Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  “I hope so,” Lily answered. “Have you been here long?”

  “Many years, my dear.”

  “Then you must know the people in the neighborhood.”

  He squinted at her. “They’re my customers, my regulars. I know them all. Are you new here?”

  “Not exactly.” She offered her hand. “I’m Lily Nordby.”

  He took her hand in both of his. “Nice to meet you. Herman Oronoffski.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose, and squinted at her. “By chance, are you related to the plumber Chris Nordby?”

  “Yes. He’s my father.” A slow blush rose from her collarbone and spread up her throat and into her cheeks. “But I’m not here because of him.”

  “Ah, well, I see his truck in the neighborhood. He comes and he goes. Sometimes he stops in here for one of my pastrami sandwiches.”

  “Did you know him when he lived across the street at 2865?” She turned and pointed out the window. “He lived there with my mother in 1913. Do you remember her?”

  Herman’s black eyes, set into a face crisscrossed with a map of wrinkles, bore into her own.

  A shopper rolled a shopping cart down the aisle, pushed the cart up to the narrow wooden counter, and began placing items on the countertop.

  “Hello, Maud,” Herman said. “I’ll be right with you. Excuse me,” he said to Lily, touching her arm gently. “This won’t take long.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “One moment, dear. Now, don’t go away.”

  Lily stepped back and tried to collect herself. Was it folly to think that she was a breath away from some kind of knowledge about her mother from this kind old man?

  Painstakingly, Herman rang up each item, filled a straw basket with the purchases, counted out the change in coins, and led the customer to the door.

  He stutter-stepped back to Lily, removed his glasses, and dabbed his eyes and the corners of his mouth, filled with ruinous teeth. “Let’s see. Where were we? Ah, yes, your mother. Sadie,” he said softly. “She was born in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, like me.”

  Lily felt an electrical current shoot from the soles of her feet, up her legs, through her body, to the roots of her hair.

  His face became pliant, the wrinkles of his deflated cheeks smoothing, a sweet smile lifting his careworn features. “I remember you as a baby. You look just like her. She’d roam the aisles, singing, with you in her arms—waltzes, folk songs, love songs to break your heart. A voice like an angel’s.”

  Involuntarily, Lily touched her cheek.

  “You see, she came in every day. I knew her well—at least, as much as a grocer can know his clientele. Let’s say I knew what she liked. Always making stews. She’d bring me halvah, a sweet white concoction made of sesame butter and honey.”

  “Was she Catholic?” Lily managed to ask.

  “Heavens, no. She was a Jew, like me.”

  The specter of pogroms struck Lily’s soul. Only weeks before, the newswires had been filled with horrific stories of Kristallnacht, the Nazi attack on Jews in Germany and Austria. She was suspended between an ancient past and an uncertain future. Everything she knew as solid and real was collapsing. Since her mother was a Jew, that made her a Jew. What did this mean? Her lips refused to move. Perspiration drenched her blouse, and her runaway pulse thudded in her ears.

  Herman dragged a chair from behind the counter. “Sit down,” he said. “You look unwell.”

  She waved him back. “No, I’m all right. Give me a minute.”

  “Please, dear. I’ve upset you.”

  “No, no, not at all.” She reached out and squeezed his frail arm. “You’ve been so helpful.” She leaned over and kissed his bony cheek. “I need to go now, but I’ll be back. I promise.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tokido

  As was his custom, Tokido stole a moment of solitude in the gray light of dawn. He was chilled to the core, taut nerves humming from lack of sleep. The imperative to draw strength from words written 250 years earlier drew him irresistibly, like a beacon. He reached for Basho’s Journal of Bleached Bones in a Field and, thumbing through the pages, read:

  dew trickles down

  in it I would try to wash away

  the dust of a floating world

  These words, written when Basho began a journey on foot from Edo to roam westward nearly eight hundred miles and circle back a year later, touched Tokido’s heart and soothed his restless spirit. His clothes lay on the floor of the bath, still damp and stiff, saturated by salt spray. The opportunity to record the previous day’s activities would have to be delayed. He had dressed hurriedly and barely had enough time to compose himself before the day began. His morning meal, set beside him on the table, was untouched, except for a steaming cup of tea, which he cradled in his hands and sipped slowly.

