Walking back to the case, he pulled out the second panel, a land map of coastal defenses: batteries, gun emplacements, and army and navy bases within or bordering the bay. Pinned in the right-hand corner were black-and-white photographs of the batteries above the straits of the Golden Gate. He re-turned to his desk, took up a pen, and recorded in a logbook minute observations of all that he had seen when he had crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. He frequently lifted his head and regarded the map before he returned to his report. He didn’t raise the pen from the page until he heard two quick knocks, a pause, and two more quick knocks. He slid both panels back into the case and secured the trim in place.
“Ohayo gozaimasu,” said Chizu, as he unlocked the door. She bowed quickly and entered the room, carrying a tray laden with a pot of green tea, cups, and rice cakes.
Kiyoshi entered behind her and secured the door. They exchanged formalities. Chizu served the tea and cakes. They shared the repast in silence, until Tokido stood and walked to the display case.
“I have called you here at this early hour to discuss a mission that requires extreme caution.” He paused, filling his lungs with air. “When the Tatuta Maru came through the straits of the Golden Gate and passed under the new bridge, it was clear to me that this structure is a potent symbol of American spirit, ingenuity, and freedom. Now, it has never been clearer.” He lifted a pointer from the corner and set the tip on the map. “Here, the bridge spans the only entry to the bay. If the towers and the roadbed were dropped into the bay, the straits would be blocked and the military would be trapped. Commercial shipping, the lifeblood of California, would be stopped.”
The faces of Kiyoshi and Chizu had turned ashen.
“Kiyoshi, I want you to find a way to secure the engineering blueprints and final calculations of the bridge.”
“Hai,” Kiyoshi said, his unblinking eyes riveted on Tokido’s face.
“Chizu, support whatever assistance he may need.”
“Tokido-san,” she said, “I have a relative who works in the engineering firm that designed the bridge.”
“Do you trust him?”
“I have known him all my life.”
“Speak to him. Exercise caution. Our timing is propitious. The Christmas season and opening of the Exposition have the attention of all citizens.”
Chizu and Kiyoshi stood in unison and bowed.
Tokido bowed in return. “Report back to me in one week. Proceed with discretion. Our mission is vital.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Woodrow
Woodrow stepped out of his house into a clear, bright Christmas morning. The bells of Saints Peter and Paul Church pealed their sonorous, silvery chimes into the air. The blue bay sparkled, whipped by waves tipped with seafoam tails. Treasure Island rested serene and sure, as if waiting to open on cue its mysterious portals to a waiting public.
Over his shoulder, he noticed a lacy curtain part at the window of Mrs. O’Brien, his elderly neighbor. He turned slightly, doffed his hat, and saluted. The curtain fell back into place. He reminded himself to leave a box of See’s candy on her doorstep when he returned.
He climbed up the stairs onto Filbert Street, leaving Coit Tower to the curious crowd that gathered even on this day to view the sights. The wind kicked up, and he pulled his red woolen scarf around his neck. The city spread at his feet. He paused to look out over the houses built cheek to jowl that spilled down Telegraph Hill to the snow-white spires of the church. The nearly two-hundred-foot twin spires towering above Washington Square were etched in gray against the horizon. The sight never failed to thrill him, and on this day, the feeling was especially poignant.
A Western Union telegram lay tucked inside the thrilling book, Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas, and Yucatan, by John Lloyd Stephens, that lay on the table near the fireside.
Dear Woodrow,
Merry Christmas. We miss you.
We’re all anxious for you to return. When are you coming home?
Lovingly, Florence
Her message filled him with a familiar yearning for the bully strength of his father, the tender hand of his mother, and the irrepressible good humor of his brother, Edward, and his dear sister. She was the one who shouldered the responsibility of caring for their aging parents. But Woodrow wouldn’t make the trip back to Philadelphia anytime soon. He would write again and explain; they would understand. Perhaps he would send Florence a Pullman ticket on the Southern Pacific to journey to San Francisco for the Exposition, which she would relish with every bit of her adventurous soul.
