Mikhail spent a month recovering at Tommy Chandler's Boardinghouse, eating salty, otherwise tasteless food and slowly regaining his strength. He and seven others slept in four sets of bunk beds in one of five very small dormitory rooms upstairs.
A treat of fate gave him Grigori Varvarinski for a bunkmate, a Russian peasant turned sailor from Okhotsk. Okhotsk, as Grigori had been eager to point out, was at the east end of Siberia’s river routes and was Russia's main port on the Pacific, as if that geographic location could raise Mikhail's esteem for a mere peasant. Once the czar secured Vladivostok, Okhotsk would quickly shrink into oblivion. Vladivostok is a much better harbor, with not so much silt as the rivers of Siberia. Gratefully, Grigori had proven to be an honest Russian with an open heart. He'd treated Mikhail with the respect he deserved. He'd given Mikhail the upper bunk.
After the first month, following Grigori's helpful suggestions, Mikhail had set out to find suitable employment. This should not have been difficult in such a wealthy city as San Francisco. He had a superior education from the best schools in Russia. He was well spoken, proficient in English, fluent in several European languages, and he'd come from nobility.
It had taken only one more month for San Francisco to prove him wrong. The city proved to be a brutal, uncivilized mix of poorly educated peasants. Mikhail's earlier optimism had been replaced by frustration. His knowledge of metals and his nobility had proven worthless. Trying to find a chair at several banks and at the mining exchange had been fruitless. As in Europe, money held the key to meeting important contacts and acquiring influence. Now penniless and without civilian attire, his once elegant uniform showed signs of wear from continual use.
SuLin had done a masterful job of repairing the bullet hole, of course. One would need to look closely to find it. If he held his left arm slightly forward, no one would ever see it. From continual use, the cuffs and collar had started to fray. He would soon appear shabby. His boots had been new when he left Vladivostok. These were still in good enough condition to seek employment.
It must happen soon.
Any kind of work would save him from being forced out to sea as a common sailor, something he had no knowledge of and no desire to learn.
A local law had been established by the Seaman's and Landlord's Protective Association to insure the continued use of this port by trade ships. A few years earlier, ships coming to San Francisco had been abandoned by crews rushing off to the interior in search of gold. Few had been successful gold miners. Most had returned to the city in search of work. Very few had been willing to return to sea.
Who could blame them? A dangerous voyage around the southern tip of Argentina had many times proven dangerous and unpredictable. With such high profits at stake, ship builders and captains remained willing to take the risk, confirming the necessity to provide crews for the sake of commerce.
San Francisco had no snow, but this did not stop it from being cold, especially early mornings. Seeking common labor at this point, his search always began early, shivering with his hands tucked under his arms. Mikhail would not wear his fur coat and cap to seek employment as a common laborer. Understanding Mikhail's predicament, the peasant, Grigori, had offered him suitable clothing.
He arrived at the new steel foundry at 6:02 a.m., fourth in line. By the time the doors opened at 8:30 a.m., several hundred men had formed a long line, all looking for work. When he reached the desk, the gang boss grabbed for and looked at Mikhail's hands. "We need men who know how to give us a good day's work. Shove off."
He returned to Tommy Chandler's Boardinghouse, where a heavy stillness filled the air, like men waiting to enter into combat.
Tommy stood at his usual place behind the bar, pawing over some paperwork with a burly man in a heavy coat and blunt-billed cap, a man of the sea.
Dink Watkins and his tall friend sat at a table near the front window, enjoying the morning sun. Nobody else was in Tommy's usually-bustling saloon.
Climbing the stair, Mikhail felt Tommy's glare, maybe angry because Mikhail no longer ate his foul-tasting food. Mikhail needed to keep his debt as low as possible, not wanting to be shipped out. He reached the turn at the stair landing and looked down.
Tommy said, "You, Count. We need to talk."
Mikhail backed down two treads, better to see the bar.
Tommy's glare pierced. "This here's Captain Boggs. He's signing on a crew."
