Shadows of the White City

by Jocelyn Green

  But Kristoff had stopped listening after the word promise. He cringed at the rough way Mr. Goldstein was dusting a violin and bow hanging on the wall. “Stop.”

  The man turned. “Yes?”

  “You’re transferring whatever is on that filthy rag onto a delicate instrument. You’ll damage it if you’re not careful.” The violin swayed where it hung, knocking into another one beside it. Kristof squinted at the second instrument. “May I see that one please?”

  “Really?” Gregor huffed. “Of all the things you need, a violin from a pawnshop is not on the list. No offense, Goldstein.”

  Grunting, Mr. Goldstein took it down anyway and laid it before Kristof.

  “The bow, too, please.” He ran his fingers lightly over the violin’s contours, then lifted it to his shoulder and began to tune the strings, only to find they were barely out of tune at all. The horsehairs on the bow were a little too loose, but they weren’t dry. They’d recently been rosined. He knew this sound. He knew this violin. “This belonged to Rose.”

  Gregor stared at the instrument. “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve handled it before. I’ve listened to it every week during our lessons, watching Rose’s fingers intently as she played, taking note of every imperfection in the instrument. This scratch on the fingerboard. This nick on the scroll. Even this streak here, on the back, where either the wood was stained unevenly, or it simply amplifies a natural variation in the grain.” Taken together, it was as distinct as a fingerprint. “It’s hers. Or it was.”

  By degrees, Gregor’s expression had shifted from doubt to genuine concern. He looked at Goldstein. “When was this brought in, and by whom?”

  The proprietor hesitated, kindling Kristof’s impatience. “Do you always dust from left to right, Mr. Goldstein, as you were doing when we came in? You stopped just before reaching this instrument, and yet it carries no dust.” He wiped a finger on the bridge and held it up, clean. “And unless you tune the instruments and rosin the bowstrings daily, I’d say it came to you very recently.” Otherwise the pegbox would have swollen around the tuning pegs, making them impossible to turn without brute force.

  Mr. Goldstein slapped his rag on the counter. “Why? You interested?”

  “Just answer the questions.” Gregor leaned forward, elbows on the glass. “Who brought this in, and when?”

  Kristof pulled out his wallet. “I’m interested.”

  Shrugging, Mr. Goldstein pressed the back of his hand to his perspiring brow. “A man brought it in this morning.”

  That wasn’t much to go on. “What did he look like?” Gregor pressed. “Old, young, tall, short, thin, stocky? Did you catch a name?”

  Mr. Goldstein took a step back from the counter. “I don’t want any trouble. You’ve got business with someone, I don’t get involved. You got it? I’ve said all I’m going to say about it. Do you want the fiddle or not?”

  Kristof swallowed his frustration. “Do you have the case it came in?”

  Mr. Goldstein pulled it up from behind the glass case and set it on the counter. The tag with Rose’s name and address was absent from the handle, but it was hers.

  “I’ll take it.”

  MONDAY, AUGUST 28, 1893

  Sylvie raised her closed parasol above her head, the signal to her group of ladies from Canada that she was about to speak. She’d tied a broad, red satin ribbon around it, its ends floating down in conspicuous streamers.

  “Ladies,” she called out, “welcome to the largest building in the world and the largest roofed building that was ever erected. St. Peter’s Cathedral in Vatican City could fit inside this space three times over. The old Roman Coliseum could seat eighty thousand people. The Manufactures Building is four times larger. The largest building we have in Chicago, outside of the Fair, is the Auditorium. Twenty of those could fit inside the Manufactures.”

  She could do this. She had given this speech so many times that she could do it without thinking, which was good, since her thoughts remained tethered to Rose’s violin, now in Kristof’s apartment. The case, she’d found on closer inspection, had been threaded with Tiny Tim’s black hair, evidence that the cat had been with her, wherever she was. No doubt he’d made a bed in her case while she played. Why she’d pawned the violin now, Sylvie had no idea, especially since they’d learned from Mr. Janik that Rose’s mother played the violin, too, increasing its sentimental value. Nor could she guess who the man was who’d made the trade. All she knew for sure was that Rose was here in Chicago—or at least, she had been on Saturday.

