by Jamie Ford
“Good morning,” Ernest said, admiring her outfit.
“Ohayo gozaimasu to you too,” she said, twirling proudly. “Do you like it? I bought it in Japantown.”
He nodded and then noticed that the Gibson girls looked stunning, as always, each in a high-waisted, floor-length skirt of rose, yellow, powder blue, or periwinkle, squeezed into a tight bodice, dappled with ruffles and rhinestones. They’d be walking advertisements for the Tenderloin as they toured the fair.
Professor True looked elegantly handsome as well, in a checkered waistcoat. And Miss Amber wore a light blue wig that matched Madam Flora’s dress.
The standout, though, was Maisie May, who’d been growing her hair longer. Ernest had never seen her in a corset before, and he wondered what battle had been fought to get her into one of those spoon-billed contraptions. He imagined an angry, feral, six-toed cat, with long claws and no tail, hissing while being dunked into icy water.
He said, “You look absolutely—”
“Don’t say it.”
“I was just going to compliment you on your—”
She smacked him with her parasol. Then she pulled back like Honus Wagner, ready for a second turn at bat. “Don’t make me swing for the fence this time.”
Ernest wished there had been a photographer nearby. He would have loved to keep this image forever. They looked like some kind of crazy family, part elegance, part circus, off on a weekend outing.
—
AS ERNEST WALKED from the streetcar terminus to the fairgrounds, he had a magnificent view of the grand arch of the main gate, and a platoon of uniformed ticket takers who stood at attention beneath a row of flags. The Stars and Stripes was interspersed between dozens of banners, every other standard representing one of the nations that were attending the fair. Ernest noticed that there was no Chinese flag, probably because of the Chinese Exclusion Act. But he and Fahn quickly found the Japanese standard, swaying in the breeze.
Madam Flora led the way, pointing with her bumbershoot as her peacock feather rose above a sea of hats by Chester, Knox, and Stetson. The Gibson girls followed, a parade of ducklings in lace-fringed petticoats. Ernest, Maisie, and Fahn kept up, trailed by the other servants, while Professor True and Miss Amber lagged behind, acting as a suspicious-looking rear guard.
Ernest noticed that the soldiers were gone from when he’d been raffled off in the summer. And the remaining policemen looked less serious, more joyful—except for a tall lummox with a wide mustache who had roped off a half dozen boys covered in mud. Ernest recognized him as the plainclothes officer who had broken up the spat between Madam Flora and Mrs. Irvine earlier.
“That’s ‘Wappy’ Wappenstein,” Fahn whispered. “He used to be the chief of police, until he got caught up in some scandal and got himself fired. We used to have to pay him a ‘garment’ tax—all the crib joints and parlor houses did. Now he’s been relegated to security at the fairgrounds and we pay off his replacement.”
The man smiled and tipped his hat at the ladies as they walked by.
Ernest smelled popcorn and waffle cakes. Maybe it was the perfect autumn weather, the morning sun, or the stable of beautiful women he traveled with, but Ernest couldn’t remember ever being so happy.
The Tenderloin brigade gathered in the Court of Honor, between the towering Alaska Monument and the magnificent columns of the Government Building, which looked like what Ernest had always imagined Roman architecture to be like. There everyone began drifting, the crowd, his makeshift family, to the right. He turned toward the bright colors and sounds of the Pay Streak—raucous laughing, joyful screaming, and carnival barkers with peculiar accents amid the warbling of a brass band.
But Madam Flora shook her head and smiled. “My Gibson girls, please consider this the season’s final exam on the intricacies of proper manners, decorum, restraint, and etiquette. You are at the fair to be educated and edified by the galleries, the exhibits, and the architecture. There’s even to be a thrilling debate between the world’s foremost scientists and geologists about who reached the North Pole first—Peary versus Cook—where they’ll settle it once and for all.”
The finely dressed girls groaned and a few cursed like sailors, even as a group of society debutantes passed by with their matronly chaperones, noses in the air.
“Just until suppertime,” Miss Amber interrupted. “Then Madam Flora’s leash comes off. And the rest of you—behave yourselves. Enjoy. Remember this day.”
