The Gilded Age, a Time Travel

by Lisa Mason

  “Then, Lo Mo, you must stay.”

  “No! I am not Lo Mo. I am not their Mother. Do you not understand? I can barely sleep at night in this place. Food is ashes in my mouth.”

  “You’ll endure, Lo Mo.”

  “Do not call me that! Why should I give up my future happiness for this?”

  And then something outrageous and unexpected happens.

  “Because this is your Cause, Donaldina,” Muse says in a high, clear voice, projecting its voice into a corner of Cameron’s office.

  Cameron gasps, clasping her hand to her throat, then stares at Zhu, a mix of awe, suspicion, and a good dose of fear in her eyes. “What is this deviltry that clings to you?”

  “I am Zhu Wong’s own sweet guardian angel,” Muse says. “Not that she deserves me.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” Zhu mutters.

  “Fear not, beloved sister,” Muse says shamelessly. Talk about violating every Tenet! “Gird up thy strength and plunge ever onward, oh lady of mercy. Your blessed path lies before you. Do not shrink from it.”

  “My blessed path lies with my husband-to-be and my family,” Cameron declares. “As you surely must know, angel, since God knows all and everything that is to be.”

  Zhu snorts. Cameron is one tough nut. Zhu doesn’t know whether she would have the nerve to argue with a disembodied voice claiming to be a guardian angel if she were from a time before radio and television, never mind computers and telespace. Zhu blinks and her left eye begins to throb. Damn. She hates when this happens. Muse downloads a file from the Archives through her optic nerve.

  “Open your eyes, Z. Wong,” Muse commands.

  Zhu does, and Muse projects a holoid field into the center of Cameron’s office, a blue wall of light hovering above the polished wood floor.

  Cameron’s cup of cocoa crashes to the floor.

  “Don’t give her a cardiac arrest, all right?” Zhu mutters.

  “Behold what is to be,” Muse says, its voice ringing like a little silver bell.

  Zhu sits bolt upright. This gets her immediate attention. What is to be?

  A pastoral scene appears in the holoid field. Young people saunter across a grassy field past a well-worn carousel, a gothic stone mansion.

  “Why, that’s Golden Gate Park,” Cameron says. “The carousel and the Sharon Building. We took an outing there only last week to see the brand-new attractions. The girls love the carousel.”

  Now a young man strolls by in a Prince Albert cutaway and top hat, his hair straggling over his collar. Strangely, he also wears the blue denim trousers of a coolie. He turns, and both Zhu and Cameron gasp. He wears no shirt beneath the cutaway, and his face is painted pink, blue, and green, the bright colors fashioned in the paisley shapes so popular for wallpaper and fabrics during the Gilded Age.

  “What in heaven’s name has he done to his face?” Cameron whispers.

  A young woman runs up to him, and again Zhu and Cameron gasp. She wears a thin cotton T-shirt through which her bare breasts bob alarmingly, a long paisley skirt, and no shoes. Her feet are muddy. Zhu meets Cameron’s look—no shoes? No San Franciscan, not even a very small child, walks about with no shoes in the Gilded Age.

  More young men and women stroll past. Some appear more disheveled than immigrants after a transoceanic steamship journey. Shaggy matted hair spills down skinny shoulders. They wear clothes with holes and patches such as only the most destitute beggars wear in the Gilded Age. Yet there strides a woman in a long scarlet velvet dress and a feathered hat, a man in muttonchops and a straw boater.

  Zhu has never seen such a strange sight in her life.

  “Behold what is to be,” Muse declares again.

  Now an elderly Chinese woman, perhaps in her sixties or seventies, pushes a wheelchair across the grass. She’s sturdy looking, her gray hair still threaded with black, and wearing a padded jacket just like a thousand other Chinese women in San Francisco. In the wheelchair reclines a very elderly woman, slim and fragile, her white hair neatly tucked into a pompadour.

  “Dear God,” Cameron says, “is that me?”

  Zhu stares. The strong Scotch face, the mouth, the hairstyle. It’s Cameron, all right. Now a tall, slim man in jeans and a leather jacket steps into view, his bright red hair tumbling down his back.

  “Chiron Cat’s Eye in Draco!” It’s Zhu’s time to shout.

  “You know that young man?”

  “Yes! It’s 1967. Got to be!”

