Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  By summer, Lily knew the ropes and knew the players. On a late afternoon in August, she got wind of a ground-breaking ceremony on Treasure Island.

  She nabbed Dudley in the coatroom. “Are you shooting Merriman and Cutler on TI tomorrow?”

  He tipped his hat back off his forehead. “Yeah. The big dogs are burying a time capsule. I guess the slop is firm enough that the shovel won’t submerge and float out to sea.”

  “Who’s the legman?”

  “Suppose to be Poletti, but I just saw him limp out the door a mite green around the gills.”

  Lily glanced over her shoulder, lowering her voice. “Take me. I’ll write the story.”

  Dudley shook his head. “Front office won’t buy it, Nordby.”

  “Come on, Dudley. Who’s your friend?”

  “Aw, shit, you never give up.”

  Governor Merriam and Delegation Break Ground

  THE AUGUST DAY dawned, fog-banked, dank, and bone-chilling. Lily and Dudley caught a ferry at the dock on the Embarcadero and crowded elbow to elbow onto the boat with a contingent of Boy Scouts from Old St. Mary’s Church in Chinatown, an honor guard, and a marching band. Steamy anticipation rose off the shoulders of the young boys and men, and the howl of voices made it nearly impossible to understand a word of what was being said.

  As the ferry came abreast of the island, the wind ripped through Lily’s coat. When she stepped off the gangplank, the soles of her rubber boots slipped on the mushy soil. Dudley, oblivious to the cold, charged ahead and began clicking a Leica strapped around his neck. Flash bulbs pinged in the murky gray light. Lily firmly tucked her trouser cuffs into the tops of her boots, straightened up, and ran after Dudley.

  Not a hundred yards from the shore, a patch of damp earth had been groomed and flattened. Sailors in white caps ringed the outer perimeter. The Associated Press’s loudspeakers hissed and crackled. Off to one side, military flags draped a dais upon which dignitaries and onlookers had assembled. The honor guard stood at the ready. Boy Scouts shuffled, shoved at each other, and then reassembled. Ahead, a ring of two dozen international flags, carried by female flag bearers wearing the costumes of their countries, flapped in the stiff wind.

  Dudley and Lily pushed forward.

  “Dudley, look. There’s a black-and-red swastika of Nazi Germany flying next to the red rising sun of Imperial Japan.”

  “Yeah, I see it.”

  “Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Tell that to the do-gooders over at the Institute of Pacific Relations.”

  “Are they blind to Hitler’s summer Olympics?” Lily protested. “He won’t stop at anything to prove the supremacy of the Aryan race.”

  “My bet is on our University of Washington rowing team. They’ll upset the führer’s applecart!” Dudley rubbed his hands together. “Those boys are tough.”

  “Fat lot of difference that will make,” Lily said. “Meanwhile, Germany is carving up Europe and Japan is slaughtering the Chinese and we’re waving flags.”

  “The US is not in that dogfight. Yet. Anyway, keep moving, Ace. This is your big chance. Pageantry and spectacle. That’s what Toth wants. That’s what we all want.”

  The brass marching band, stepping in formation, struck up “God Bless America” and moved forward. They halted in front of Governor Merriam, who gripped a gold-plated shovel. Beside the governor, Mayor Rossi sported a white carnation in his lapel amid a bevy of mayors, businessmen, and diplomats, each of whom represented countries that were planning to participate in the Exposition. Merriam handled the shovel, praising the lofty purpose of peace in the Pacific on the greatest artificial island in the land, upon which a magic city would be built. The loudspeakers boomed. Then the ensemble trooped off to watch Leland Cutler sink a redwood chest filled with plans of the Exposition into hallowed ground.

  Lily dove into the fray after quotes like a bloodhound after wild boar. She had only to look up to locate Dudley, whose camera flashed in a wind-whipped flurry of overcoats, hats, uniforms, and sodden flags.

  THE NEXT DAY, the story broke. Toth called Lily back into his office.

  “Not bad, kid,” he said, slapping the newsprint with the back of his hand.

  “Yes, sir.” Lily held her breath.

  “I take it you’re ready to move up?”

  She felt a twinge for Gladys. “Anytime.”

