Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  “And where is this Novato?” he asked.

  “It’s a small town about thirty minutes north, straight up Highway 101.”

  All at once, the chauffeur slowed and they turned from each other to look out the windshield. The tollbooth appeared ahead, and beyond it the roadbed onto the bridge. Tokido slid open the glass partition and spoke to the chauffeur.

  The chauffeur maneuvered the limo into the thin line of cars and stopped at the toll taker’s booth. The toll taker leaned out. “Good evening. One way or round trip?”

  “One way,” the chauffeur said in perfect English.

  “Fifty cents, please.”

  Lily watched the chauffeur pass the coins to the toll taker. Why wouldn’t he have bought a round-trip ticket? she wondered. Tokido seemed indifferent, his entire being enraptured by what was to come.

  Gradually, the chauffeur accelerated and the limousine sailed onto the bridge. Ahead, the massive South Tower loomed into the black sky. The tower rose as one huge column with four openings, each section stacked one above the other, to its arched top. Beyond and through the openings, the silhouette of the North Tower appeared in miniature. Light standards strung along the deck glowed like misty beacons illuminating the brilliant orange paint that covered every section of the art deco design.

  “Oh,” she gasped.

  Beside her, she heard Tokido’s intake of breath.

  To the east, the bay waters shimmered like hammered metal and cut a path to Treasure Island and the dim outline of the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge. To the west, whitecaps pale as dove wings rippled from beneath the bridge to the ocean’s darkened, misty horizon.

  “This structure is magnificent,” Tokido said, craning his neck to look up through one window and then the other. “The largest suspension bridge in the world. A daring engineering feat.”

  His voice held respect and reverence, and, although she dared not, an unexpected impulse to reach out and touch him rose up in her. “You can’t imagine what it was like to see it go up.”

  “I wish I had. It was reported that the straits of the Golden Gate could never be spanned. Is it true that citizens protested that the entry to the bay would be ruined?”

  “Vehemently,” she replied. “And that’s not all. Geologists and seismologists publicly argued about the bridge’s safety. But the chief engineer, Joseph Strauss, and his team persisted.”

  Tokido shook his head. “Such skill and courage are admirable.”

  She thought twice about divulging any more structural information but relented because each question formed a pattern of suspect inquiry. “Under the South Tower, divers dynamited footings sixty-five feet down, and when the bedrock shattered, contractors dug thirty-five feet deeper and poured the base.”

  Just then, the limo passed the midspan and began to slow. The North Tower, monolithic and noble, came into view.

  Lily explained, “Under this tower, four concrete anchor blocks, weighing sixty-four thousand tons each, pin the structure to the cliffs.”

  Tokido whistled and stared up into the tower, turning slightly in the seat to look over at the landmass that rose sharply from the sea. “The Tatuta Maru passed by these cliffs when we arrived. Are they not inhabited?”

  “The US Army occupies the headlands and the land along the coast, and there”—she pointed down and below—“what you cannot see is Horseshoe Cove and Fort Baker. Didn’t the ship’s navigational charts indicate these landmarks?”

  “Our captain was in charge. My eyes were filled with the wonder of the bridge.”

  “Of course,” she answered. “Do you know about the batteries in the cliffs?”

  “Is ‘batteries’ a military term?”

  She highly doubted that he was ignorant of the answer. “Precisely. They are fortifications that house arterial gun emplacements, crucial to protect the Golden Gate and the bay.”

  “I learn something at every turn.” Tokido nodded. “I am in your debt.”

  “Not at all. My job is to know the facts.”

  The limo’s tires clicked over the end of the bridge’s roadbed, and the road curved slightly left and then right, rising steeply over the jagged promontory.

  “Where are we now?” he asked.

  “At the top is a tunnel. When we come through the other end, the road plunges down. At the bottom is a side road that doubles back to a little seaside hamlet called Sausalito, which is a graveyard for abandoned ships. Across the bay from Sausalito is the town of Tiburon, which means ‘shark.’ In its heyday, fish canneries lined its shores.”

