Sarah Canary pushed back past the angry white man. Her mouth was open and she was panting slightly from her recent run, her rib cage growing and contracting against her dress with each breath. She came to stand docilely between Chin and B.J. as they watched the carriage turn uphill, the horse straining in her long strides, her blinkered muzzle rising and dipping, and Miss Dixon calling from the window, calling, surprisingly, for Chin. The angry white man ran after them, although he was obviously far too late. Chin would have gone himself, of course he would have, if it hadn’t been obviously far too late.
17
Afternoon in Woodward’s Gardens
No Notice Gave She, but a Change—
No Message, but a Sigh—
For Whom, the Time did not suffice
That She should specify.
Emily Dickinson, 1863
‘What do we do now?’ B.J. asked frantically. He had taken Sarah Canary by the hand. ‘This is all your fault,’ he told her, and Chin thought how true that was. All of it. All of it from the very beginning. Sarah Canary stood and panted. Her brief run along the bay seemed to have worn her out. Chin thought she did not look well. Her eyes had an opaque, inward turn to them. A feverish cast. Even her dress drooped like a wilted flower. If Chin had not been so worried about Miss Dixon, it might have concerned him.
‘I don’t know,’ Chin answered. His thoughts flew like agitated birds from one roost to the next. Miss Dixon. Harold. Sarah Canary. Miss Dixon. He forced himself to think the situation through in one straight line. Perhaps things were not so bad. ‘Harold must believe he has Sarah Canary. Soon he will discover his mistake. He doesn’t want Miss Dixon. He will release her and she will go, as she planned, to the Occidental Hotel. She never talked about anyplace else. Except for the women’s rescue mission.’
‘Except for the Cliff House,’ said B.J. ‘She did say she’d take us to the Cliff House.’
‘Why would she go there?’ Chin asked.
Chin and B.J. could go to the police, of course. But Chin had never enjoyed his encounters with police. Never found the police to be helpful. His relationship with Sarah Canary was so hard to explain. And then he and B.J. had left the Steilacoom asylum under conditions that were probably illegal and certainly not ideal. It would be so much better if someone else informed the police. Miss Dixon had been kidnapped with gunfire in front of a dock full of witnesses, after all. A hack and a horse had been stolen. The police were bound to notice.
Chin led Sarah Canary and B.J. over the blocks to Montgomery Street. A carriage would have been nice, or a streetcar, and then Sarah Canary might have rested inside it instead of stumbling up and down the hills at the end of B.J.’s hand like an opium addict. One of San Francisco’s balloon cars rolled by, a globe on wheels, a pumpkin drawn by a single horse.
The balloon cars each ran a regular route. A wooden disk had been set into the street where the routes ended, a disk large enough for both horse and car. When a car finished its run, it would park on the disk, which was manually rotated until horse and car faced the opposite direction, ready to reverse the route. B.J. pointed to the car in amazement. But Sarah Canary had made her feelings about carriages all too clear. It was better to save the money, anyway. Chin had very little money left. Montgomery Street was not so far from the docks.
They turned toward Market Street. The pavement was crowded with pedestrians and lined with shops, all sporting the same green blinds. The windows displayed tortoiseshell earrings, little hats with veils of different colors, dresses, men’s neckties. In the bank windows, the currency from many countries was arranged in fans. A beggar woman, wearing a shawl and an apron whose pockets were all filled with flowers, tried to hand a bouquet to B.J. He reacted in alarm, backing almost into a small fountain, trying to escape. Three times Chin saw a small woman in black approaching them and his heart skipped and fluttered anxiously, but it was never anyone he knew. He made B.J. ask a banker how much farther the Occidental Hotel was.
But when they actually arrived he was a little sorry. The Occidental Hotel had been such a clear goal. On-the-way-to-the-Occidental-Hotel had been an unimpeachable condition. They were doing something. Having reached the hotel, they were no longer doing something. They entered, instead, the condition of wondering what to do next. This was a much harder place to be.
Chin went into the lobby quietly. The hotel was more elegant than he had expected. He began to think, uncomfortably, of Miss Dixon as a wealthy woman. She had provided steamship tickets as well as pocket money for Chin and B.J. in Tacoma. He had been under the impression that the money came from a group of Caucasian monks who specialized in aid to the shipwrecked. Now he was forced to wonder.