  “The town is going nuts with anticipation of this Expo. Thousands of jobs opening up. Barrels of new money stacked in city coffers. Attendance expected in the millions.”

  Lily scribbled notes on a steno pad.

  “I want a series of articles on how TI is progressing, what it will look like. Human-interest stuff. People by the hundreds are turning this muddy slop into a white-walled Baghdad. Architects, carpenters, plumbers, artists, food workers. You get the stories. Phone them in to the rewrite guys. No fancy business this time. Got it?”

  She met his stare straight on. “I’m your girl!”

  “Partner up with Dudley. Folks love photos.”

  Lily was out the door when she heard Toth shout, “Remember, Nordby, just get the goddamn story, goddammit!”

  Tatuta Maru

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tokido

  On August 25, 1938, the Tatuta Maru ploughed past the Farallones, bound for Treasure Island. Fog-horns blared a warning. The ship carved a white phosphorescent trail through the hazardous tide. Ten days out of Yokohama, the Tatuta Maru was precisely on time.

  Slick fog coated the deck, stanchions, and guardrails. The ship, 583 feet in length and 71 feet wide at the beam, weighed 17,000 tons. Deep in her hold, dry lumber for a Japanese samurai castle, bridge, and moat was lashed together like a puzzle. Precious textiles, furniture, and art goods were expertly stored in containers for the journey. Plants, trees, and statuaries had weathered the crossing without injury.

  Twenty-three craftsmen, stonemasons, and carpenters gathered on the bow, smoking and gazing through the mist.

  On the bridge, Tokido Okamura, a diplomat from the Office of Foreign Affairs, braced himself, inhaling the cold, briny air. The rocky coast appeared out of the rolling mist and plunged vertically to the sea. Cypress trees clung to the soil and bowed their branches to the incessant, howling wind.

  The captain of the ship, S. Ito, glanced quickly at Okamura. “See how the land hugs the shore as we approach?”

  “Hai,” Okamura answered, pulling down the brim of his black cap and peering landward.

  “The United States Army occupies these headlands,” Ito continued. “Batteries are built high into the cliffs to house arterial gun emplacements crucial for protection.”

  “Now we have intelligence about two new gun batteries each capable of shooting 2,100-pound, armor-piercing projectiles twenty-five miles to sea,” Okamura said.

  “A high-security operation. For defense against naval or air attack.”

  “Exactly,” Okamura confirmed. “Considered the zenith of military technology.”

  Suddenly, in the distance, the tops of orange twin towers broke through the fog.

  “There is the bridge that spans the mouth of the bay,” said Ito. “They call it the Golden Gate.”

  “Foundations have been built to withstand earthquakes.” Okamura squinted down at the gunmetal-gray sea roiling past the bow and back up at the massive piers of the bridge as they loomed closer. “I’ve read that if a man jumps from the bridge, he is dead before he hits the water.”

  Beside him, Ito was silent.

  “And so our work begins,” said Okamura, as they passed under the massive structure.

  But it was not the demands of construction that occupied his thoughts. The site was assured, the architectural plans fine-tuned, the crew superior by all measure. Upon Tokido’s bidding, the emperor would send his own gardeners to oversee the installation of the gardens. Emissaries from the Japanese consulate stood ready. Daily telegrams from Consul General Moto had flooded his office, informing Okamura of their preparedness. The Japan
ese American community was turning out in vast numbers.

  No, there were other matters of sensitivity, such as the presence of the Chinese village that was being financed and built through the efforts of a San Francisco businessman, George Jue, at the request of the Chinese government. Jue would save face for the homeland at all costs. When will the Chinese nationalists cease their useless opposition to our guidance? Okamura thought. Don’t they grasp how their resistance has no place in the inevitable tide of progress? Yet protocol would require impeccable respect. He had been counseled to proceed with the utmost caution. There were factions of the American government and citizen organizations on guard. They could not afford an incident of any nature.

  The barrage of social gatherings and political meetings and the months stretched ceaselessly ahead. He would miss the small pleasures of life that marked his days—the ginkgo trees lining the stone path to his two-story wooden home, the exquisite porcelain perfection of his wife’s face, the laughter of his young children, the sumo-wrestling events he attended, and the ritual at the end of the day that awaited him in the bathhouses.

