Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  In the distance, a group of men gathered at the base of two rows of huge cubes stacked one on top of another in ascending order, higher and higher, culminating in stylized, block-shaped elephants at the top. Lily fished a map out of her pocket. These structures could be only the giant Elephant Tower gates, inspired by the temples of Angkor Wat. Passing through these gates, which also housed wind baffles to shelter fairgoers from lusty west winds, into the Court of Honor, Lily saw the slender, 392-foot Tower of the Sun positioned in the court’s center, piercing the gray sky. From this landmark, buildings followed a north–south, east–west axis, with interior courtyards, fountains, and ever-changing gardens.

  She trudged off in the direction of the men, her boots as weighted with mud as the workers’. As she drew nearer, one man held the attention of the others. He was turned away, gesturing toward the opposing walls of the cubes. The flap of architectural paper snapped in his hands.

  In the group, she recognized Timothy Pflueger, architect and head of the design committee, and Donald Mackey, architect of the Elephant Towers. She had been trying to interview both men for months. At their office on Bush Street, she could never get by the secretaries, who blocked her every attempt.

  She caught Pflueger’s eye. The men watched her curiously. Marching up to the lot of them, she smiled. “Sorry for the intrusion, gentlemen.” She held out her hand to Pflueger. “Lily Nordby, reporter for the Examiner.”

  He stepped forward and grasped her hand. “Yes, I know your work.”

  “Well, that’s a start.” She reached into her bag for a pad and pen. Her fingers were so cold, she was certain they’d fall off. “I’d like to feature you, Mr. Pflueger—and, of course, each of the other architects, if possible.” She glanced around the circle, meeting each inquisitive gaze. Her eyes dropped to the man whose powerful voice had boomed out over the din of construction noise. It was Woodrow Packard.

  Pflueger interjected. “Packard is the man you should interview.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said.

  “He’s our Mayan art expert and an authority on the bas-reliefs of Chichén Itzá.”

  “Which of course are referenced throughout the island,” Lily commented.

  Woodrow was silent. Head down, he sketched a pencil drawing on the margin of the plans. The other men broke away and began to talk among themselves.

  She leaned forward, observing the image of a stylized jaguar head that was flowing from Woodrow’s hand. “We meet again,” she said.

  “It seems to be unavoidable.” Woodrow raised his eyes, peering into the distance. They held a terrible beauty, as if he needed to arm himself against a world that pitied him.

  “Then, in that case, here’s my card. You can call me anytime.”

  Woodrow mumbled something unintelligible.

  Pflueger touched her elbow, escorting her a few steps away. “Say, I wonder: By chance, are you from the city?”

  “Yes,” she answered, eying him inquisitively.

  “There’s a Nordby Plumbing on Twenty-Fourth Street. Are you related?”

  She cocked her head. The fine hairs on her arms stood up. She could lie, but why? Pflueger had already figured it out. “Yes. He’s my father.”

  “Hmm, I see. I thought so. I’ve lived in the Mission all my life.”

  “Even now?”

  “It’s home.” Pflueger tipped his hat. “Love the neighborhood. Wouldn’t consider leaving it.”

  “To each his own,” she said.

  “Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to our meeting.”

  “Wait,” she said. “When can I interview you?”

  “Call me at my office.”

  “If you’d give your secretary my name, I’d appreciate it. She guards your time like a bulldog.”

  Pflueger laughed. “Of course.” Then he stepped away to rejoin the other gentlemen.

  In her peripheral vision, she saw Dudley running toward her. He raised an arm in greeting. “Hey, Lil, let’s get a photo!”

  Stepping over the earth grooved by tire tracks, she stopped him. “Not now.”

  “Never known you to turn down a photo op. You sure?”

  “Perfectly sure.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “It’s a long story. Come on—let’s see if Stackpole is working at the Court of Pacifica.” She flagged a flatbed truck that was barreling their way. “Hey, mister, can you give us a lift?”