Mikhail stood erect, climbed down three more steps, and said, "I have no knowledge of the sea. I am not one of your peasants."
"Right. You're a count something or other."
"I am Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky."
"Ain't life peculiar?" Tommy's tone offended Mikhail.
"What do you want?"
Tommy blinked and studied his papers, all business. "Look, Count, you signed into my book, here. You're as subject to the laws of this port as everybody else."
"I will pay for the use of your bed and what little of your tasteless food I have eaten. Nothing more."
"Right." Tommy stepped out and crossed the room slowly, eyes locked on Mikhail. "Guess my food's not high table enough for the likes of you."
"I do not dine with peasants." Mikhail climbed to the second floor quickly, escaping their boorish laughter. He entered his room and closed the door.
Only Grigori remained. He knelt in front of his foot locker, stuffing clothing into a canvas bag. A sad smile spread slowly across his face. "I am signed on by Captain Boggs. His Sunrise is death ship." Grigori looked out the small window, maybe wishing he could escape. "He likes the whip." This explained why Tommy Chandler's had been vacated. "You take care of this." Grigori stood. "Da?"
"Da, da. Sure." Mikhail had been sharing Grigori's foot locker. His sable coat and cap, his uniform, and his sash and sword had been neatly folded into the bottom. Grigori had left two good sets of work clothes behind, neatly folded over Mikhail's clothing. They would not meet again. Both men knew this.
Mikhail sat on Grigori's lower bunk, searching for a kind word. No words could fit this generous peasant's distress.
Grigori closed his foot locker, slung the half-filled canvas bag over his stooped shoulder, and ambled out the door. He did not look back.
This might become Mikhail's fate, to be forced to serve on such a ship as this—forced to make the treacherous journey around the tip of South America.
No, I will find work on such a ship.
He would pay his debt to Tommy Chandler. It could not be a large debt, only this small bed in a usually overcrowded room.
Not crowded right now.
A bed should not cost as much as food, beer, and whores.
Many of the other boarders must have scattered into hiding. They certainly knew Sunrise had sailed into port and Captain Boggs would be signing a crew.
Why had Mikhail not known of this? Why had poor Grigori been caught off guard? Very sad, this place with so many uneducated peasants.
Mikhail's stomach growled. Midday had arrived. He stood, opened the trunk, and changed quickly. He must always look his best for the lunch. One never knew who one might meet in Portsmouth Plaza.
Downstairs, Captain Boggs and Grigori had gone. Mikhail ignored Chandler's stare and hurried out the door.
Fresh air from the bay liberated his senses. He hurried up the wood planks of Pacific Street Wharf. Not a sailor to be seen.
He crossed the massive sand dune at the end of the wharf, moved uphill, and skirted the tent and shack community of cheap Chinese laborers.
Entering the glitter and wealth of Portsmouth Plaza always lifted hopes. To feel good about one's prospects whenever meeting others feeling good about their prospects always lifted hope. Eating a fine meal lifted everybody's spirit.
Finely fitted stone paving, sloped for proper drainage, provided surfaces as fine as any he'd seen in Europe, sturdy against the soles of his boots. The casinos, Bella Union, El Dorado, Verandah, Parker House, California Exchange, and Empire were just as he ha
d read: crystal palaces awash with gold from California's exploding mining industry and from the many successful merchants of the city. Uphill in the Plaza, forgetting the hardships he'd suffered came easy. The energy was contagious, the wealth magnetic, and the daily free lunches were always crowded with men who felt good to be alive.
This would be a good day.
All the casinos offered a fine luncheon buffet complete with fresh fruits and vegetables, good beef, fish, lobster, roasted pig, beer, white linen tablecloths, clean napkins, fine dishware, and real silver. There were no social classes at these luncheon buffets. All were simply citizens of San Francisco. All were welcome. Here, nobody worried about starving. The only requirements were cleanliness, being presentable, and not so much in one's cups as to be a bother to others. Life was good for all at the Plaza luncheons.