  She pointed upward with her parasol. “Look above, ladies. There is enough iron and steel in the roof to build not one, but two Brooklyn Bridges. Those red-and-white-striped awnings running the length of the ceiling filter the sunlight that pours through eleven acres of glass. Now look around.” As she had dozens of times before, Sylvie explained the layout of the ground floor of the building. “Aisles between the pavilions are laid out as streets, with ornamental streetlamps along the way. We are standing in the middle of Columbia Avenue, the fifty-foot-wide main thoroughfare that stretches from the north end to the south.” All down the center of it, rows of chairs sat back to back for the weary. Lining the avenue were gilded domes, minarets, mosques, palaces, kiosks, and pavilions, all in miniature to represent thirty different nations.

  “Just behind me, at the crossroads with the east-to-west avenue, is the clock tower, which will serve as a reference point for our day here in this building.” It was one hundred and twenty feet high and couldn’t be missed.

  “Excuse me, Miss Townsend?” A petite red-haired woman named Marie raised her hand. Her fair cheeks were florid already, and it was not yet eleven in the morning. “I read in my guidebook that we could spend a month in this building alone and still not see everything. I’m already overwhelmed. Could you bring it down to a scale we can manage?”

  “With pleasure,” Sylvie said. “That’s what you’ve hired me for. Now, as I understand it, some in your group are of French descent, am I right?”

  Five of the seven women nodded.

  “Then you’ll have special interest in France’s pavilion, right next to us. To my mind, it is the most expertly done of all the nations represented here. Would you like to see it with me?”

  They said they would. She reminded them once more where the closest toilet facilities were located, then led them beneath the arched façade and inside.

  Gasps rose up from her little group, just as she expected. “That’s right, ladies,” she told them. “This fountain is not of water, but of French perfume. You are all invited to dip your handkerchief into the pool for a free sample.”

  She led them from one marble-columned salon to the next, designed in the Louis XIV and Louis XV style, containing rich furniture and silver from Versailles. They also saw a carpet made of otter fur, luxurious Gobelin tapestries, and a display of the latest Parisian bridal fashions, worn by life-size wax figures.

  Before long, the strong jasmine-and-orange perfume of the French pavilion inspired a headache between Sylvie’s temples. “Marie.” She pulled the woman aside. “Why don’t you ladies work through this pavilion and the Belgian one adjoining it at your own pace. Meet me beneath the clock tower when you’re finished, all right?”

  Marie agreed, and Sylvie escaped the maze of French salons until she was back on Columbia Avenue. A sparrow swooped beneath the clock tower before soaring up again toward the light. Sylvie lost sight of it behind one of the American flags hanging from the skylights more than two hundred feet above her. But she knew it was trapped. She wondered if it longed for its mother or simply for freedom.

  She needed more sleep.

  No. What she needed was to find Rose.

  Then there she was, materializing out of the crowd, her back to Sylvie as she headed north, her hand in the crook of a gentleman’s elbow. Gasping, Sylvie followed her with her gaze. The honey-colored gown was unmistakable, though, with black lace trim at the collar, puffed sleeves that end
ed just below the elbow, black tulle ruffles at the cuffs, and matching ruffles on the skirt at the hem and about the knees.

  With a chill, Sylvie recalled “The Yellow Wallpaper,” which had been published in The New England Monthly magazine last year. In that short story, the narrator had descended into madness, seeing women trapped behind layers of wallpaper, then finally believing she was one of them herself.

  Sylvie shuddered. This was completely different. She was not hallucinating. She was not insane. Her sight had not betrayed her. She had been right about Gertrude, after all.

  The clock tower above her chimed eleven times. The Canadian ladies could spend another hour, at least, between the French and Belgian displays. Pulse rushing in her ears, Sylvie watched the hem of Rose’s skirt recede into the German pavilion.