Ernest felt Maisie and Fahn each take one of his arms as they turned and stepped toward the Pay Streak, the sideshows, and the thrilling rides.
“And where does our little Mayflower think she’s sailing off to?” asked Madam Flora.
Maisie stopped, hung her head, and stomped her heel. Madam Flora motioned for her to join the Gibson girls. She sulked as she followed behind her mother, looking back to wave farewell like a prisoner being led to the gallows. Ernest felt awful for her. Fahn took his hand and said, “Three’s a crowd,” as she led him away.
—
ERNEST HAD READ that the AYP was a dry exposition, but as he and Fahn worked their way down the crowded Pay Streak avenue, he smelled alcohol every which way he turned. There were delegations of men and women in matching suits, dresses, and uniforms, sporting ribbons from Hawaii, Oregon, and California, celebrating their final day, and sailors from the United States, Japan, and countries he didn’t recognize. The street was a delirious, delightful madhouse.
Ernest and Fahn had skipped breakfast in their hurry to leave the Tenderloin, so they used money from their envelopes to buy rice cakes and handfuls of Idaho cherries, spitting pits on the ground, and drank fresh-pressed lemonade from paper cups.
They paid twenty-five cents each and wandered into the John Cort Arena, where they watched a catch-as-catch-can wrestling match between a huge man, Jess Westergaard, and a stout champion named Dr. Benjamin Franklin Roller. The doctor was introduced as a professor of physiology at the University of Washington, and he won the bout, taking two out of three falls from the Iowa Giant.
As they left the arena they were nearly run over by a parade of Franklin automobiles. A man from the Seattle Auto Company stood on the hood of the one in the lead and shouted, “The only car to make it up the Queen Anne Hill Counterbalance in high gear!” As Ernest wandered, Fahn’s hand in his, he thrilled to each new attraction, frittering away nickels and dimes at the Foolish House, the Human Laundry, the Land of the Midnight Sun. They even saw the world’s largest piano. Ernest noticed Professor True standing in line, whistling a happy tune as he patiently waited for a chance to play the oversize instrument.
Next, Ernest and Fahn took a jinrikisha ride to the Igorrote Village, where a barker introduced the crowd to the primitive and mysterious dog eaters of a distant island nation. They paid twenty-five cents and waited nearly a half hour to get past the curtained entrance, but when they did there were no dogs to be seen, padding about, on a roasting spit, or otherwise. Nor did the short, dark-skinned villagers look fearsome or frightening. Quite the contrary, they vaguely reminded him of the Indian kids he’d known at the Tulalip school, not their features as much as their lack of smiles, the vacant look in their eyes, even when they danced and sang.
As Ernest watched them walk about in nothing more than loincloths, even the women, he recognized a familiar voice and noticed Mrs. Irvine and her group. The ladies moved through the crowd, passing out printed handbills and shaming the male attendees for staring at the topless savages. The men pulled their hats down as they tried to ignore the matrons.
Mrs. Irvine spotted Ernest and gave him a stern look of disapproval. He waved and nodded politely as he was led away by Fahn before the older woman could clear a path to reach him.
The two of them continued snacking their merry way from storefront to storefront, sampling roasted peanuts, salted in the shell, and spears of juicy pineapple from South America. With Fahn at his side, Ernest felt a bit older—wiser, more prideful perhaps. In a month and
a half at the Tenderloin he felt he’d learned more of the world than he’d ever seen or read about during his previous years at school. He’d been thrust into an adult realm of discovery and responsibility, though deep down he knew that he was just a kid, and Fahn was just a teenage girl, who seemed reckless with her heart. Ernest didn’t protest her affections, though he quietly wondered where Maisie was, what she was doing, and if she was thinking about him, even just a little.
“Oooh, this is what I was hoping to see!” Fahn squealed over the calliope music from a carousel and a parade of drummers and wailing bagpipers. She took his hand and led him past men demonstrating gold panning, around the Temple of Palmistry, to the crowded incubator exhibit.
