sensing the stirrings of a cult revival spearheaded by supergeeks like Bohr. The sweeter Malmsey style seems to be best suited to chocolate desserts. And by chocolate, I mean, of course, dark chocolate. Milk chocolate should be consumed only by day, if at all, and accompanied by milk.\n\nThe cough-syrupy Umbrian _passito_ wine is made in the same fashion as Recioto from the mysterious and sappy Sagrantino grape. These powerful, sweet reds seem to have originated as sacramental wines, and they continue to inspire reverence among a small cult of hedonists, myself among them. This practice of drying grapes goes back thousands of years; there are references to drying wine grapes prior to fermentation in Homer and Hesiod. (\"When Orion and Sirius come into mid-heaven,\" Hesiod advises in _Works and Days_ , \"cut off all the grape clusters and bring them home. Show them to the sun for ten days and ten nights.\") I like to imagine that these dried-grape wines resemble those that were drunk at Plato's symposium or Caligula's bashes\u2014although chocolate wouldn't appear in Europe until the sixteenth century, Columbus having stumbled upon a stash of cacao beans on his fourth and last voyage to the New World.\n\nTwo of the finest wines for chocolate, Maury and Banyuls, come from remote Roussillon in France's deep southeast. These so-called _vins doux naturels_ are made (mostly) from late-picked Grenache grown on steep, terraced, wind-scoured hillsides near the Spanish border. The standard-bearing Banyuls estate is Domaine du Mas Blanc, one of the world's most famous obscure domaines. I first tasted this wine at JoJo, Jean-Georges Vongerichten's pioneering New York bistro, alongside the warm Valrhona chocolate cake, a nearly erotic experience that I try to re-create at least once a year. (And I'm a guy who doesn't usually even bother with dessert.)\n\nBanyuls's neighboring appellation Maury also produces a chocolate-loving _vin doux._ The village cooperative makes the classic example; I recently had, alongside Le Bernardin's warm chocolate tart, a 1929 that was spectacular, with lots of caramel, date, coffee, and vanilla flavors, plus an oxidized Sherry note, which the French and Spanish call _rancio._ The finest estate in Maury is Mas Amiel (which once traded hands in a card game), producers of several cuv\u00e9es of heady Maury, including one raised in the traditional manner of the region, spending a year outdoors in huge glass demijohns, exposed to the extremes of the Roussillon climate. The demand for these labor-intensive wines, like that for most sweet wines, has been static in the past few decades (Mas Amiel is increasingly focusing on the production of dry table wines), and prices remain modest when compared with Vintage Port or Sauternes.\n\nAmerica's answer to Banyuls and Recioto is late-harvest Zinfandel\u2014a fairly rare, sweet style of Zin that is eminently delicious with chocolate, the darker and more bitter the better. This is a good general rule: chocolate with a high cocoa content and a lower milk and sugar content is the most complex, intense, and wine-friendly. As for the desserts, the more complicated they get, the harder they will be to match. Chocolate already has some five hundred flavor compounds\u2014 how many more do you need? A chocolate souffl\u00e9 is a beautiful thing, but it's hard to improve upon a simple piece of Valrhona, Bernachon, or Scharffen Berger dark chocolate, unless of course you pour a Madeira or a Maury alongside it.\n\n# PROVEN\u00c7AL PINK\n\nNot the least pleasure of wine is its mnemonic quality\u2014its madeleine-like ability to reawaken previous pleasures, to transport us back in time and place. If I fail, as seems likely, to make it physically to Provence this summer, I will revisit it often in memory\u2014whenever I open a bottle of ros\u00e9. Ros\u00e9 is made in most of the world's wine regions, but in my mind it will always be evocative of southern France, of the fragrant villages between Avignon and Cannes, and of the food of that region.\n\nSeveral of my most memorable meals have been washed down with ros\u00e9, none more satisfying than a lunch at a tiny restaurant near the village of Apt. I'd just spent two days tasting the \u203298 vintage in Ch\u00e2teauneuf-du-Pape\u2014huge red tannic monsters. My mouth was still puckered with tannin as I set out with a friend that morning from Avignon for a little **R & R**\u2014 honest, wine tasting is _work_ \u2014in Peter Mayle country. Someone had recommended a stop at Mas Tourteron, but I don't recall any great expectations when we finally disembarked in the dusty parking lot in the midst of a cherry orchard after innumerable wrong turns. (Forget about your Michelin map in Provence\u2014it doesn't work.) We entered the gate of a walled-in courtyard that dwarfed the farmhouse to which it was attached.\n\nThe courtyard was hushed and deserted, a few rough farm tables scattered on the lawn among the trees. Birdcages were mounted on the walls and the trees. The fragrance from scattered flowerbeds was almost narcotic. The pleasant spell was eventually broken with the arrival of Philippe Baique, the deeply tanned, silver-haired husband of chef Elisabeth Bourgeois; he offered us our pick of the tables and returned with the menus and the wine list, which included superstars from such producers as Guigal and Krug. But we were interested in the local talent. We put ourselves in the hands of the proprietor, who brought out a bottle of ros\u00e9 and advised us to arm ourselves against the sun with one of the many straw hats that were hanging in the trees around us. Hot and thirsty as I was, I found it hard to imagine that anything had ever tasted so good as that ros\u00e9. It hardly needed food, given the continuing suspense in the mouth of the sweet fruit dueling with the citrusy acidity. But it played a strong supporting role with my first course\u2014a dish that I hesitate to call tomato soup since it was actually the Platonic essence of tomato, highlighted with basil and other herbs. The wine continued to shine with the salmon with herbs in parchment, and I was loath to give it up even with the arrival of the clafoutis, made from the cherries that had just come into season.\n\nBaique told us that the producer, Domaine de La Citadelle, was just a few miles away in M\u00e9nerbes, and he eventually drove us over to the castle that houses the winery to meet the proprietor, the squirish and impeccably tweeded M. Yves Riusset-Rouard, who made his pile, in part, as producer of the salacious _Emmanuelle_ movies. In addition to ros\u00e9, M. Riusset-Rouard makes some impressive Cabernet-based reds, but his most distinctive accomplishment may be the creation of the Corkscrew Museum on the premises, which houses the world's largest collection of these vital implements.\n\nA few days later, at a cliffside restaurant overlooking the Mediterranean in Marseille, I discovered the ultimate food match for Proven\u00e7al ros\u00e9: bouillabaisse. Even if, especially if, you're the kind of girl who thinks she's too sophisticated for ros\u00e9, you will be converted by this match. Of course, the Marseillaises\u2014included winemaker Jean-Luc Colombo, who was my dinner partner\u2014claim that you can't get true bouillabaisse outside of the Mediterranean. The good news is that while no wine will ever taste quite as good at home in Des Moines as it will in, say, the lavender-scented hilltop town of Corbierres, in the age of refrigerated shipping containers it should be pretty much the same beverage.\n\nThe wine I was swilling with my bouillabaisse, Mas de La Dame, is one of many good Proven\u00e7al ros\u00e9s available in the States. It comes from the Les Baux appellation\u2014the hills south of Saint-R\u00e9my. And if the starkly beautiful landscape around the seventeenth-century farmhouse looks familiar, that may be because van Gogh painted it while he was living in Saint-R\u00e9my. The estate employs the consulting services of Colombo, who races between estates up and down the Rh\u00f4ne Valley in his BMW. Like most Proven\u00e7al ros\u00e9s, Mas de La Dame is made from a blend of red wine grapes\u2014in this case, Grenache, Cabernet, and Syrah\u2014which are removed from their pigment-bearing skins before fermentation.\n\nThe best-known appellation for Proven\u00e7al ros\u00e9s is Bandol, located on the coast between Marseille and Toulon. Domaine Tempier and Ch\u00e2teau Pradeaux are my perennial favorites. The C\u00f4tes de Provence appellation is the home of the famous Domaine Ott, which comes in that funny Greek-urn-shaped bottle and costs almost twice as much as the average Proven\u00e7al ros\u00e9. But at times, with certain foods, it can seem more inspired than a first-growth Bordeaux, as I seem to recall it did over a lunch with English friends at a restaurant called Tetou on the beach at Golfe Juan. We were celebrating my friend's Simon's birthday. We ate fish soup and langoustines and the Domaine Ott kept coming as the waves lapped the sand and bathers wandered past a few feet from our table. I haven't seen Simon for several years, but whenever I open a bottle of Domaine Ott, as I did recently on a cold day in New York, I think about that afternoon on the beach.