  LILY LAY FULLY dressed on a narrow bed under a quilt. Chills assaulted her body, and a size-ten headache had rendered her immobile. Below, the sounds of traffic on Ellis Street buzzed through the window. Then a knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” she mumbled, peeking out from under the quilt.

  Maxine Pavich stepped through the door. Munching on a paper sleeve of roasted, salted cashews from Morrow’s Nut House on Geary Street, she tiptoed toward the bed and laid her hand on Lily’s shoulder. “What’s up, kiddo?” she asked. “That time of the month?”

  “Nope. I’ve got a lousy cold.”

  Maxine lifted her hand as if she had touched a cockroach. “Ew! That’s bad. I’m not surprised. Winter is breathing down our necks, and you’re out tramping around TI day and night.” She turned toward the hot plate on the counter of a small cabinet across the room. “Is there any soup I can warm up?”

  Lily blew her nose on a tissue. “That’d be swell. All I had today was coffee and a doughnut.”

  “Sounds nourishing to me.” Maxine picked her way through a maze of books and magazines arranged in stacks on the floor. Rummaging around in the cabinet, she came up with two Campbell’s cans. “What’ll it be? Tomato or chicken noodle?”

  “You choose,” Lily said.

  Maxine opened the can of chicken noodle, plopped the contents into a small pot, added water, and turned on the burner of the hot plate. A pint of bourbon sat on the countertop. “Mind if I drink your booze?”

  “What’s mine is yours.”

  “Spoken like a true friend.” Maxine stirred the soup with one hand and poured a shot of bourbon into a water glass. “So, what’s the latest at the Expo?” she asked, sipping the drink.

  “Huge structures are rising out of the mud like lotuses. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She propped herself up with a pillow and blew her nose again. “I met Timothy Pflueger today. He’s a big-shot architect. He’s from the Mission, like us.”

  “So?”

  “He figured out who my old man is.”

  “Bully for him.”

  “It bothered me. Like I’m marked or something.”

  “That’s nonsense. Anyone who knows you thinks you’re first-class. Who else from our neighborhood landed a job at City of Paris to sell gloves? Then Adolph and Bunny Schuman hired you to model their suits and you ended up running their business. Let it go, Lily. Nothing good comes from worrying about something you can’t change.”

  “You’re right. Still, I don’t know.” Lily rubbed her eyes. “What’s up with you?”

  “Same old stuff. Secretarial pool at Fireman’s Fund. We’re like trained seals. Our chief skill is typing sixty words a minute, hour by hour, day by day.” Maxine poured another bourbon. “By the way, I need your talent.”

  Lily groaned. “For what?”

  “I locked myself out.”

  “Again?”

  “Slept in, woke up with a hangover, dressed in the dark, figured my keys were in my purse, and ran out the door.” Maxine ladled the soup into two bowls, walked across the floor, and offered a bowl to Lily.

  Lily inhaled the steamy liquid and slurped a spoonful into her mouth. “This hits the spot.”

  “Drink up,” Maxine said, leaning against the cabinet and cradling the other bowl in her hands. “You need your strength. You know, if you’re too sick, I could spend the night. Right here on the floor.”

  Lily groaned again.

  “On the other hand, you’re so good with a bobby pin. It’ll take you two shakes to pick the lock.” Maxin
e drank directly from the bowl. “You can’t say that your good-for-nothing step brothers didn’t teach you an indispensable skill.”

  “All right!” Lily exclaimed between sneezes. “Do you mind if I finish the soup?”

  “Take your time,” Maxine said, pouring another finger of bourbon. “I’m in no hurry.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tokido

  A tap sounded on the door of the cabin. Tokido, seated at his desk, glanced at the clock: 7:17 a.m. Off the bay, morning light cast watery reflections that flickered across the ceiling and walls. The Tatuta Maru held steady in her berth in the Port of Trade Winds as the cries of seagulls pierced November’s sunless air. The remains of break-fast—green tea, miso soup, slivers of maguro and cucumber—lay nearby on a tray. “Hai,” he answered.