  Okamura removed a pack of Cherry cigarettes from his pocket. Ito withdrew a lighter, cradling the flame in the nest of his palm, offering it to him. The tip of the cigarette ignited, the taste of it bitter in his mouth.

  In the distance, Treasure Island appeared like an apparition rising out of vapors.

  “We will be the first foreign ship to drop anchor at the Port of Trade Winds.”

  “Hai,” Okamura said. “It is well to mark this achievement in the land of the gaijin.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Woodrow

  Woodrow Packard was not in the habit of mingling in a crowd. He’d been persuaded, practically ordered, to attend the gala onboard the Tatuta Maru by Leland Cutler, president of the Exposition. Cutler, as busy as he was, seemed to be everywhere and, to Woodrow’s chagrin, had appointed himself Woodrow’s St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes.

  The gaiety of the event called for action and demanded a certain panache that was entirely abhorrent to Woodrow. He could hear his father’s admonishment: Good God, Woodrow. Pull yourself together. You may be a dwarf, but you’re still a Packard. Stand up straight.

  He couldn’t exactly fade into the background. Lord, he wished he could. The curious stares of assembled dignitaries pained him tonight. The Japanese, at least, knew how to avert their eyes. Confrontational behavior to them was inherently dishonorable.

  Woodrow adjusted his top hat—a miserable idea to begin with—and glanced through the trouser legs of gentlemen and politicians, past the petticoats of wives, and at the occasional rippling silk of kimonos that skimmed the floor. The grand Georgian dining room of the Tatuta Maru—soaring trompe l’oeil ceiling, ornate curved balcony, and Palladian gewgaws offered no refuge. Above the noise, he heard Mayor Rossi’s gravel voice over whiskey-infused baritones. Beside Rossi, the slight frame of Toshito Moto, Consul General of Japan, bent like a delicate willow in the blunt force of wind.

  Just then, the Tatuta Maru listed and the Persian carpet underfoot seemed to slip sideways. Woodrow felt a strong hand under his arm hoist him upright. He grabbed his hat and craned his neck over his shoulder. Timothy Pflueger, lead architect of the Exposition design committee, scowled down at him. “Hang on, old man. The night is young.”

  Woodrow regained his footing, wrenched away from Pflueger, and stuck his hat back on his head. Pflueger’s belly, stuffed with one too many pork chops, seemed to precede him, and yet his piercing eyes punctured Woodrow’s disguise.

  “Say, I read your paper on the sculpted reliefs and murals of the Mayan temples in the Yucatán. Damn interesting stuff. What an experience being with the Carnegie team at Chichén Itzá.”

  Woodrow mumbled his thanks. Pflueger reminded Woodrow of his uncle, a man of annoying gusto, spit and polish, and undeniable brilliance. At the mention of Chichén Itzá, a flash of memory shot through Woodrow: a shaft of light filtering down through a narrow, dark opening; his hands grasping a ladder lashed with twine; the verdant jungle, the screech of monkeys, the buzz and click of insects fading; his feet finding purchase on the chalky ground; the static, bottled air of Mayan gods rushing into his nostrils. With shaking fingers, Woodrow had lit a miner’s lamp and the Temple of the Warriors’ inner chamber had flared into view.

  “I’ve wanted to go,” Pflueger said, “but projects here keep me chained to the drafting board.” He wasn’t boasting—his hand was stamped on every important building project in San Francisco. He peered down at Woodrow without sacrificing the impervious demeanor of a statesman.

  Woodrow heard himself saying, “The next time I go, I’ll advise you. Perhaps you can make time for a short trip.” What am I thinking? he wondered. He couldn’t tolerate being stuck with Pflueger in a jitney on the endless road from Mérida to Chichén.

  Pflueger leaned in conspiratorially. “Tell you what. Some of the gents and I get together for a game of poker every week. Why don’t you join us?”

  From the balcony came the clinking of crystal, and all eyes turned toward Leland Cutler, who cleared his throat and beamed down at the assembled guests. Moto stood beside him. Mayor Rossi’s face bloomed beet red. From publicity photos, Woodrow recognized Tokido Okamura, the diplomat sent to oversee the Japanese Pavilion, standing between Moto and Rossi. Okamura’s gaze swept over the room, his bearing proud and erect. Officials from city hall and the Japanese embassy crowded behind.

