He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and jogged toward the motorcycle. On impulse, he turned and walked back to her. She watched him approach with an expression of nonchalant distain.
“There will be a press preview of the pavilion well in advance of opening day. I assume you’re on the list?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. We’ll meet then. May I give you a lift to your next stop?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“As you desire.” He bowed slightly. “Good-bye.” He noticed then that her eyes, more green than blue, shone with the unmistakable glint of defiance. Their brilliance would haunt him throughout the day, and in the evening, just before he laid himself down to sleep, her eyes would be the last image in his conscious mind.
CHAPTER SIX
Woodrow
Woodrow liked to come early to the island, sometimes at dawn, when a mist lay over the salty bay, seagulls caw-caw-cawed, and pastel light rose over the Berkeley hills. A byway of constant motion, the bay was alive with vessels—barges, military ships, fishing boats, sailing craft, and ferries. It was from here that he had first seen a barge delivering trees from San Francisco’s Balboa Park to the island. As it moved over the water, it looked like a floating green forest.
Woodrow learned that the gardeners, led by brilliant chief of horticulture Julius Girod, were tasked with growing trees, shrubs, and flowers at the Mission Terrace’s twenty-eight-acre site. Girod devised a scheme to heat the cool, damp soil with electrical cords to sixty degrees, to ensure vibrant growth. Residents joined in the effort. From all parts of the area—the East Bay, up and down the peninsula, and Marin County—citizens donated trees they grew in their backyards. In ’37, Girod employed 350 gardeners; by ’38, there were 1,200. Woodrow became one of their ardent admirers.
The planting of four thousand mature trees soon fascinated him. He watched as the packed black soil was leached of salt and then spread with good topsoil. Men dug holes, cranes lifted trees, gardeners shoveled soil into the holes and watered each new occupant. By and by, Woodrow learned that flowers of every variety would be propagated and planted according to their bloom time in an ever-changing palette to coordinate with the colors of the courts.
He found the number of bulbs alone staggering: 250,000 tulips, 20,000 irises, 20,000 begonias, and 10,000 hyacinths. The coup de grâce was the twenty-five acres of multicolored ice plant on both sides of the Elephant Court and throughout the island. Girod determined it alone could survive the force of wind and seawater on the west side of the island. Woodrow could not wait to see that sight. Girod described it as a “magic carpet”; Woodrow came to think of it as a Persian prayer rug. If only he could lie down on it to invoke the gods, his prayers would pour like honeyed wine.
One morning, unable to sleep, he arrived earlier than usual. As he stepped from his apartment, Telegraph Hill was cloaked in fog. Streets were wet with moisture, cable car tracks silent, light standards dimmed to golden orbs against the black sky. A taxi drove him over the Bay Bridge, onto Yerba Buena, and down the Avenue of the Palms to the edge of the ice plants, glistening under the great expanse of night.
A few engineers on the island had devised a way to install a motor on a child’s bicycle for his transport, for which he was grateful. He guessed they grew tired of watching him hobble around with mud and dirt up to his knees. And what a joyous mode of travel it was. He kept it tied inside one of the gardener’s shacks. He hopped aboard but soon realized that, without a light to illuminate the ground, he would be foolish to ride too far. He carefully made his way onto California Avenue at the south end, closest to the Port of Trade Winds. Not a sound reached his ears, save the lapping of waves, the moan of foghorns, and an occasional horn blasting from a ship crossing the bay. Small boats rested in their berths along the dock.
The Tatuta Maru was anchored along the jetty, sleek and stately, dark except for marker lights port and starboard, fore and aft. He parked his bike and tucked into the Enchanted Garden, pulling his coat and scarf around him more tightly, and sat with his back against a low wall facing the Port of Trade Winds. The faint, herbaceous scent of Girod’s plantings intermingled with the sea breeze, tickling his nose. He watched as Treasure Island, embellished with a wealth of greenery, prepared to awake to another day.
