Reading California Fiction

THE DESERT FIDDLER

    Usually I try to try to add some visual interest to a post by including a scan of the cover or dust jacket. But I didn't have the jacket for The Desert Fiddler, couldn't find an image of it, and thought the cover  was boring. The book's frontispiece, however, is irresistible. The accompanying text is: "He began to play . . . the song of the rose that blossomed with fragrance in the night."

 

 

     The Desert Fiddler by William H. Hamby. Doubleday, Page and Co. (1921), 232 pp.
    Bob Rogeen, an amateur fiddle player living in Calexico in 1917, becomes involved in raising cotton in the newly irrigated Imperial Valley. He leases a ranch “over the line” in Mexico and soon winds up managing several holdings of a wealthy investor from Texas. He also becomes acquainted with spunky Imogene Chandler, another local rancher. Meanwhile, Reedy Jenkins, a Calexico businessman, is hatching a nefarious plot to raise the price of water and thereby grab the profits of the cotton crop. Bob has little time to try to thwart the scheme. If he can do it, he'll insure a handsome return for himself and his employer and win the love of Imogene.
    This book is completely readable. The style is straightforward. The setting is unusual. The story moves along at a brisk clip and maintains an air of plausibility throughout. The descriptions give a fairly strong sense of the desert at the beginning of its cultivation and clearly contrast devious business corruption in Calexico with blatant debasement down the street in Mexicali. As might be expected of a plot-based novel, the characters are not drawn with any depth or subtlety. The good guys, which include Chinese and some Mexicans, are upstanding and hard-working. The villain has no redeeming qualities. The author hasn’t created anything like serious literature here, but he has probably accomplished what he set out to do.

TOO RICH TO DIE

    H. Vernor Dixon was not beyond taking plot ideas from famous books. He used a Gatsby-like figure as the protagonist of his first three 1950s novels (Something for Nothing, To Hell Together and Deep Is the Pit). I'd bet that the story line of The Marriage Bed -- a newly married woman goes off to live with a mysterious husband -- comes from some Gothic tale I haven't read. In Too Rich to Die Dixon moves Captains Courageous to Monterey and adds some staples of paperback originals: violence, beautiful women and a canny first-person narrator.

    Too Rich to Die by H. Vernor Dixon. Fawcett Gold Medal (1953), 175 pp.
    Escaping from a likely murder charge, Los Angeles playboy T. Howard Carleton III winds up as the cook on a fishing boat heading up the coast to Monterey. He decides not only to change his name (to Tom Howie) but to establish a new life away from the pointlessness and dissipation of the past. He enjoys working on the boat, hits it off with the its crew chief, Matt Radovich, and begins thinking of a career in the fishing industry. He is soon also pondering his prospects with two beautiful women in Monterey -- Ginny Norton, who has a kind heart and bad reputation, and her cousin Gail, who craves adoration and attracts suitors, including Matt and a nasty cannery owner, Steve Moore.
    Dixon turns his usual storyline on its head. Instead of a jobless social climber trying to break into the upper crust, he gives us a wealthy wastrel hoping to learn a useful occupation. Dixon is aiming here at more than entertainment. He wants to provide thoughtful analysis of class and character. Unfortunately, the analyzing is done by Dixon's protagonist and first-person narrator, who periodically points out his own transformation and (without much evidence) assesses the personalities of others. Dixon's plot is a little peculiar as well, in that the opening murder has little to do with anything that happens later. That said, the author's usual brisk writing style is much in evidence, especially in his depiction of commercial fishing. Although the book has a few obligatory fistfights, fans of standard tough-guy novels may be disappointed in the overall lack of cynicism.

NO VACANCY

    It's always interesting to look at lists of award-winning books from the past. A few go on to lasting fame, but most sink into obscurity. One group of award-givers is the Commonwealth Club in San Francisco. Each year it bestows gold and silver medals on literary works in a number of fields, including fiction. A few winners remain well known -- Tortilla Flat (1935), My Name is Aram (1940) and The Flower Drum Song (1957) are examples. No Vacancy, the silver medal winner in 1952, falls into the larger group of novels that no one cares about today. Still, one wonders why it lost its appreciative audience.