  “Perhaps we can return someday. I would like to see such places. Your description of Sausalito reminds me of the coastal villages I visited as a child.”

  “As you like,” she said.

  “But now I think it’s best to return to the city.” Tokido peered at his watch. “I wouldn’t want to miss the show at Forbidden City.”

  “Nor would I,” Lily answered. She breathed deeply, feeling as if she’d run a gauntlet.

  Tokido leaned forward and spoke to the chauffeur, then closed the partition. The limo crested the highway, sweeping through the tunnel to the other side, where eucalyptus trees stood guard along the road, lashed and bent by a torrent of wet wind that poured over the craggy ridges of the head-lands.

  STEPPING FROM THE limo onto the sidewalk on Sutter Street, one block from the Chinatown gate, Tokido ushered her toward the club. Lily bristled at the disapproving stares of people around her. Some did a double take; some mumbled. One man spat, and her temper flared. She wasn’t unaccustomed to witnessing racial insults, but this was the first time they had been aimed at her. Tokido seemed indifferent to their rudeness. He swept her past the club’s glass display cases, featuring black-and-white photographs of glamorous dancers, and she felt his hand at the small of her back as they entered and climbed the stairs.

  Garish paintings of Oriental scenes lined the walls of the red-carpeted staircase. At the top, Charlie Low’s grin was as wide as the twelve-note set of ivory piano keys.

  “So pleased to see you. Yes, yes, George Jew has reserved a table for you. Hurry now, before the show starts.” He parted red velvet curtains, leading them to a table.

  Lily quickly scanned the room. Tasseled silk-and-gold lanterns cast dappled light onto tables packed with Caucasian men and women in fancy evening wear. She didn’t see one mixed couple. Charlie Low led them to a front table at the lip of the stage.

  Tokido waited for her to be seated and then drew his chair closer to hers. “Are you comfortable?” he asked.

  “Very,” she answered, slipping out of her jacket and gloves and removing her hat.

  “What would you like?”

  “The house specialty will do just fine.”

  “Of course,” he answered.

  A strikingly beautiful waitress appeared. She bent low toward Tokido as he ordered. Lily watched the polite ease with which he spoke to the woman, and her graceful response. The band struck up the chords to “One O’Clock Jump.”

  From the first note, the club burst into an uproar. Brilliant lights flooded the floor. Four female dancers dressed in pink-and-black ruffled costumes, showing plenty of leg and midriff, tap-danced onto the stage floor. Their long, dark hair was upswept into elegant hairdos. Their sultry eyes flashed, and their full red lips curved into teasing smiles. They tapped in tight syncopation, peeling off the line and coming back together in perfect rhythm, kicking, sliding, twirling. They spun so near to the edge of the stage that Lily could have reached up and plucked a sequin off their costumes. She had seen burlesque clubs down on Market Street, the hawkers who hustled tourists and down-and-outers through the door, the tawdry glitter that disguised gloom and loneliness. But this was something entirely new. Forbidden City had all the allure and glamour of Bimbo’s 365 Club, but it also had something that Bimbo’s didn’t have: an all-Chinese cast. She was awestruck.

  Two Singapore Slings, each garnished with a pineapple slice and a cherry in a frosty glass,
arrived at their table.

  Tokido held the glass and extended it toward her. “To the pleasure of your company,” he toasted, looking into her eyes.

  She lifted the cocktail and met his gaze. The cold, tangy mixture of gin, Benedictine, and cherry brandy laced with lemon and pineapple juice flooded her mouth. “Delicious,” she murmured and took a second sip, the concoction flowing into her bloodstream.

  The music halted, the dancers tapped off, and an elegant couple waltzed onto the stage floor. He was dressed in top hat and tails; she wore a curve-hugging silver gown that shimmered like a mantle of stars. They paused until the band struck up “And the Angels Sing.” Taking the lady in his arms, the gentleman led her around the room, turning, dipping, swirling in sweeping arcs, in a number as stylish and sophisticated as any performed by Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.

  Tokido leaned toward Lily. “Terrific,” he said, clapping with the audience as the couple exited the room. “But I have to tell you that not all of the women in the first act are Chinese.”