  Pflueger hurriedly broke away from Woodrow and bolted toward the stairway to the balcony. Woodrow peered closer. At the bottom of the stairs, a group of reporters had gathered. One of the reporters, a woman in an elegant peacock-blue cloche hat and coat, turned around toward the audience. Woodrow started. It was the reporter, Lily Nordby, whom he had met on the island. She had successfully disguised her beauty beneath the mannish outfits she wore on the job, but not here, not now. He had been dodging her calls for weeks. He glanced around for the exit. The official ceremony was on the verge of beginning.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, assembled guests, Mayor Rossi, and Honorable Consul General Moto,” Cutler began, “it is indeed an honor on this day of October 13, 1938, to welcome our esteemed Japanese guests to Treasure Island in celebration of the Golden Gate International Exposition, as we join together in peace and goodwill. It is no small . . .”

  Cutler’s speech would drone on and on. A nationwide radio hookup and short-wave transmission to Japan crackled from a corner. Woodrow was certain that Imperial Emperor Hirohito and the Japanese propaganda machine would take every advantage to herald the fair as a symbol of the West’s admiration of Japan as the Light of Asia.

  Woodrow shuffled from one foot to the other, studying the assembled guests. Men of means and ladies of leisure to a one, he thought. When will this end? At last, Cutler concluded his address and, after rousing applause, Moto took the microphone.

  Blinking rapidly, he cleared his throat. “Greetings,” he began, bowing slightly. “Japan’s eager acceptance of America’s invitation to participate in the Golden Gate International Exposition is an expression of Japan’s abiding friendship with the United States, as well as a manifestation of her fond hope to perpetuate lasting peace among the various nationals bordering on the Pacific.”

  A chill ran up Woodrow’s back. Murderous thugs, he thought. Moto is just warming up.

  He hungered to return to his house on Telegraph Hill, where his leather chair, books, and brandy awaited his return. He could catch a ferryboat, hop a cab, and walk through the door within an hour. The prospect of immense quiet and the loveliness of gliding on the bay practically made him groan. Ah, the smell of the sea and the pull of the cool wind. He tipped the brim of his hat down, angled his shoulder, and broke away.

  Just as he reached the gangplank, he heard footsteps behind him.

  A voice called, “Mr. Packard, Mr. Packard, wait!”

  He increased his pace; footsteps grew closer. A hand touched his shoulder, and he
swung around to face his pursuer.

  Lily Nordby stepped back, clutching her hat in her hand. “Mr. Packard, why are you leaving so soon?”

  He could see she was really a child behind her feminine beauty.

  “I’ve been trying to interview you for weeks. Won’t you stay so we can talk?”

  His temper flared. Her doggedness might serve her well in her profession, but it was a hindrance to him and a trait he found extremely annoying.

  “My dear, why won’t you leave me alone? Certainly there are others to occupy your search for authenticity and valor here on the island, but hear me when I say I’m not that person!” Then he turned on his heel and left her with her mouth open and an expression of dismay in her wide eyes.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lily

  Lily picked her way over ribbons of track that had been set for a steam engine to haul steel from one end of the island to another. Buildings and towers had been going up at lightning speed. Construction workers donned hard hats, their steel-toed boots thudding on girders as they maneuvered around the structures with the agility of rock climbers. The ripping of electrical saws, rat-a-tat-tat of rivet guns, and banging of hammers sang out a discordant hymn into the salty, stiff wind.

  She pulled her hat down low over her ears; she was constantly cold. Her eyes watered, her nose dripped. She passed by carpenters moving in tight synchronicity, unaware of her presence. Their boots and pant legs were caked in mud as they laid foundations on top of driven piles. They had attacked stacks of lumber: spruce for flooring, pine for walls and scaffolding, Douglas fir for towers. The framing of the magnificent structures that would become pavilions and palaces and towers gleamed like golden bones when the sun broke through November’s gloom. The barren outpost, framed by the Golden Gate Bridge, the East Bay hills, the Bay Bridge, and the city, had been designed with lofty architectural aims—nothing less than an imperial city, neither classically Greek nor Roman, but a fantastical polyglot of Cambodian, Mayan, and Pacific island styles that defied categorization.