  The endless night had been arduous. The skiff, signaling three long and one short blasts of light, had swept alongside the Tatuta Maru at exactly 2:00 a.m. on November’s turbulent seas. Tokido boarded swiftly and took his station alongside the nameless pilot. In the faint reflection of stars, Tokido could easily see that he was of mixed Japanese and Caucasian blood.

  They crouched in the stern, binoculars hung around their necks, poised to hoist the lenses to their eyes, and sped off. Tokido was often unsure what direction they were headed until the pilot navigated a course communicated through guttural commands. He read the contours of the vast San Francisco Bay, its tides, channels, and shoreline, like a hound tracks the scent of its prey. Here, the prey wasn’t a warm-blooded animal. It was the steel silhouettes of military transports, submarines, and destroyers. Tokido was schooled in the different types of ships, their shapes and gun sizes. The pilot was schooled in where to find them along the water-front: the military bases at Fort Mason, Hunters Point, Mare Island, and the Benicia Arsenal.

  The pilot steadied the skiff as close to the massive prey as was safe and idled the motor. He spotted and Tokido recorded the type and number of each ship. Often they would observe a military transport setting out under the Golden Gate, lights flashing, carving a curl of white foam in its wake. At the close of the hunt, when Tokido was dropped off at the Tatuta Maru, the pilot departed in the skiff, carrying the intelligence, dubbed Blind Warrior, in a pouch strapped to his back.

  THE MORNING LIGHT had turned brighter. Tokido stood, placed Basho’s book on the table, and left the cabin. Kiyoshi was waiting for him in the library. They would review the names of members of the press who had responded to the invitation to preview the pavilion later that morning. The list of those who had been invited had been culled from confidential sources, which had identified journalists and newspaper reporters sympathetic to Japan’s quest in the Far East and opposed to America’s entry in the Sino-Pacific war. Tokido had studied their credentials and read their articles. Most important, he had Consul General Moto’s assurance that the majority would favorably present the wonder and excellence of the pavilion. Of course, they had also invited members of the local press who did not fit into this category—the “lightweights,” as Tokido had come to think of them. Their inclusion was unavoidable. They wrote feature stories about social issues of the day or popular figures in the news. He would curry their favor as required and avoid any further unpleasantness, especially with the brazen female reporter who worked for the Hearst paper.

  When Tokido entered, Kiyoshi leaped to attention. His back was as straight as bamboo, his eyes clear, a sheaf of papers at the ready, pencil sharpened to a point like the tip of a dagger.

  “Let us quickly review who we can expect today,” Tokido instructed. “The group will be gathering, and we must arrive well in advance of their arrival.”

  “Of course,” Kiyoshi replied.

  He read from a list of names, of which Tokido nodded approval. At the conclusion, he confirmed that hostesses at the pavilion were in the process of preparing tea, which they would serve, and would then be available to act as guides for the remainder of the tour.


  “Hai,” said Tokido. “Stay by my side today.” He slipped his arms into a jacket and tied a silk scarf around his neck. “As a precaution, I have also spoken with Chizu, our most trusted senior hostess, whom I have instructed to attend to any reporters who stray or need attending. We can never be too careful.”

  “As you wish,” Kiyoshi said, dashing behind Tokido, whose voice trailed off as he rushed forward into November’s biting grip.

  FIFTEEN JOURNALISTS AND reporters had gathered at the entrance to the pavilion, bundled against the cold, hats pulled low over their eyes, coats buttoned to their chins, and scarves knotted around their necks. Mercifully, it was not sleeting rain but the blustery wind that tore tears from their eyes and kicked up dust devils at their feet. All across the island, the din of heavy machinery, the flurry of trucks crisscrossing the roads, and the frenzy of workers engaged in a Herculean effort to meet final construction deadlines was reaching a crescendo.

