Absorbed in conversation, they didn’t notice Timothy Pflueger as he strolled up. “Good evening, Woodrow, Miss Nordby, Bunny. You’ve sequestered yourselves in a cozy corner.”
“Lovely to see you, Timothy,” Bunny said.
“You as well. Say, Woodrow, nice to have you join us the other night at our poker game. You managed to fleece us handsomely.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“You owe us a chance to even the score.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Woodrow said.
Pflueger looked at Lily. “Miss Nordby, may I speak to you privately?”
Lily felt a frown knit her brow. He offered his arm. She stood and nodded at Bunny and Woodrow. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
He drew her aside, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, several paces from the alcove. “I had a chance to speak to my aunt. Usually I don’t see her very often, but she came to a family reunion. I told her I had met you.”
Lily’s throat went dry. The sounds of conviviality, tinkling glass, and laughter receded to a distant hum. “Why is that?”
Pflueger paused. “My aunt prides herself on knowing everyone. As a matter of fact, she remembers you as a child.”
Lily’s heart started to race, and she felt a pressure in her ears, as if the altitude had changed. She stared at Pflueger. His broad face and clear eyes broadcast a mixture of friendliness and concern.
“She knows your father.”
“Really?”
“And she remembers your mother.”
“My mother?”
“My aunt knew her.”
“My mother is dead.”
He spoke so quietly that Lily leaned closer. Pflueger’s breath was moist on her cheek. “You should know that your mother is very much alive.”
The floor descended, as if Lily were in an elevator crashing down a shaft. Pflueger’s face seemed to melt. “I need some air,” she said, reaching out blindly. She stumbled toward Bunny and Woodrow. The music and the chattering of voices dissolved. Darkness seeped into the edges of her vision with dizzying speed. Pflueger caught her before she slumped to the floor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tokido
By day, in the Japanese consulate on Post Street, phones jangled, official documents were stamped and dispatched in haste, and cables flew back and forth over the Teletype with the urgency of birds in a rain-storm. Now, in the hush of night, behind closed doors in the consul general’s office, the shoji windows were latched against the darkness.
Tokido, dressed in a charcoal suit with black pinstripes, a white dress shirt, and a gray striped tie, composed himself upon a rosewood high-back chair drawn up to a black lacquered table. A blue-and-white porcelain teapot, two teacups, and a plate of rice cakes were placed in the center. A vapor of steam rose from the spout of the teapot.
He waited. Memories of home surfaced. He heard the tinkling of wind chimes and felt the snap of crisp, cold wind. He envisioned the ginkgo trees, stripped of yellow leaves, lining the quiet stone paths. The scent of pungent grilled fish and chicken yakitori sold from wooden carts filled his senses.
He imagined walking to his two-story wooden house through the maze of alleyways and hidden gardens in Yanaka, the only district in Tokyo that had survived the 1923 earthquake. His boys would be playing inside while his wife prepared dinner. Her presence, without fail, penetrated the stillness. A classic beauty—white skin, clear black eyes, crescent moon eyebrows, bow lips painted red—she never failed to stir him.
Without warning, the door clicked open and the consul general, Toshito Moto, hurried forward. Diminutive in size but potent in energy, he projected an air of imperturbability. Like a cat, he could jump one way or the other and land so swiftly that an opponent never saw the move coming.
Tokido stood and bowed low. “Domo arigatou gozaimasu,” he said.
Moto answered in kind and took the seat opposite Tokido. He cleared his throat. “My visit to the pavilion last week was most impressive.” He opened a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Tokido. Leaning across the table, Tokido struck his lighter and lit the cigarette.
“I’m pleased you witnessed our progress,” Tokido said. “The visions of the architects, Tatunae Toki and Yoshizo Utida, are springing to life.”
“One seeing is better than one hundred tellings,” Moto said. “The architecture, grounds, and garden promise great refinement and beauty.” As he spoke, he poured the tea, its roasted, grassy scent lacing the air. “Please,” he said, nodding at Tokido’s cup. “You are my guest.”