  There was no choice but to follow. Leaving the clock tower behind, Sylvie darted between other fairgoers as she crossed the avenue. Towering black wrought-iron gates swung open to admit her into a German garden, and she hurried under the arch of a sixteenth-century Renaissance façade and into a courtyard that held several pavilions. She whirled around. Rose—or the girl in her gown—was gone.

  Sylvie hurried through displays of porcelain, past the altar-like structure that housed an eighteen-foot by twelve-foot painting of German industry on more than a thousand tiles. In the next pavilion, she was surrounded by thousands of German dolls of every size and variety. Roped off in the center of the room was a life-size model horse in fine livery, hitched to an ornate carriage filled to overflowing with toys from Sonneberg, Germany, and topped with a Christmas tree. Sylvie felt as though she could sense every false eye upon her. She shivered.

  She hastened out of Germany and into the adjoining Austria. A couple stood admiring Vienna wood carvings. Others bent over goods of pearl and shell, mosaics, amber work, silks, and velvets.

  Panic threatened. “Rose!” she called out, knowing the girl she followed might be someone else entirely. But her daughter’s name burst from her in spite of all logic.

  Palms sweating, she emerged from Austria and spun in a circle. Where could she have gone? Japan was next to Austria, and on the other side of the avenue stood the United States pavilion, featuring Tiffany & Co. in the corner.

  Of course. What young lady wouldn’t feel drawn to view the creations of the famous jeweler?

  Sylvie checked the clock tower, shocked at how much time had already passed. But she didn’t see her group below it. She hurried back across the avenue, her strides so long as to be unseemly if they weren’t concealed beneath her skirt.

  A Columbian Guard stood with his back to one of the Corinthian pillars flanking the entrance. American flags artfully draped the imposing façade above the engraved words: THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BIDS THE WHOLE WORLD WELCOME.

  Stepping inside was like walking into Tiffany & Co.’s New York City gallery. Chandeliers with globe-shaped hurricanes hung from a paneled ceiling that was open in the middle to allow natural light to fall through. Glass cases lined the dark wainscoted walls and studded the exhibit floor, bearing watches, silverware, smelling bottles, vases, Viking punch bowls, love cups, and, above all, jewelry of every kind imaginable mounted on black velvet.

  And there she was, the young woman in Rose’s gown, gazing at the inch-wide canary-yellow Tiffany Diamond. The gem slowly revolved in a case all its own, so people could view it from all four sides. Sylvie’s breath hitched as she approached the case, and she willed her heart to calm.

  While the young lady remained entranced with the diamond, Sylvie studied her through the glass from the other side. The bodice of the dress was exactly as she had suspected. Lace trim to match the high collar was sewn in straight lines angling from the shoulders to the center of the waist.

  There was no perfect way to proceed from here.

  Sylvie stepped around the display case until she stood almost shoulder to shoulder with her. “Excuse me,” she began. “I couldn’t help but notice your gown. It’s beautiful.”

  The young woman looked up. “Thank you. But I’m surprised it was my gown that caught your eye when we’re standing in front of the Tiffany Diamond. But then, I suppose you’ve seen it, haven’t you?” A silver badge pinned to Sylvie’s shirtwaist identified her as an employee of the World’s Columbian Exposition.

  “Oh. Yes, I have. I’m a tour guide here, so I’ve seen most of these exhibits already. Actually, I thought I’d seen your dress before, too. Do you mind telling me where you got it?”

  The young woman set her small black hat to a jaunty angle. “It was a gift. From my father.”

  A few yards away, a man studied the enameled dials and ornately carved case of the eight-foot-tall Louis XV astronomical clock. “Is that him?” Sylvie asked.

  She said it was.

  Sylvie thanked the young woman and moved to join her father, the many ticks and clicks of the clock tweaking her nerves. “Pardon me, sir. Your daughter told me you gave her that gown as a gift. Would you be willing to tell me where you found it?”

  Eyes narrow beneath the brim of his bowler hat, he turned to her. “Why do you ask?”

  There was nothing for it but the truth. “Because I think it once belonged to my daughter.”

