Novelists sell you on a world, a mood, or a bunch of people, using a thesaurus-full of words: blue-collar “straight;” pedagogical “honest;” legalese “legitimate,” for instance, all mean the same.
Lovely; pretty; beautiful. Harsh; abrupt; cruel. Monstrous; grotesque; deformed.
That’s semantics, using the meaning between the meanings. It’s a lovely, flexible thing, the English language, and GS exploited its uses to produce an influential methodology. Alfred Korzybski, who wrote Science and Sanity and developed the study, spoke five languages; no doubt they honed his ear for similes. “The map is not the territory,” he wrote.
S.I. Hayakawa, a semanticist who studied Korzybski’s work, said - even more memorably - Cow One is not Cow Two. Thus the successful writer, er, steers the reader’s attention. No bull. .
I don’t recommend you read Korzybski’s book; dry, dry dry, and thick. I don’t know whether Hayakawa’s book is still available; funny, pointed, fascinating. If you run across it or its successors on eBay, though, and if you write for a living, grab it.
Here's Chapter 16 of Dead on Dutcher's Mountain. You can buy the whole thing at amazon.com/author/margaretraymond
SIXTEEN
The cafeteria was festive with streamers and flowers. Karl’s eyes scarcely left Hillary. She wore a Greek chiton of gray silk. Her breasts rounded it, her slender arms parted it. She sat across from him and to the right of her brother. She was beyond fatigue and into that warm space where nothing mattered and everything just happened. Tipsily she watched each move of Karl’s hands. They were bronzed. Light hair crisped on their backs. They held knife and fork with long fingers. They had held her easily and nearly met around her waist. She felt them.
The cafeteria was festive with streamers and flowers. Karl’s eyes scarcely left Hillary. She wore a Greek chiton of gray silk. Her breasts rounded it, her slender arms parted it. She sat across from him and to the right of her brother. She was beyond fatigue and into that warm space where nothing mattered and everything just happened. Tipsily she watched each move of Karl’s hands. They were bronzed. Light hair crisped on their backs. They held knife and fork with long fingers. They had held her easily and nearly met around her waist. She felt them.
Brian, with his color and apparently also his morale recovered, watched her and Voerst. So did Jessica Gunderson and Rosalie. So did Gordon Altstock. By the time the dessert wines came, all four assumed it was romance. So did Voerst. Hillary did not, when she bothered to think of it. Earl McCoy’s hands and fingers held the same charm, moved with the same precision. But they were Earl’s; they counted for more. And that kiss in the forest? For Earl. The physical need? Earl.
Nevertheless she compared and contrasted. And yes, she was flirting with Karl. She enjoyed feeling his eyes on her shoulders and throat. When they slid to her breasts she had trouble breathing. At the same time she felt whole, in command. Maybe that was odd. She leaned back and each simultaneous conversation was clear and easy to follow. The expressions of the other guests were transparent. Loretta Bailey’s smugness, Gordon’s arrogance, Jessica’s abstraction.
Karl’s possessiveness. What made it charming? He was trying to be gracious to Barney Bailey, on her right. She could guess it cost him patience. She shifted her shoulder; his eyes flew to watch. She smiled. He returned it. Six feet ten. At least.
This was silly. Dinner for thirty, and she watched just one man.
But why not? He was good-looking and commanding, wore a tux and cummerbund as if they were designed for him. Probably were. His hair was a mane. Gordon Altstock was tall and elegant and handsome, Earl was exciting and intense and dear, but Karl was... Karl was Tarzan, Conan, the stuff of fantasy. And something in him intimately commanded her. The whole world was all-right-to-wonderful.
She was probably in love with Earl, of course. And he could probably be induced to pay attention to her, if she tried.
She stopped for another sip of port. It want down hard.
But here she was, facing an avowed übermensch who seemed to want her soul. How many women lived a real, honest-to-God fling like this? She lifted her port again.
Brian interrupted from her left. “So you object to the Dutcher’s sales policy, Hill?”
She turned, abstracted. “Who told you?”
“Rosalie, then Gordon. Gordon was more articulate. He knew what you were talking about.”
Hillary tried to explain herself. “I was being patronized, Bri. Then I remembered the composition of that loan, and Karl’s nationality.”
“And you dug in a bit with your rowels?”
“No, but maybe I showed the whip as long as I was in the saddle. It won’t interfere with your friendship, will it?”
“No. Were you really angry?”
“Irritated. And then he waffled. ‘We have to make a profit for our investor.’ That old...stuff is the euphemism.”
“You’ve always been naive about business, Hill.”
She gave her brother her whole, irritated attention. “Do you believe that, Bri? Is naiveté the best description you have for moral outrage?”
Brian colored. Carefully he set his fork across his plate and nodded to the approaching waiter.