  Schedules were crucial; any delay or error could prove catastrophic. Yet an air of calm emanated over the pavilion’s site. When Tokido opened the pavilion’s center doors precisely at 9:00 a.m., the reporters stamped their cigarettes under the soles of their shoes and pressed forward.

  “Welcome,” Tokido nearly shouted. “Please enter. We’re serving tea in the Tea Room. Our hostesses will lead you there.”

  In the group that streamed past, he recognized several faces from photographs and prior events. Prominent among them was David Warren Ryder, an attorney and columnist for the conservative quarterly Controversy, and Henry Cotkins, foreign editor of the San Francisco News. He studied their expressions and shook their hands. He was somewhat startled to see Ralph Townsend, a far-right author and prominent advocate of nonintervention in the Far East. His best-selling book, Ways That Are Dark: The Truth About China, openly supported Imperial Japan’s position of domination. Tokido instantly understood that the consulate had employed persuasive efforts to secure Townsend’s appearance.

  “Good to see you,” he said to Townsend, pausing and bowing slightly, before turning to the next person.

  A small, leather-gloved hand was proffered, and when he looked up, he was peering into the face of Lily Nordby. He grasped her hand, and she returned the pressure equally.

  “Good morning,” she said coolly.

  He was prepared to comment that he was pleased she had come, but she whisked by. He watched her depart, the hem of her long coat snapping against the backs of black boots, and a pheasant feather tucked into the brim of her hat, which bobbed above the crowd.

  Behind Lily, the young waterfront reporter for the San Francisco News, Katherine Meyer, stepped forward. He quickly mentioned to her his interest in labor relations with dock-workers and unions. She peered closely at him and admitted surprise. “Contact me, if you like,” she suggested. “I’m always in the office.” As the last reporter streamed past, Tokido entered the pavilion and nodded to Kiyoshi, who closed the high wooden doors.

  In the long and elegantly appointed tearoom that adjoined a veranda looking out to a garden under construction, Tokido mingled among the guests seated at Western-style tables and chairs, drinking steamy green tea. The shoji-shuttered windows cast a soft, natural glow upon the gathering. Red tassels dangled from paper lanterns, grassy-scented tatami mats covered the floor, and lovely, kimono-clad hostesses moved with ease between the tables. When he was satisfied that everyone was served, he began to speak.

  “Welcome to the Japanese Pavilion. The displays within these walls are not yet finished, and we ask for your patience now to imagine what is to come but is not yet installed. Rare art pieces, national treasures, and technological advancements will be represented.” The words rolled off his tongue effortlessly. “It is our wish to show the beauty and modernity of our country to enhance the significance of the Golden Gate International Exposition. We are honoring this occasion to join with all voices that declare San Francisco is truly the gateway to the Pacific.” He was attuned to any discord that might descend without warning, especially in the midst of newspaper reporters whose probing eyes were hungry for a breaking story.

  “My assistant, Kiyoshi, has prepared a press packet for each of you,” he continued.

  Kiyoshi stepped from behind Tokido and began to distribute gold-embossed folders into the hands of reporters.

  “Today we have asked that no photos be taken because of the unfinished nature of the rooms. Instead, we’re providing photographs for reproduction, should your papers wish to publish them.” Tokido’s gaze swept over the room. His eyes met Lily’s as she appraised him openly. She was seated at a table near the rear windows with Miss Meyer and two other women. “If you have any questions, I’m at your disposal.”

  A hand shot up from the same table. A tall woman in a wide-shouldered coat and tortoiseshell glasses stood. “Florence Higgins, staff reporter at the Chronicle,” she said. “Your efforts are impressive. There is no doubt that your pavilion will be a standout among other foreign pavilions. It certainly has cost a fortune to construct. The Chinese nation has withdrawn its participation because of the war it is fighting against your country’s oppression in Mainland China.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

  Miss Higgins pressed on. “The Chinese American community here in San Francisco has stepped into the breach and is building a pavilion to represent their motherland. How will you handle this potential conflict?”

  “Our efforts in San Francisco are to engage in peace and brotherhood,” Tokido answered. He kept his expression placid to belie the fact that the back of his neck bristled at her affront. “Indeed, that is the theme of the Exposition. To that end, we pledge cooperation and diplomacy with all nations.”

