by Ellen Klages
“What happens to it after the fair closes?” Haskel asked.
“I will continue, without the tourists watching, and then it will go to a college library.”
Emily stared at the huge fresco. “You’re going to move it?”
“It is five panels, hung on steel frames. They are each quite large, but from the beginning, we had planned this.” He shrugged. “Engineers with cranes and trucks. It is not my job.”
“Señor!” his assistant called from above.
Rivera waved. “I must get back to work, before the plaster dries. The colors must penetrate, become part of the wall.” He smiled. “Frida has some work in the gallery. Go and see it. Her health grows worse, but her vision—” He kissed his fingertips with a loud smack. “She is like an angel forced to paint purgatory. Not unlike yourself, eh?” He patted Haskel’s cheek. “Adiós, hasta luego.” He climbed the ladder back to the platform.
“You didn’t tell me you knew famous people,” Emily said as they entered a smaller corridor.
“You never asked.”
The crowds were more sparse in the galleries. Tourists flocked to the fair for pageants and parades and thrills, not for contemplation. In a few minutes, they stood before Frida Kahlo’s Self-Portrait, nearly a private viewing.
Emily stared. “That’s—intense.”
“She is. When I knew her she was ‘just’ Diego’s wife. She’d exhibited one or two paintings. The headline in the papers was ‘Wife of the Master Mural Painter Gleefully Dabbles in Works of Art.’” Haskel snorted. “Dabbles. She was furious, and let me tell you, that’s something to see.”
Emily took a step back. “I’m not sure I’d want her watching from my parlor wall.”
The background was a vivid chartreuse, the woman pictured severe, unsmiling, her eyes staring out at them under a single line of heavy dark brow. Her black hair was wound with purple yarn and covered with a netting. She wore a simple white dress and a necklace made of bone and shell. A faint mustache shadowed her upper lip.
“I have a mustache,” Emily said.
Haskel laughed. “No you don’t.”
“I mean, I own one. Theatricals.”
“Frida’s is real. It tickles.”
“How do you know?”
Haskel leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. “One night, Frida and Diego threw a party. Artists and communists, lots of beards. The apartment was so packed it was hard to breathe. Frida and I ended up in a corner of the back porch, drinking this raw Mexican whiskey with a worm in the bottle. Potent stuff. She talked and I listened. You think I paint monsters—” She blew out a stream of smoke. “She’s the one who taught me. Frida’s been in pain—terrible, unthinkable pain—most of her life. Her art is the only way she gets through it. We talked until four in the morning—about taking the pain, the rage—the terror—getting it onto the canvas, daring the viewer to accept it. We drained the bottle, ate the worm, and ended up in their bed.”
“You slept with her?”
“Only once. She was passionate—my god—but a bit much for me. I was very young.”
Emily said nothing. She turned away, her arms tight across her body.
“You look upset.”
“I have to pee.” She laughed. “Did you think you’d shocked me with your wicked past, that I’d drop you like a hot potato?”
“It did occur to me.”
“Well, not this afternoon.” She looked around. “Let’s go somewhere with a restroom and some food. I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“You survive on coffee and cigarettes.”
“Only when I’m working.” Haskel thought for a minute. Most of the restaurants were over by the Gayway, on the other side of the island. In between there was only the Food and Beverage Building, with free samples of Junket custard, baked beans, or orange drink. Where—? She snapped her fingers. “The Yerba Buena Club.”
“It’s members only.”
“It is.” She tapped her pocket. “Babs joined back in ’38, because of her job at the university, and she sponsored me. It was ten bucks, but she said it would come in handy—it’s the only bar on this side of the fair.”
“Lay on, MacDuff. I’m thirsty and nature is calling.”
The building was streamlined and modern, all vertical lines and glass, abutting the port where the Pan Am Clippers landed. Inside it was elegant, with atrium gardens, a dining room, even a beauty shop.
“I’m sorry, this is a private club,” a woman in a dark, severe suit said as they walked in. She did not sound sorry at all.