Over the water, he noticed the headlight of a small vessel approaching. As it drew closer, the faint putt-putt of the motor slowed and the craft slid up to the jetty. Woodrow pulled his knees into his chest and shrank down. The beam of a flashlight swept over the ground. Muffled voices carried from the deck. A figure jumped to the ground. The flashlight illuminated the face of the man, who had landed no more than a hundred feet from where Woodrow rested. He saw a cap pulled low on the man’s forehead, binoculars around his neck, and suddenly the unmistakable profile of Tokido Okamura flared into view. Woodrow stopped breathing. Okamura quickly walked down the jetty, up the gangplank, and disappeared into the Tatuta Maru. The skiff pulled away. Woodrow didn’t move a muscle until dawn crested the East Bay hills.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lily
Tell me,” Lily asked Adolph Schuman, “why is Japan pulling out all the stops to build the most extravagant pavilion on Treasure Island?”
They were standing off to one side of the Grand Ballroom at the St. Francis Hotel mobbed with San Francisco’s elite, swells and hacks, highbrows and politicos. Couples danced to Freddy Martin and His Orchestra, and waiters balanced trays of canapés as they wove through the crowd. Brisk air blew in through high transom windows. Adolph kept his arm protectively around Lily’s bare shoulders as she sipped champagne from a crystal flute and shivered in a green satin gown.
“What do you think?” Adolph asked.
“I can’t figure it out.” Lily adjusted a diamond comb in her upswept hair. “They jumped at the chance to accept San Francisco’s invitation. Their budget is one million dollars. That isn’t chump change.”
Adolph pursed his lips and nodded. “Propaganda, my dear. Clear and simple. They arrive bearing gifts of goodwill and heralding peace. Their pavilion will reflect ancient arts, pastoral and tranquil. Yet their modern society rejects Western ideals. There is no equality among its people—certainly not women, even if they present a feminized concept of beauty.”
“You can say that again. I was banished from their building site. Their diplomatic envoy, Tokido Okamura, dressed me up one side and down the other because I dared to enter without him. He said it was for my safety. But I’m not so sure.”
Adolph frowned. “Here, our Japanese American community lives in harmony. But in Japan, the people feed on a will of superiority. Their military has occupied Manchuria and Korea, and they’re sweeping though China. They’re conquerors. No doubt about it. The pavilion is smoke and mirrors.”
Goose bumps rose on Lily’s arms. “The newswires hum with news of Japan’s aggression. Yet we dedicate a whole island to Pacific unity and continue to uphold isolationism. The conflict abroad feels like a world away. When will it end?”
“FDR isn’t asleep,” Adolph said, drawing Lily away from the revelers toward a secluded corner and lowering his voice. “He’s got one eye on Hitler, who’s rolled over Czechoslovakia, and another eye on Il Duce’s fascist hammerlock in Italy. Vincent Astor is motoring on his yacht, the Nourmahal, cruising the South Pacific. Astor is reporting back to FDR on Japanese activity in the Marshall Islands.”
Lily cocked her head and regarded Adolph with keen attention. “Tell me more.”
“There are American people here and abroad who may learn information of vital importance to our country’s safety.” He paused, dipping his mouth to Lily’s ear. “You may be one of those people.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once all the pavilions are built, a reporter like you may come and go with impunity. You may be in a position to come across intelligence that’s significant.”
“Are you suggesting that I snoop?”
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p; A smile creased his cheeks, but his eyes reflected a somber reality. “Hardly. Just keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if you come across anything of interest, and I’ll pass it on to the right people.”
“Really, Adolph, you surprise me.”
“But one caution: We’ve invited snakes into our backyard. We can’t expect not to get bitten.” He tapped his temple. “Watch yourself.”
Just then, a radiant and bejeweled Lillian Schuman, nicknamed Bunny, approached through the throng. “Look at the two of you,” she said, embracing them both. “Heads together and no doubt discussing world affairs.”
Lily laughed and hugged Bunny back. “I feel like a new woman in your marvelous gown. I wouldn’t have been able to come if you hadn’t sent it. And the diamond comb. You shouldn’t have!”
“Nonsense. We won’t have you missing a night like this. Especially when we hardly see you anymore. My goodness, you’re as rare as hen’s teeth.”
“I keep meaning to call.”