  “Shh!” He guided Sylvie to another glass case, farther away, where electric light from the chandeliers gleamed on a variety of tea sets. “Keep your voice down,” he said.

  “I don’t need the dress,” she whispered. “I just want to know where you found it.”

  “Why should you care?” The Tiffany & Co. catalogue wrinkled in his grip.

  “I realize we’re complete strangers to each other, but you’re a parent, so to that sensibility I make my appeal. My daughter may have run away.” It was the simplest reason she could offer. “I thought she took her clothes with her, but now I am finding them on other young ladies in Chicago. I don’t understand why. I’m trying to piece the puzzle together.”

  He moved along the glass case, gaze traveling from a silver etched coffeepot to his daughter, who was now mesmerized by a Marie-Antoinette diamond collar. He must think Sylvie mad to have just revealed such personal information, but she could think of no other course to reach him.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter,” he said, coming back toward her. “I found that dress in a secondhand clothing shop on Clark Street last week.”

  “Which one?”

  He told her, and she locked the name of the establishment into a mental file. “Please, don’t say anything to her about it, all right? Times are hard, you know. She doesn’t know it’s secondhand. I just wanted to give her something special for her birthday.”

  Sylvie wondered if he was a bank manager whose bank had closed this summer, or a businessman laid off and afraid to tell his family. “It becomes her,” she offered sincerely. “Whatever happens, whatever she learns, she will still love you. She will love you no matter what.” It was not her place to say it, but she’d already shared more than propriety condoned.

  His brows snapped together. “Do you think so?”

  “I know it. I had my own father once.”

  Her throat closed as she realized how much she still missed him. Yet she’d been fortunate to have as many years as she did with both of her parents, when Rose had lost hers so young. No wonder she’d been searching.

  A whirring sounded from the astronomical clock on the other side of the room as it geared up to chime the hour. Sylvie thanked the father, cast one more glance at his daughter, and hurried back to the clock tower on Columbia Avenue just as it finished striking twelve.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 30, 1893

  By the looks of his apartment, Kristof wasn’t convinced he was getting his money’s worth from Lottie’s housekeeping. He hadn’t hired her because he needed the help, but he did hope she served the Hoffmans better.

  Exhausted from another day of rehearsal and two afternoon concerts, he set his violin case in its spot by the music stand in
the corner of the parlor.

  Gregor dropped his by the door. “Come out to dinner with us tonight.”

  Kristof swiped a finger through a fuzzy strip of dust on the edge of the mantel. “Who are you going with, and where?”

  “Neil and Geoffrey.” A cellist and the pianist from the orchestra. “Plus some ladies who work in the typewriters exhibit in the Manufactures Building. Three of them, to be exact. It would do you good to get out.”

  “You mean it would do you good to have evenly matched pairs,” Kristof replied. “No, thanks. Dining out with you is one thing, but I’d rather avoid the appearance of favoritism with anyone else in the orchestra.”

  Gregor laughed as he freed the tail of his shirt from his waistband. “Because you’re the maestro?”

  “Conductor,” he corrected. He’d never deign to use the more formal term reserved for men far more experienced than him. “And yes.”

  “There’s a rule somewhere about it, is there?”

  If there wasn’t, there ought to be.

  “In all seriousness, Kristof, you’re doing great,” Gregor offered. “You work us at least as hard as Thomas did, if not harder, which is a cross to bear, but the performances are better than ever, and ticket sales prove it. Do you enjoy it? Commanding everyone else, telling them exactly what to do, and telling them when they’re not good enough?” He smirked.

  “Actually, I do,” Kristof admitted. He’d been surprised how much. The precision that drove him to hours of practice had channeled into making the orchestra everything it could be. When they stumbled, he tried not to lose his temper as much as he would have if he’d been the one making the mistake. When his musicians got it right, however, the music transcended everything. It was sublime. And Gregor may have been teasing, but he was right that Kristof’s strict standards were paying off.

  Kristof moved into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. The tumbler he pulled from the cabinet, however, still had a trace of dried lemonade filming the bottom of it. He pointed the glass at Gregor. “Did you put this away dirty?”