  A pretty young woman with light brown hair walks beside him. The lovely couple strolls past Cameron and her escort.

  And, as Zhu stares, something really outrageous and totally unexpected happens.

  Cameron nods and smiles at Chiron, exchanges a few words, and the elderly Chinese woman turns to stare at him. Zhu clearly sees the gleam of green in her eyes. Her mouth gapes open, and she reaches into her padded jacket. She pulls out a tiny object—something shiny, something gold, winking with diamonds and bits of multicolored glass.

  The aurelia.

  She hands the aurelia to Chiron, and he slips it in his jacket pocket.

  Then the holoid winks off, leaving only the wall of blue light. The wall shrinks to a pinpoint and disappears.

  “Thanks, Muse,” Zhu whispers, struck to her soul. “We both needed that.”

  She sits in silence with Cameron, the ticking of a clock the only sound, cocoa pooling at Cameron’s feet. Then she says, “The reality is, Miss Cameron, that you will never marry or live the lovely life you planned. But you will have this—your Cause.” Just as Zhu has her Cause in 2495. And will have her Cause if and when she returns to her Now. “Will you argue with an angel? With this vision of what is to be?”

  Cameron stands unsteadily, goes the door, and summons a girl, who dashes in, sweeps up the shattered cup, and mops up the cocoa, staining a white rag dirty brown. Cameron’s lips are tight. “The vision proves nothing but my longevity, for which I am duly grateful, Miss Wong.”

  “But don’t you see? Your companion is a Chinese woman. A green-eyed Chinese woman.”

  “Are you about to tell me that is you?”

  “I don’t think so, but I really don’t know.” In truth, Zhu doesn’t know. She doesn’t feel that jolt of recognition other t-porters report when they witness Archival evidence of themselves in the past. Still, she’s as shaken by the vision as Cameron must be. Because she’s not supposed to stay in the Gilded Age. If she does, she’ll be trapped in a Closed Time Loop. A Closed Time Loop that could pollute the timeline. A Closed Time Loop that never ends.

  Cameron snaps at the girl cleaning up. “You may go.” She glares at Zhu. “I repeat, your vision proves nothing! I have Chinese servants now. I will surely have Chinese servants in my own house in the future.”

  “How cruel, Miss Cameron.”

  “Nothing can compare to the cruelty of this so-called vision. I shall always be kind to the fair sex of the Chinese race. I shall always observe my Christian obligations. What more, what more do you have a right to demand of me?”

  Zhu stands. “Then I shall leave you, Miss Cameron, to your obligations.”

  8

  A Miraculous Cure at Dr. Mortimer’s Clinic

  “To Death,” Daniel toasts Mr. Schultz, “in marvelous Californ’.”

  “Mira muerta, no seas inhumana, no vuelvas manana dejame vivir,” croons the singer through his grinning papier-mache skull mask. Ricardo, the one-eyed guitarist, dreamily strums along.

  “To el Dia de los Muertos,” Schultz says, raising his shot glass. “Sehr gut, nicht wahr? Speaking of muertos, Danny, got myself in a bit of a fix.”

  “A matter of life or death?”

  “You might say.”

  Daniel pours two more shots from a dust-furred bottle of mescal, smiling at the drowned worm at the bottom. Authentic, all right, this splendid rotgut with the disconcerting effect of making everything appear as ominous and strange as a nightmare. A more decadent drink than the Green Fairy, if such a thing is possible. And,
like absinthe, the taste is vile.

  He and Schultz lounge at a table in Luna’s, finishing their fifty-cent Suppers Mexican. Frank Norris’s recommendation amply deserved. The restaurant is quaint, with bright peasant pottery, dried gourds, silver trinkets, and red-and-white checked tablecloths. The singer’s skull mask is quite a fright, though Daniel’s dyspepsia is mostly caused by the Supper Mexican. Remains of their scorching hot dinner lie scattered in the colorful crockery—spicy pork sausages, tortillas, chiles rellenos, frijoles fritas, salsa, sweet tamales. Daniel could never have dined on such a fine feast in Saint Louis. Or in Paris or London. Only in marvelous Californ’.

  Schultz sighs and knocks the shot back, licking salt off the rim of his glass. “I’ve been given the boot.”

  “Things crummy in Far East shipping?”