Tokido lifted the delicate cup to his lips. “All preparations signal our readiness to open the pavilion on the same day as the opening of the Exposition.”
Moto fastidiously bit into a rice cake and slid the plate across the table. “Excellent. We have slightly more than two months to complete our tasks.”
“We will proceed with efficiency and purpose,” Tokido said.
“Tonight there is an opulent ball at the St. Francis Hotel. Holiday festivities have begun.” Moto raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps a sampling of Glenlivet is in order?”
“How appropriate,” Tokido said.
Moto stood, walked to a tall tansu, and removed two crystal tumblers and a bottle. Returning to the desk, he sat and poured the whiskey neat into both glasses. Sitting back down, he offered one to Tokido.
“To our success,” Tokido said, savoring the powerful, spicy mash, which went down hot in his throat.
Moto threw back a mouthful and appeared to relax. “All nations will be represented, though none as grand as ours.” Across Moto’s face flickered a grin so fleeting that Tokido wondered if the expression was from indigestion, rather than pleasure.
“Is it not agreeable to pause and anticipate opening day?”
“Most agreeable,” Tokido responded.
“A parade will be conducted up Market Street to city hall. The Japanese American community is building a float that will be festooned with cherry blossoms, lanterns, and lights.” Moto sat back, lacing his fingers together. “Geishas in traditional costume will dance on the deck. Marching alongside the float will be hundreds of schoolgirls dressed in kimonos and wearing hats woven with flowers. In the afternoon, dignitaries will lead the celebration at the pavilion.”
“We are honored in many ways,” Tokido agreed.
“Hai. Just as we have planned.”
As they sipped the whiskey, smoke curled in lacy patterns above their heads.
Tokido wondered how long it would be before Moto arrived at the true reason why he had been summoned.
“I’m gratified that a blending of Oriental and Occidental styles will be displayed in the Tea Room,” Tokido offered. “In the Silk Room, round-the-clock demonstrations of silk production will be conducted.”
Moto sipped the whiskey, eyeing him intently while re-filling the tumblers.
Tokido pressed on. “The furnishings will include Western carpets and armchairs alongside a tokonoma, a recessed alcove for display of ikebana and art objects and folding screens. A replica of a modern Japanese room behind a glass wall, inhabited by mannequins of a mother and her two daughters, will also be on display.”
Moto snuffed a cigarette into an ashtray and smoothed his tie. “Let us speak freely.”
“By all means,” Tokido replied.
“Your surveillance of the bay is essential. We want you to continue that. Also, investigate the northern headlands at the mouth of the bay. There is increased chatter about powerful weapons in a new battery.”
“Hai. I was briefed on this development.”
Moto’s eyes burned with fierce intensity. “Our primary emphasis in all we do is to promote favorable public opinion about our homeland.”
“Exactly,” Tokido said.
“At the pavilion, we are in a unique position to directly present the ancient arts and architectural beauty of Japan.” Moto paused, sucking his teeth as if to dislodge a sesame seed. “However, we face causti
c criticism about the China war.” He lowered his voice. “You are aware that our consulates across the United States have engaged in a top-secret plan to employ American journalists?”
Tokido paused before answering. He looked directly at Moto without blinking. “I am.”
“In San Francisco, we have some cooperation. Harry Cotkins, the foreign editor of the San Francisco News, has agreed to write favorably about Japan. However, the journalists from the three other papers could not be enlisted.”
“I see,” said Tokido. “What do you propose?”
“Use your influence to gain favor with other newspaper reporters, especially those who are covering the Exposition.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m awaiting a more propitious moment to engage a reporter from the Hearst paper.”
“Wait no longer,” said Moto.
“You understand my reason?” Tokido asked.
“How far along is the Samurai House?”
“The work will be completed in a few days.”
“Proceed quickly.”
Tokido rose and bowed. “As you wish.”
Moto bolted to his feet. The chair skidded out from behind him. The teacups rattled; the tumblers jumped. “Remember, Okamura-san, a mighty river is fed by many tributaries.”