The hotel was a gaslit world. Voices were hushed. Soft footsteps descended the mahogany staircase. Each stair was carpeted and edged in brass. Chin, B.J., and Sarah Canary would have been out of place here even if they’d been clean.
‘May I help you?’ a large, clean white woman in a long black apron asked B.J. She wore her hair piled in curls on top of her head.
‘May she?’ B.J. asked Chin.
‘Tell her you are here to meet someone,’ Chin suggested awkwardly. ‘Someone who may not be here yet but will be coming soon. A Miss Adelaide Dixon. Tell her you wish to wait.’
‘Not here,’ the woman said to B.J. firmly. She guided them instead into a private sitting room, small but very elegant. Sarah Canary sat astride the arm of a stuffed chair, her skirts pulled up rakishly beneath her. She rolled forward and back pleasurably. B.J. watched her but said nothing. His expression was so pronounced, Chin tried to read his face. If it wasn’t disapproval, then it was triumph. It was definitely one of the two.
B.J. took the chair beside her. Chin remained standing. ‘Would you like something from the kitchen?’ the woman asked B.J.
They had eaten lunch on the steamer not so long ago. Chin felt through his pocket for his money. ‘Tell her you would like some coffee,’ he said to B.J. ‘Bread and butter. Tell her to please notify you immediately when Miss Dixon comes in.’
B.J. opened his mouth. ‘Certainly,’ the woman said.
A flea appeared on B.J.’s forehead. Chin reached for it hastily, hoping to catch it before it was seen, but it must have leapt from his fingers. He scratched B.J. without meaning to.
‘What are you doing, Chin?’ B.J. asked in an interested, unoffended tone.
Chin did not answer.
‘I’ll just get the food then,’ the woman said. She looked at him with suspicion, sweeping her skirts aside as she turned away, and Chin was certain that whatever she’d thought he was doing was something much more contemptible than flea catching. Some exotic, heathen Chinese custom that only Caucasians knew about. He tried to imagine what it could be.
On her way to the door, the woman stopped to speak to Sarah Canary. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tidy yourself, dear?’ she offered. Sarah Canary put her hands together on the chair arm and raised herself slightly by straightening her elbows. She dropped herself back. The chair teetered.
‘Maybe later,’ said Chin to B.J.
‘Maybe later,’ said B.J. to the woman. She nodded suspiciously and left the room.
A Negro waiter brought the coffee and bread. He returned to clear the dishes. Chin chose a chair. When he closed his eyes, the floor rolled beneath him as if he were still on the ship. His blood rocked inside his body. Sarah Canary nodded and hummed with her eyes closed. B.J. dozed fitfully in his chair, waking every five or six minutes to ask Chin what was happening. He had one bad dream, started awake with a very white face.
‘What is it?’ Chin asked him, but he wouldn’t answer. He shook his head, breathing heavily. ‘Women,’ he said. He went to the bathroom once. When he came back, he asked if anything had happened while he was gone.
‘No,’ said Chin. He was wondering if they oughtn’t be doing something else besides wait. He was wondering how long they would be allowed to go on waiting. If Miss Dixon did not come by nightfall, they would
surely be asked to leave. Then what? He tried to remember the name of the women’s rescue mission. Kearny. He remembered it was on Kearny. Even if he could find the mission, Chin could not imagine sitting and discussing Sarah Canary or Miss Dixon with a group of white demonesses. He had been counting on Miss Dixon to do the talking. She was such a vocal person. He could not imagine sitting to one side and quietly prompting and wondering what B.J. would say next while a whole group of white demonesses stared at him. It was unthinkable.
Chin could go to Tangrenbu and buy information. The Chinese were not likely to know anything about an affair involving only white people. But it was always possible that Miss Dixon had been taken to a house that had a Chinese servant. Information was expensive in Tangrenbu. Even if no one had any, it would cost Chin to find this out.
The waiter came in with a note. ‘It’s for you,’ he said, handing the paper to Chin. The note was folded four times over into a triangular shape like a flag. A single word was printed on the outside. Trade.
‘Who brought it?’ Chin asked.
The waiter shrugged. ‘A boy.’
‘Did he stay?’
‘No.’
Chin unfolded the paper. Woodward’s Gardens. The large animal cages. Twenty minutes. If you’re late, you’re too late.