“Every morning, I tell Adolph we’ll read a story of yours in the paper, and, sure enough, you prove me right. I want to hear all your news, but first there are a few people you must meet.” Bunny threaded her arm through Lily’s arm and glanced at Adolph. “I’m stealing her from you.”
“I would expect nothing less,” he said, winking at his wife. “Did you invite her for Thanksgiving?”
“No, darling, but you just did!” Bunny patted Lily on the arm. “There—that’s settled, so don’t say a word.”
The women glided along the edge of the polished parquet floor, past the sway of dancers doing the rumba. As they walked, Bunny snared a glass of champagne from a waiter and another for Lily.
“There’s Ted Huggins, the PR wizard of Standard Oil, smack in the middle of the big wigs, paying homage to W. R. Next to him is Clyde Vanderberg, mastermind of the island’s publicity machine. They’re parading a long-legged dancer, Zoe Del Lantis, dressed in a pirate costume and a big smile, across the country to publicize the Expo. He’s with your editor. Oh, look—Simon is nodding at you. They’re smoking those ghastly cigars. Have you met Hearst yet? Well, you will. W. R. loves pretty women. There are two people in particular whom I want you to meet. Let’s see. I saw Monsieur Reboul a moment ago.”
“You mean the owner of the Pink Palace? Really, Bunny, I’m perfectly happy on Ellis Street. Anyway, I’m hardly there except to sleep.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been in that drab little walk-up too long. Monsieur’s boardinghouse is ideal for the both of you. Oh dear—there’s Leland Cutler’s wife in a gaggle of women. She’s perfectly fine, but she can talk my ear off. Don’t look. Keep going.”
Suddenly Bunny spotted a tall, distinguished gentleman and waltzed up to him. “Claude, I’m so happy to see you.”
“Bon soir,” he said, kissing Bunny’s outstretched hand.
“Allow me to introduce my dear friend Lily. I’ve been telling her about your residence. Your wife tells me that there may be a few openings.”
“Oui, this is so. Are you anticipating a move, Miss Lily?”
“Not exactly, but Bunny can be very persuasive.”
“Ah, this is true. If you’re curious, perhaps the best thing is to visit. We’re on Scott Street at Green. We think of ourselves as a family.” Claude twinkled. “A French family, although everyone is welcome, especially if you like French food.”
Lily’s mouth began to water. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so rash, she thought. “May I bring a friend who might want to be my roommate?”
“Mais oui. We have a nice, large room available soon. Perfect for two young ladies.”
She thanked him and, despite her resistance, found herself warming to the idea. Monsieur Reboul gave her the name of the manager and suggested she visit on a Sunday.
Bunny triumphantly guided her away. “There. That’s done. Good. Now, let us find the most fascinating and unusual man I’ve met in a long time.”
“Who?” Lily asked.
“You’ll see.”
“Why all the secrecy?”
“Be patient. Let’s roam a bit more. He tends to hide from the crowd. We’ll probably find him behind a palm.”
As they rounded the corner and passed into an alcove, Bunny squeezed Lily’s arm. There, seated against the wall, alone, looking downhearted, balancing his top hat on his leg and refusing a glass of champagne, was Woodrow Packard. His eyes registered their approach, and a faint smile—or was it a grimace?—parted his lips.
“Woodrow,” Bunny said, swooping up to him. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Please, don’t get up. We’re dying to sit.” Without hesitation, she drew two chairs forward, tucked aside her gown, and sat facing him. “I’ve been wanting to introduce you to the smartest young woman I know.”
Woodrow gave Lily a look of sheepish recognition.
“Bunny, we’ve already met,” Lily said.
“Why didn’t you say so? Well, I should have known. Don’t hover, dear. Please, sit down.”
Woodrow looked from one woman to the other and, with an air of resignation, exclaimed, “Of course. Join me. Clearly, I’m the odd man out at an event like this.”
“Well, I won’t insist you spin me around the dance floor,” Bunny said mischievously.
Lily blanched. Woodrow started, as if shot by a dart, and then began to chuckle, sending Bunny into trills of laughter that rivaled musical scales.