CHAPTER NINE
Woodrow
Woodrow couldn’t take his eyes off Lily, even as Pflueger led her away. She was a charming creature, so fresh and unaffected, that he wondered why he hadn’t noticed her attributes before that evening. My rush to judgment is often a wretched gauge of human nature, he thought. Suddenly he watched her sway, falling to the floor. In a flash, he was on his feet and running, with Bunny at his heels. Woodrow skidded to his knees beside Lily, nearly knocking Pflueger down.
Lily lay as still as a sleeping child, her gown fanned out and crumpled underneath her. His fingers probed her neck, finding a pulse, slow and steady. With his body, he shielded her from people who were streaming by, their eyes curious and probing.
“What in the hell happened?” Woodrow demanded.
“Bit of bad news, old man,” Pflueger explained, leaning over and fanning her face with his handkerchief. “I’m genuinely sorry. Didn’t know she’d take it so badly.”
Bunny had dropped on the other side of Lily and stared up accusingly at Pflueger. “Whatever you said, I could wring your neck.”
“What can I do?” he said helplessly. “Shall I call the hotel doctor?”
“No, for God’s sake. Be useful. Find some water,” Bunny ordered, stroking Lily’s brow.
Pflueger dashed off, muttering to himself.
“She’s out cold,” Woodrow said, cradling Lily’s head in his lap.
“I’ve got just the thing,” Bunny said, withdrawing a small square of lace from her bodice and passing it under Lily’s nose. “Lily, Lily, dear, wake up. Wake up.”
As Woodrow held Lily gently, the floral scent of Joy, which his sisters had worn, wafted by his face, bringing with it a rush of memories. Then, all at once, Lily’s eyes popped open. She peered up at Woodrow and then at Bunny as if she were awakening from a dream.
“Lie still,” said Bunny. “Whatever Timothy Pflueger said, you dropped like a stone.”
“No, no, I’m all right. It was nothing. Too much champagne on an empty stomach. Please don’t make a fuss.”
Adolph appeared, clutching a glass of water, while Pflueger stood sheepishly behind him. “Golly, kid,” Adolph said, “you had us worried. Here. Drink this.”
Woodrow propped her up, and she gulped down a few swallows. “Woodrow, would you help me up?”
He took her hands and pulled her to her feet. Adolph steadied her as she rearranged her gown, and Bunny hurried back to the seat and grabbed her silver fox jacket. She immediately returned and draped the fur around Lily’s shoulders.
“Darling, I wish we could take care of you. But we’re expecting a mob for a soiree we’re hosting. The whirl of holiday parties has already begun.” She stood close, her arm wrapped around Lily’s waist. “Timothy will get you a taxi. It’s the least he can do.”
“Of course,” Timothy said, slinking away. “Straightaway!”
Woodrow spoke up. “I’ll take Lily home.”
“Would you, dear?” Bunny asked.
“It’s my pleasure.”
“I’ll take care of myself,” Lily said. “Really. This is so embarrassing.”
“That’s ridiculous, Lily. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I won’t allow it.”
“Nor will I,” said Adolph.
Woodrow stepped between the three of them and announced. “Take my hand, Lily. I’ll see you home.”
They left Bunny and Adolph waving at their departing figures. He ushered Lily through the partygoers and under the chandeliers, amid the frenetic rhythm of the orchestra and dancers twirling in arcing circles, out into the carpeted hall, down the elevator into the lobby, and out onto the street. It was pulsing with lights and pedestrians, the whoosh of traffic and blare of horns. Pflueger was nowhere to be seen. The doorman hailed a Checker cab, and in seconds they were inside the sanctuary of the car. The cabbie flicked down the ticker, pushed back his hat, and asked over his shoulder, “Where to, mister?”
“What’s your address, Lily?”
“I don’t want to go home.”
Woodrow squinted at her. “You don’t want to go home?”
“Not tonight.”
“Where shall we go?”
She bit her lip, and her fingers worried the skin between her eyebrows. “Your apartment?”
Woodrow startled. He shook his head, as if to clear it and adjusted his tie. It was then that he remembered his hat. Forget it, he thought. A damn nuisance anyway. In a clear voice, he ordered, “Telegraph Hill. Filbert Street steps, right under Coit Tower.”