    No Vacancy by Mary Jane Rolfs. Houghton Mifflin Co. (1951), 247 pp.
    This book depicts the business and personal lives of several motel owners in a small city half way between Los Angeles and San Francisco. The story focuses mostly on Mamie Flanagan, a forty-year-old divorcee who owns and manages one of the most lucrative motels in town. She’s happy enough in her work, but she longs to make permanent an ongoing affair with the fellow who leases her restaurant. When a bigger, fancier motel is constructed across the highway, her business and her love life are put in jeopardy.
    The subject of this book is about as mundane as it could be. The day-to-day operation of a motel and the constraints of a not fully successful relationship are not the fodder for high drama. But that is Rolfs’ idea. She wants to show everyday life, with normal people coping with typical problems. Her flat writing style adds to the effect. The protagonist -- forty, divorced, sexually active, and successful in running her own business -- is not typical, however. Her literary counterpart in some respects is Mildred Pierce, though Mamie's lack of ruthlessness makes her a more feminist version of the independent woman. Readers looking for strong female characters may be interested in this book.

THE MARRIAGE BED

    I may need to give H. Vernor Dixon more credit than I originally thought he deserved. In The Marriage Bed he uses a female first-person narrator. I had doubts she actually sounded like a woman. So I sent some of the text to the Gender Genie (via Little Professor) to get a scientific appraisal. And -- By Jove! -- the narrator is female. Did that mean that noir novelist Dixon has a feminine style? I couldn't believe it. So I got another analysis of his writing, this time of the tough-guy first person in Deep Is the Pit. And --  By Jove Again! -- this narrator is male.

    The Marriage Bed by H. Vernor Dixon. Fawcett Red Seal (1952), 268 pp.
    Carol Moore, a successful Broadway playwright, is leaving New York to join her new husband, Jeffrey Hamlyne, a California businessman. They married after a one-week courtship. A week later he returned to his family estate in Carmel, and Carol hasn't seen him during the intervening four months. She's not sure what to make of that and is more perplexed when it's not Jeffrey but his identical twin brother, John, who meets her at the airport. By the time she gets to Lynecrest, she's convinced the brothers have had a falling out over business. But as odd occurrences continue, she comes to feel that something even more serious has happened.
    This book doesn't quite work. Part of the problem is that some of the story's elements -- the identical twin brothers who are never in the same place at the same time and the big house on a foggy cliff -- are hackneyed. Dixon might have overcome some of the lack of originality with a more compelling protagonist. Carol, however, the first-person narrator, seems overly invested in her marriage and more than a little slow-witted. Of course, there's no story if she just goes back to New York. Even Dixon's style, which is usually brisk and straightforward, turns sluggish as Carol labors to think things through. All in all, the book, though certainly readable, is not one of the author's more successful efforts.

YOKOHAMA, CALIFORNIA

    Yokohama, California invites comparisons. Its stories are kinder and more upbeat than those of its literary inspiration, Winesburg, Ohio. They have a broader scope and less of a family orientation than the stories in Mama's Bank Account or The Paesanos, two other collections written also around 1940 about life among ethnic minorities in California. And its characters in no way resemble the evil conspirators in the inflammatory Seed of the Sun. It's not, incidentally, the first work of fiction set in California by a Japancse American author. That distinction, I believe, belongs to the long-forgotten Rendezvous of Mysteries (1928) by Karl S. Nakagawa.

    Yokohama, California by Toshio Mori. Caxton Printers (1949), 166 pp.
    This collection of 22 short stories portrays everyday life among Japanese Americans between the two world wars. Most of the stories are set in Oakland or a small city to the south. They are told in retrospect by a single narrator, who is not the same age in each story. Most of the tales focus on a single character, among them an old woman who makes donuts, an excessively honest flower saleman, an engineering student seeking literary fame, a laundry-truck driver who seeks refuge in a park, a seven-year-old with a plot in the family nursery, and an ugly young woman who dreams of romance.
    Toshio Mori (1910-1980) wrote most of these stories in the late 1930s. It was a time when open hostility to Japanese Americans in California had died away but unspoken fear and resentment remained. Mori clearly wants to show that the members of his ethnic group are just plain folks like everybody else. The first generation of immigrants may have nostalgia for Japan, and the second curiosity about it, but both are committed to the United States. The stories indicate the Mori's generation is beginning to assimilate. Several characters are going to college, for example, and another has joined the army. Yet the lack of non-Japanese figures in the book suggests that Mori's community is still fairly insulated. There's nothing seclusive about the stories, however, which are written in a clear and simple style and which deserve a wide audience.