An official-looking gentleman in a lab coat with a clipboard and slicked hair shouted, “See these pint-size prizefighters battle it out with a bottle for three rounds, while living in a futuristic machine that serves in loco parentis!”
“What is this place?” Ernest asked Fahn.
“Babies,” she said, clapping and hopping up and down. “You’ll see.”
The barker kept up his routine. “Right here, we’ve saved the lives of babes from every country—there’s a Russian, Italian, German, Syrian, even a little Parsee girl, a Siwash boy, and newborn Oyusha San—a Japanese maid that’s as cute as can be!”
Fahn eagerly paid for both of them as they were ushered past a plush red velvet rope, guided through a door and into a room where a dozen metallic and glass-walled contraptions contained infants. One had a painted sign attached that read: PLEASE, ADOPT ME!
Through the glass, Ernest could see the babies swaddled in blankets of pink and blue. Some cried, some stirred and wiggled, but most slept as nurses checked on them, adjusting temperature gauges on the incubators. At least Ernest thought they were nurses. Another man in a lab coat walked by, and Ernest saw tattoos on his forearm, which made him suspect that they might all be carnies, dressed up as hospital staff. It was impossible to know for sure.
“What do you think?” Ernest asked as Fahn lingered over the newborn Japanese girl. She waved to get the baby’s attention, but the infant didn’t stir. Ernest was reminded of his long-lost baby sister.
Fahn tore herself away from the sight of the infants and said, smiling, “I have an idea of what we should do next. It might not be your thing, but if you come with me and go along with it, you can consider your favor repaid.”
Ernest was quietly relieved, happy to leave this place, but still confused as she took his hand and led him out and past a stand selling hot roast beef sandwiches. They went beyond the pagodas of the Chinese Village, which was sponsored by Seattle’s Chinatown, to the very end of the Pay Streak, and into a garden with Oriental statuary and fountains and a large building with a sign that read TOKIO CAFE.
Fahn spoke in broken Japanese and English to the women who worked there. The staff all wore the same type of gown as Fahn, though of different prints and finer fabric. Their sleeves were longer, and they had wide, thick, pillowy belts cinched tight around their waists. Their faces were painted white, their lips bright red, and they managed to walk gracefully on what looked like the world’s most uncomfortable wooden sandals. He watched Fahn talk with an older woman who wore her hair up and seemed to be in charge. Fahn spoke until the matron smiled and laughed, pointing at Ernest, as Fahn handed her a silver dollar.
“Come,” the woman said. “Come with me—we help you.”
She led Ernest to the doorway of a small room with paper screens and woven mats, where she bid him to remove his shoes. Then he walked into the room, which was bare except for a single lacquered table, on which rested a vase, a solitary flower blossom, and a host of cups and wooden utensils he didn’t recognize.
“Your gaarufurendo,” the woman said. “She’s going to show you something special.”
Ernest bit his tongue and waited as the woman left and closed the door.
When it reopened, Fahn had returned.
She didn’t speak, but wordlessly acknowledged his presence with her eyes, smiling as she carried a black box and a teapot to the table. She sat, and nodded ever so slightly as she unpacked the container, lit a candle, and gently added rolled incense to a small flame that he realized she was going to use to heat water for tea.
Fahn sat across from him, upright, kneeling before a small kettle. She said, “I’m performing the chado—the way of tea. When I was a little girl in Japan, I used to watch my okaasan do this in the house where she worked. So I’ve always wanted to perform a real tea ceremony, like my mother—for someone special.”
Ernest smiled at her.
“My okaasan would say, ‘Water is Yin. Fire is Yang. And tea is a perfect expression of both.’ ”
“Both?” Ernest asked politely.
“Both sides of life, hot and cold, light and dark, not as opposites, but as complementary parts of each other,” Fahn said, pausing, as though deep in thought. “Life is about balancing the good and the bad, the past and the present. Madam Flora may not realize it, but she has a certain balance about her. All her girls do. Everyone does.”
Fahn is water, Maisie is fire, Ernest thought. Or is it the other way around?
He watched, enthralled and impressed, as Fahn bowed, then continued.
