Midnight Harvest (42 page)

“Do most farms and vineyards in this region take the
Press-Democrat
?” Saint-Germain asked.

“Oh, yes. From Petaluma to Ukiah, it is the most frequently read paper. They boast of that,” said Pietragnelli.

“Good. That should suit us very well,” said Saint-Germain. “If the editor is any kind of a journalist, he’ll welcome your notices.”

Pietragnelli considered this carefully. “Do you really think that the paper will accept such notices?”

“If you are willing to pay for them, why not? They are not libelous, and they are of public service, and they imply an interesting story,” said Saint-Germain. “The more of you who will do the same, the better effect your notices will have.”

“I’ll do it!” Pietragnelli clapped his hands, almost upsetting his mug. “And I’ll ask my neighbors whose mailboxes have been painted to meet with me. I’ll try to convince them to take out notices of their own. I suppose the
Press-Democrat
is the most useful paper—it’s a daily. The Healdsburg paper is a weekly.”

“You will need a daily paper,” Saint-Germain concurred. “If the White Legion has notices in it, ask if yours can run alongside theirs.” This could prompt a more immediate response, but it was also the most direct counter-attack that could be made.

“I will ask. Most of the advertisements and notices are on the same pages of the paper,” said Pietragnelli.

“I’ll also make sure you have extra protection,” said Saint-Germain. “I’ll hire guards for you, and pay their wages, through you, to ensure their loyalty to you.”

“You needn’t,” said Pietragnelli, abruptly reticent “It would appear—”

“I won’t leave you exposed to the kind of trouble these men can bring,” said Saint-Germain. “It would be bad business to put you at risk and do nothing to reduce your jeopardy.”

“I don’t know that you need to do so much,” said Pietragnelli.

“Better have the guards and not need them than need them and not have them,” said Rogerio, giving Pietragnelli a sign of encouragement.

“Where is the Leonardis’ winery in relation to yours?” Saint-Germain asked in new concern.

Pietragnelli pointed to the southeast. “Half-a-mile in that direction, as the crow flies; a bit over two miles by road. They are down a winding lane called Los Coyotes, the third drive on the right. There’s a sign at the gate.” He looked suddenly sad. “When I was younger, I would hitch my horse to our surrey and drive across the plantation to their house—that is the half-mile route. I’d bring along wines, and Thomas and I would compare his and mine. I am sorry those times had to end.”

“Do you still have the horse and the surrey?” Saint-Germain asked.

“My daughter and son-in-law have both, in Calistoga. They give rides to the local children, and at Christmas, they take panettone to all their neighbors; when they have children, of their own, they will take them along. They have bells for the surrey at Christmas, very festive, and their children will have fun delivering bread and wine to the neighbors. Sophia and Ethan enjoy these occasions, and are planning to continue them for as long as they can. But the mare’s almost twenty, and they’re going to retire her soon, and they’ll buy another horse to pull the surrey, probably in a year or so. The mare won’t be sold: I’ll bring her back here and put her out in the pasture.” He shook his head to rid himself of his nostalgia.

Saint-Germain regarded Pietragnelli sympathetically. “It is always sad when friendships end, no matter when or how.”

“Lo so,” Pietragnelli mumbled, embarrassed by his remarks. “I know this.”

“And it still troubles you, that the Leonardis have not continued their friendship with you,” Saint-Germain went on. “No doubt the way in which the sons are behaving is hurtful to you.”

“In some ways,” Pietragnelli allowed reluctantly.

“It is to your credit that you care about them,” Saint-Germain said. “A lesser man would have steeled himself against them, and refused to accept that there had been any loss.”

Pietragnelli was becoming uncomfortable. “As you say. But it will do nothing for any of us to remember those times now. I should not let what is past keep me from doing what I must.”

“True enough,” said Saint-Germain.

“So.” Pietragnelli rose and went to the fireplace, leaning against the mantel, his eyes focused on the medium-distance. “I will begin with the notice in the paper next Monday, and continue until something happens to me, or my land.”

“Yes, basically that is it,” said Saint-Germain.