SEED OF THE SUN

    A little historical background: In the 1890s substantial numbers of Japanese immigrants, most experienced agricultural workers, began settling in California. By 1906 about 500 a month were entering the state. While the immigrants viewed themselves as farmers, others saw them as pawns in a geopolitical struggle for control of the Pacific rim. Anti-Japanese feelings increased in California, despite efforts of the American and Japanese governments to avoid conflict. The state legislature restricted land ownership in 1920 and authorized segregated schools in 1921. Congress finally banned all Japanese immigration in 1924. That led to a furious outpouring of anti-American feeling in Japan but seems to have quieted anti-Japanese agitation in California.

    Seed of the Sun by Wallace Irwin. George H. Doran Co. (1921), 352 pp.
    Anna Bly and her sister Zudie inherit a prune ranch outside a small town south of Sacramento. They decide to come to California and live on the ranch. Anna has been impressed by several Japanese in the past, notably the elegant Baron Tazumi, and is expecting no trouble from the ranch manager, J. Shimba, or the many other Japanese in the area. When she moves into her new home, however, troubling events begin to occur. Anna's worries are only somewhat allayed when masterful asparagus grower Dunc Leacy shows up to help.
    In Seed of the Sun San Francisco novelist Wallace Irwin launches perhaps the most imaginative of the many attacks on Japanese immigrants in California. Irwin goes far beyond typical concerns about land ownership. He pictures Japanese residents as a fifth column. Working as agents for the Japanese government, they sabotage harvests of non-Japanese ranchers, worship the Emperor, and resist all attempts at Americanization. They aim to do more than capture California, however. Their ultimate goal, as Irwin sees it, is a mixing of the races in which American women would bear the children of Japanese men. All of this is fairly amazing by modern standards. For that reason readers interested in the history of race relations in the United States may find the book a bonanza.

IF I COME HOME

     Sometimes the way a publisher promotes a book is a bit curious. What would make Doubleday, for example, outline the entire plot of If I Come Home on the dust jacket? Do most readers want to know what happens in a novel before buying it? And why did AMS Press, in its 1977 reprinting, put the book in a series about the labor movement? There are no unions in the book, or even groups of workers. The leading male character barely even has a job. The title, incidentally (I just learned this), comes from a poem by Robert Burns.

    If I Come Home by Nellise Child. Doubleday, Doran and Co. (1943), 311 pp.
    Brooke Whittaker, beautiful young daughter of a very successful car dealer, is considering a marriage that will move her to the top rung of the Los Angeles social ladder. On a slumming expedition to the barrio, she and some friends interrupt an Easter morning wedding. There she meets the bride's brother, Tony Casino, a son of Sicilian immigrants, who works part-time for the WPA. She decides to help his impoverished family, then becomes increasingly attracted to Tony's pride and disdain for the rich. He reciprocates her feelings but does not quite share her confidence that they have long-term prospects as a couple.
    The story, set in 1939, may be about the difficulties of romance during the Great Depression. That's the view of the dust jacket, which describes the book as "a tender novel about two people of an unlucky generation." But the depression can't be blamed for everything. The callousness of Brooke's family and friends, for example, seems to be the product of excessive wealth. So it's possible that the author is actually saying something more basic about economic disparities -- that huge class differences inevitably test the idea that love conquers all. Child's portrayal of the lovers is sympathetic without being sentimental, though her view of their families verges on the stereotypic. Her depiction of living down and out in Los Angeles is compellingly grim. This is an interesting book -- a love story that defies the conventions of romance novels. It might find many appreciative readers today.

DETOUR: AN EXTRAORDINARY TALE

     It's always good news when books from the past are returned to print. Detour has two new editions, one from O'Bryan House and the other from Blackmask. The latter version, which is the one I bought, is less expensive but suffers from weak proof reading and peculiar layout. And, strangely, it has no copyright notice. The film adaptation of the novel, incidentally, is more famous than the book. [Jacket image courtesy of ReadInk, Los Angeles, California.]
   