“Yes,” Haskel replied. “I’m a member.” She held out the card, which the woman examined with more scrutiny than was necessary, handing it back with a tight, polite smile. “No slacks in the dining room,” she said. “You may use the lounge.”
Many heads swiveled to see who had arrived. To a woman, the others were in day dresses or suits with smart hats and smug looks, glaring scandalized at the newcomers’ pants and bare heads. The hostess, with another tight smile, showed them to a table in a corner that overlooked an extravagant garden.
Emily whispered, “We’re not their kind of women, are we?”
“I hope we never are.” She gave Emily’s knee a squeeze under the table.
They ordered club sandwiches and beers. When Emily returned from the restroom, she reported it was so fancy that each towel had its own attendant. Haskel burst out laughing, provoking another round of withering glances from the ladies of the club.
“My mother would fit right in,” Emily said. “I bet everyone here is a Republican, and they’re all voting for Wilkie. I don’t see why. It’s Roosevelt who has all the ex-peer-ee-ence.”
This time Haskel laughed so hard she almost snorted beer out her nose. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so relaxed, when everything felt like a private joke the rest of the world couldn’t share. As if she’d known Emily for years, as if they’d grown up together. It felt so easy. Nothing to prove, nothing to pretend.
They made up names for the hatted women: Winifred and Cordelia and Ursula, who wore a fashionable snood. “In the society pages, she would be Mrs. DeWitt Ludlow Fitzbottom,” Emily said.
“Of the Burlingame Fitzbottoms?”
“Of course, Millicent. Where did you think, Petaluma?”
“Now Florence, let’s not be vulgar.”
They left the club and ambled through the southeast corner of the fair. The wind was fierce, pressing their clothes to their bodies, snapping flags, keeping every tree and shrub in constant motion, a waving sea of color.
“I envy Franny and Babs,” Emily said as a couple rode by them in a rickshaw, the man with his arm around the woman’s shoulders.
“Why’s that?”
“They make it look so easy, like they were an actual married couple.” She frowned. “At Mona’s, the regulars seem to think they have to pick—who’s the boy, who’s the girl. Babs and Franny aren’t like that. They’re just two women sharing a life together.”
“I know. If I’m in pants, I must be butch. If I wear my hair down, or have lipstick on, I’m a femme.”
“One customer told me that I had to choose, or I wasn’t really—” Emily was quiet. They passed the Hall of the Western States. “Wonder what she’d make of you? You’re married. For convenience?”
“No. I was in love with the guy, at first.” Haskel stopped to light a cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind with a cupped hand. “I’ll confess, I have a checkered past. I’ve played for both teams.”
“A Gillette blade.”
“What?”
“Double-edged. Cuts both ways. But I don’t get it. How—?”
“How I could ever eat garlic bread and hot fudge with the same mouth?”
“Yes.” Emily laughed at the unexpected image.
“Like that. But until last week, it’d been a while since I did either.” Haskel slipped her arm into Emily’s. “So how do you fit into the grand sche
me of things?”
“I’m not sure I do. I like trousers, but I don’t see why being comfortable should be considered a man’s privilege. Or smoking. Or drinking. By those lights, we’re all men.”
“I’m glad you’re not.”
“Me too. I mean, I was a tomboy, good at sports—that’s where the name Spike came from, a wicked volleyball shot. I could keep up with the boys, but was never boy-crazy. You know. Then I met Jilly and—well—” She looked away, out at the whitecaps on the bay. “Schoolgirl crush, some said. Just a phase. T’wasn’t. Obviously.”
“I’m glad of that, too.”
Now they could hear the barkers and calliopes, the happy screams and din of the Gayway. They reached the illuminated pillars that marked its entrance a few minutes before five. That section of the fair had the chaotic air of cheap desperation. One last chance for fun, fun, fun, a sweeping boulevard of flash and neon, useless gimcracks, and thrill-seeking pleasures. The carnival smells of cotton candy, frying doughnuts, and motor oil mixed with the salt air and tang of seagull droppings.
“Who on earth named it the Gayway?” Haskel mused aloud.