  “Things are bang-up in Far East shipping, just not so bang-up for me.” Schultz pours himself another shot. Just a small one.

  Daniel’s tongue has become quite numb. “Why so, old man? You seem to have been doing well enough. Plum position and all.”

  “Can’t control the drink, and that’s the truth of it. God knows I’ve tried. You and I, we start in on the brandy at breakfast.”

  “Don’t I know it, sir,” Daniel says. “Not to mention Miss Malone and her accursed champagne.”

  “She’s forever pouring me another and adding it to my bill.”

  “Brushes her teeth with the bubbly.”

  “At any rate,” Schultz says gloomily, “showed up corned at the office one time too many. Not that the old man doesn’t do it himself. He just manages to hold his liquor better, is all.”

  “Plus he’s the old man.”

  “Guess we’ve all got an old man somewhere.”

  “By blood or bad luck.”

  They laugh unhappily.

  “Lousy bit, Schultz.”

  “At any rate.” Schultz’s mustache stiffens. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any paying work for hire, do you, Danny? Help out a pal? I’m not asking for a handout, you know. I’m no beggar.”

  “Wish I did.”

  “You just sold that property of your vater, though, didn’t you?”

  “It was only a patch of worthless weeds way out on Geary Street. Nothing much going on out there in the Western Addition, and I daresay that will be the fate of it for some time. The other lot has got no takers, and the rest of the deadbeats are giving me grief. That old fool Ekberg on Stockton Street has stalled me for weeks. As for Mr. Harvey in Sausalito, the good gentleman sent thugs as his answer to my request for payment. They followed me, Schultz, while I was taking my stroll along the Cocktail Route and worried me up quite a bit.”

  Daniel would rather not confess that his mistress, costumed in coolie’s clothes, gave Harvey’s thugs a run for their money while the thugs gave him a goose egg on the noggin, sore kidneys, and a bad scare. Not to mention he’s spotted suspicious characters skulking around the boardinghouse. He’s taken to sneaking in and out of the tradesmen’s door rather than promenading out the front. It’s an unhappy way to live. He’s been screwing up his courage for weeks to go and confront that damnable Harvey himself.

  “Perhaps you need a manager.”

  “A bodyguard is more like it.”

  “Can’t help you there. No good with a pistol or fisticuffs, I fear.” An ugly look of envy curdles Schultz’s large, puglike features. “Still, you’ve got some scratch anyway. Me, I haven’t got one thin dime. And I still can’t quit the drink.” He knocks back the shot, toys with the bottle. “I’m weary to my bones of it. What I need is a cure.”

  A cure.

  They both contemplate that possibility as the singer launches into another melancholy ballad, “Esta alegre calavera hoy invita a los mortales para ir a visitar las regions infernales.”

  Daniel knows no Spanish, but the meaning leaps right out at him—we invite you mortals to visit hell. Mescal, by God—now he is comprehending Spanish. He doesn’t know Schultz quite well enough to confide his darkest secrets, but Daniel is no fool. He knows exactly what Schultz is talking about. A cure. He knows he behaves like an ass when he’s stinking. Look at how he treats his mistress—his ugly words, his uglier actions. Shoving her about. Having his way with her whenever they’re alone without asking her if she wants it. He hasn’t struck her—not yet—but he cannot promise himself that will never happen. Not when he’s stinking.

  He’s not sure where his cruelty comes from. Even less sure why she allows him to get away with it when she has amply demonstrated she’s no whore or dimwit. Indeed, he would venture to say—only to himself, of course—that Zhu possesses more intelligence than ten gentlemen strolling along the Cocktail Route. Oh, she has her peculiarities. She claims she’s from the far future like a creature out of Mr. Wells’s novel, which only makes him angrier with her when he’s stinking. Then she goes temperance on him. Drinking’s going to kill you, she says, tears lingering on her lashes. Lunatic, he shouts at her. Off to the loony bin with you.

  He awakens after every binge feeling soiled, stupid, and contrite.

  He’s been binging every day. Brandy with breakfast, sir, to start.

  But those are his scruples. What about his physical constitution? His vibrant health, which he’s always taken for granted, is no longer so vibrant. He suffers frequent nosebleeds and a sore throat. Paunch has started thickening his middle, and his gut is frequently on the blink. His hands, of all things, tremble. And the headaches. His head aches something fierce when he awakens. Relief only comes when he’s got his morning brandy under his belt.