“Hillary, you know what I mean. Gordon has a right, business has a right, to profit.”
“First. Say it,” she challenged.
“No, I won’t say it. But if it hadn’t been for those South African bonds...”
Hillary interrupted. “...this one-third-of-one-percent cobalt rock would have been financed by Canada.”
“I was going to say Pakistan. I was there, Hill.”
“And no doubt in a hurry to close the deal.” He was shocked; she cursed herself. Then, “Jesus. I’m sorry, Bri,” she said. “That was uncalled for. I know you better than that.”
His hand covered hers briefly and patted. “It’s forgotten.”
She reexamined her brother. Making every allowance for his grief, and discounting her judgments about small-town prejudice, was he at all the man she remembered? Rock of integrity, scrupulously fair, unblinkered? Firm grip on reality? It was her turn to shift in her seat.
Karl was there, just across the table. Just like last night, then this morning at breakfast, just like this afternoon in the woods. That hairline. That square chin.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you, sis?”
Her head snapped toward Brian.
He asked, “Did you talk to Earl today?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“W-q-w? You were gone for a long time. So was he. I was tempted to search for you. And now he’d eating you with his eyes.”
Hillary shrugged. “He claims to be interested.”
“And Earl?”
Her manner went from curt to bantering. “What do you want me to do, Bri? I inveigled a fishing date for next weekend. Earl promised I could use his flies.”
Brian leered. “Sounds like a busy weekend.”
“Your mind is small.” Suddenly she leaned her head to his shoulder. “Bri, you’re perfect.” But her fist was clenched in her lap.
Altstock rose from the center table and tinkled his spoon for attention: time for speeches. Hillary sighed and leaned back. God, Karl was magnificent. She reached for a carafe and touched his hand when he took it from her to pour. His talk with Bailey did not falter, but his eyes slid to hers as he poured coffee for her, then himself.
Altstock’s speech lengthened. Hillary found Rosalie, farther down the table on the opposite side. The redhead was regal in gold, her hair elaborately braided. Lewellyn’s back pled as he leaned toward her. It was charming to see them together, shy, pulled increasingly close.
And at the far end of the table, Gunderson. Quiet, morose, pretending to listen to Altstock. His exotic wife was, provocatively at least to the mayor, on Altstock’s right. Gunderson seemed deliberately to ignore her. Jessica seemed spitefully to encourage Altstock. Altstock referred to her with his eyes after every statement.
Tap, tap, scritch on the tablecloth. B..O..R..I..N..G.
Hillary grinned and began an answer. H..O..P..E..L..E..S..S.
Karen was behaving well, but she was sleepy. Soon she would want to curl up and put her head on Brian’s lap. Brian would create a small scene, preventing her.
Gunderson lifted his port left-handed, absent-minded, and because he was leaning backward his right elbow stuck out. Why lean back so far? He always did that when he ate. And he always disappeared before the functions were over. It was such a bore; she didn’t get to talk to him.
She had an insight. G..U..N.
W..H..A..T?
H..I..D..E..S.
The code was getting easier; the letters came more quickly.
W..H..O?
G..U..
She was interrupted. W..H..O F..R..O..M?
?..?..?
Now, oh Lord, the mayor was proposing a toast to the mine. The whole Board of Supervisors was here; there would be more toasts. Something must be done or she’d get fuzzy-headed.
A flicker of movement from Voerst was designed to catch her attention. She looked up. He spoke, loudly enough for only her ears, and perhaps for Brian’s, but without concealment.
“Would you like to leave?” She found the idea funny, but shook her head no. He spoke again. “There’s a moon out.” She nearly giggled, but shook her head again and lifted a finger to her lips. He shushed and reached for one of his cigars.
Brian’s foot stepped on hers. F..U..N..N..Y.
Y..E..S, she answered, and felt defiance wash up to her cheeks.
The mayor raised his glass and they obediently followed suit. The mayor sat. Gordon rose and sat. The board chairman rose.
Brian’s scratches resumed, interrupted by fending maneuvers against Karen’s growing impatience. G..U..N H..I..D..E..S
Hillary lifted her eyebrows to ask from whom.
K..A..R..L.
She glanced toward Gunderson. He was half turned away, ostensibly to watch the speaker. Of course. Hadn’t he said he suspected Karl of something? It had slipped her mind.
Mercifully the chairman lifted his glass and sat. Gordon thanked everyone and headed for the door to do the final honors with a handshake. General scraping of chairs, except for those at this end of the room, an inner circle of administrators and friends.
Karl leaned across to Hillary and Brian. “Can you stay longer? Perhaps share a brandy at my home?”
Brian answered. “Thank you, Karl, but we have a long drive ahead, and an early morning.”