Mikhail, like many other regular patrons, rotated from one casino to the next, never eating at the same casino two days in a row. This day would be the Empire, where the tables had already filled with of citizens talking and eating, a happy clatter.
Apron-clad waiters cheerfully delivered mugs of beer table to table.
As a matter of habit, he filled his plate, took silverware and a cloth napkin, and found a place at the long marble-top bar. He knew bartenders in all the casinos, but Patrick had become a friend. Patrick had always expressed interest in Mikhail's conversations, and was always respectful.
Patrick slid a full, frosty mug of beer down the bar. It stopped less than a quarter meter from Mikhail's plate.
Any conversation with Patrick would have to wait for the lunch crowd to thin.
The latest issue of the Chronicle sat folded on the bar. The man seated next to him was not reading it. "Have you finished with this one?"
Clad in a London-tailored wool tweed suit, cheeks stuffed with food, the man glanced at Mikhail, at the paper, and nodded, Go ahead.
Mikhail stood, took the paper, and sat back down. He unfolded and scanned the front page. He picked up a large strawberry with his fingers and took a bite. Very tasty.
Election Day dominated the front page. The big issue had become known as the Bulkheads, something he'd been reading about for the past two weeks.
The local Law and Order Party had affiliated with the national party known as Democrats. They currently held the mayor's office, which controlled both the city police and fire department.
One thing he'd learned, both in Russia and here: with a name like the Law and Order Party, it would be rife with graft and corruption. Politicians everywhere hid their real intentions behind fancy titles and noble slogans.
He'd found the Chronicle to be a good read. They supported the opposition, continually trumpeting the so-called facts of universal political corruption. Their blasts were always aimed at this Law and Order Party.
The Law and Order Party supported the proposition that the giant sand dune under the streets and buildings of San Francisco was slowly shifting into the bay and would eventually make shipping impossible. Someday, they claimed, the sand would drift downward to the point where a storm would blow the Pacific Ocean across the dune and wash the entire city into the bay. The backflow would inevitably create a new entry to San Francisco Bay. According to the Law and Order Party, the continued battering from the sea would eventually turn the whole place into a shallow swamp fit for nothing but birds. They touted a batch of geological surveys and predictions which the Chronicle denounced as pure nonsense, pointing to other geological studies paid for by the opposition.
There seemed to be no serious opposition to the Bulkheads, a system of giant, hewn stones to be sunk into excavated trenches along the bay; a system which they claimed would stop the slow and steady drift of the dune.
The fear surrounding this argument had proven too strong to refute. After all, according to Law and Order, it was logical that this drifting of sand would eventually happen. It was gravity.
"Ha!" Mikhail seriously doubted the whole proposition.
The necessity of doing something having been so well established by fear and uncontested left only the serious disagreement over who would be responsible for the work. Whoever did the work would need to buy up the waterfront properties first. This would naturally require government condemnation of the properties before owners would be willing to sell at a fair market price—prices being determined by the same government authorities who were to condemn those properties. This, of course, would eliminate the potential of greed by the existing property owners.
Mikhail nearly broke out laughing at this one. He continued reading and eating.
Under this scheme, the properties would be purchased with public funds and the Bulkheads would be built by private investors, a coalition of wharf, casino, and boardinghouse owners who would then control the entire waterfront forever. In essence, if Mikhail understood his English, the current owners would receive public funds for their properties and use those public funds to improve those same properties, which they would then own forever.
A brilliant subterfuge. Not even the czar could think up this one.
According to the Law and Order Party, this was far too big an undertaking for any government. Yet, if they won this current election, the city government would buy these properties, then turn them over to private developers—these being members of the local Law and Order Party, a coalition made up of these same property owners.
The opposition held it far safer to place such an important undertaking in the trusted hands of the state authority. On the ballot, and in this article, they were asking for more time to study the problem and to convince the State of California to take on the eventual responsibility of doing the actual building.
