Second Generation (40 page)

Making the trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco, Barbara had time to think about the decisions that faced her. She tried to acknowledge to herself, to understand that money, which drove and directed and tortured the lives of so many people, had never held real meaning for her. In some ways money had been nonexistent in her life, either as an aspiration or as a subject of conversation. There had always been enough. One had only to reach out or ask. Thinking about what May Ling had said, she now accepted the fact that the years in Paris were, in financial terms, a sort of game, and if the game were to come to an end, it would have to end internally, within herself. She had no prejudice against the rich, no moral generalizations or judgments that motivated her; her thinking was conditioned by her own needs for a structure that would justify the existence of a person called Barbara Lavette, or one that would provide her with some answers as to who Barbara Lavette was and what her business on earth was. More and more, during the days between her talk with May Ling and her departure for San Francisco, she had become convinced that she could not live as a millionaire, that she could not function, as she had to function, as the owner of fourteen million dollars.

May Ling did not bring up the subject again, and since Dan never raised it, Barbara guessed that May Ling had discussed it with him and their decision had been one of total noninterference. The only one Barbara spoke to about it was her brother Joe, and when she put it to him and asked him what he would do in her place, he replied bluntly, "I don't have it, Bobby, so I guess I'd want it."

"Do you want some of it?" she asked, just as bluntly.

"No."

"Well, that makes no sense at all, does it?"

"I guess not. I can't take money from you."

"You take it from daddy."

"Someday I'll pay him back. That's the way I look at it. It's a loan."

"You don't even know whether you want to be a doctor, Joe. I could buy you a winery, any winery."

"You're kidding."

"Why? I have fourteen million dollars. I can buy anything."

He was silent.

"Can't I?"

"No!" he snapped at her.

"Why not?"

"You know god damn well why!"

"I really don't," Barbara said quietly. "I'm trying to find out. I just bought a car, a Chevy. I shopped for a week before I decided to buy it, and then I paid for it out of money I had saved while I was in Paris. I'm not teasing you, Joe. You're my brother, and I have to go up to San Francisco next week and I'm supposed to take possession of fourteen million dollars' worth of stock in the Seldon Bank. I stopped writing. I put the book aside. And I'm so confused that I don't think straight anymore. You know, I grew up with kids in San Francisco who were the way I was then, who never questioned anything and who took their horses and their boats and their cars and the family houses on Russian Hill and Pacific Heights for granted. It's not like here in Los Angeles. We were a tight, beautiful little clique who knew that our wealth and privilege was ordained by God and granted to us by God and never to be questioned. That's why I don't go back there—as much as I love San Francisco, and sometimes when I think about that place, I want to cry—but I can't do what they do. I can't. There's simply no way that I can."

"I know that," Joe said. "I'm not mad at you, Bobby. I'm not jealous. It's just so damn crazy."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?"

But when the time came and she finally set out for San

Francisco, Barbara knew what she intended. The knowledge was fuzzy, and she had decided that she would make no final decision until she had talked to Goldberg, but she was no longer uncertain as to what her decision would be, and that very fact took away a weight that had been pressing on her for weeks. She felt lighthearted and alive, excited to be driving north back to the place that was as wonderful as any city could be.

It was evening when Barbara drove into San Francisco and checked into the St. Francis Hotel. It was a strange sensation to be back here, back where she had stayed before the incredible eruption of "Bloody Thursday." It gave her an almost bewildering feeling of deja vu, as if she were remembering not only what had happened, but cloudy half-memories of things that had never happened at all. She knew that her mother had moved out of Whittier's mansion on Pacific Heights and was living once again in the house on Russian Hill. Barbara had spoken to her from Los Angeles, and now she telephoned again, found Jean at home, and told her that she was in San Francisco and at the St. Francis.

"Darling, of all places, the St. Francis! Come here and stay with me. There's plenty of room. Just the two of us."

"Tomorrow, mother. I promise. But I want to be alone tonight. I have to think my way out of a few things."

"You think your way into far too much, Bobby. Then lunch tomorrow."

"I already have a lunch date with Sam Goldberg. How about dinner?"

"Of course. And you will stay with me?"

"I'll check out in the morning. You can have me for as long as I'm here," she said, thinking as she put down the phone, Poor Jean—I do feel for her.

Sam Goldberg had not changed a great deal. He was no thinner, no fatter. Now, at the age of seventy-one, he walked more slowly. His thin fringe of hair had turned entirely white, but his blue eyes were alert and bright as ever. He welcomed Barbara with youthful enthusiasm. "My word, but you have become a splendid woman. You know, I read all about you. Front page in the
Chronicle.
San Francisco woman arrested by the Gestapo. That's an honor, my dear. To me, anyway. That is, if you survive it, and I must say that you appear to have survived it very well indeed."

"All of it vastly exaggerated, Sam."

"Well, someday you must tell me all about it, blow by blow, detail by detail. I have bad dreams about that horror over there. What a way for a man to end his life—with a vision of humanity gone insane. But not now. Now we have more pressing things to discuss. Suppose we go to Gino's. Pasta and veal piccata help me to think. I've stopped dieting. It makes no sense at my age."

But at the table, Barbara noticed that he ate very little. He was more intent on her than on the food, observing her, studying her, and at last he said, rather cautiously, "You have a bombshell for me, haven't you, my dear?"

"How do you know?" Barbara asked, smiling.

