THIRTY-ONE

Buddy Goodfriend left his pony, Che, hitched to his two-wheeled campaign cart in the shade of a white oak tree in Temple Merton’s turnaround just after noon, expecting that the wealthy farmer would be present for lunch at the house, which, as it happened, was exactly correct. A servant girl answered the door and showed Goodfriend into the kitchen, where Merton and his girlfriend occupied a round table in a window bay that looked out on his fields, pastures, vineyard, orchards, and barns. Goodfriend introduced himself as the economic development director of the Berkshire People’s Republic, on a diplomatic spring tour of neighboring states. He seemed clean, healthy, literate, and smartly attired in his old-times expeditionary casuals so, sharing a glance of mild incredulity, Temple and Lorraine invited him to the table.

“It’s not often these days we get to meet new people from away,” Lorraine said.

“I’ve never heard of this Berkshire Republic,” Temple said. The servant girl brought a platter of fried smelts to the table. The delicate sardine-like minnows were running like crazy this time of year in the streams that fed the Hudson River and Adirondack lakes. In the Merton kitchen they were rolled in fine cornmeal, deep fried in lard, and eaten whole, bones, innards, and all, like french fries of yore. Lorraine had put up many jars of the smoky homemade ketchup that accompanied them to the table.

“Salt is scarce just now,” she said.

“We’ve had some trouble with our supply chains,” Temple elaborated. “We depended too heavily on certain Hudson River shipping arrangements that have been interrupted lately.”

“People think commerce is boring,” Goodfriend said, “but at the end of the day the people’s well-being depends on it. We incorporated sixteen months ago. Communication is so poor these days, and that’s one of the reasons for my journey. Obviously our part of the country and yours have many common interests and we’re especially eager to improve trade and communication.” He went on to explain the vacuum of governance in western Massachusetts and the social crisis it produced, and how the Berkshire People’s Republic intended to rectify all that.

“Our office of sustainable technology is making great strides,” he said.

“Strides toward what?” Temple asked.

“Reviving confidence, mainly,” Goodfriend said. “The belief that progress is still possible.”

“Ah, yes,” Temple said. “Progress.”

“We reject despair and resignation,” Goodfriend said.

“Did you come here all alone?” Lorraine asked, as the servant girl brought three more plates to the table, each a perfectly composed salad of lettuces grown in Merton’s greenhouse, with pickled beets, quartered hard-boiled eggs, and bits of smoked trout fillet.

“Others in the delegation are at the new hotel in town,” Goodfriend said. “It must be exciting for you to see real estate development happen after these years of tribulation and decline.”

“Yes, it’s heartening to see new business here,” Temple said. “We supply apple brandy to the tavern.”

“We have high hopes for our part of the country,” Goodfriend said, “with our heritage of civic engagement, our tolerance and progressivism, our wealth of water power.” He went on at some length about the return of cottage manufacturing in western Massachusetts and the need to expand the market for their goods to neighboring states that had been cut off from each other in recent years. There was even serious discussion, he said, of rebuilding the railroad line from Greenfield, Massachusetts, over to Bennington, Vermont . . .

Goodfriend’s palaver had turned rote because he found his attention focused more on the signal charms of Lorraine Moncalvo, and a portion of his brain was spinning scenarios in which he might possibly acquaint himself more intimately with her.

“You sound like a politician,” Temple remarked good-naturedly, with a wink to Lorraine.

“Oh, but I am one,” Goodfriend replied with an equal effort at good humor. “And so much of politics is salesmanship, isn’t it? This outreach we’re on, for instance. The need to sell an idea to people. The idea of commonwealth! Funny,” his tone shifted perceptibly, “but I can’t escape the odd feeling that I’ve met you somewhere before. There’s even something about your voice.”

“Mr. Merton was in the movies, back in the day,” Lorraine said, because she knew Temple was averse to talking about that bygone phase of his life. “He was on TV too.”

“Wait a minute,” Goodfriend said and then snapped his fingers. “It’s coming to me: Boomtown? On HBO?”

Lorraine nodded and beamed.

“Oh, that was such a great show! You played . . . whatsisname . . . ? Oh, God . . . help me out.”

“Lamont,” Lorraine said. “Lamont Circe—”

“The guy who poisons . . . whasisname?”

“Ferdinand Belasco, the mayor.”

“Right!”

“And about seventeen other characters before it was all over,” Temple added, popping a quartered egg in his mouth.

“Well, isn’t this something?” Goodfriend exclaimed.

“Did you see The Big Lebowski?” Lorraine asked.

“Oh, of course. One of my favorites.”

“He was in that. He played Thug Number Two, you know, when those guys bust into the Dude’s apartment and toss a ferret in his bathtub.”

“Oh, yes! That was hilarious. That was you?”

“I was a much younger man,” Temple said. “Plus the outfits and the hair—you’d never recognize me.”

“He was in quite a few of the Coen Brothers movies. O Brother, Burn After Reading, No Country for Old Men.”

“They were great artists,” Temple said. “I hope their art doesn’t disappear like the stage plays of the Roman Empire did.”

“Oh, gosh, it’s sickening to contemplate.” Goodfriend shook his head.

“You know, we have no idea what the music of classical Rome sounded like,” Temple said.

“Is that so? None?”

“There’s no notation, no recordings, of course, nothing. Gone without a trace. And now we can see the stupidity in the old modern times of putting everything on digital media.”

“I hate to think about it,” Goodfriend said. “Believe me, I’ll take this up with our people. We must do what we can to preserve the art of the cinema. But more to the point . . .” He then proceeded to lay out the actual business of his casual visit, just as the servant girl deposited a little dessert platter of honeyed nut cakes on the table and took the other lunch plates away. He told of the formation of the Berkshire People’s Republic under their “foundational leader” Glen Ethan Greengrass, and their effort to build a greater New England federation under a central government, and of the need to raise subscriptions to support that effort. Temple grew visibly more uncomfortable the longer Goodfriend talked. Then Goodfriend took the paper money out of his coat and got to the heart of the matter.

Temple heard him out but replied as plainly as possible, “Are you out of your mind? I won’t exchange silver coin for that stuff.”

“Sir,” Goodfriend replied. “You can’t expect to operate a government with no revenue. We’re determined to establish the federation and we are negotiating the terms of fiscal cooperation right now with your representatives in town. We’re convinced that this subscription exchange is the fairest system anyone could come up with.”

“You propose to run our affairs from over in Massachusetts?”

“No, just to coordinate regional cooperation and redevelopment—”

“Thank you for your company at lunch,” Temple said, standing suddenly and dashing his cloth napkin on the table, “but I’ve got calves to attend to and fences to mend and a long list of routine chores to take care of. Thanks for stopping by and good luck with your scheme.”

“It’s not a scheme, sir. It’s a task of nation building.”

Temple Merton walked straight out through the pantry and the rear door.

“You see what Mr. Hamilton was up against in his day,” Goodfriend said to Lorraine.

“Frankly, I didn’t understand your pitch at all, apart from your love of old movies,” she said cordially. “Come, I’ll walk you to the door.”

On the front porch, Buddy Goodfriend turned to her one last time and said, “We’re going to make this happen. And we’ll do whatever’s necessary to raise the requisite funds.”

“You know, there was so much about the crash that was tragic and terrible,” she said. “But now that it’s over we find ourselves enjoying a remarkable degree of freedom. And having tasted it, I don’t think we’ll allow ourselves to be pushed around again. That must be your pony over there.”

“Yes.”

“He’s a sweetie. Enjoy your trip back in this beautiful weather.”