  Kiyoshi Inoue, Tokido’s secretary, opened the door. “Okamura-sama, a newspaper reporter is on the grounds of the pavilion.”

  Tokido frowned, momentarily perplexed. “What?”

  “She is asking for you.”

  “Did she give her name?”

  “No. Ishikawa-toryo requested that she wait for your arrival. But she would not be deterred.”

  “I will come now.”

  “We have meetings at ten this morning at the consulate, an appointment with the ambassador this afternoon, and a formal dinner with the mayor this evening.”

  “Arigatou. I will be ready.”

  The door closed softly. The frown on Tokido’s brow deepened. The cigarette in his fingers had burned to a nub. He took a final drag and snuffed it against the edges of an ashtray where each extinguished cigarette was arranged in a row.

  His morning ritual was to reach for a slim volume of Matsuo Basho’s haiku. When dawn had breached the black sky, he had read:

  an ancient pond

  a frog jumps in

  the splash of water

  Well, he thought, we shall see about this frog. It was entirely unacceptable for anyone to roam unescorted through the pavilion site. He screwed the top of a fountain pen into its shaft and placed it alongside a leather-bound notebook.

  The pages of the notebook were divided into columns. The columns were ruled across the page with the headings “Date,” “Event,” “Persons,” “Title,” “Location,” “Type of Facility,” and, finally, “Necessary Action.” The writing was precise, the details exact. Every event he attended, every person he met, every facility he visited, was recorded into the notebook. He placed the notebook in the top drawer of the desk, locked it, and slipped the key into his pocket. He removed the navy-blue silk kimono emblazoned with white cranes that he wore over his day clothes, pulled on a black leather jacket, and left the cabin.

  A Sankyo military motorcycle was parked at the dock. He revved up the engine and jammed it into gear. By foot, it would take him at least twenty minutes on rough ground, dodging trucks, equipment, and workers, to walk from the south end of the island to the eastern site of the pavilion; by motorcycle, it would take less than five minutes.

  He sped away from the dock, around a pool in the Enchanted Garden, and directly toward the Tower of the Sun. He found the campanile, with statues of adventurers embedded in its base and winged, naked female spirits poised in its high niches, particularly distasteful. The spear-like tower had no relation to nature, no proportion, no restraint. Its only attribute was to fix in a visitor’s eye the gates that led into or out of the Exposition.

  In a further insult, all the palaces, courts, and malls on the island had been given majestic names, save one: the serene Moon Court into which he drove. High, arched walls rose up on either side of him. At the far end, a classically formed female statue, Evening Star, sat atop a fountain. He had been told that azure lights would illuminate her in the evening. Her beauty wiped his vision clean; he would never tire of her grace.

  He continued through the Court of Reflections, past two long, rectangular pools that reflected walls of hanging vines. Tall Siamese ceremonial light standards that mimicked tiny umbrellas ringed the pools. He passed under the ninety-foot Arch of Triumph into the Court of Flowers. Zooming around a circular basin that contained a three-tiered fountain topped by a robed female figure reaching for a rainbow, he shifted into second gear. At the Lake of Nations, he made a sharp left and roared up to the site of the pavilion. The architecture was patterned after a feudal castle and, within the stronghold, a noble, seventeenth-century samurai house. The main tower rose to 125 feet, and the grounds were the largest of any foreign pavilion’s.

  Lloyd Brown, superintendent of construction, stood in a group of men wearing hard hats. As Tokido approached, Brown waved a hand in salute. Beyond them, Japanese builders swarmed the site. Dressed in indigo noragi jackets, monpe pants, and tabi socks, they seized stones from a carrion and aligned them along the foundation of the main building. From the road, a formal entry led to a series of rooms and halls, and the second floor accommodated private meeting rooms and ample space for storage.

  Around the grounds, as far as could be seen, stacks of lumber, bamboo, posts, and beams were neatly assembled. Trees, shrubbery, and ancient stones were cordoned off. In the distance, another group of men furiously lashed sections of bamboo scaffolding together with rope.