\n\n# ODD COUPLES  \n _What to Drink with Asian Food_\n\nThe classic European dishes have their classic wine matches: Bordeaux with rack of lamb, Sauternes with terrine of foie gras, Barolo with _brasato._ But most of us, I suspect, eat moo shu pork and chicken tikka masala more often than we eat beef bourguignonne. Asian cuisines were not developed with indigenous wines, so we can't rely on tradition, but that doesn't mean you have to drink beer\u2014or sake\u2014when you go Asian.\n\nTo begin with, let me make a blanket generalization and declare that Champagne goes very well with sushi and most other Japanese food. According to Richard Geoffroy, wine-maker for Dom P\u00e9rignon, it's a marriage based, in part, on the compatibility of the yeast in the Champagne and the yeast in the soy sauce; plus, the wine's high acidity cuts through the saltiness\u2014as with caviar. For similar reasons, Champagne works well with dim sum. It's more difficult to make generalizations about other Chinese cuisines, given the many regional styles, but most of us are familiar with a hybrid of Cantonese and Szechuan cooking.\n\nI recently celebrated my birthday at Canton, my favorite Chinese restaurant, located in New York's Chinatown. One reason I chose the place was that it allows me to bring my own wine. On the other hand, Cantonese food is not exactly a slam dunk when it comes to wine matching. But I had more hits than misses.\n\nOne intuition, increasingly confirmed by experience, is that the white wines of Alsace and Germany often make great companions for Chinese and South Asian dishes\u2014Riesling being especially companionable with Cantonese cooking, as the \u203299 Barm\u00e8s Buecher Hengst _grand cru_ proved in conjunction with the minced squab wrapped in lettuce leaf. The most exciting match of the birthday dinner was a Zind-Humbrecht Pinot Gris with Peking duck. (Several Alsatian winemakers, including Olivier Humbrecht, had tipped me off to this one. The slight smokiness of the Pinot Gris is amplified by the smokiness of the long-cooked duck.) One thing that makes these wines so successful with somewhat sweet, somewhat spicy food is their residual sugar. Anyone who is horrified at the idea of sweetness\u2014who thinks that the words _dry_ and _sophisticated_ are synonymous\u2014should get over it. Or drink beer. A touch of sugar, which many Alsatian and German wines have, is the perfect counterpoint to spice; these wines are also inevitably high in acidity, which balances out the sweetness of a sauce like hoisin. When going German, choose a _Sp\u00e4tlese_ , a late-picked wine with good body and ripeness.\n\nI also had a red wine success, pairing a \u203296 Martinelli Jackass Hill Vineyard Zinfandel with the Cantonese beef and onions. I have since had almost unerring satisfaction with (red) Zinfandel and Chinese food, especially Ridge's Lytton Springs (a 70 percent Zin blend), which is widely available. I have no idea why Zinfandel works with such a wide variety of feisty Chinese dishes\u2014like sesame chicken and orange-flavored beef\u2014though I suspect it has to do with the natural exuberance and sweetness of the grape and its low tannins. Try it.\n\nI have always loved Viognier, especially from the Condrieu region of France, but I never really knew what to drink it with\u2014it seems too floral and assertive for most white wine dishes\u2014until I took a suggestion from a waiter at Chiam, a Chinese restaurant in midtown Manhattan. The 2000 Copain Viognier from the Russian River region of California seemed to distinguish itself with every dish\u2014shrimp dumplings, spicy prawns, and sesame chicken\u2014and I have since been converted to Chinese with both French and domestic Viogniers. Indian food is, if anything, even trickier than Chinese. Vindaloo, anyone? (Again, there are many cuisines in the subcontinent, but on these shores generalizations can be made.) I have often drunk Gew\u00fcrztraminer with Indian food\u2014it's almost a clich\u00e9 at this point that Gew\u00fcrz, with its wacky rose-water and lychee nut character, goes with hot food like curries. The principle of balancing sweet and hot serves as a guideline\u2014think of the wine as serving the purpose of a sweet chutney. A slightly sweet Gew\u00fcrz, even a Vendange Tardive, can stand up to a hotter curry.\n\nI was introduced to a more offbeat partner for Indian flavors by Richard Breitkreutz, the former wine director at three-star Tabla, which specializes in the cuisine of chef Floyd Cardoz's native southern Goa. Breitkreutz brought out a \u203296 Martinez Bujanda Rioja Finca Valpiedra Reserva with the chicken tikka, eliciting a skeptical hoot from me. But the two seemed made for each other, and the Rioja complemented all the other dishes on the table, including a medium-hot curry. I've since discovered that this was no fluke. Breitkreutz thinks it has something to do with the earthiness of the wine.\n\nWith its green and red curries and sweet and spicy combinations, Thai food presents similar challenges. Gew\u00fcrz is a good place to start, particularly with _gai pad bai krapow_ \u2014spicy chicken or beef with onions and basil. Viognier also stands up. And Australian S\u00e9millon from the Hunter Valley seems to work especially well in conjunction with lemongrass and ginger. As for reds, I have had good luck pairing young Australian Shirazes with spicy beef salads and several other dishes. The explanation for this match probably has nothing to do with relative geographical proximity.\n\nPerhaps the most interesting thing about matching wine with Asian food is that it's a relatively new area of inquiry. Many discoveries await the wine geek and the novice alike. Dial up your local takeout, open a few modestly priced bottles, and be prepared for some pleasant surprises.\n\n#  \n# BABY JESUS IN VELVET PANTS  \n _Bouchard and Burgundy_\n\nA great bottle of Burgundy is one of the strongest arguments we have in favor of wine.... The problem for most of us, though, is to find that great bottle of Burgundy.\n\n\u2014Gerald Asher, _Vineyard Tales_\n\nBack in 1985 I found myself staying at the Chateau Marmont in West Hollywood at the expense of a large movie studio. While the Chateau's room service menu was minimal enough foodwise to satisfy the most demanding anorexics and drug abusers, it listed a couple dozen old vintages of _grand cru_ Burgundy from Bouchard P\u00e8re et Fils. Visiting repeatedly over the next few years, I helped deplete this cellar and in the process developed an ugly Burgundy habit, which has persisted to this day.\n\nBurgundy is a wine for chronic romantics\u2014those for whom hope perenially triumphs over experience. If you are a sensible person with a family, a full-time job, and a sound belief in cause and effect, you might want to avoid the C\u00f4te d'Or. Once you've experienced the transport of a great bottle of Burgundy, you may end your days broke, drooling on Burgundy Wine Company catalogs, offering sexual favors to sommeliers\u2014all in the vain hope of re-creating that rapture. Having scared the wimps from the room, let me qualify this gloomy scenario by proposing a reliable source for this particular controlled substance.\n\nFounded in 1731, Bouchard owns more prime vineyards in the C\u00f4te d'Or than any other firm. And in many ways, its history is emblematic of the region. Bouchard's headquarters was built on the ruins of the fifteenth-century Ch\u00e2teau de Beaune, which the family purchased after the French Revolution; the ancient cobwebbed cellars contain what is undoubtedly the world's largest library of old Burgundy vintages, extending to the early part of the last century. Long renowned for its magnificent _grand crus_ , by the 1970s the firm was, like Burgundy itself, coasting on its reputation.\n\nIn the 1960s and \u203270s many of the region's famous vineyards had been planted with mutant, high-yielding vines and saturated with fertilizers. The feeble wines from these overworked vineyards were routinely turbocharged with sugar and tartaric acid, with little regard to the strict laws limiting these practices. Worst of all, some Burgundian estates and negotiants routinely labeled and sold lesser village wines from the flats as _premier crus_ and _grand crus_ from the more prestigious hillside vineyards, as well as wines from the Rh\u00f4ne Valley and elsewhere, making a mockery of the entire appellation system. Although these practices were widespread, the authorities decided to make an example of the biggest fish in Beaune. In October 1987 they descended on Bouchard's headquarters, seizing the cellar book, which documented dubious cellar practices. Bouchard ended up paying a $400,000 fine and was subsequently sold to to Joseph Henriot, the suave, impeccably tailored former president of Clicquot Inc., who also runs his family's domaine in Champagne. Since 1995, Henriot has presided over an extensive overhaul of Bouchard, the results of which were first really showcased in the very good \u203299 vintage.