He stopped on the steep sidewalk when a young boy ran out the front door of a two-story clapboard house that was festooned with holly wreaths studded with candles in its windows. The boy was dressed in a cowboy costume with a Boy Scout scarf tied around his neck and toting a six-shooter in his hand. He whooped and hollered on the sidewalk. Two little girls, outfitted in sailor hats and double-breasted coats, skipped out to join him, followed by their mother and father. Woodrow slowed his pace. The father locked the door and, as he turned, caught sight of Woodrow. Without hesitation, he tipped his hat and called, “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas!” Woodrow called back.
The man waved in return and caught the arm of his wife, and the family proceeded down the street. What a fine morning, Woodrow thought. I shall make the best of it.
He walked smartly down the hill, passing the homes and apartments, wandering by busy restaurants, shuttered bakeries, and shops and over the green sward of the square. The scent of roasting coffee, bracing wine, and sugary pastries laced the air. Long ago, cows had grazed on this boggy spot of land, which would regularly flood even as the city grew. Just look at it now, he mused. The loveliest little park, dotted with benches. The good cheer of humankind written on all faces. Couples strolled, families gathered here and there, and he noticed the baker of Liguria Bakery flying a kite with his young son. He ambled over to the steps of the church and decided to enter. Baptized and confirmed in the High Episcopal Church, he was no stranger to finding serenity in the house of God.
A side door was ajar. He removed his hat and peered through the opening. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. At the far end of the nave, lined by vaulted arches from which filigreed lanterns were hung, he gazed at the high altar, carved from snow-white Italian Carrara marble. Red poinsettias adorned the steps to the altar, where the marble statues of Saints Peter and Paul flanked Jesus Christ on the cross, Saint Paul on the right. Above the altar, Christ All Powerful, in a dark orange robe, was painted into the dome. Stained glass windows cast a rosy glow on the polished wooden pews, which were empty save a figure here and there, heads bent in prayer.
The Mass had been offered, carols had been sung, and communion had been taken, and in its wake, the smoky-sweet scent of frankincense, myrrh, and sandalwood, burning on charcoal and swinging from the hands of priests from censers, lingered in the air. It reminded him of the music to “We Three Kings of Orient Are,” and he hummed the melody softly to himself as he slipped into a pew.
From the rear, Woodrow heard the sharp click-click of heels on the marble floor of the side aisle. As the sound grew nearer, he glanced at the figure of a young woman passing by. Her face was obscured by wavy brown hair, her trench coat belted and cinched tightly. His heart leaped into in his throat. Lily? he wondered. As she turned to sit, he saw clearly that it wasn’t she. But his pulse was thudding, and, trying to settle his nerves, he bowed his head in contemplation.
Thoughts of her would not cease. The look of vulnerability on her face as she’d sat opposite Tokido at Forbidden City had been shocking. How could she expose herself to him? She had confided that her instincts had warned her about Japan’s intent in sending such a large delegation to build a pavilion on the island. Just as important, her vehement dislike of Tokido, which she had also voiced, echoed in Woodrow’s mind. And yet there she had been with that very man at a night-club! Didn’t she realize how much atte
ntion they’d attract? A Caucasian woman with an Oriental man could cause a riot.
Woodrow’s memory of Tokido’s returning to the island on the skiff before dawn hadn’t dimmed. News of Japan’s aggression continued to roll over the AP wires. The Movietone black-and-white news clips of atrocities in China sickened him. At the club, Schuman’s steely glance warned him off. After the show, Pflueger, Toth, and the gents had a fine time trading quips and innuendos. In the end, Woodrow concluded he would remain silent, keep his ear to the ground and his finger to the wind.
Abruptly he rose to his feet, shaking himself free of worry. A man without illusions is a sorry creature, he thought. But the dangerous hope that a woman like her might come to feel for me something that she’s found in a whole-bodied man is a fool’s quicksand.
Leaving the church, he consoled himself that he wasn’t entirely unaccustomed to a male’s basic means of expression. The charms of certain women—the silky softness of their thighs, their musky scent, their sex as potent as a drug—had been bestowed on him, infrequently but memorably, by the hearty arrangements of Edward. In the Yucatán, the Mayans revered him as a god, and so there were occasions when he couldn’t turn away from the elaborate offers of female engagement.