  “Have you encountered any hostility from the Chinese Americans?” Miss Higgins asked.

  An air of expectancy hovered in the room. Some reporters turned to one another with raised eyebrows; others whispered. Everyone looked to Tokido with upturned faces. Pressure constricted in his temples.

  “The Chinese community has extended the hand of friendship,” he answered with civility. “We have returned the sentiment.”

  Ralph Townsend lumbered to his feet. A big man, he seemed to unfold in sections from the chair, and, as he came to his full height, he folded his long arms across his thin chest. “Miss Higgins, may I suggest that this is neither the time nor the place to engage in political debate? We have forums for that discourse, and they are certainly not here. Mr. Okamura and his staff are graciously providing an opportunity to preview the pavilion. I, for one, would like to see and hear what they have to present.”

  As Townsend finished, a voice rang out. “I should like to suggest,” Harry Cotkins said without standing, “that our job in this room at this time is to focus on the goodwill represented here and stay out of the conflict across the seas. The purpose of the Exposition is to generate peace and understanding. This is the message from the mayor, civic leaders, and citizens of this great city. This is why we have come together today.”

  Miss Higgins sat down abruptly, her lips sealed in a thin line of disapprobation.

  Tokido broke the uneasy silence. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your comments.” Had any of the reporters leaped to his or her feet and demanded justification for the imperial emperor’s honorable imperative to rescue Asian countries from under the crushing boot of Western imperialism, Tokido’s retort would have been unthinkable. He rushed on. “Please, join us now. Our hostesses will accompany you into the adjoining room. We are ready to begin the tour.”

  As the reporters gathered in the immense hall and clustered in small groups, he cleared his throat. “The Travel Hall is a lofty tribute to our country’s diverse regions. As you see, I’m standing in front of a fountain.” He gestured to the pool of sparkling tiles. “The statues of three girls stand in the fountain. Soon water will surround their figures. We have a typical Japanese girl in a traditional long-sleeved kimono.” He braced himself. There was no turning back now.
“A Korean with a high sash, and a Manchoukuo with a fan in her hand.” His remark was met with a cool reserve that he had lately observed when speaking to American audiences. Cotkins, Ryder, and Townsend formed a core in the middle, while Florence Higgins, flanked by other female reporters, glared at him from the edge. Lily was obscured from view, and then he spotted the pheasant feather in her hat, riding at the back. She had been circulating in and out of the group like flotsam caught in an eddy. She was never in the same place twice. Tokido caught Chizu’s eye. He slightly tipped his chin toward Lily. Chizu faded away. If he could see her brightly patterned kimono, he could be certain Lily had not wandered off.

  Tokido soldiered on. “Against the wall, a panoramic map in wood has been created. We are still in the process of painting the map, which will show in elaborate relief the many travel routes between Japan, the United States, and China. There are more steamship and railroad lines than are shown on this map, which indicates only the main lines.” He pointed to the cities served by airlines and then drew the audience’s attention to two large komainu, Korean dogs, that flanked either side of the fountain. “These legendary animals are usually found on both sides of an entrance to Shinto shrines in Japan. They’re thought to keep evil spirits away from holy places.”

  He stepped away, walking quickly across the wide floor to an opposite wall. The reporters followed. He stopped in front of elaborate silk paintings recessed into the wall. “Here are four masterpieces of embroidery, measuring nine feet square and made entirely by hand, using silk.” He pointed to one panel at a time: “Mount Fuji and Miyaima, of Japan proper; Mt. Kongo in Chosen; and the mausoleum of a Manchu emperor in Manchukuo.” Several of the reporters, murmuring, “Elegant, beautiful, magnificent,” drew closer to examine the handiwork. Tokido nodded and exchanged smiles and, like a herder guiding a flock, led the group toward the rear of the hall.

  “Lastly, we have an information office.” He motioned to an area where several of his staff stood behind a counter. Above the counter, against a high wall, circular discs were mounted and imprinted with large letters that read THE ORIENT CALLS.