\n\nBouchard's vineyard holdings have long been concentrated in the C\u00f4te de Beaune, the southern half of the C\u00f4te d'Or, home of Burgundy's great whites, including 2.2 acres of Le Montrachet. I was a little disappointed when I first laid eyes on this gently sloping (five-degree) hillside vineyard, the holiest of holies for Chardonnay drinkers. I think I expected it to resemble the Matterhorn. But my sense of awe was restored later when I tasted the \u203299 Bouchard Montrachet in their cellars. Montrachet is never the fattest or fruitiest Chardonnay on the block, but at its best it has a stony purity that resonates and lingers on the palate as a tuning fork does on the eardrum. And it can develop for decades. I recently had a \u203261 Bouchard Montrachet at the Manhattan restaurant of the same name; it was incredibly fresh and vibrant and, according to the note I made at the time, reminded me somehow of the prose of Hemingway's \"Big Two-Hearted River.\" An authentic, more affordable version of the Montrachet experience\u2014 for those of us who balk at spending three hundred dollars and up for a bottle of wine\u2014can be found in Bouchard's Mersaults and Puligny-Montrachets, which come from neighboring vineyards.\n\nFor many years Bouchard's signature red wine has been the Beaune Gr\u00e8ves La Vigne de L'Enfant J\u00e9sus, a _premier cru_ said by the nuns who once owned the vineyard to produce wine as smooth as the baby Jesus in velvet pants\u2014about as weird an analogy as I've encountered even in the overheated field of wine descriptors. As a former student of Raymond Carver's, let me just add: I like it a lot. Among the best values in Burgundy year in and year out is another Bouchard Beaune\u2014the Clos-de-La-Mousse. Henriot extended the firm's portfolio with the purchase of prime vineyards in the more northerly C\u00f4tes de Nuits, home of Burgundy's most prestigious reds. The _grand c_ ** _ru_** Bonnes-Mares and the Nuits-Saint-Georges Les Cailles are among the standouts of recent vintages.\n\nBouchard also bottles wines made from purchased grapes, but it is the estate wines, in which the words _Bouchard P\u00e9re et Fib_ appear in script on top above the vintage, that are the most exciting, coming from Bouchard's own vineyards. The winemaking, supervised by the genial Phillipe Prost, is impeccable. (Note that Bouchard A\u00een\u00e9 is another firm entirely.) I hesitate to recommend Burgundy to the general public, but if you're willing to risk your peace of mind in pursuit of one of the most exciting sensory experiences available inside the law and outside of bed, you could do worse than to check in with my old Hollywood friends at Bouchard P\u00e8re et Fils.\n\n# STRICTLY KOSHER\n\nMy first buzz was strictly kosher, courtesy of a bottle of Manischewitz Concord grape wine, filched from my neighbor Danny Besser's parents in Chappaqua, New York. It struck me as a wonderful beverage at the time. I fell into a pond but otherwise emerged from the experience unscathed\u2014even exhilarated. Since then I've sampled a few more bottles at seders, and it's one of those guilty pleasures, like Big Macs, that shouldn't necessarily arouse our grown-up derision. But as a wine drinker I've moved on, and so has kosher wine.\n\nWine has played an important role in Jewish ritual and was produced for thousands of years in Palestine until the Muslim conquest of **A**. **D**. 636. \"Wine was the constant thread through Jewish festivals,\" according to _The Oxford Companion to Wine_ , \"since it is sipped as the Sabbath starts (kiddush) and again when it ends (habdalah) with the blessing 'Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.'\"\n\nOf course, other religions used wine in their rituals, so the Jews distinguished theirs by developing the tradition of kosher wine, whereby only observant Orthodox Jews were allowed to be involved in the production and bottling. The hot wrench that got thrown into the winemaking machinery was the insistence of some rabbinical authorities that kosher wine be boiled, so that heathens wouldn't recognize it as wine and use it in their own rituals. This boiled, mevushal wine, which has lost most of its winelike qualities and all the nuances we talk about when we talk about wine, has for centuries succeeded in scaring off serious wine drinkers.\n\nThe kosher wines that are of interest to readers of this column, whether Jewish or gentile, are those that, one way or another, circumvent the mevushal process. (Nonmevushal wines meet strict kosher guidelines, I'm told, provided they're not opened or handled by a nonkosher waiter or sommelier.) The best advice I can give you is to look at the label, and if the wine is mevushal, pass it over. Walk on by. Or, better yet, run.\n\nFor Passover and other occasions, there are dozens of serious kosher wines to consider, including wines made under Orthodox supervision at estates like Bordeaux's L\u00e9oville-Poyferr\u00e9 and those made at kosher properties in Israel and California.\n\nYarden, in the Golan Heights, Israel's coolest growing region (we will pass over disputes about sovereignty here), is producing uncooked kosher wines to tempt the heathen palate. Golan is an agricultural paradise, a beautiful and haunted landscape. Site preparation for Yarden's El Rom vineyard in the so-called Valley of Tears\u2014the scene of a massive armored battle in the Yom Kippur War\u2014required the removal of the hulks of 250 Syrian tanks.\n\nSince 1992, Yarden wines have been made by California-born Victor Schoenfeld, a cheerful, nebbishy University of California at Davis graduate who apprenticed at Mondavi and Chateau St. Jean, and whose wife is a major in the Israeli army. Schoenfeld has been fashioning serious ageworthy kosher Cabernet Sauvignons for the past decade (and has recently taken on Sonoma's Zelma Long as a consultant). At a recent vertical tasting at New York's Union Pacific restaurant, the 1985 was still showing well, and several of the later vintages were outstanding. I can't necessarily recommend the Chardonnay, however\u2014tasting the 2000 vintage, I kept checking my tongue for oak splinters. But Yarden makes a very good Blanc de Blancs, a promising Pinot Noir, and an excellent dessert wine\u2014all of them extremely well priced.\n\nDalton, based in the Galilee region, makes a beautifully balanced Chardonnay, though I find its reds sweet and cloying. A very promising new source of premium kosher wines in Israel is Recanati, in the Hefer Valley. Cofounded by an Israeli of Italian heritage, the winery is named after the owner's ancestral village. At about twenty dollars, Recanati's 2003 reserve Cab is a steal.\n\nSome of Bordeaux's finest wines are available in limited-quantity kosher versions, thanks in part to the influence of the Rothschild family. Probably the best value for the Passover table is the kosher version of Mouton Cadet from the Baron Philippe de Rothschild group; this premium wine is one of the most widely distributed in the world. The 2000 vintage has produced a wine of real distinction and character.\n\nIn America, the finest kosher wines of which I'm aware are being produced under the Baron Herzog label. Herzog has adopted a technique of flash-pasteurizing the juice at 165 degrees; this process seems to have very little, if any, deleterious effect on the finished wine and qualifies the wine to bear the mevushal label. The Special Reserve Chardonnay from the Russian River Valley is usually outstanding, and the reds are well made and well priced. Herzog is owned by the Royal Wine Corporation, which also imports a wide range of kosher wines of wildly diverse quality. Some of them will appeal to oenophiles regardless of their heritage; others will undoubtedly please those who look back fondly on the grape syrup of seders past.\n\n# BODY AND SOIL\n\nThe quaint, red-roofed town of Wettolsheim, in Alsace, rolls up its sidewalks at dark. One wonders what a sleepless inhabitant might think, looking out his window at three a.m., to see a light in the vineyards\u2014his neighbor Fran\u00e7ois Buecher moving between the rows of vines with a spray gun. And what would the neighbors think if they saw him burying a cow horn packed with manure in the vineyard? By now, one imagines, Wettolsheimers must be used to the eccentric habits of Buecher, who practices a radical form of organic viticulture known as _biodynamique._\n\nBarm\u00e8s Buecher is one of dozens of domaines in France that are growing grapes in accordance with the principles of Rudolf Steiner, an Austrian philosopher and polymath, and the founder of the anthroposophical movement. Biodynamic agricultural theory views the farm as a self-sustaining entity within the surrounding ecosystem. A vineyard's ecological balance is determined by the vitality of the soil and the diversity of the organisms living in it, and is subject to the influence of the moon and stars. It's easy to make the theory and some of its practices sound ludicrous, which may explain why many practitioners are reluctant to talk about it. But over the past decade, I've noticed that some of the greatest estates in France have gone biodynamic. In Burgundy, Domaine Leroy, Domaine Leflaive, and Comtes Lafon\u2014names on anyone's top-ten list\u2014are biodynamic. It makes sense that Burgundy is leading the way in this holistic agricultural approach; in the \u203260s and \u203270s many of the great vineyards of the region were bombarded with chemicals in a misdirected attempt to increase production. In Alsace, Zind-Humbrecht, Ostertag, Marcel Deiss, Marc Kreydenweiss, and more than a dozen other estates follow the system. In the Loire, devotees include Domaine Huet of Vouvray and Nicolas Joly of Savenni\u00e8res; and in the Rh\u00f4ne, Chapoutier has racked up dozens of 90-point ratings since it went biodynamic.