Enough, he reminded himself, posing on the stairs of the church, readjusting his hat on his head. Blessings on my family. Blessings on this troubled world. If I can do good or offer kindness, then I shall. The Exposition is about to open, and what a grand affair it will be. For now, there’s a chop in the refrigerator, a bottle of fine claret on the sideboard, the Brandenburg Concertos on the turntable of the Philco, and a corking good yarn. Off he set for home, head high, step purposeful.
AFTER DINNER, HE lit a fire, set a glass of wine on the table, reclined in the chair, and began to read. Logs crackled in the grate. A faint knock sounded at the door. He lifted his head. Was he hearing correctly? Ah, it must be the wind, he thought. The knock came again, this time louder. Tentatively, he hopped off the chair and walked down the stairs. Who would be knocking on my door on Christmas? He flicked on the porch light, unlocked the door, and slowly opened it.
Lily stood on the stoop, the collar of her fur coat turned up against her pale neck. The tips of the fur glistened in the light. Her gloved hands held a small box wrapped in glossy red paper and tied in a white bow. She smiled shyly down at him. “Merry Christmas, Woodrow.”
He couldn’t find his voice. He began to shake. What right does she have to show up on Christmas unannounced? What presumption! Did she think I wouldn’t have invitations? Did she think I’d be crying in my eggnog?
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Of course I’m all right,” he snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m having a perfectly fine Christmas.”
Her eyes clouded. “Oh, well, I wanted to . . .” Swallowing, she caught her lower lip with her teeth.
“What is it?” he demanded.
She began again, her voice faint. “I wanted you to have this.” She held the box out to him.
He looked at it with disgust. “I don’t hear from you in weeks. Now you show up. Did you think I’d ask you in? That we’d sing a carol and share stories?”
“No,” she whispered.
“What did you think?” He seethed with anger. “That I’d want to hear about your evening with the enemy? That I’d be overjoyed to learn what you did, where you went, the lies he told you?”
She stepped back, her face crumbling with dismay. “I thought we were friends.”
“Think again,” he said, slamming the door in her face.
Court of the Moon
Night View of Japan Pavilion
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lily
Woodrow’s front door shook on its hinges, casting Lily backward. She stumbled and nearly fell. For an instant, she was catapulted to another Christmas, when she was no more than ten and had presented her father with a cigar wrapped in white paper imprinted with candy canes. Not just any cigar—a Cuban cigar she had confiscated at bodily risk from her stepbrother’s cache of stolen goods buried in the cellar.
Her father had unwrapped the cigar, a scowl on his face. “Where’re you get this?” he growled. His dark eyes bore into the softest part of her heart. Before she could move, he had unbuckled his belt and slipped it out of his trouser loops. It was useless to run. The slashing sound of the leather dropped her to her knees before the first blow lashed across her back.
Now she reeled, her feet finding purchase on the ground. Woodrow’s path was scattered with winter’s dead leaves. Their burned scent rose to meet her nostrils. The gift in her hands mocked her. She bent down and placed it on the mat. The immense quiet of the night draped around her shoulders. She turned blindly; her eyes stung with tears, running down her cheeks. Strings of red, yellow, blue, and green lights twinkled on Christmas trees hung with tinsel in the windows of the homes along the stairs. Through the dense foliage, above the rooftops, across bay waters, Treasure Island seemed close enough to touch.
She tripped down the steps, wanting to be as far away from Woodrow as she could get. On the edge of Montgomery Street, she leaned against the concrete wall and gazed at the new art deco Malloch Building constructed on the downslope. Silvery sgraffito figures, forty feet high, gleamed on the concrete of the facade. On a corner of the structure, she peered at an image of a bare-chested Spanish explorer with a telescope raised to one eye. Directly around the corner, a robed female, representing the spirit of California, was overlaid upon a map of the state.
