Gift of the Golden Mountain (15 page)

     Karin walked in one day, bent to kiss me, but before I could say 'Hello,' she spotted Hayes and blurted "Do you remember me?" The question raised a chorus of catcalls from several of the young men in the room at the time, and one of them suggested that if Hayes could forget Karin he must deviate from the sexual norm. Karin blushed, and then laughed as Hayes went into a teasing "Was it in Paris?" routine. Awhile later I noticed the two of them talking quietly in a corner.

     Karin waited until the office emptied to tell me about their first meeting with Hayes. "It was strange," she began, "I think May and I took it for granted we would be seeing him again—I know we
wanted to. But there was something awkward about it, with Sam I mean. We didn't make any attempt to get in touch with Hayes, and I suppose he must have felt the same way, because he didn't make any moves, either." She nibbled on a fingernail. "Somehow that doesn't seem right, does it? Holding back because of some third person? Just now I asked him out for coffee, but he had to go to class. That's what he said, anyway. What he didn't say was, 'Can I have a rain check?' I think he figures that Sam has staked us out as his territory, and that he should stay away. And it just makes me . . . sad. And a little bit mad, too."

     "That you can't get to know Hayes, or that Sam should have 'staked you out,' as you say?" I probed.

     Karin's face registered a small, thoughtful frown, and then she said deliberately, "Both. And the truth is, if Sam had been around today, I'm not sure I could have been so friendly with Hayes. And that makes me mad at myself. Suddenly, today—meeting Hayes again and having that same feeling that here is somebody worth it—if you know what I mean—well, it just seems very wrong to me. Giving in to Sam like that."

     "What makes you think Sam wants you to give in?" I asked. "After all," I went on, "Sam was the one who brought him round in the first place. Sam was willing to 'share'—the cottage, and presumably his friendship with you and May."

     "Possibly," she said slowly. "We thought it was because he needed the money, but maybe . . ."

     I broke in, "When I see the two of them together, the feeling I get is that Sam resents Hayes, but he wants to impress him at the same time."

     "Or wants his approval?" Karin asked.

     "Maybe," I answered. "Hayes does seem to mean something to Sam."

     Karin sighed. "Sam is so . . . volatile . . . I think he would do anything for us. When May was gone and I was so worried, he sat up with me all night. The three of us get along well enough, but
sometimes I think it is because May and I are careful not to rock the boat."

     "It's your boat, you know," I told her. "Maybe you should try a little careful rocking." She squeezed my hand and bent to nuzzle me in that easy way she had. I hugged her back, caressing the thick blond hair that fell loose to her shoulders, and thought once more what a warm, dear girl she was.

Other campuses erupted that spring, and there was rioting in cities across the country. At Berkeley, a momentum was gathering until at times it seemed the very earth vibrated with all of the amplified speakers set up on campus. There were political rallies now, in advance of the summer conventions, and Hayes Diehl was keeping what Sam called a "high profile" for the Kennedy campaign.

     What was called a "Vietnam Commencement" ceremony was held in Sproul Plaza that May, though Governor Reagan had warned that to hold it would be "so indecent as to border on the obscene." Sam and I watched from across the way and I moaned, "I would give anything to get down there and photograph that."

     I had, in fact, brought my Leicas into the office, hoping that there might be a vantage point from which I could do some long shots. I knew it was hopeless, but the urge was there and wouldn't seem to go away. I wanted to get into the crowd, close up, to show the young, intense face of this antiwar movement. Israel outdid himself scouting possible locations, but in the end agreed with me, there was no way for me to photograph in the crowd.

     It surprised me when Sam said, "Can I take the photographs for you?" When I didn't answer right away, he added, "I know a little about cameras, maybe you could tell me what you want and I could try to get it."

     I thought for a while. Sam didn't understand that I needed to be behind the camera myself, moving with the action, interpreting
it in my own way. And yet he was eager to help, to do something for me. "I could preset the cameras for you, we could try it at least," I told him.

     The next day was foggy and gray. "I'm setting a basic exposure—500 at 8," I explained to Sam, showing him how to focus, using the rangefinder to bring the split image together. I put a 35mm lens on one camera for wider shots and a 90mm on the other for closeups on faces. "Get as near as you can without drawing attention to yourself," I told him. "You want to be invisible, but you also want to be involved," I added, loading the cameras with black and white film. "Watch for gestures, for intensity. And remember to compose each frame so that the design adds to the tension."

     From my office window, I could see him work his way into the crowd, pushing forward, moving up close. Sam did not hesitate and the students made way for him, dressed as he was in jeans and an old surplus jacket decorated with peace buttons. That first day he shot three rolls of Tri-X film. When it was developed and printed onto contact sheets, I looked them over carefully and found five strong photographs—pictures which were sharp, well composed, and with strong content. I looked at Sam in amazement. For a first time out, he had done remarkably well.

     After that, Sam went out every day and, as soon as his film was developed, we would study the contact sheets together. I have never known a student so eager for criticism. "This is very good," I would say, and he would come back with, "Why?" And then he would insist I tell him what he did wrong and what he should have done.