\n\nLong a force in New Zealand and Australia, biodynamic practice is just beginning to exert an influence in California, as many growers seek ways to lessen their dependence on agrochemicals and sustain the fecundity of their soil. While many vineyards follow the Food and Drug Administration guidelines for organic farming, some California winegrowers are turning to the more rigorous ideas of Steiner's. \"Organics is about nonuse of chemicals, while biodynamics is about restoring the soil and putting nutrition back in,\" says Rob Sinskey, of Robert Sinskey Vineyards, who has adopted biodynamic practices at his Napa vineyards. The Sinskey operation, the Benziger Family Winery in Sonoma, and Frey Vineyards in Mendocino are among a handful of California winemaking estates certified by the Demeter Association, the international body in charge of Steiner's legacy.\n\nThe basic principles of biodynamics are as commonsensical as some of its practices are arcane. Advocates argue that long-term use of agrochemicals destroys the microbial and insect life of the soil. When I visited Buecher, he showed me the abundance of earthworms and beetles in his own vineyards, then moved to a neighbor's heavily sprayed plot, where we were unable to find a single living thing. It's the life that we can't see\u2014microorganisms\u2014that is the most important living component of the soil. Proponents like Buecher plausibly claim that biodynamic practices result in better wines that transmit the unique characteristics of the soil and site. \"Soil microorganisms bond a plant to the soil,\" explains Mike Benziger, who started to make the switch to biodynamic farming five years ago and was recently certified. \"Microorganisms are the chefs that take a combination of organic and mineral elements in your soil and offer them to the plant in a form it can absorb.\" Fertilizers short-circuit this process\u2014making the vines act like lockjawed diners at a three-star restaurant, attached to IV drips.\n\nIn place of chemicals, biodynamics relies heavily on composting and holistic teas made from nettles and horsetail. Advocates say that building soil and vine health can eliminate the need for insecticides. \"We had a Chardonnay vineyard that was problematic,\" says Rob Sinskey. \"We had phylloxera, and we wanted to know why it was spreading so fast. We observed that the soil was dead; there were no earthworms. We started reading up on Steiner, going to Europe.\" Following biodynamic viticulture slowed the spread of phylloxera, according to Sinskey, and vastly improved grape quality, to the point where the troubled vines now produce his best Chardonnay.\n\nVine-munching insects are trapped on sticky paper and cremated, their ashes mixed in a solution that is sprayed in a vineyard to repel their fellows. Another preparation sometimes used, horn silica, a.k.a. quartz, is sprayed on vines between three a.m. and eight a.m. at the equinox. Steiner's emphasis on lunar and cosmic rhythms can sound flaky to nonbelievers, but Benziger makes an intuitive case: \"The moon moves the oceans, and plants are ninety-eight percent water.\" Sinskey says that \"Steiner refers to the silica spraying as focusing life forces. I see it as refracting light. I don't know how it works. Using silica spray, we've seen sugars leap within twenty-four hours.\"\n\nPerhaps the most arcane practice of biodynamic viticulture involves the aforementioned burying of manure in cow horns\u2014which Steiner believed are infused with the life force\u2014 during the fall equinox. They are dug up in the spring and mixed into a homeopathic spray. Personally, I'd rather drink a wine nurtured with cow horn and nettles than one raised on phosphates and insecticides. The theory, if correct, suggests that biodynamic wines should taste better, and more site specific, in the long run, in addition to being safer, a conclusion that seems to be borne out by the recent wines of growers like Leroy, Leflaive, Zind-Humbrecht, and Chapoutier. But not all biodynamic wines are excellent: Nicolas Joly, of Coul\u00e9e de Serrant, seems indifferent to the winemaking, as opposed to the winegrowing, process; his recent wines have often been oxidized and downright weird.\n\nMaster of Wine Jancis Robinsion, who recently compared the biodynamic and conventional cuv\u00e9es of Leflaive's wines, says, \"I do think that successful biodynamically grown wines do taste different\u2014wilder, more intense, and dangerous\u2014 hunting dogs rather than lapdogs, if you like.\"\n\n\"I'm doing it because I think it produces great wines,\" says Benziger, whose Sonoma Mountain estate wines are well worth seeking out. \"I don't want people to buy it because it's biodynamic. I'm also hoping this property will be taken over by my kids, and I want to be able to hand them over a piece of property that's increasing in health, not dying.\"\n\n# NEW ZEALAND'S SECOND ACT\n\nNot too long ago, in a faraway place now best known as Middle Earth, a wine was born. New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc appeared suddenly, as if it had sprung fully formed from Zeus's head, and in the past decade it has taken its place alongside Barossa Shiraz and Napa Cabernet as a kind of instant classic. It was as though the Kiwis figured out how to bottle Kiri Te Kanawa's voice. From this distance it appears that those few of her compatriots who weren't employed as extras on _Lord of the Rings_ were busy planting vines. That was Act One. Act Two is still getting under way.\n\nFor those of you who missed Act One, here is a pr\u00e9cis: in 1985 David Hohnen, owner of Cape Mentelle Vineyards in the Margaret River region of Western Australia, flew to New Zealand, convinced that the cool climate of the South Island could produce great Sauvignon Blanc. In fact, Montana, a big company based on the North Island, had already ventured south to plant Sauvignon in Marlborough in \u203276, and its early bottlings were promising. Hohnen met winemaker Kevin Judd, hired him on the spot, and bought land in the Marlborough district, on the northeast corner of the island. Within a year the first vintage of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc, made from locally purchased grapes, was creating a buzz and winning prizes in Australia and the United Kingdom.\n\nWithin a decade Cloudy Bay had spawned numerous imitators and had helped create a new style of wine. For some reason, Sauvignon Blanc grown in cool, sunny Marlborough tastes like nothing else\u2014certainly not like the lean, stony, lemony Sauvignons from Sancerre and Pouilly-Fum\u00e9. These Marlborough Sauvignons are fruit cocktails suggestive of lime, mango, grapefruit, and, especially, for those who have encountered them, gooseberries. Nearly everything on Carmen Miranda's hat\u2014along with a few renegade vegetables, like asparagus and bell pepper. What holds it all together is a wire-mesh foundation of acidity that comes from the long, cool growing season in this marginal climate.\n\nAt this point, Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc is a category unto itself, so successful that it is inspiring emulation in South Africa and South America. It's hard to go wrong buying a bottle, most of which fall in the ten- to twenty-dollar range. Brancott, Seresin, Villa Maria, and Thornbury are some of the more reliable producers. Chardonnay also does well in Marlborough, producing lean, racy versions. The most exotic Chardonnay seems to come from the warmer North Island, around Auckland. The Chards from Kumeu River Wines, founded in 1944, have developed a cult following in Great Britain and Australia over the years and are well worth seeking out, as are the big Chardonnays of nearby Matua.\n\nPinot Noir is supposed to be the great red hope of this cool country. For years we've been hearing the buzz about the imminence of great Pinot, particularly from the Martinborough region. More recently, Central Otago has emerged as the great new _terroir_ for Pinot. I have tasted some good ones from both regions\u2014Martinborough Vineyard and Felton Road are worth seeking out\u2014but for now the vines are young and Pinot Noir is, let's face it, a bitch.\n\nOne of the more promising developments in Act Two is taking shape in Hawke's Bay, under the auspices of a new winery called Craggy Range, founded in 1999, which is producing single-vineyard bottlings of Sauvignon Blanc as well as red grape varietals\u2014a new approach in New Zealand. American-born, Australian-based mogul Terry Peabody traveled the globe for seven years looking for the perfect spot to convert a fortune based on waste management into a world-class wine estate. Peabody settled on Hawke's Bay, where vines have been grown since the nineteenth century, and hooked up with New Zealand viticulturalist Steve Smith, a cheerful polar bear of a man who, for all his antipodean mateyness, is a Master of Wine and a rabid Francophile.\n\nThe first act of the New Zealand wine story relied heavily on technology, but Smith is a _terroir_ freak, obsessed with expressing the individual characters of specific vineyard sites. Craggy Range's first offering was a single-vineyard Sauvignon that was more polished and subtle than the typical Marlborough SB, if still recognizably New Zealand. This past year the winery released a stunning Puligny-like single-vineyard Chardonnay called Les Beaux Cailloux.