“Too bad; I had hoped for company. Can I persuade you that there is more to be seen of the mine? I would like to entertain you sometime soon. And I have more to teach Karen than braiding grass, if you will bring her.”
Hillary answered before Brian could refuse a second time. “No persuasion is necessary, Karl. I gave you our home number, didn’t I?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll call as soon as my routine is established. I can’t offer so festive a crowd, but I hope you enjoy a fireplace and baroque music. Perhaps with formal dress.” His eyes drifted again across Hillary’s bare shoulders and arms.
Brian spoke with an ulterior note which only Hillary could hear. “Yes. It makes a great difference, doesn’t it? The party Friday seemed to hold an entirely different set of guests. Mr. Jones and Mr. Gunderson, for example.” An alarm went off in Hillary’s head. She nudged Brian’s ankle sharply with her toe. He ignored her. “Friday evening, Mr. Jones wore a red shirt under his tweeds, and Mr. Gunderson his tuxedo. Mr. Jones was forgettable, while Mr. Gunderson was distinguished. You couldn’t help noticing, I’m sure.”
Voerst answered, “No. I’m afraid I do not remember Mr. Gunderson. Who is he?”
Over Hillary’s frantic, silent appeal Brian indicated Gunderson with a turn of his hand. “To your right. The one-handed miner from the Chocolate Mountains. Do you remember?”
Voerst’s head snapped around. Gunderson was lifting his glass, no longer turned away. “From the Chocolate Mountains?” Voerst asked. Something terrible flared from his eyes. His body, his immense frame, seemed to pull inward, implode, settle. Hillary and Brian watched for long, long count. S..E..E? Brian scratched.
Voerst’s face was waxy, slowly composing. He finally spoke. “I agree. Completely. This could be a different group altogether.”
“Is something wrong, Karl?” Brian asked. “You seem to recognize Mr. Gunderson.” He had never sounded more smooth.
T..U..R..D Hillary scratched on her brother’s leg. She was watching Gunderson now, praying for him to leave. To disappear quickly before that light in Karl’s eyes flared again.
“No,” Karl said, “I don’t know the man at all. He does resemble someone from my past, however.” He turned to Hillary. “An amusing story along the lines of our talk about power,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it
sometime.
“Do, Karl.” S..H..I..
“My dearest sister!” Brian didn’t bother with their code, beginning to understand that something was extremely wrong. He scolded her loudly, obviously, to refocus Voerst’s attention. “That observation is unworthy of you. The veriest chimpanzee has signed it with his hands in anger.”
“Her hands, damn it,” Hillary grated. “It was a female chimp.”
“My sister is muttering obscenities,” Brian explained to Voerst. “A frustrating caprice.”
The non-sequitor proved distracting. “Obscenities? Oh, rude words. I’m sure you must be mistaken.”
“Perhaps Karl will entertain you, Hill. I want to get the car and our bags.” Brian rose. With a wolfish smile he whispered, “Do it! Invite him for dinner Thursday! I want to know more about this.”
She turned to Voerst, automatically reaching for Karen’s attention to keep her with them. Brian was gone.
“Do you ever come to town, Mr. Voerst?” Karen said, rubbing her eyes and asking the obvious thing of her new friend.
“Of course I shall.” He smiled at her. “Perhaps you can use your influence to get me an invitation to visit you.” Voerst’s voice was friendly, but he looked over Karen’s head. Gunderson had risen and was chatting with Altstock near the door to the cloakroom.
“Brian has suggested dinner this Thursday, Karl. Will you be free?”
“Absolutely, Hillary. Thank you.” He was again in full command.
“I’ll invite a few others whom you might enjoy, and we’ll make a night of it.” She rose. “Shall we get our wraps?”
Gunderson must have gone by now. Had to have gone. Be gone, Gun. No. He stood facing them, now talking to Jones as Jessica watched.
Voerst circled the table and took her arm. They approached the government agent; there was no other way.
Gunderson was doing something deliberate which only they could see. His right hand appeared. It was small, flaccid and scarred all over, a bundle of unpretty flesh around loose bones. And Hillary recognized Gunderson’s expression. It was a challenge, a declaration of war.
They passed, nodded good nights, attained the door with their wraps and found Brian in the car. When Karen was installed, Karl stopped Hillary. His face was perfectly composed. “You saw,” he said.
The outdoor lamps shadowed his eyes, but she felt their intensity and could not lie. “Yes, Karl.”
“A gage, my lady. A champion’s gage until I see you Thursday.” And he was still intent.
Half joking, wholly serious, Hillary pulled off a long kid glove and put it into his hand. “May it bring you strength, sir.”
“Divina, more than you know.” He stooped, brushed her lips with his, and handed her into the car.
As the door slammed to, she suddenly wanted to cry. “Don’t ask, Bri. Just please, let’s get out of here.”
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