In minutes the cabbie whisked them across town and wound up the twisted, dark road, past houses and adjoining lots overgrown with blackberry vines, low-hanging trees, and ivy, to the top of the hill. Woodrow paid the fare while Lily waited. The gray majesty of Coit Tower rose against the misty sky. Wide stairs were built into the steep hillside. It appeared as if a giant’s hand had flung cottages and houses in glee down the embankment. November’s mild temperatures had encouraged a mélange of morning glories and nasturtiums, which wove through the trees overhead. Leaves glistened, dripping fog.
“Watch your step,” Woodrow said, leading the way. Electric lights tucked into shrubbery and stone niches illuminated the stairs to his front door.
She followed him into a woodland, damp and fragrant with greenery, tender shoots, and birds’ nests. Furry creatures skittered and chirped in the undergrowth. Ferns draped over the stairs, their fronds reaching out to brush her ankles.
Soon he turned onto a narrow path and stopped in front of a high wood door intricately carved with birds. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a key. The door fell open. A flight of narrow stairs led upward. The treads complained under the weight of their feet. Burnished light glowed on wood paneling. The scent of pipe tobacco, smoke, and something sweet, like the sandalwood of sea captains’ chests, laced the air.
At the top of the stairs, a room distinguished by diminutive appointments opened into yet smaller nooks. All the furniture was scaled smaller than usual. Threadbare Oriental rugs were scattered over worn floorboards. Bookshelves lined one wall. A miniature fireplace embellished with a marble surround and mantel stood against another wall.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Woodrow said, nodding toward a worn, lumpy couch of indeterminate color and a tufted leather club chair near a leaded window that was black, save lights twinkling over rooftops all the way to the bay and the dim but unmistakable shape of Treasure Island. Had he known a woman would be visiting him tonight, he would have done a little housekeeping—at the very least, straightening the pile of books that lay scattered around his chair. But it was too late, much too late, to do a thing. “Take the chair or, if you like, the couch. I’ll make a fire.�
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Wordlessly, she chose the couch and settled into its deep folds. Slipping her arms out of the sleeves of the jacket, she draped it over her body. Woodrow dropped to one knee to build a tepee of kindling and logs on the grate. The improbability of this moment made his blood race. By God, she was a beautiful woman, and a woman who had had a shock. He was glad to lend some assistance. There was nothing thus far to suggest that she looked upon him as deformed. But surely she would. How could she not?
Carefully, he chose the wood from a copper bin nearby. When he struck a match to the kindling, embers crackled and spit, until soon, in a pyrotechnic display, the logs burst into flame. “Now,” he said, standing and dusting off his hands, “the fire will warm us in no time. What may I get you? I’m afraid there’s not much to offer. I do have tea.”
“Tea?” she asked.
He regarded her apologetically.
“Do you have anything stronger?”
“I have Armagnac.”
“Is that like cognac?”
“Better by far.”
He disappeared around a corner and soon reappeared, holding two snifters. He swirled the amber-colored brandy before passing one to Lily. She accepted it with a sigh. He poked at the fire, put two more logs on the top, and, stepping first onto a footstool, climbed into the club chair beside the couch.
“To you,” he said, raising his glass. The silky, fruit-infused taste hit the back of his throat and warmed a smooth passage into his stomach. Perhaps now he could relax.
“And to you,” she said, tasting the brandy. “Mmm—delicious.” She sank farther back into the cushions. “I feel like I’m in a hobbit’s house.” She blanched. “No offense meant.”
“No offense taken. I’m a great fan of Tolkien’s.”
“Yes, I see that,” she said, nodding toward his side table, where a copy of The Hobbit sat. “I, too, have the book in easy reach.” She sighed in wonder. “My one-room apartment is frightfully dull compared with this house. Bunny is trying to induce me to move to a French boardinghouse. Perhaps I should take her up on it.” She pointed at the ivy that had raucously broken through the seams of the wood battens and attached its tendrils to the walls. “Nature is claiming her right. How in the world did you find this place?”
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