\n\nHawke's Bay's Bordeaux-like maritime climate had inspired earlier growers to plant Cabernet and Merlot. A warm and rocky district called the Gimblett Gravels winegrowing district is beginning to look ideal for Bordeaux grapes; a \u203298 Merlot from the area, from C. J. Pask, won the gold medal in the Bordeaux red class at the 2000 International Wine Challenge. Craggy Range is about to release several small-production reds from this area, including a rich, silky Cabernet Franc\u2013 Merlot blend called Sophia and a blockbuster Syrah. If these wines are any indication, some of the protagonists of New Zealand's second act will be red.\n\nTalking to some New Zealand winemakers one picks up a certain impatience, even embarrassment, about the spectacular success of Sauvignon Blanc. For some reason I'm reminded of John Grisham's recent attempt to go upmarket with his \"literary\" novel, _A Painted House_ , and of Paul McCartney's symphony. I only hope that Kiwi winemakers, as they explore and develop new styles and new grapes, keep playing to their strengths, and our thirst. The late Auberon Waugh, who was pretty stingy with his compliments, once said, \"It's very difficult to be best in the world at anything, but New Zealand has achieved that distinction with Sauvignon Blanc.\"\n\n#  \n# NUMBER TWO AND BITCHING LOUDER  \n _Armagnac_\n\nI'm not _a_ big drinker of spirits these days. Wine provides more nuance and interest at the expense of fewer brain cells. But I happened to acquire an interest in Armagnac during trips to Bordeaux, where it's often served after dinner at the great ch\u00e2teaux, and at the renowned bistro La Tupina, where wine merchants and ch\u00e2teaux owners savor old Armagnac vintages after washing down a roast chicken with a bottle of Pauillac. Over time I came to appreciate the complexity and variety of France's No. 2 brandy, as well as the sense of completion and contemplation inspired by an after-dinner snifter. \"At its best,\" claims British spirits expert Nicholas Faith, \"Armagnac offers the drinker a depth, a natural sweetness, and a fullness unmatched by even the finest cognac.\"\n\nEveryone in the heavily forested Gascony region, a hundred miles south of Bordeaux, will tell you that Armagnac is France's oldest spirit, first distilled as early as 1411. Cognac got off to a much later start, but that town's position on the Charente River allowed for easy transport and eventual international renown. The brandy of Armagnac remained something of a local cult, and it was often credited for the great longevity of the inhabitants. While Cognac production is concentrated in a handful of wealthy firms, Armagnac is still largely an artisanal product crafted by feisty individuals like Martine Lafitte of Domaine Boingn\u00e8res.\n\nWith her jet-black helmet of hair, her big Valentino tortoiseshell glasses, and her tiger-striped sweater and tight white pants, Lafitte might be the proprietress of a beauty salon or travel agency. Here in the homeland of d'Artagnan and foie gras, I was expecting someone a little more... rustic. One is tempted to say that she is not the typical Armagnac producer, except that the more people you talk to here, the more you realize that this is a region of Gallic individualists who passionately disagree about how to make _le vrai Armagnac._ In this regard, the region is more like Burgundy than Bordeaux\u2014a place of small plots and contentious peasants going their own way, squabbling among themselves about _le vrai Armagnac_ even as they insult the integrity of that other French brandy that fills duty-free shops around the globe.\n\nThe Boingn\u00e8res estate, in the Bas-Armagnac region, which has been in Lafitte's family since 1807, comprises about fifty acres\u2014not much when you consider that her Armagnac is in demand from Tokyo to New York. Half of that acreage is planted with the Folle Blanche grape, which is Lafitte's particular passion. Folle Blanche is more difficult to raise than Ugni Blanc and Colombard, two more common grape varieties, and hence is on the decline, but to her mind it produces the richest and most aromatic Armagnac. Lafitte's father was one of the great champions of Folle Blanche, but many of his neighbors disagreed with his strident advocacy of it as the true grape of Armagnac, preferring the more forgiving varieties. One day he arrived at his _chai_ to find a cross of flowers from the cemetery in front of the cellar door. \"It's a tough region,\" Martine Lafitte says proudly, getting a last drag on her Craven A before she takes me in to the cellar. \"We fight for our beliefs.\"\n\nLafitte shows me the old-style alembic\u2014twin copper towers wherein the wine is heated and evaporated in the winter, following the harvest. She distills to about 49 percent alcohol, producing a more flavorful spirit than the 70 percent typical in Cognac. The spirit gains additional flavor and mellowness in the oak casks, where it may develop for decades. Unlike some makers, Lafitte doesn't water it down to 40 percent when it's bottled.\n\nRegulations for the region allow Armagnac to be sold in as little as two years, but these young brandies are to be avoided at all costs. Five-year-old Armagnac can be labeled VO, VSOP, or _r\u00e9serve._ But the best Armagnacs are the older vintages, which are seldom bottled before ten years of age. Laubade, one of the larger domaines in Armagnac, has thousands of barrels of old Armagnacs mellowing (and evaporating) in a series of cellars on the slope below its tiled 1850 manor house. At Laubade they believe the wood is just as important as the grape, and they get much of their oak from a nearby forest and then stack it and dry it for several years before cooperage. Laubade's Armagnacs are produced largely from the Baco grape, which many believe has greater aging potential than Folle Blanche. (Even Mme. Lafitte grants Baco the virtue of longevity.) In their first twenty years of life, these don't show the complexity of Folle Blanche\u2013based Armagnacs, but they really start to sing when they hit the age of majority.\n\nTasting through vintages back to 1934, I was impressed by the increasing complexity and depth of the older spirits, although, as with fine wines, some vintages are notably superior to others\u2014the 1947, in this case, being my hands-down favorite.\n\nThe practice of vintage dating, which is not followed in Cognac, has made Armagnac increasingly popular, especially on our own vintage-conscious shores. Laubade is one of the few makers that have sufficient stocks of old vintages to make them widely available in the United States, but there are many small makers who are worth seeking out. Most of the best are concentrated in the westernmost Bas-Armagnac region and include some of my favorites: Ch\u00e2teau de Briat, Laberdolive, Ch\u00e2teau de Lacquy, and Ch\u00e2teau du Tariquet. Part of what makes Armagnac so engaging is that there are dozens of makers producing rich and complex brandies that turn up in our restaurants and liquor stores, and any number of these spirits will provide a memorable and contemplative coda to a meal.\n\n# WHITE ON WHITE  \n _Blanc de Blancs Champagne_\n\nThe unspoiled little town of Le Mesnil-sur-Oger sits almost smugly in the center of the rolling hills of Champagne's C\u00f4te des Blancs. BMWs and Mercedeses race through the narrow streets, driven by some of the world's most prosperous small farmers. These happy Frenchmen grow Chardonnay grapes in _grand cru_ \u2013designated plots on the chalky hillside, their fruit destined for some of the world's greatest Champagnes. Hidden in the center of town, behind eighteenth-century houses, is the fossil-strewn Clos du Mesnil vineyard, probably the most hallowed piece of ground in Champagne, owned by the house of Krug.\n\nBlanc de Blancs, literally \"white of whites,\" is made from Chardonnay grapes. Don't groan. \"A lot of my customers say, 'But I hate Chardonnay,'\" says Charles Stanfield, the tattooed, Sub-Zero-sized chief of sparkling wines at Sam's Wines in Chicago. \"I tell \u2032em, 'Hey, get over it, there's Chardonnay and there's Chardonnay. Blanc de Blancs is the Chablis of Champagne\u2014very crisp, very dry.'\" Stanfield's customers never disagree with him, at least not to his face. And neither should you. For one thing, he's a Chevalier de l'Ordre des C\u00f4teaux de Champagne. He's also the Mr. T of wine retailing. He loves Blanc de Blancs. So should you.\n\nThe typical Champagne is made from a blend of Pinot Noir, Pinot Meunier, and Chardonnay. Not a bad recipe. But if you ever taste a mature Clos du Mesnil or a Taittinger Comtes de Champagne, you will realize that there is something magical about the Chardonnay grapes of this northerly region. Many hard-core Champagne drinkers believe that 100 percent Chardonnay Champagne can achieve greater vinous intensity and longevity than Pinot-heavy blends. Sipping a 1982 Salon or a 1988 Dom Ruinart Blanc de Blancs could forever destroy your preconceptions about white wine being light in body or delicate in flavor. Imagine hearing Beethoven's Ninth blasted through a stack of Marshall amps. These are wines; they are meant to be aged, and to be sipped with food. Big food. That said, there are lighter, leaner styles of Blanc de Blancs that make the ideal aperitif\u2014for instance, the Blanc de Blancs of Michel Turgy, a small grower in Mesnil, which truly remind me of Chablis, with its chalky minerality. (The C\u00f4te des Blancs' Kimmeridgian chalk is part of the same geological formation that surfaces in Chablis.)