    Detour: An Extraordinary Tale by Martin M. Goldsmith. Macauley Co. (1939), 248 pp.
    Penniless musician Alex Roth is hitchhiking west to reunite with his girlfriend, Sue Harvey, who's trying to break into the movies. He's picked up by a well-heeled guy in a fancy convertible who is going all the way to Los Angeles. Alex is enjoying his good luck until a rain squall hits in the western Arizona desert. As Alex is trying to get the top up, his companion tumbles out of the car, hits his head, and dies. Alex considers stopping but worries that the highway patrol won't believe the death was accidental. Meanwhile, Sue, who has no idea that he is coming, is assaying the meaning of an unpleasant sexual encounter she's just had with an unemployed actor.
    This is one of those ordinary-guys-gets-into-trouble novels that are often associated with James M. Cain. Alex Roth, however, the first-person narrator for most of the story, is different from Cain's protagonists in a couple ways. First, he is not a tough guy. He bemoans his bad luck, has ready rationalizations for his actions, and sometimes even seems to be apologizing to the reader. In addition, he doesn't have the book to himself. Sue Harvey also has a tale to tell. In alternating chapters she explains her own dubious behavior. She's a paragon of inconsistency but at least takes responsibility for what she does. The connection between the two stories may puzzle readers. Even so, the narrative moves swiftly and remains entertaining.

I HATE ACTORS!

    There's an idea that Hollywood corrupted serious authors in the days when studios gave steady work to dozens of screenwriters. I'm not sure how often that happened. One possible example is Ben Hecht. After publication of Erik Dorn in 1921, he was hailed as a great new literary talent. (The book, with its sexually adventurous characters and staccato narration, is still fascinating today.) Five years later, after publishing several other novels, Hecht began a thirty-year film career. Though he continued cranking out books, his interest in serious fiction pretty much disappeared.

    I Hate Actors! by Ben Hecht. Crown Publishers (1944), 221 pp.
    A part-time screenwriter arrives in Hollywood to put the finishing touches on a script. He encounters a variety of standard film types: his agent, who will say anything to keep clients happy; the movie's blustery producer; three actors--the talentless lead, the former star who wants to restart his career, and the second lead who is kept in a drugged stupor by the studio; three actresses--the temperamental star, the young hopeful who has had the lead's child, and the dancer with a large snake and few clothes; plus secretaries and studio heads. When the actors start being murdered, the question is not only whodunit but also who's next. Suspicion falls on one character after another until the mystery is solved.
    What Hecht appears to be trying to do is produce a novel reminiscent of the fast-talking comedies he and Charles MacArthur wrote a decade earlier. (Notable among them are the play "The Front Page" and the screenplay for Twentieth Century.) The characters, with the exception of the cynical screenwriter-narrator, are eccentric and overblown. The dialog, which makes up most of the narrative, seems to be yelled rather than spoken. All of this comes with a tone of unrelenting satire. Hecht skewers just about everybody, not in subtle or unusual ways, but with an excessiveness that he presumably thinks Hollywood deserves. Readers seeking over-the-top entertainment are likely to enjoy this book.

ANTHONY OVERMAN

    Readers used to the constrained turn-of-the-
century characters of Henry James or Edith Wharton may be dumbfounded at the female protagonists of Miriam Michelson's novels. Her women (found in A Yellow Journalist and In the Bishop's Carriage as well as Anthony Overman) are not leftover Victorians. They clearly belong to the twentieth century: They have jobs; they live in apartments; they don't worry about social niceties. (Lay off the pills, Jessie Incell might have told Lily Bart. Come out to San Francisco, and I'll get you a job on the paper.)

    Anthony Overman by Miriam Michelson. Doubleday, Page and Co. (1906), 330 pp.
    A utopian community in the foothills has collapsed in scandal, and Jessie Incell is sent to get the story for her San Francisco newspaper. She interviews Anthony Overman, amember of the group who still retains his belief in purity and self-sacrifice. Jessie plans to leave town before her disparaging story is known to Overman and his friends, but a bicycle accident lays her up for weeks. During her convalescence Jesse and Anthony develop a mutual appreciation and attraction. Their differences, however, make long-term prospects unclear.
    Jessie Incell personifies the New Woman at the turn of the last century. She's worldly, independent, enthusiastically cynical, and completely dedicated to her career. She has a place in her life for everything except love. The man she becomes involved with has iconic traits of his own. Anthony Overman is a sort of working-class superman -- righteous, strong-willed, and (though he does try sometimes to fit in) deeply opposed to compromising his convictions. He has problems with love too, since one of his ideals is chastity. Michelson humanizes these stereotypes. Her foray into the consciousness of Jessie is especially convincing. The book as a whole is less successful. The dialog seems overblown at times, and the plot wanders to ancillary characters at one point. Michelson's fans will miss the breezy first-person narration of previous works. Even so, readers interested in feminist fiction from a century ago are likely to find the book illuminating.