‘Where are Woodward’s Gardens?’ Chin asked the waiter.
‘Mission Street between Thirteenth and Fifteenth. Fourteenth runs down the middle of the park.’
‘Can we get there in twenty minutes?’
‘Possible. Let me get you a carriage.’
B.J. opened his eyes. ‘Has something happened?’ he said.
‘We have to go to Woodward’s Gardens,’ Chin told him. ‘And trade Sarah Canary for Miss Dixon at the large animal cages.’
‘Then we’ll have Miss Dixon,’ B.J. pointed out. ‘But we won’t have Sarah Canary.’
‘I know,’ said Chin. ‘We’ll have to think of something while we go.’
He was already thinking. He continued to think all the way to the gardens, bouncing up and down on the cushions as the wheels spun into potholes and out again. He thought that there would probably be other people at the large animal cages. This should make it difficult for Harold to carry out a second kidnapping. As the carriage arrived at the Mission Street entrance, Chin thought they had, at most, five minutes to spare.
The gate to the garden grounds was adorned with sculptures of seals balancing stone balls on their snouts and monkeys holding real flags in their stone paws, flags that snapped in the wind. Chin ran inside, but Sarah Canary moved only at a stumble. Chin tried not to feel impatient with her. He had anticipated great difficulties and much lost time getting Sarah Canary into the carriage, but she had chosen to cooperate. She was quiet and ladylike. She went anywhere she was pushed. She just could not be pushed anywhere fast.
A large two-story building stood opposite the gate, MUSEUM, it said in large block letters just under the roof. And next to the museum was a building that was all windows, the conservatory, a collection of hothouses for orange trees, tropical plants, and animals. Rockeries of exotic ferns flourished just inside the doorway. The greenery could be seen through the glass. The air in the gardens was scented by flowers and trees.
In front of the museum, a bulletin board listed the times of animal feedings and suggested other exhibits of great interest. A young father, carrying one child and holding another by the hand, stood reading it. B.J. joined him.
‘They have a five-legged buffalo,’ B.J. told Chin. ‘Wouldn’t you love to see that?’ The baby in the father’s arms reached out and patted B.J.’s hair. It made B.J. jump. He looked at the baby. Then, cautiously, he gave the baby his thumb to hold.
‘Where are the large animal cages?’ Chin asked. The gardens were a great deal larger than he’d expected. He could not see to the back fence. They didn’t have time for any wrong turns.
‘There’s no map,’ B.J. said.
‘Ask the man,’ said Chin.
B.J. stood provokingly still, reading the board. ‘This is lucky,’ he said. ‘We should be just in time to see the tiger fed.’ The man left the bulletin board, ignoring them, dragging B.J. along by his thumb, but apparently unaware of this. The baby’s face reddened as if it were about to cry. B.J.’s thumb popped loose. He inspected it briefly. ‘Isn’t the five-legged buffalo a large animal? Won’t everyone want to see it? We can just follow everyone else,’ B.J. suggested.
‘Ask the man,’ said Chin, ‘please.’ But the man was already gone, taking his children down the path between the museum and the conservatory. Chin hurried after him, one hand on Sarah Canary’s arm. They passed a set of swings and rings. Before them was the rotary boat. It sat in the center of an artificial lake only slightly larger than the boat itself.
B.J. paused to stare at it longingly. It was propelled in its endless circle by sails and oars. Some twenty or so people were seated on it; it could easily have held a hundred. Small boys splashed with the oars and shouted. ‘Like the balloon cars,’ B.J. said. ‘San Francisco has a lot of ways to travel in a circle.’
‘Come on!’ Chin’s tone turned nasty. He couldn’t help it. He was losing patience with both Sarah Canary and B.J. They were so slow. Recreational boats were certainly no temptation to Chin. On their right, deer stood and watched them from a grassy hill. Among the deer, inexplicably, one large Australian emu went about its business.
Behind the boat and on Chin’s left, a brook ran down from the lake through the middle of the gardens. It shot into the air in a white fountain opposite the skating rink. Beside the fountain stood a woman made of marble, sheltering herself from the spray with her arms, PANDORA, her pedestal read. Soft music came from the rink, spread as thinly through the air as the fountain water.