\n\nWhile most of us look to the big, famous Champagne houses for our bubbly, an increasing number of smaller makers have begun to appear in recent years, and American importers have begun to seek them out. Many of the best Blanc de Blancs come from small proprietors like Larmandier-Bernier, Jacques Selosse, A. **R**. Lenoble, De Sousa & Fils, J. Lassalle, and P. Lancelot-Royer. Most of these wines are made in small quantities, from villages like Avize and Cramant, which are rated _grand cru_ , the highest designation in Champagne's grading system. (If you see that term on the label, it tells you the wine is 100 percent _grand cru.)_ While the styles vary, the quality is impeccable, and even wine snobs can appreciate the reverse snobbery of a relatively unknown label. I suspect that boutique Champagnes like these are the wave of the future in Champagne\u2014the bubbly equivalent of cult Cabs.\n\nMidsized producers like Delamotte, Deutz, and Jacquesson also make very good Blanc de Blancs. Delamotte gets first refusal on the grapes rejected by Salon\u2014makers of perhaps the most exotic Champagne in the world. It is produced only in exceptional years from severely pruned, grandfatherly old vines on the midslope of _grand cru_ vineyards in Mesnil. (I can't confirm if the grapes are harvested one at a time by blond virgins dressed in gossamer, but I wouldn't be at all surprised.) In the \u203220s, Salon achieved renown as the house wine at Maxim's, and has since become a password among true Champagne freaks.\n\nOne hundred percent sparkling Chardonnay is made elsewhere, including California. Schramsberg's Blanc de Blancs has always been the most interesting and Champagne-like example to me. Mumm's Cuv\u00e9e Napa makes a pleasant, affordable Blanc de Blancs, but most American versions are too fruity for my palate. Francis Ford Coppola has just put out a Hawaiian Punch of a Blanc de Blancs, named after his daughter Sofia\u2014a nice little quaff for a summer picnic, but a long way from Mesnil.\n\nLike regular bubbly, Blanc de Blancs comes in both vintage bottlings and blends of different years. The vintage to buy, if you choose to spend the money, is \u203296. The \u203298 and ' **99** aren't quite as rich and powerful. The _t\u00eate de cuv\u00e9e_ superluxury wines are released much later\u2014the current Clos de Mesnil as of spring \u203206 is the mind-blowing \u203295. Salon's latest release seems to be the exquisitely complicated \u203296. And I have seen both the \u203288 and \u203290 Ruinart in stores recently\u2014relative bargains at anything near one hundred dollars. But there are also many excellent nonvintage Blanc de Blancs, starting at around thirty dollars.\n\nSo have a blanc Christmas. And a blanc New Year.\n\n# MONK BUSINESS  \n _The Secrets of Chartreuse_\n\nThe history of wine and spirits in Europe is inextricably, some would say excessively, bound up with that of the monastic orders of the Catholic Church; by the end of the Middle Ages, asceticism had become nearly synonymous with dipsomania in the popular imagination. The Cistercian, the Benedictine, and the Carthusian orders all contributed to the preservation and development of viticulture, winemaking, and distillation. Among the most glorious examples of the symbiosis of spirits and the spiritual life is the mysterious elixir created by the Order of Chartreuse, the Carthusians, one of the oldest religious orders in Christianity.\n\nThe order was founded in 1084 by the scholarly ascetic Bruno in the shadow of the Chartreuse Mountains near Grenoble. In 1605, the monks at a Carthusian monastery in Vauvert received the gift of a manuscript titled \"An Elixir of Long Life\" from the marshal of artillery for King Henry IV. Already ancient when it came into the possession of the monks, this manuscript has a history as eventful as that of the Ark of the Covenant as narrated by George Lucas. The formula contained therein was so complex that it was more than a hundred years before the apothecary at the order's headquarters in Chartreuse finally unraveled its mysteries.\n\nThe first batch of the medicinal beverage that came to bear the name Chartreuse was created in 1737, and rapidly gained popularity in the region.\n\nIn the wake of the French Revolution, members of religious orders were forced into exile. The Carthusians fled in 1793, after making a copy of the manuscript and entrusting that copy to one monk, who was allowed to remain in the monastery, and the original to a second monk, who was eventually arrested by the authorities and sent to prison in Bordeaux. Miraculously, he was not searched and managed to pass the manuscript along to a supporter, who smuggled it back to Chartreuse to a third monk, who was hiding near the monastery. Convinced that the order was finished, this monk sold the manuscript to a pharmacist in Grenoble, who was unable to understand the complex recipe. When Napoleon issued an order that all medical formulas be sent to the minister of the interior, the pharmacist obliged. The recipe was promptly rejected and sent back to him. When he died, his heirs donated the manuscript to the monks, who had returned to the monastery in 1816.\n\nThe Chartreuse monks might have hoped that history had finally passed them by, until, in 1903, the French government nationalized the distillery, once again expelling the monks, who repaired to Spain with their precious manuscript. They built a new distillery in Tarragona, and another in Marseille, both of which continued to produce the genuine Chartreuse. The government, meanwhile, sold the Chartreuse trademark to a group of distillers, who marketed a beverage that bore no relation to the original, and who went bankrupt in 1929. Shares of the now worthless stock were bought up by friends of the order and presented to the monks, who thereby regained possession of the Chartreuse trademark. No sooner had they returned to their monastery, however, than an avalanche roared down the mountainside and destroyed the distillery. A new distillery was built in nearby Voiron, although the selection and blending of the herbs and botanicals is still performed at the monastery by three monks entrusted with the secret recipe.\n\nChartreuse has inspired a cult of secular devotees over the centuries. Its mystique was probably sealed early in the past century with the endorsement of the ultimate host, Jay Gatsby, who, according to his biographer, Nick Carraway, served the drink at his glittering parties on Long Island. I find it stimulating to contemplate this history while passing a glass of Chartreuse under my nose; the survival of the recipe, with its obscure origins, seems nothing short of miraculous. Equally stimulating are the aromas from the glass, which provide endless opportunities for speculation\u2014one of the reasons that Chartreuse is of interest to wine geeks like myself. The most prominent feature is the anise\/fennel\/licorice note. Dozens of other nuances tease you as they evanesce on the alcoholic vapors. More than 130 varieties of roots and leaves are allegedly involved in Chartreuse's production (including, according to rumor, wormwood, the active ingredient in absinthe).\n\nMy friend Jim Signorelli, a Chartreuse aficionado and movie director, suggests that it's enough just to smell the stuff. Hunter S. Thompson, another Chartreuse devotee, presumably swallowed. Alice Waters, also a fan, can probably parse out more of the herbal aromatics than most of us. Three kinds of Chartreuse are currently produced. Green Chartreuse, the standard, was first adapted from the original recipe in 1764 and weighs in at 55 percent alcohol, slightly mellower than the original elixir of life, which was 71 percent. Milder still is yellow Chartreuse, at 40 percent, first distilled in 1838. A small portion of production is selected for extra aging in wood and is sold in reproductions of the nineteenth-century bottles as VEP _(Vieillissement Exceptionnellement Prolong\u00f3)_ Chartreuse. Chartreuse benefits from aging. It is possible, especially in France, to find dated bottlings from the distillery in Tarragona, which finally closed in 1989.\n\nAficionados ascribe various curative properties to the liqueur, which was originally conceived as a life-prolonging medicine. A French winemaker of my acquaintance insists that a blend of one part green and one part yellow Chartreuse is the ultimate hangover remedy, though I haven't yet summoned the courage to test this theory.\n\n# TINY BUBBLES  \n _Artisanal Champagnes_\n\nIf you come to my apartment during holiday season, chances are excellent that you will be served a glass of Egly-Ouriet, Larmandier-Bernier, Jacques Selosse, or some other small-grower Champagne. It's true that my 2005 balance sheet was anything but Cristal-worthy, but, more to the point, these and other small grower-producers are the most exciting trend going in Champagne. If you're lucky enough to score a table at Thomas Keller's Per Se in New York, you'll discover that they're pouring small-grower Champagnes such as Pierre Gimonnet by the glass.