“Do you miss her?” Ernest asked. Those four words had been a common question often spoken at the various schools where he’d lived. “Your mother, I mean.” Ernest didn’t miss his mother anymore—at least not as much as he missed the mother he knew he would never have. “Do you ever get mad about being sold by your parents?”
Fahn shook her head. “I think about my okaasan, and my father too. I remember having younger brothers. We were starving. Because I had value, they could eat—they could live. I’m proud to have saved them. And I look forward to having my own daughter one day, because when I do, she’ll have a better life. My sacrifice is for her too.”
Ernest felt as though his heart had been recalibrated. He’d never once thought of her situation in such a light. Though he still wished he’d been able to save his mother.
Fahn smiled and changed the subject. “The ladies gave us these.” She handed him a plate of green sweets. “A homemade treat.”
Ernest tasted the chewy candy, which smelled and tasted like a cross between steamed rice flour and tea-flavored taffy. He continued to watch Fahn, appreciating each simple gesture as she ladled hot water into a tea bowl and gently stirred it with a bamboo whisk. He watched as she filled a small teacup. She finally presented the tiny vessel to him with both hands. Ernest accepted the porcelain cup and held it up, rotating it in his hand as if to ask, Like this?
She nodded, and then he sipped—tasting the tea, which was lighter, softer than the tea his mother had once made for him, or the teas Mrs. Irvine had served with honey and dried lemon at boarding school socials. He regarded Fahn as she adjusted the thin kimono she wore. She was beautiful and poised—absolutely enchanting when she chose to be, but fresh, crass, and delightfully demanding as well. He watched Fahn’s eyes as she gracefully returned the tea set to its black serving box.
“How did I do?” she asked.
“I’m utterly gobsmacked.” Ernest tried to mimic the modern expression he’d heard the maids use at the parlor house. But it didn’t feel right, so he lowered his voice and spoke elegantly, like Madam Flora. “When it comes to tea, my dear, you win the golden laurel and the silver.”
Ernest heard polite clapping and turned to the door, where the Japanese women were beaming with pride. He didn’t need to understand their words to know that they were praising Fahn.
When he turned back to Fahn, she took his hand, leaned across the table, and surprised him by kissing him yet again. He opened his eyes mid-embrace, and she opened hers as she gently bit his lower lip.
“You are lovely.” She smiled and sat back on her knees, laughing and wiping her lips with a napkin. The Japanese women looked on in awe at her brazenness.
Fahn smiled and folded her napkin
as she teased. “We make a great pair, young Ernest. Are you still going to marry me?”
Ernest sat upright, trying not to blush as he nervously changed the subject. “You should show this routine to Madam Flora.”
“I plan to. I just needed someone to practice my skills on. I’ll show her when I’m ready. That’s when I’ll ask to become one of her Gibson girls,” Fahn said with a confident smile. “But don’t be jealous, you’ll always be my sweetheart.”
Ernest smiled and nodded, but he felt his brow knotting in discomfort at the idea. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing: Fahn’s life downstairs seemed so perfect, the best of both worlds. He found himself caring for her, as a friend—but also as more than a friend. The idea of watching her submit to another—to some rich businessman, a stranger—made his head spin. Although the Gibson girls might have boyfriends, Ernest couldn’t bear to imagine sharing Fahn’s affections with anyone, especially someone who had to pay for them.
That’s when he heard a familiar voice. He buttoned his jacket and stood up, quickly, as though he’d been caught in a state of undress.
“The Japanese Village. Hmmm…I knew I’d find at least one of you here.”
Ernest turned and saw Maisie standing in the doorway. She’d bought a cheaply woven porkpie hat and wore it cocked at a sly angle. Her blond hair spilled out from beneath the brim. The cavalier look wasn’t enough to hide the S-shape of her corset or the ruffled sleeves of the colorful dress she wore. She looked like one of the older girls, pinched waist, accented curves.
Maisie frowned at Fahn and said, “My turn, toots.”
“Now we’re even, young Ernest,” Fahn whispered. She stood up and turned to leave. “Your debt is paid in full.”
Ernest followed behind, quietly wondering how long Maisie had been standing there. Long enough, he reckoned.