‘I know how to skate,’ B.J. told Chin, running to catch up to him. ‘I learned at the asylum. I could teach you. I don’t know about Sarah Canary. Houston could probably teach Sarah Canary to skate. Houston could teach anybody to skate. But I wouldn’t do that. Not unless it was really important that Sarah Canary learn to skate. Not unless she might die otherwise.’
Chin didn’t respond. Where were the cages? He turned and hurried along a shady path at the back of the gardens. Almost hidden among the shrubbery, he saw the small entrance to a man-made cave. Live oaks had been planted in columns beside the path. What were five minutes in the long, slow lives of trees? How many minutes had ticked away since Chin had entered the gardens? Minutes that would never be retrieved, never come back to be done differently. Chin heard time passing in every sound. In the music from the skating rink. In the barking of seals at the distant whale pond. In the clicking sails of the rotary boat. He grew more desperate with every click. ‘Where are the large animal cages?’ he asked, seizing the arm of a white man.
The man shook loose of his hand. ‘Here now,’ he said sternly. He brushed his coat sleeve and cleared his throat. ‘There.’ He pointed along the back of the gardens. ‘Through the tunnel under Fourteenth Street. Then turn left.’
Chin held Sarah Canary’s hand and ran against her resistance. White people stared at them as they passed. They ran down into the dark tunnel under the street. Just as they came up into sunshine again, Chin heard a child scream.
The large animal cages stood in a line along the fence to Fourteenth Street. A crowd of people gathered in front of one of the cages. The crowd was growing. Harold detached himself from it and walked out to meet Chin.
The exaggerated expressions, the disarrangements of hair and clothing that Chin remembered from their last meeting were gone. Harold appeared relaxed and sane, a man in full possession of himself, a visitor like any other visitor to the gardens. Just a man who enjoyed a large animal now and then. This frightened Chin more than any visible manifestation of lunacy could have.
‘You’re a bit late,’ Harold said.
‘Where is Miss Dixon?’ Chin gripped Sarah Canary’s hand tightly. He was not giving her up.
Harold smiled
, pointed back behind himself in the direction of the crowd. The child screamed again. Chin pulled Sarah Canary along, pushing through the people until he could see what everyone else saw. Miss Dixon stood inside Cage 6, backed against the bars on the left. A large Bengal tiger sniffed at her feet. She had a knife in one hand, but she was not using it. She was not moving at all. ‘Please don’t scream,’ she told the crowd. Her voice was stretched thin with fear. ‘You’re agitating him.’ There was a click as the cage door swung slightly. It had been pulled closed but was not latched.
‘Miss Dixon,’ said Chin, and at the sound of his voice, she began to tremble. Chin pushed his way to the opposite side of the cage. ‘Come here, tiger,’ he pleaded.
The tiger rotated its ears in his direction but did not take its eyes from Miss Dixon. It raised one paw, patted her dress. One large claw caught in the cloth. The tiger worked it free with its teeth. ‘Mr Chin,’ said Miss Dixon. ‘Please do something.’
The tiger’s tail whipped from side to side like a pendulum, striking the bars at the front of the cage with so much force that they rang. ‘Tiger,’ said Chin helplessly. The tiger growled without turning, licking its paw.
‘Has someone gone for its keeper?’ Chin asked. ‘Will someone go?’ He didn’t turn to see if anyone responded. Instead he searched the ground for something to throw. Nothing. This was a garden, not a forest; an exhibit, a model of what the world should be, but not the world. Nothing so untidy as rocks. Chin edged along the front of the cage. The tiger growled again and rotated a single ear to show that it knew where Chin was. Chin dropped to his knees. ‘Tiger,’ he said.
The tail lashed back and forth. The bars rang rhythmically as it hit. Time was passing. It was time for Chin to do something. The tiger reached with one paw toward Miss Dixon’s face. Chin reached through the bars.
‘Now!’ he called to Miss Dixon, grabbing the tiger’s tail. He pulled the end out of the cage, held it tightly with both hands. The tiger turned and lunged at him, hurling itself into the bars, its tail slipping easily through Chin’s palms. The tiger hissed and spat; its tail snaked about the cage. Chin had made one final grab as the tail slid back through the bars, but he was much too late. The tiger caught him by the sleeve of his coat instead. The fabric shredded. Shallow red tracks appeared down his arm. The tiger’s claws hooked in the material at his wrist.
Sarah Canary (S.F. Masterworks) Page 26