\n\nHere at the dawn of the twenty-first century, it is a principle universally acknowledged among grape nuts that great wine is produced in the vineyard\u2014the product of ripe grapes, low yields, and meticulous viticulture that lets the true personality of the vineyard shine through. Except, of course, in Champagne, where farmers who are paid by the ton grow as much as their poor vines will bear, pick the fruit before it's ripe, and sell these wan grapes to vast industrial concerns that mix them all together. The Champenois sometimes cite their unique _terroir_ as the reason they make the world's greatest sparkling wine, and yet in practice they usually ignore the nuances of the concept.\n\nAfter spending _a_ day visiting the headquarters of the Grandes Marques Champagne houses in \u00c9pernay, it's refreshing to knock on the door of Francis Egly's little half-timbered house in the village of Ambonnay, where you literally trip over baby toys in the foyer. Egly's mother offers cookies while his wife shouts for Francis out the back door. Egly finally turns up, apologizing for the dirt on his hands\u2014he has been in the vineyards.\n\nI had sought out Egly after an epiphany a few months earlier when the then sommelier at Daniel, Jean Luc Le D\u00fb, handed me a glass of Champagne. \"Whoa!\" I said. \"This is wine!\" By which I meant it would be good even without bubbles. And what impressed me when I was tasting with Egly in his spanking-clean new _chai_ was that, unlike many young Champagnes in their prebubbly stage, his tasted like good wine. Like most great artisanal growers elsewhere in the world\u2014though like very few growers in Champagne\u2014Egly regularly cuts off up to half the fruit from his vines in midsummer to promote the ripening of the rest.\n\n\"When I first started importing these small growers, the people I sold small-domaine Burgundies to had no interest in Champagne,\" says David Hinkle of North Berkeley Imports. \"If we were going to interest these people, it had to be wine first and Champagne second.\" Terry Theise, the self-proclaimed Riesling wacko, who added small-grower Champagnes to his portfolio in 1997, puts it this way: \"Champagne, like any other wine, is fascinating to the extent that it's distinctive.\" Sounds obvious to me. But the larger Champagne houses would argue that blending the wines of many different villages will create a sum that is greater than its parts.\n\nChampagne is a world unto itself, but some of the best producers are those, like Burgundy-obsessed Egly, who look to other regions for inspiration. Pierre Larmandier, of Larmandier-Bernier, worked in Alsace and Burgundy, where he was surprised to learn that small growers were, if anything, more highly regarded than the large negotiants. With minimal intervention in the cellar, Larmandier-Bernier (not to be confused with Guy Larmandier, another excellent domaine) makes subtle, complex, Chardonnay-based Champagnes, including an all-Chardonnay Blanc de Blancs.\n\nIf artisanal Champagne is a movement, Anselme Selosse, also known as \"the madman of Avize,\" might be regarded as its leader\u2014the Angelo Gaja of Champagne. Selosse farms biodynamically, keeps his yields low, and makes his wine with the goal of expressing the character of his vineyard. Avize is located in the C\u00f4te des Blancs, where Chardonnay predominates; like Ambonnay, which is Pinot Noir territory, Avize is one of seventeen villages rated _grand cru._\n\nJancis Robinson informs me that in this one area at least, we are well ahead of the British: \"Americans are lucky to have importers who have scoured the countryside of Champagne in search of these small growers.\" At present there are more than 130 small-grower Champagnes imported here. In addition to the aforementioned, my short list includes L. Aubry, Gaston Chiquet, Ren\u00e9 Geoffrey, Pierre Gimonnet, J. Lassalle, Pierre Moncuit, Alain Robert, Michel Turgy, and Vilmart & Cie.\n\nThese small producers represent less than 2 percent of the domestic market. But they are being noticed. Mo\u00ebt recently launched three single-vineyard Champagnes.\n\nSmaller isn't always better. I usually have a bottle of Veuve Clicquot or Perrier-Jou\u00ebt in my refrigerator, and I happen to be very fond of Krug Grande Cuv\u00e9e, Bollinger Grande Ann\u00e9e, Dom P\u00e9rignon, Taittinger Comtes de Champagne, and several other Grandes Marques Champagnes. But this year I'm making more room in my cellar for handcrafted, artisanal Champagnes.\n\n# THE WILD GREEN FAIRY  \n _Absinthe_\n\nIt certainly _feels_ illegal\u2014what with all the paraphernalia, the special glasses and spoons, the hookahlike silver-and-crystal fountain at the center of the table, and the ritual aspects of preparation. I'm getting that anticipatory tingle I used to get when drugs were being readied for consumption. We are sitting in a courtyard in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Our connection is Ted Breaux, a compact, muscular New Orleans native with fashionably spiked hair. Breaux is slowly drizzling water from the fountain into a silver funnel balanced on a crystal glass; the emerald liquid in the glass gradually turns milky with the infusion. We are preparing to drink absinthe.\n\nBreaux was cruising the French Quarter one afternoon a decade ago when he spotted some absinthe glasses and spoons in the window of Lucullus, an antique shop dedicated to the culinary arts. \"I found it fascinating that there was a special type of glassware and paraphernalia,\" says Breaux. \"It was evidence that the drink existed.\" An environmental scientist whose family arrived in New Orleans in 1724, Breaux had been curious about the outlawed liqueur since college, when a fellow chemistry major had mentioned it. \"I looked it up in the Merck Index. It says that the ingestion of absinthe can cause hallucinations, convulsions, and death. I wondered, What did people get out of it?\" That very week he happened to notice Barnaby Conrad's _Absinthe_ in a book catalog. He ordered the book, corresponded with the author, and sought out other researchers. An obsession was being born.\n\nBreaux would hardly be the first to become obsessed by the so-called Green Fairy. Some of the greatest artists of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries came under its spell; writers like Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud, and Oscar Wilde\u2014a roll call of the premodern decadents\u2014not only drank it but wrote about _le F\u00e9e Verte._ Painters like Manet, van Gogh, Gauguin, and Toulouse-Lautrec were devotees of the cult. Absinthe was to Symbolism and Postimpressionism what heroin was to Seattle grunge. Absinthe cultists ascribed mystical, meditative, and even halluncinatory powers to their beverage of choice; opponents saw it as an insidious poison. Both sides agreed that it was something more than just another alcoholic beverage. In 1905, when a Swiss farmer killed his wife and children, allegedly under the influence of absinthe, the calls for prohibiton swelled. Within a decade it was banned throughout Europe and the United States.\n\nOutlaw status has only enhanced the mystique of absinthe over the years. Ted Breaux, for one, was haunted by the myth. After discovering a recipe in an old French book on the subject, he decided to make a batch. \"I made it and tried it and I was underwhelmed,\" he says, sitting in the courtyard behind Lucullus. \"It just didn't taste like something that could be that popular. But then a friend of mine popped up with a bottle of vintage Edouard Pernod absinthe.\" It was as if an amateur paleontologist had suddenly gotten his hands on a live triceratops. \"Finally, I could taste it.\" At almost the same time, he came across a second bottle, through his friends at Lucullus. After he tasted this one too, he says, \"I could definitely see why it was so popular. But the vintage samples were so different from what I made that I got discouraged.\" Not for long, however; he had the old samples analyzed in a French lab and started experimenting again. In the meantime, new European Union regulations eventually superseded the old national laws banning absinthe. Through a friend, Breaux got into contact with a Frenchman who'd bought an old distillery in the Loire with original absinthe stills, from which he now produces some three thousand bottles a year.\n\nAbsinthe is made by distilling herbs in spirits and then distilling the infused spirits again. The color of a properly made absinthe comes from chlorophyll. Breaux's is far more complex and refined than the other two alleged absinthes I've tried\u2014a little bitter, with a strong anise flavor in the middle and a touch of fennel and a bit of mint toward the end. \"Some of the herbs are excitatory and some are sedative,\" Breaux says. \"You combine the two and it's kind of like a mild herbal speedball.