"Ah, well. Let's say that love is frequently discerning as well as blind, and I love you very much, my dear, not only because you are Danny's daughter, but because you are what you are, which is something very rare and unique."

"Sam, I think that's just about the nicest thing anyone ever said to me."

"I don't believe that, and don't stop eating because I've indulged in a little flattery. Notice I didn't say you're very high on common sense."

"I know. Sam, I don't want the stock or the money, and I don't want you to argue with me or try to persuade me otherwise. I've spent days and days thinking about this and working it out with myself. So that's where I am."

Goldberg didn't comment immediately. He sat back and studied her. Gino came over to the table to ask if everything was all right. "That's a profound philosophical question," Goldberg said. "Mostly things are the way they should be—confused."

"The food is not good?"

"The food is delicious." Gino left them.

"Did you tell Dan?" Goldberg asked her.

"No. He didn't ask me, and I didn't tell him. May Ling knows how I feel, and I'm sure she talked to Dan about it."

Goldberg took a deep breath and pushed his plate away. "I can't eat and think about this at the same time. I am fighting every instinct developed during half a century in the practice of law. I should move heaven and earth to change your mind, and I think that if it were anyone else here facing me, I would. With you, well, I don't know." He paused and waited. Barbara said nothing. "You know," he went on, "like suicide, giving away money is permanent. It can always be delayed."

"I know that," Barbara agreed. "But that would delay other things that are more important to me. I'm writing a book, Sam, and that's very important to me, and I must know who I am, and I cannot know that until I am rid of that wretched money."

"I find that very hard to understand."

"Then you'll simply have to take my word for it."

"All right. Let me tell you that this was not entirely unexpected. I've been thinking about it. You come to me and tell me you want to give away fourteen million dollars, and it may be more. That's not like giving a dime to a panhandler. I don't equate the problems of the rich with the problems of the poor, but money is a problem, and getting rid of it is also a problem. You can't stop someone on the street and say, 'Here's a million.' You understand that?"

"Sam," Barbara said, laughing, "I'm not a total fool. I admit I don't have too much common sense, but I do know that we must work something out."

"Thank God for that. All right. We accept the presumption that you wish to give this money away. Dan wouldn't touch it, I know that. Joe?"

She shook her head. "No, he doesn't want it."

"Then he has more sense than a boy of his age should have. Your mother and Tom don't need it, and anyway, I don't think you had that in mind. The money is your responsibility. You can do bad with it and you can do good with it. You can't just pick something you consider a deserving charity and give it fourteen million. There's a whole art to the giving of money, and damnit, Barbara, there must be, because there are more cheap crooks and swindlers in the field of charity than you could imagine. Now, do you know what a charitable foundation is?"

She shook her head. "I have a vague idea, but no more than that."

"Let me give you a short definition. A foundation is basically a nonprofit, nongovernmental structure. It has its own financial base, and it functions for the general welfare, educationally, socially, charitably. It's a form that has been developed during the past forty years, in some cases to evade the payment of taxes, in some cases as a sop to the conscience of the rich, and in some cases to fill a specific need that a person of conscience recognizes. I did some research on the subject. The classic legal definition was promulgated by Judge Horace Gray, in 1867 in Massachusetts. Quoting him freely, he said that this form must be considered as a gift to the public weal, consistent with existing laws, for the benefit of an indefinite number of persons, either by education or religion, or by relieving their bodies from disease—he adds to the list then and specifies the lessening of the burdens of government. That was quite a novel idea in his time, a time when government was content to let people suffer, die of disease, and starve to death. Well, since then, many foundations have come into being, corporate foundations, community trusts, family foundations, special-purpose foundations— all sorts. But they all fall into three well-defined groups. The first type confines itself to the giving of grants, grants of money for every purpose imaginable, some good, some foolish.
This
is the most fluid, the most flexible category, and this is the category I would like you to consider. There is also a type of foundation that organizes it own research and work, but I don't see that for you. It would involve you totally, and that's not what you want. And then there's the type of foundation that runs as a service structure, with its own people and staff. That too would involve you deeply.

"So we think about the first kind, a broad, flexibly conceived foundation for the giving of grants that will benefit people, to put it most broadly. Now, you must understand that once you establish the trust, the wealth is no longer yours. It is irrevocable. However, it is just possible that we might find a legal loophole that would give you substantial income from the trust." He looked at her and waited.

"No. I don't want any income from it."

"You may regret that one day, Barbara. Marriage,
a
family, the needs of a family—all that lies ahead of you."

"Sam,"' Barbara said very seriously, "this motley comes from my grandfather. I did nothing to earn it or deserve it. I don't need it and I don't want it. If you think this foundation method is the best way to deal with it, then I agree. But who runs the foundation? Who directs it? Who

decides how big the grants should be and where they

should go?"

"It's not simple, Barbara. I think you must play a role in it. That's a responsibility you just can't evade. An organization must be created. Offices must be found. People must be hired to advertise the purposes of the foundation and to pass on the grants. There must be financial management, and there must be a board of directors to make final decisions." He saw Barbara's face fall, and he smiled encouragingly. "This is not your worry. My office can take care of most of it, and I can take a hand in it myself. But I'm an old man, Barbara. I could drop dead tomorrow. Still, we can do all of the mechanics connected with it, and there's no hurry. We can begin functioning next week or next year, whichever is most convenient for you."