  But it isn’t only his scruples and his physical constitution. He is plagued by odd feelings. Melancholy and guilt. Strange memories of his father and mother intrude on his peace of mind. And so on and et cetera till he cannot abide this anymore. Weary to his bones, indeed. There must be something he can do.

  “Know of a cure, then?” Daniel says cautiously.

  “Well, sir, I heard a fellow talking about it at the Bank Exchange. Dr. Mortimer’s Miraculous Cure for dipsomania. Guaranteed, money back and all. There’s the trick for me—money. The cure costs an arm and a leg, but is well worth it. Or so the fellow said.”

  Daniel tries to overlook the unfortunate fact that this hot tip was imparted in one of the busiest bars along the Cocktail Route. “This Dr. Mortimer, he’s in San Francisco?” He apportions the last finger in the bottle between himself and the worm. “To the handmaiden of Death,” he toasts the worm.

  “Ja, Dr. Mortimer’s got his clinic in the Monkey Block,” says Schultz, succumbing after a short struggle to the last drops of mescal. He seizes the bottle and empties the remnants, worm and all, into his mouth. Suddenly he looks green and dashes out of Luna’s to the gutter where he noisily airs his paunch. The scowling maitre d’ and a scullery maid dash outside with buckets of hot salt water and vigorously splash the pavement clean. Mr. Schultz’s antics are a terrible reflection on their fine establishment.

  Daniel picks up the tab—a dollar for two splendid Suppers Mexican. A dollar fifty for the terrific rotgut. A penny each for the maitre d’, the waitress, the singer, and the guitarist. He reluctantly counts out coins. He’s not exactly flush, himself. He strides out past Schultz on his hands and knees, heaving. What won’t a drunk do, Daniel wonders, to stiff his pal for the bill?

  *

  Daniel hurries down Columbus to where the avenue intersects Montgomery Street and veers south into the financial district. Two roughnecks in fishermen’s togs, caps pulled low over their coarse faces, fall in step behind him. He sprints like a schoolboy for half a block till he reaches his destination and ducks inside the four-story monstrosity—the Montgomery Block. Affectionately known as the Monkey Block.

  He stands hidden just inside the door, watching, as the roughnecks stride by, disappointment plain on their faces, sniffing about like bloodhounds. Hah. From Mr. Harvey again? This has gone too far. He fingers his Remington pistol. Perhaps he should employ Schultz after all, just for s
how. Then he reconsiders. Perhaps he should have his mistress dress as a coolie and accompany him to Harvey’s as his manservant. He hates to admit it, but the little lady can fight with her bare hands.

  He takes a deep breath. The dose of fear has cleared his head like a whiff of smelling salts. He feels dizzy, though, and slightly ill. By God, he could use a drink. He looks around the cavernous lobby, inhales the scent of mold. He’s heard plenty of tales about the place, sipping Pisco Punch at the Bank Exchange or dining on chicken Portola at Coppa’s Restaurant, both establishments right across from him on the other side of the lobby. Halleck’s Folly—that’s what they called it when the hulk was built—was once the largest commercial building on the West Coast and a prestige address, though no one knew if the hundred offices would ever be fully leased. Up and down went the fortunes of the Monkey Block as commerce and fashion went their fickle ways. It’s quite cheering, he thinks, the contemplation of history. To know that other men of means, wit, and dynamism lost their fortunes to the whim of chance makes Daniel feel like less of a dunce. Perhaps bankruptcy isn’t such a sin, after all.

  The law firms, stockbrokers, and mining companies that once filled the spacious suites have all departed for the fancy new skyscrapers on Market Street. Now the Monkey Block has become a hotbed of bohemians. In a massive effort of will, Daniel declines a visit to the Bank Exchange for a quick one and climbs the white marble stairs. His footsteps echo off high ceilings, and sunlight cascades through enormous windows at the end of each hall. Painters, musicians, and writers appreciate the spaciousness and light of these old rooms. Good history here, too. The great Robert Louis Stevenson visited the place in 1888 before setting off for the South Seas.

  He peers in an open door. A man poses a woman draped in white muslin before another sun-drenched window. Daniel gawks. Is she in her birthday suit? The artist’s model laughs at his startled expression. “Come on in, sir,” calls the painter. “Do you collect art?”