“Some woman won a contest. Do you think the men in charge have any idea it’s—?”
“No. They would have picked the runner-up.”
They passed the Cyclone coaster, the Octopus, incubator babies, Ripley’s Odditorium, the midget village, and “virgins in cellophane,” aiming for a white tower with S-C-O-N-E-S spelled out vertically in huge red letters.
“You made it,” Franny said. “Babs, look what I found.”
Babs turned from the Threlkeld’s counter. She handed Polly a waxed-paper-wrapped bundle, a bit of raspberry jam oozing from one side, and smiled at the new arrivals. “Well, well. She said you two were—”
“And we are,” Emily said dryly. “Millicent, I think the neighbors approve.”
“How very kind of them.” Haskel squatted down. “You must be—Suzie?”
“Suze,” said the stocky blond child. “Like ooze.” She had a blunt bowl haircut and a smear of mustard across one cheek. “I want to go home now.”
“Hot dogs, ice cream, and pony rides aren’t the best combination,” a woman with honey-blond hair said. “I’m Terry Gordon, Babs’s sister. I’m afraid we’re on our way back to Berkeley. Long day, and someone’s getting cranky.” She held out her hand to the child. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go ride the boat. Nice to meet you,” she said to the others. “I’ll take a rain check for that drink.”
“I’m bushed,” Babs said. “Suze wanted to see everything. I love her to pieces, but I’m ready for a tall cold one and some adult conversation.”
Emily opened the guidebook. “The Estonian Village has a beer garden, and the Chinese Village has a cocktail lounge.”
“We can have Chinese any time,” Babs said. “Let’s be adventurous and explore Estonian cuisine.”
“What about Polly?”
Polly polished off the last of her scone and crumpled the paper. “What about me?”
“You have to be twenty-one to enter a drinking establishment,” Franny told her.
“Oh. Well. Just a tick.” She pulled a lipstick, compact, and comb from her satchel, applying the makeup quickly and expertly, then undid her braids, combed her hair, and fashioned it into an elegant French twist. “There,” she said. “Do I pass muster?”
“You do. Wow.”
“Stagecraft is all illusion.”
The Estonian Village, three acres of quaint red-and-green buildings with high gables and turrets, was at the far west end of the Gayway. At the entrance to the beer garden, Polly handed the satchel to Haskel. “Here goes.” She stepped up. “We require a table for five, my good man,” she said with an arch look, her Britishness fully unfurled.
“Yes, ma’am. Right this way.” He led them to a table.
“That worked,” Haskel said when they were seated.
“We had a rather fierce headmistress at Giles Hall. She could simply wither with one glance. And Americans—even Estonians, it seems—are putty for a posh accent.”
“You’re full of tricks.”
“You should see my exploding paint.”
“Really?”
“Truly. I’ve created all sorts of whiz-bangs for Father’s act.”
“I thought you were going to be a scientist.”
“There’s loads of science behind good stage magic.” She looked down at her menu. “What is ‘chicken in the rough’?”
“A rare Estonian delicacy?” Franny guessed.
No, the waiter explained, it was fried chicken, shoestring potatoes, and hot biscuits, to be eaten with the fingers. Napkins were provided, but no silverware.
“May I see the guidebook?” Polly asked once they’d placed their orders.
“Sure.” Emily slid the thick paperbound book across the checkered oilcloth.
Polly leafed through the pages. “Oh. That sounds bloody marvelous.”
“What does?” Emily leaned over.
“At night, they switch the lighting system to fluorescent tubes and ultraviolet radiation, which alters the perceived color composition in the various sectors.”
“In English, please?” Haskel said, then laughed. “Sorry. In non-scientific terms?”
“The buildings turn different colors at night.”
“Yes. It’s really spectacular.”
“It’s the technique I’m keen to observe. It might be something Father could use to great effect.” She read on. “Throughout the island, a concealed, indirect lighting system was installed, with beams in fantastic arrays shooting from mysterious places.”
“Sounds like more science fiction,” Emily said.