“And once I have begun this, how long do I continue?” He stared hard at Saint-Germain.

“Until the White Legion withdraws their notices,” said Saint-Germain. “Once that happens, continue yours for one more week, and then discontinue them. You don’t want to keep them in the public eye any longer than necessary.”

“I assume you have a reason for this,” said Rogerio.

“Yes,” said Saint-Germain, a bit grimly. “I know that making them appear absurd will do much to stop their spread, but continuing to mention them after they have been made ridiculous will undo some of the good done, and that might be enough to give them the power they seek.” He closed his eyes, his memories nearly overwhelming him.

“You are a clever man, Signor Ragoczy,” said Pietragnelli. “Very well, I will try your idea.” He rubbed his hands as if bathing them in the heat of the fire. “These poor men—so many have lost everything: land, family, homes, and they do not want to lose anything more.” He took a step back. “But that does not excuse their actions.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Saint-Germain said, recalling the times he had lost land, intimate associates, and homes.

There was a canny light in Pietragnelli’s small eyes. “You have endured more than most. I can see it in you.” He nodded to the piano. “I heard it as you played.”

“Then you are an astute fellow,” said Saint-Germain in a tone that did not encourage further inquiry.

“I am as I am,” said Pietragnelli.

“
This above all, to thine own self be true
?” Saint-Germain quoted.

“Veramente. And for that alone, I have to say I am more grateful than I can express to you for all you have been willing to do for me.” He stared at Saint-Germain. “I’ll call some of my neighbors and we will begin this campaign next week. I’ll talk to them in person, so that the operators will not spread about what we plan to do. Is there anything else you would recommend?”

“I’ll arrange for your guards.” Saint-Germain swung around to face Rogerio. “Have you thought of anything more?”

“Not as such, no,” said Rogerio. “But I do think the guards should not be too obvious; that may increase the animosity and perhaps alienate the very men you want to have join with you.”

Pietragnelli nodded twice, very emphatically. “I know why you say this, and I am inclined to agree with you.”

“I see your point,” Saint-Germain said. He regarded Pietragnelli in silence for the greater part of a minute, and then he said, “I think you may find this a hard straggle.”

“I am a vintner—I have struggled for years. I can continue to do so for a few more months.” He lifted his chin. “I am almost sorry now that I bought the Leonardis’ land—but I couldn’t bear to see them lose all. It would have struck too close to home.”

“It is no easy thing,” said Saint-Germain knowingly.

The room was quiet but for the rattle of the rain and the rush of the fire. Then Carlo Pietragnelli shook off the gloom that threatened to envelop him. “I will begin my tasks soon. You and I will plan what the notice is to say, and we will decide how I am to approach the rest about this. At first, I assumed it would be all right to have a general meeting, but now I suspect that might be too conspicuous. I will arrange to call upon the others and speak with them privately, so as to draw less attention to what I am doing.” He was speaking rapidly, as if he needed to keep the words coming or lose his impetus. “Then I will go in person to the
Press-Democrat
and arrange to place my notice with them. I will make sure they have the wording exactly right, and I will make some arrangement about withdrawing the notice on very short notice. That may require an extra charge.”

“I’ll pay it, if there is one,” said Saint-Germain.

“You are a very generous man, and I may be taking advantage of that generosity, but I see how important it is that this be done.” He went and picked up his mug again and refilled it “I wish I could speak to Thomas Leonardi, but I know the time for that is past.”

“You are probably right,” said Saint-Germain.

“I spoke with him last spring, when Oliver first started attending his meetings, and Thomas was most annoyed with me for saying anything about his son. In its way, that is an admirable thing, but in another, it is far from praiseworthy.” He folded his hands around the mug of cooling mulled wine. “A man who cannot examine his own is a man who has become blind.” With an impatient gesture, he said, “I love my three daughters, but I have grave doubts about my son, Massimo, who is working in Davis at the university. Not that he has done anything reprehensible—or not that I know of. It isn’t that. He has shown himself to be inclined to retreat into the world of his mind instead of seeking life. I am proud of what he has done, but I am also worried about what may become of him.”