  Tokido hurried forward, stopped beside Brown, and offered his hand. “Good morning.”

  Brown shook his outstretched hand. “I’m impressed. I’ve never seen such outstanding materials assembled in one place. Your people are skilled and quick.”

  “The preparation was long. Our craftsmen will build the ancestral way they’ve learned from the masters.”

  “Not a nail used, I’ve been told.”

  “Correct,” Tokido answered. “Wooden spikes ensure that structures hold for centuries, as they do in the Japanese empire.”

  “In that case, I hope you have plans for the buildings after the Expo closes. Otherwise, the craftsmanship is wasted.”

  “We do things as we do them. There is no other way.”

  “When the roof beams came off the ship, they were perfectly carved, shaped, and finished.”

  “Allow me to compliment your work,” Tokido said. “In Tokyo, I saw the plans. Now I see the execution. Very well done. The transport of our supplies to the site is appreciated, and I look forward to speaking with you further.” He paused. “Excuse me. Did you see a woman pass by?”

  Brown raised his eyebrows. “You mean that dame from the Examiner?”

  “Miss Nordby, I believe?”

  “That’s her. We saw her a while back. She disappeared into the site.”

  Tokido nodded and bade the men good-bye. Moving away, he heard Brown say, “She’s trouble,” and then muffled laughter.

  He clenched his teeth and passed by workmen who swept over the site like soldiers claiming territory after battle. No patch of earth was wasted. Guttural shouts and the crack of mallets on stone filled the air. At each clearing, his eyes moved restlessly back and forth. Dust blurred his vision. He circled the site and ended up in the place where he had begun. His frustration turned to urgency; urgency turned to anger.

  He backtracked to a hut in a clearing on the edge of the site. Here, architects laid out plans on planks and the lead foreman, Ishikawa, staged the phases of construction.

  Ishikawa looked up from a brazier where he was warming his hands. A pot steamed on the grate. “Ohayo gozaimasu. May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “Arigatou. I don’t mean to interfere.”

  “No interference taken.”

  “The woman who was here earlier.”

  “Hai.”

  “Have you seen her again?”

  “No, Tokido-san.”

  “If you see her again, escort her off the site immediately.” Tokido bowed and stepped out of the hut. He checked his watch—8:35—and hurried back toward the road.

  That was when he saw her, standing ahead of him, inside the site, on a mound of rubble. But he had to squint. She hardly resembled the woman he had met onboard the ship at the gala.
She wore trousers, a navy-blue coat, and boots, and her hair was tucked up under a brown hat. He walked rapidly forward and tapped her shoulder. She spun around.

  “Mr. Okamura. You startled me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  She looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “This area is cordoned off to the public.” He pointed an accusatory finger back toward the site.

  Her unblinking gaze followed his finger and then returned to his face.

  “It’s unsafe for you to be on the grounds when construction is in process, and—”

  Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes flashed indignantly. “I’ve been on this island since it was a sinkhole. I’ve seen acres of topsoil laid, piles driven, concrete poured, electrical panels installed. I’ve watched towers go up, palaces fabricated, courtyards engineered. As a member of the press, I have a responsibility to see everything and know everyone.”

  “Please understand. You’ll be my guest, or you’re not welcome.”

  She stepped back, inhaling sharply. A thin sheen of perspiration glazed her upper lip. “Oh, I see. I’ve offended you.”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “You must understand my position. Safety is essential.”

  “Of course.” She appeared to be studying the ground between their feet. “I had hoped we could talk today. Perhaps another time?”

  “Yes, I agree. Now, if you’ll please follow me.” He offered his arm, from which she shrank as if it were an insult.

  They walked in silence until they were clear of the site, back on the road. He found himself reluctant to look at her. “If you’ll pardon me,” he said, the words halting and stiff in his mouth, “I must attend to other business.”

  “Of course,” she answered.