Haskel rolled her eyes. “It’s definitely an ex-peer-ee-ence.” All of them laughed.
“Actually,” the girl said, “seeing anything brightly lit at night will be a delight for me. We’ve had blackout curfews for almost a year. No house lights, streetlights, no electric signs in Piccadilly or the West End. London feels like a ghost town after dark.”
“Then we’ll stay for the fireworks tonight,” Babs declared. “They put on a magnificent show, every evening.”
“Really? That would be splendid. And here I—” Polly bit her lip, wadding her napkin in embarrassment. “I’m afraid, on the train, I was rather dreading—”
“Ah.” Franny chuckled. “You thought you were being banished to the maiden aunts, trapped for the rest of the summer in a dark, musty house with horsehair sofas and fussy doilies?”
“Along those lines.” Polly sat back with a relaxed grin. “But you’re all—well, you’re all so jolly fun.”
They finished their beers as shadows in the courtyard lengthened and the light faded on the walls around them. “Time for the show,” Babs said. They left the Estonians and strolled toward the looming statue of Pacifica, crossing an avenue that gave a clear view of the western horizon and San Francisco, where city lights were winking on in their geometric order.
Emily tugged at Haskel’s arm. “Look.” She pointed across the water to the white cylinder of Coit Tower atop Telegraph Hill. “You can see our steps, midway down the hill.”
Our steps. Haskel felt an unexpected warmth. If one of them had been a man, she would have swept Emily into her arms. Sweethearts embracing at sunset, how charming, people would think. But they wouldn’t, would they? They would turn away and mutter in disgust. She could only nod and attempt a smile.
They entered a court a thousand feet long that stretched from Pacifica to the Tower of the Sun, light standards as tall as buildings every twenty feet, hung with vertical blue-and-white striped banners. Suddenly—by magic or science or art or an amalgam of the three—the hidden lights came on, all at once. In a symphony of illumination, the world around them changed in an instant.
Windowless apricot walls became green and amber and pink against the deep blue of the evening sky. The pale ivory of the tower scintillated mercury green from myriad bits of mica embedded in its
sides. Behind it, a fan of blue searchlights splayed out like the rays of an alien sun, rising at dusk. The crowd stopped as one, mouths open, oohs and aahs sounding all around.
When they reached the tower itself, Polly wanted to examine the material close up and see if she could locate the hidden lamps.
“We’ll say our goodbyes, then,” Haskel said. “And stroll on to other marvels.” A quick round of goodnight hugs and once again Haskel and Emily split off from their companions and walked together through the fairyland of light.
The Moorish-inspired Court of the Moon lay on the south side of the tower. A bland beige by day, it was breathtaking now, deep blues and pinks creating an orchid glow. From each octagonal corner turret, cutouts in the stone, lit from within, formed golden crescents and stars.
Haskel longed to paint it, to capture the particular quality of the light. It would make a fabulous cover, the subtle interplay of colors, the shapes evocative of far-off lands, simple, magnificent, and otherworldly.
“Golly,” Emily said. “This is the best—the best—Wednesday of my life.”
“Mine too. Our moon. Our stars,” Haskel answered, surprising herself. She was not a romantic. “Let’s find a place away from the crowds.”
They stepped off the path and found a niche around the corner of a wall, hidden by a flowering tree. Haskel pulled Emily close and kissed her, truly kissed her, as if the laws of the city across the water no longer applied. Emily fit her slender body into Haskel’s and returned the embrace. For a long moment, surrounded by orchid-tinted shadows and the fragrance of lilacs, they were alone in a garden of unnatural delight.
Emily laid her head on Haskel’s shoulder. “This is so nice. I could—”
From the path fifteen feet away, a song broke the spell, a man’s voice, loud and off-key. “Happy days are here again, the skies—”
“Pipe down,” said another man.
“C’mon, Harv. I got three days’ leave. I’m gonna see my gal and—”
Haskel stiffened. She craned her head to peek around the lilac branch that hid them from view. “Shit,” she said, biting the word off so the sound wouldn’t carry.