\"\n\nThis pretty well describes the sensation I am experiencing after a couple of glasses of Breaux's absinthe, which starts out at 140 proof, before being diluted with water. I feel completely alert and slightly buzzed at the same time, floating a little above the company even as I am thoroughly present and engaged. My scalp and fingertips are tingling, whether because of the slight November chill or the liqueur, I can't be certain. I notice for the first time the blond flecks in Breaux's hair, which look like tiny flames. I feel that something wonderful is surely about to happen. If anything, this state I'm in reminds me of sitting back after doing a couple of lines and a shot of tequila. But it's somehow different. Breaux is talking about thujone, the chemical compound found in the absinthe plant that is suspected of being the active and potentially dangerous compound in the drink... about how cheap imitation absinthe was responsible for ruining the reputation of the real thing... about how his house was destroyed in the flooding after Katrina.\n\nSometime later we float over to the Old Absinthe House, the famous if somewhat shabby bar on Bourbon Street, which specialized in absinthe cocktails before Prohibition. Still later we will drive through the desolate streets of flood-ravaged neighborhoods outside the Quarter. But before that, for a perfect hour or so, I am under the spell of the Green Fairy, listening with keen attention to Breaux and listening to myself talking with unusual precision and grace, or at least so it seemed to me then.\n\n#  \n# WHAT I DRANK ON MY  \nFORTY-EIGHTH BIRTHDAY\n\n_My friend Jancis Robinson, who has celebrated several birthdays with me, asked me to send a report on my forty-eighth, along with wine notes, to be posted on her Web site._\n\nDear Jancis:\n\nHere's what I drank for my birthday last week. Of course I went through eighteen different plans, several of which involved my cooking. However, when the guest list reached nine I decided to leave the cooking to the pros. I didn't, however, want to leave the wine to the pros\u2014i.e., I didn't want to pay a 200 or 300 percent markup on wines that probably wouldn't be mature anyway\u2014which is the position we find ourselves in when we dine fashionably in New York. So I picked Canton, one of the few places here that I knew wouldn't mind my lugging in a case of wine, plus Riedel glasses. (Actually, I had thirteen bottles, this being my birth date and lucky number.) The cuisine was a challenge\u2014Cantonese. Not your average oenophile's first choice. But I like a challenge.\n\nI started us off with a magnum of 1990 Dom P\u00e9rignon, a great vintage for them that has been drinking nicely since its release. Even in this big vintage it's got a feminine delicacy, especially when you compare it to something like Bollinger. Unfortunately, I compared it to 1990 Veuve Clicquot ros\u00e9, which seemed a little clumsy following the DP but which came into its own with the Cantonese lobster\u2014very yeasty, which is a good thing with soy sauce, though one bottle was slightly corked. In retrospect, a Chard-based bubbly would have been better. Next we had the \u203299 Zind-Humbrecht Clos Hauserer Riesling, a beauty: appley, very fat for a Riesling, with a long, sweet finish\u2014definite residual sugar. Near-perfect match for the squab wrapped in lettuce leaf\u2014this dish having a fair amount of sugar itself.\n\nI wanted to go red eventually, and the only thing I could think of for this cuisine was Zinfandel\u2014specifically, monster old-vine Zin in the new superextracted style. Martinelli Jackass Hill to be exact\u2014to my mind the best Zin in America. The \u203296 was at its peak\u2014the blackberry fruit all still there, tannins melted away. The \u203299 by contrast, was a hot, brutal monster on its own, but better with the Peking duck and, especially, with the steak and onions Cantonese style. (I think these wines should be guzzled within six or seven years of birth\u2014chased with aspirin and milk thistle... the alcohol tops 17 percent.) The 1990 Kreydenweiss Riesling SGN was a sweet finish, though I don't remember it all that well. Two guests were lost for hours in Chinatown after that. Myself and my chef friend Mario Batali went on a tear through the West Village, which was terminated in the wee hours when my girlfriend called with threats and promises. I still don't know what happened to a box of Riedel glasses or to my birthday presents. A good time was had by all.\n\n# SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY\n\nAsher, Gerald. _On Wine._ New York: Vintage, 1984.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. _The Pleasures of Wine._ San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 2002.\n\n_Vineyard Tales: Reflections on Wine._ San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1997.\n\nBastianich, Joseph, and David Lynch. _Vino Italiano: The Regional Wines of Italy._ New York: Clarkson Potter, 2002.\n\nBroadbent, Michael. _The Great Vintage Wine Book II._ London: Christie's, 1991.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. _Vintage Wine._ New York: Harcourt, 2002.\n\nClarke, Oz. _New Wine Atlas._ New York: Harcourt, 2002.\n\nCoates, Clive. _C\u00f4te d'Or: A Celebration of the Great Wines of Burgundy._ Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997.\n\n_The Wines of Bordeaux._ Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004.\n\nDibdin, Michael. _A Long Finish: An Aurelio Zen Mystery._ New York: Pantheon, 1998.\n\nDuijker, Hubrecht, and Michael Broadbent. _The Bordeaux Atlas and Encyclopaedia of Ch\u00e2teaux._ New York: St. Martin's, 1997.\n\nDuijker, Hubrecht, and Hugh Johnson. _The Wine Atlas of France._ 4th ed. London: Mitchell Beazley, 1997.\n\nFriedrich, Jacqueline. _A Wine and Food Guide to the Loire._ New York: Henry Holt, 1996.\n\nGambero Rosso. Editore. (Also _Italian Wines 2000_ , 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005.) New York: Gambero Rosso Inc., 2000, 2001,2002,2004, 2005.\n\nHaeger, John Winthrop. _North American Pinot Noir._ Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004.\n\nJefford, Andrew. _The New France._ London: Mitchell Beazley, 2002. Johnson, Hugh, and James Halliday. _The Vintner's Art._ New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992.\n\nKramer, Matt. _Making Sense of Burgundy._ New York: William Morrow, 1990. \u2014\u2014\u2014. _New California Wine._ Philadelphia: Running Press, 2004.\n\nLapsley, James T. _Bottled Poetry: Napa Winemaking from Prohibition to the Modern Era._ Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996.\n\nLiebling, A. J. _Between Meals._ New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1959.\n\nLukacs, Paul. _American Vintage._ New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2000.\n\nLynch, Kermit. _Adventures on the Wine Route: A Wine Buyer's Tour of France._ New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1988.\n\nMarkham, Dewey, Jr. _1855: A History of the Bordeaux Classification._ New York: John Wiley, 1998.\n\nMatthews, Patrick. _The Wild Bunch: Great Wines from Small Producers._ London: Faber and Faber, 1997.\n\nMcCarthy, Ed, and Mary Ewing-Mulligan. _Champagne for Dummies._ Foster City: IDG Worldwide, 1999.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. _Wine for Dummies._ 2nd ed. Foster City: IDG Worldwide, 1998.\n\nMcCoy, Elin. _The Emperor of Wine._ New York: Ecco, 2005.\n\nOlney, Richard. _French Wine and Food._ Northampton, Mass.: Interlink Publishing Group, 1997.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. _Reflexions._ New York: Brick Tower Press, 2000.\n\nParker, Robert, Jr. _Bordeaux: A Comprehensive Guide to the Wines Produced from_ _1961 to 1997._ New York: Simon and Schuster, 1998.\n\n_Bordeaux: A Consumer's Guide to the World's Finest Wines._ New York: Simon and Schuster, 2003.\n\n_Wines of the Rh\u00f4ne Valley._ Revised and expanded ed., New York: Simon and Schuster, 1997.\n\nPeynaud, \u00c9mile. _The Taste of Wine: The Art and Science of Wine Appreciation._ 2nd ed. Translated by Michael Schuster. New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1996.\n\nPickett, Rex. _Sideways._ New York: St. Martin's Press, 2004.\n\nPitiot, Sylvain, and Jean Charles Servant. _Les Vins de Bourgogne._ Paris: Presse Universitaires de France, 1997.\n\nRadford, John. _The Wines of Rioja._ London: Mitchell Beazley, 2004.\n\nRosen, Jennifer. _Waiter, There's a Horse in My Wine._ Colorado: Dauphin Press, 2005.\n\nRobinson, Jancis, ed. _The Oxford Companion to Wine._ New York: Oxford, 1994.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. _Vintage Timecharts._ New York: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1989. Steinberg, Edward. _The Making of a Great Wine: Gaja and Sori San Lorenzo._ New York: Ecco, 1992.\n\nStevenson, Tom. _Christie's World Encyclopedia of Champagne and Sparkling_ _Wine._ London: Wine Appreication Guild, 1999.\n\nSt. Pierre, Brian. _A Perfect Glass of Wine._ San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1996.\n\nWaugh, Auberon. _Waugh on Wine._ London, 1987.\n\nWildman, Frederick S., Jr. _A Wine Tour of France._ New York: William Morrow, 1972.\n_Copyright \u00a9 2006 by Bright Lights, Big City, Inc._\n\nVintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.\n\nAll of the essays in this work were originally published in _House & Garden_ magazine.\n\nA hedonist in the cellar: adventures in wine \/ by Jay McInerney.\u20141st ed. p. cm.\n\n1. Wine and wine making. I. Title.  \nTP548.M4689 2006  \n641.2\u20322\u2013dc22 2006045287\n\neISBN: 978-0-307-48587-8\n\nwww.vintagebooks.com\n\nv3.0\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}