“What man doesn’t fret about his children,” said Saint-Germain, more images of Laisha, his dead ward, flooding his thoughts.

Pietragnelli was not actually listening. “I am pleased with my son-in-law, Ethan, but I am afraid my daughter is too ready to put his interests ahead of her own; many women do. And Angelina, though she has a good job and does it well, has made it into the center of her life, which makes me worried about her.” He took a long sip of his mulled wine. “I know they have faults, and that their desires are not necessarily mine, but they are also my children, and I will stand by them. I share that with Thomas, but not to the exclusion of all other considerations. If my son had done as Oliver and Arnold have done, I would not stand idly by and approve of their—” He stopped, struck by recognition. “Perhaps Thomas feels as they do, and encourages them. He may be the starting point for all this.”

Mrs. Barringstone appeared in the doorway. “Am I to make supper for your guests?”

With an effort Pietragnelli managed to smile. “No, thank you, Mrs. Barringstone. You have only to put the roast in the oven for me.”

“That I will. As soon as the roast’s in the oven I’m going to meet my kids at the school bus. I’ll be back in half-an-hour.” She tromped off to the kitchen.

“She is a good mother,” said Pietragnelli. “And she follows my recipes. Her husband works hard, but without any feel for the wine. Still, he is industrious and doesn’t complain. It is a pity she is so dour, but with all that has happened to them, I can see how she would not be jolly.”

“At least you have given them a place to live,” said Rogerio with a meaningful glance at Saint-Germain.

“It isn’t the same as their own home,” said Pietragnelli. “But this is the most I can provide.” He looked aside, as if embarrassed. “They came from Oklahoma, and they didn’t want to move. Their farm blew away on the wind, so they had to leave.”

“There are many kinds of refugees,” said Saint-Germain, remembering the Year of Yellow Snow, Spain and the Emir’s son, Delhi after Timur-i sacked it, Florence when Savonarola came to power, Russia before the Revolution, and the chaos after the Great War.

“And all manner of wars,” said Pietragnelli.

Saint-Germain ducked his head. “I am glad you called me,” he told Pietragnelli.

“I hope you will say the same six months from now,” said the Italian with a gloomy twist to his mouth that was meant to be a smile. “That will be the test.” He looked up as the back door slammed shut. “I hope that isn’t an omen.”

“Of what?” Saint-Germain asked.

“Of all things coming to an end,” said Pietragnelli, his face very serious.

“But all things come to an end,” said Saint-Germain. “It is only a question of when, and how.”

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
D
OÑA
I
SABEL
I
NEZ
V
EDANCHO Y
N
UÑEZ AT
B
RIARCOPSE,
H
AMPSHIRE, TO
F
ERENC
R
AGOCZY, SENT CARE OF
O
SCAR
K
ING OF
K
ING
L
OWENTHAL
T
AYLOR
& F
ROST IN
S
AN
F
RANCISCO.

Copsehowe

Nr. Briarcopse

Hampshire

England

31 October, 1936

Ferenc Ragoczy

c/o Oscar King

King Lowenthal Taylor & Frost

630 Kearny Street

San Francisco, California

USA

My dear Comte,

It has been some time since I wrote to you, largely because I have been trying to gather my thoughts and present them to you in a way that will convey all that has taken place in the last several weeks. This has proven to be more difficult than I had anticipated, for which I apologize in advance of explaining all this to you.

Three days ago I went up to London to visit Miles Sunbury, who is in hospital recovering from terrible injuries he received just over a month ago, on 28 September, at the hands of a man who wanted information about your whereabouts. The beating he administered to Mr. Sunbury was truly ferocious. When I visited him, I was very much shocked at how drawn and pale he looked, as if he had aged a decade in a month. There are deeper lines in his face and white in his hair that was not there before. Mr. Sunbury will leave hospital in three days, providing he has no set-back, and he’ll be confined to his flat in Siddons Lane for another month to recover. I may ask him if he would like to come down to Copsehowe to recuperate, so that he may have constant attention and the benefit of the guards you have assigned to me.