Mikhail finished reading, finished his lunch, and sipped warm beer.
With the bar nearly empty, the buffet coming to an end, Patrick filled a mug with cold beer and slid it along the marble bar as he walked. He stopped near Mikhail and took a sip. He glanced around and spoke softly. "I've got a longshoreman friend down at California Street Wharf, a supervisor named Paul Ayala." He sipped beer and looked around.
Waiters and Chinese slaves had started cleaning up.
"You still looking for work?"
"Yes."
"Well, there's a longshoreman's slot open. You need to pay him a hundred dollars and it's yours."
Suddenly angry at all of San Francisco and frustrated with his deteriorating condition, Mikhail nearly shouted, "You know I have no money." He lowered his voice and shook his head. "Sorry."
Patrick had not been responsible for Mikhail's condition. He smiled and grabbed Mikhail's arm, holding him a little closer. "He'll hold the job open for a week. I can loan you the money before then. Pay me back when you can."
This job would be worth any amount. He would pay. The question came more from Mikhail's education. "How much interest will I pay?" It was a matter of business, getting everything straight ahead of time. "It does not matter, of course. I will pay whatever it is." He smiled, sincere.
"Don't worry about interest. Just pay me back when you can."
Mikhail did not like this. Interest needed to be paid. Otherwise, this was charity. "I will repay with interest." He did not want to owe a favor at some future time.
"I'm not worried about it. You'll make your mark. I'm sure of that. All you need is a start." He smiled and scanned the bar. "Who knows? I may ask a favor of you someday."
"Okay." He would repay the favor, whatever it would be.
Mikhail's spirits soared, sensing the start of a new life. He left Portsmouth Plaza in mid-afternoon and took a side road over to California Street, having a clear view all the way down to the California Street Wharf, his future workplace, the biggest, busiest wharf in San Francisco. Many ships held berths there.
What a wonderful day.
Two policemen stood at the back of City Hall, hands in their pockets, guarding the polling place, paying no attention to Mikhail as he passed.
One of a handful of well-dressed gentlemen asked, "A
re the polls open?"
A policeman said, "Why, you voting today?"
The gentleman stepped back, eyeing the policemen suspiciously. "No, I am not." He strolled away.
An elderly gentleman stepped closer to the police officers, moving toward the entry.
"You voting today?"
"Yes, I am."
"You voting for Law and Order?"
"No, sir. I am not."
"Shove off!" The larger officer shoved the much smaller man down the back steps, tumbling him onto the street at Mikhail's feet.
Mikhail helped the man to his feet and dusted him off, surer than ever that this grand experiment, this thing called democracy, could never last. The notion of a people governing themselves seemed ludicrous. Without the strong arm of a monarch, such corruption would be impossible to control. Anarchy would inevitably result.
He gazed downhill at California Street Wharf and nearly leapt with renewed joy.
Thank you, Patrick.
He skipped downhill into Chinatown.
Two near-naked Chinese slaves set large, square-cut granite blocks into a foundation trench.
A young boy sat on the stack of unused blocks, watching crickets in an elaborately crafted cage made of slender sticks. Two workers needed to carry a foundation stone around him, being careful not to disturb him.
Annoyed, one of the Tong bosses slapped the cage to the ground, breaking it on contact. Another Tong snatched the boy and tossed him onto a nearby sand pile, well out of the way.
The boy's lips pressed into a tight frown and he closed his eyes. He would not cry. He scrambled from the pile and crawled toward his broken cage.
Mikhail knelt and trapped one of the crickets between his hands. He did not see the other. He nodded for the boy to come over with his broken cage and they squatted over Mikhail's hands.
Mikhail transferred the cricket to the boy, picked up the cage, and examined it. Some pieces had separated, but none had been broken or lost. He fitted the pieces back into place, opened the top, and the boy dropped his cricket back inside.
The boy looked but there was no sign of the other cricket. He nodded and smiled. Thank you.
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 4