     Near the end of November, when what was to have been a peaceful sit-in at the Student Union erupted into violence and police dragged off student leaders, Sam was up front, close enough to photograph one student's face contorted with pain as his arms were pinned behind him. That night the photo went out over the AP wire, with Sam Nakamura's credit line.

     We celebrated Sam's success with pizza, beer, and Louisiana hot links—Israel's contribution to the party. My desk became the table, the young people sat on the floor, their backs against the wall. Sam was looking through one of my cameras as if to photograph May. She held a rib between two fingers, studying it as if in preparation to bite into it, and looking directly into the camera said: "Faith thinks you're a natural."

     Sam came out from behind the viewfinder.

     "I don't know what there is about it," he said, "I just know I like doing it. There's something so immediate—the picture is there but just for a second, and you have to see it and get it. It's all so fast, you don't really have time to think, you just have to react and it's both exacting and, well . . . terrifically exciting."

     He stopped, surprised at himself.

     "So what now?" Karin asked.

     "I'm thinking about a change of careers . . ." Sam answered, looking at me, "and my teacher here has offered to help."

     "I offered to give you a few contacts," I corrected him, "and to loan you my equipment until you can get your own. Other than that, you're on your own."

     "Are you thinking about leaving school?" Karin broke in.

     "Are you crazy?" Sam answered. "And lose my deferment? I might be willing to shoot some film in Vietnam, but that's all. What I need is for Faith to get me in with her friends at
Time-Life
, and then I'll have it made."

     I laughed and reached to pull Sam's ear. "You've only just begun, boy-o," I told him, "and you've still got a whole lot to learn."

     "You said I was good enough to be a pro," he came back, an edge of accusation in his voice.

     Israel was sitting across the desk from me, quietly passing food, pouring beer, and listening, but now he broke in, a cautionary tone in his preacher's voice: "Sam good son," he said, "remember what the Proverbs tell us: Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. I should only add, my fine friend, that
few people in this world are blessed with the advantage of a fine teacher. It is always right to acknowledge a debt and to give credit to your master."

     Sam, for the first time since I had known him, was humbled. "You are right, Israel," he said, adding with real sincerity, "and I am grateful, Faith." He grinned mischievously then, and added only half-teasingly, "I'm especially grateful that you're such a damned good photographer—anyone of lesser talent couldn't have brought me along so fast."

     "Well, hallelujah!" May put in, to which Israel boomed out a loud "Amen," and we all laughed, even Sam, in spite of himself.

When Robert Kennedy made his last sweep through northern California before the June primary, Kit arranged for us to meet him at a small private reception at the Press Club.

     Sam made the most of the opportunity, moving in so closely with the cameras that the senator finally stopped him by playfully grabbing the lapels of his jacket to examine the collection of buttons. "I like this one," he said, fingering a button that said, "Make love not war." Looking at Karin he added, "I do my part." Kit, standing next to the senator, gave his sleeve a maternal pat, and warned: "You do have a lovely big family, Bobby."

     On election night we gathered at my house to watch the returns. By eleven o'clock the networks had named Kennedy the big winner of the California primary.

     "On to Chicago," Kit announced, beaming. She and May had helped bankroll the Kennedy campaign.

     "It's nice being on the winning side," May teased, poking at Karin and me because we had voted for Gene McCarthy.

     "Some of us are
loyal
," Karin jibed back. "Some of us don't change horses in midstream. Some of us don't desert sinking ships."

     "Some of us see the writing on the wall," May answered.

     "Right," Karin came back, the good loser, "and it says, 'Go home now. Don't wait for victory speech.'"

     "It
is
late," May said, switching off the television. "Time to get across the Bay."

     My clock radio buzzed on the next morning, crackling in an annoying way as if it were between stations, a voice trying to make itself heard over the static. I lay there and listened, alarmed by the tone of the voice. Something had happened, something terrible. I sat up and for an instant did not know if I wanted to tune the station in or turn it off.

     It could not be, I told myself. This could not happen, not again. And then the voice on the radio told me it had:
Senator Robert Kennedy was shot in the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel last night, and lies near death in a Los Angeles hospital.

     I stayed in my garden that day and considered the poppies and talked to no one because I could think of nothing to say.

IT COULD BE said that Robert Kennedy's death launched Sam's professional career. The photographs he took at the private reception Kit arranged were suddenly in demand. Calls came in from
Newsweek
, from
Time
and
Life
and
Paris Match
, and from publications as far afield as Turkey. Sam was, in turn, flattered, confused and annoyed. Flattered by all the attention, confused by the question of payment and rights, and annoyed that I did not want to act as his agent in dealing with the magazines.

     Among my own favorite Sam Nakamura photos was one he made early on, of Hayes and Joan Baez standing together on the steps of Sproul Hall. The singer's hair is blowing across her face but she doesn't appear to notice, so intent is she on what she is saying to Hayes. I made a print of the photo, pinned it on the office bulletin board, and waited for Hayes, but he did not come. Others stopped to look at it, a few added cheeky captions. May read them and asked me what he thought of them but I had to say I didn't know; Hayes had not been around and nobody seemed to know what had happened to him.