“Lily tells me that she’s tried to interview you but you’re impossible to pin down.”
Lily sighed. “Don’t embarrass Woodrow. He’s a busy man.”
Woodrow shifted in his seat, his feet dangling above the floor. “Forgive me. My social skills are lacking.”
“Believe me, Woodrow,” Bunny said, “you’re heads above most of these stuffed shirts in striped trousers.”
That remark set them all to laughing again, until Bunny added, “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, tell us what you’ve been up to of late.”
Woodrow cleared his throat. “I’m like a tourist on holiday.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Poking around the island, uncovering this and that. It’s in my blood.”
“What have you found?” Lily asked.
“The foreign pavilions are of infinite variety,” Woodrow said. “There’s no end to their inventiveness.”
Lily sat up straighter, another question on the tip of her tongue, when the conversation veered off course. Woodrow explained that although his design work had formally concluded, he had been asked to help draft some of the PR materials in the island brochures and booklets about the Mayan architectural motifs. “They’ve also suggested I sit in on some of the meetings with Jesse Stanton, the color architect, and A. F. Dickerson of General Electric as they finalize the night lighting. I think they’re trying to keep me occupied. I’m happy to wander and watch the trees and gardens being planted.”
“They’re choosing nineteen colors drawn from a Pacific palette,” Lily added. “Pagoda yellow, Hawaiian emerald green, Imperial Dragon red, Death Valley mauve—all exotic and alluring.”
“We like more subtlety in some of the buildings,” Woodrow explained.
“I agree. But, given the plans, subtlety may be sacrificed,” Lily said. “Blue spotlights, pink fluorescent tubes, and ultra-violet black lights will be hidden in every shrub and in the creases of the Cambodian towers. Fountains will change color, stucco walls flecked with iridescent mica will shimmer, and statues will spring to life. Even Ralph Stackpole’s undulating metal prayer curtain behind Pacifica will change from dark blue to apricot.”
“I heard the budget is one and a half million dollars for night lighting alone,” Bunny said. “Imagine! The Exposition corporation may be filled with fat cats, but none who ordinarily open their pockets to siphon off the cream. I smell financial disaster.”
“World’s fairs aren’t meant to make money,” Lily added. “Still, the mind boggles at the sums that are tossed around like f
lapjacks. The idea is, we’ll lure fairgoers across the country to San Francisco. Have you seen the railroads that are offering special travel packages? The head office is working on this like crazy. They’re speculating we’ll entice New Yorkers away from their fair to ours.”
“Another pipe dream,” Bunny said.
“Whatever the outcome, the island will glow like a crown of jewels in the middle of the bay,” Lily added.
Woodrow regarded Lily shyly. “From the windows in my apartment, I’m watching an ancient city rise from the sea.”
“How wonderful. Where do you live?”
“On Telegraph Hill.”
“That’s perfect. The lighting will cast a path across the water to your doorstep.”
Woodrow gazed at Lily, his eyes softening. “The truth is, I’ve become enamored of your city. It’s starting to feel familiar.”
“Listen to the two of you,” Bunny said. “Romantics at heart. What I want to know is, was either of you listening to the radio the other night when War of the Worlds aired?”
“Some of the gals in our apartment went nuts,” Lily said. “They ran up and down the hall, screaming about a martian invasion. They were listening to Charlie McCarthy on The Chase and Sanborn Hour. When programming switched to music, they spun the dial to The Mercury Theatre. Maxine and I were listening from the beginning. We knew the show was a drama. The gals thought it was real.”
“What made it authentic,” Bunny said, “and believe me, we knew it was Mischief Night, was the newscaster’s voice announcing, ‘We interrupt this program to bring you a special bulletin.’ Then he became hysterical, like the newscaster when the Hindenburg crashed—those screams and moans and shrieks. Out of nowhere, the airwaves went dead. It curdled my blood.”
“Pure poppycock,” Woodrow said. “Green men slithering out of black holes in New Jersey? Fields bursting into flame and people choking on gas? An invading army from Mars? The country is already apprehensive about Hitler. We’re all sitting on tenterhooks.”
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