A lacy mist dampened the air. At the dead end of the street, Julius’s Castle had opened its doors to Christmas festivities. She could almost hear patrons in the restaurant, smell whiskey in the Manhattans, platters of fragrant roasted turkey, mounds of mashed potatoes slathered with savory gravy. She had never felt so alone. She stared back at Treasure Island. The Tower of the Sun was outlined against the black sky. The taste of defiance flooded her mouth. Who is Woodrow to pass judgment on me? she thought. Neither he nor anyone else has any idea what I’m capable of. She pulled her hat down low, slung the strap of her bag over one shoulder, tightened her scarf, and started walking.
LILY WATCHED THE lights of the island from the backseat of a cab as it click-clacked over the Bay Bridge. Midspan, the cabbie veered sharply onto the turnoff to Treasure Island. At the bottom of the road, a lineup of ticket booths appeared, and beyond it the Avenue of the Palms. One booth was illuminated. Inside, a night watchman peered at Lily as she stepped out of the cab.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Nordby. What’re you doing here?”
“Same to you, Eddie. Holiday or not, the presses keep rolling.”
“No kidding. I read your stories every day. Gee, they’re swell.”
“Glad you like them. So, you’re the one to pull guard duty tonight?”
“I don’t mind. It’s real quiet. The family celebrated earlier.”
“Didn’t you tell me you and the missus have a child?”
“You bet. Our daughter is a cutie.”
“I’m sure she’s a doll.” Lily reached inside her pocket and pulled out a Heinz pickle pin and two matchbooks embossed with the Tower of the Sun and the Elephant Tower. THE PAGEANT OF THE PACIFIC, SAN FRANCISCO, 1939, was printed on the matchbooks. “Here’s something to take home, the latest from the publicity machine. They’re churning out souvenirs like Folgers roasts coffee beans.”
“Gosh, thanks. My wife is keeping a scrapbook. She’ll get a big kick out of these trinkets.”
“What do you think about the Expo?” she asked, sweeping her hand toward the buildings.
“Don’t know what you call the highfalutin architecture, but it sure takes the cake for flashy. And the flowers will be pretty, all right. Can’t wait to ride on the Elephant Train and a rickshaw.”
“Likewise,” she said. “Me? I’m a pushover for Count Basie, Bing Crosby, Eddie Duchin. Oh, and parades—I love them. We’ll be dizzy with parades. Well, I’ll amble over to the press room.�
�� She flashed a key. “Working on a story about the preview tours that are starting.”
Eddie nodded. “I’ll call Fred. He’ll escort you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I can’t let you onto the grounds alone.”
“Come on, Eddie.”
“Rules are rules.”
“Bend this rule for me.” She reached out and lightly touched his arm.
He hesitated. “Just looking out for your safety, Miss Nordby. Won’t take a minute to get Fred.” He plucked a walkie-talkie off the counter.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “it’s been a rough night.”
Eddie paused, pressing his lips together in concern. “Shucks, can’t imagine a gal like you having trouble.”
“Happens to all of us. Families are tricky. I’d like to take a stroll down the esplanade to clear my head before I pound the keys. You understand.” She pointed over her shoulder. “I won’t go far. Just to Clipper Way.”
Eddie glanced at the lights strung along the road. The monolithic curved walls of the administration building gave way to the phosphorescent glint of the fountain in the Enchanted Garden just beyond it. Opposite the garden, the outline of the Tatuta Maru’s bow was barely visible. “You sure?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
Eddie put the walkie-talkie back on the table.
“There’s a bed in the press room. I’ll probably bunk there for the night.”
“Okay, then. Just between you and me.” Eddie said. “Off the record.”
“Off the record.” She saluted and stepped away.
“Thanks again for the souvenirs.”
“Absolutely!”
BEFORE EDDIE COULD change his mind, she hurried away, hunching her shoulders against the damp cold. Bay water lapped at the seawall. Gulls screeched and sea lions barked. She halted and ducked back into the shadows, studying the Tatuta Maru, half as long as a city block. Flags strung along guy wires flapped in the wind. Thick, braided ropes, looped around stanchions, held the ship fast to the shore. Along the starboard flank, yellow lights glowed in portholes, and on the upper level of the ship, the windows were dark. The gangplank tilted up at a sharp angle to the shore. She clutched her collar and rushed away.
Beautiful Illusion_A Novel Page 11