  “Really?”

  “Two of the female dancers are Japanese. And another is Filipino.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t tell, can you?”

  “My ignorance is showing.”

  “It’s to be expected. To Americans, all Orientals look alike.”

  “You’re right. I try not to lump everyone together. Can you tell my heritage?”

  “You look Scandinavian.” He reached up and touched her cheek, drawing his finger from her cheekbone to her chin. “But there’s something else that I can’t identify.”

  “It’s a secret.” At that moment, second drinks appeared. She promised herself that she wouldn’t have a third.

  He studied her curiously. “Well, I’ll tell you something I do know. Charlie Low is a master at packing a club. I can also say that the showgirls have disgraced their parents by revealing their bodies and dancing in public.”

  Just then, an acrobat in a pajama-like outfit took the floor. He executed somersaults, backflips, handstands—all in a flurry of showmanship that drew oohs and aahs. Next, the dancers returned, dressed in sexy burlesque getups that showed off their flawless skin, smooth arms, creamy décolletage, and long, shapely legs, with little fans pinned in their hair. They danced one number after another with dizzying speed.

  The final act, “Dance of the Moon Goddess,” was performed by Jadin Wong, who glided onto the floor in a costume with a long, trailing skirt and elaborate headdress. She gracefully arched backward, folding her arms crosswise across her chest and sliding one foot forward. The band started to play Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” and she began to dance. Her beauty and skill were mesmerizing, and the audience was spellbound until she left the floor.

  Around them, the crowd was standing. “Shall we call it a night?” Lily asked, gathering gloves and hat in her hands.

  “Whatever you wish,” Tokido answered. He reached for her jacket.

  “Oh God,” Lily said, looking across the room.

  “What is it?” he asked, turning in the direction of her gaze.

  “There’s Simon Toth.”

  “Your editor at the Examiner?”

  “The one and only. He’s aiming right toward us.”

  “Here,” he said, taking her arm. “Come with me.”

  “I can handle this,” Lily said. “There’s no reason to run.”

  “I insist.” He wove her through the tables, past people standing in the aisles.

  As they halted to file into line, Toth shouldered forward and held out his hand to Tokido. “Good evening. Nice to see you again.”

  He looked directly at Lily. “Out on the town, are we?”

  “Of course. All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl.”

  He guffawed. “Good for you, Lily!”

  “Miss Nordby has been gracious enough to accompany me tonight,” Tokido interjected. “I had an invitation from George Jew, who, unfortunately, couldn’t make it. What a show.”

  “Yes, quite a show. The gents and I are painting the town ourselves.” He pointed to a table, where Lily picked out the stricken face of Woodrow. Even from a distance, their eyes met and she felt her heart constrict.

  “I want to thank you for the excellent coverage on our pavilion,” Tokido said.

  “Lily is doing a bang-up job. There’s more to come.”

  “I’ve no doubt you are right. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get Miss Nordby home.”

  “You bet,” Toth said.

  Lily snapped to attention. “See you tomorrow, Boss!”

  “Good night, Mr. Toth.” Tokido escorted Lily through the red velvet curtains, down the stairs, and into the waiting limousine.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tokido

  Treasure Island was shrouded in shadow, waves lapping at the rock seawall, and, across the vast span of the bay, pinpoints of light from the far shores twinkled around the island like a necklace of diamonds. Tokido raced his Sankyo along the esplanade in a blur. The wind whipped in his face, and Basho’s words came to him:

  Cold first winter rain,

  poor monkey,

  you too could use

  A little woven cape.

  Only hours before, he had left Forbidden City; sleep did not come easily. Vivid images invaded his consciousness—images that he fought to banish. At the center of each frame was Lily. Lily as she watched the show, her slender fingers nesting in her palms, the curve of her breasts pressing against the bodice of the gold gown, the floral scent of her perfume invading his senses. He was sure the perfume was French, but he couldn’t place it. Certainly not a fragrance his wife would wear.

  He wanted to touch this woman who had offended his sensibilities, driven him to anger, frustrated his intentions. This desire shocked his concept of personal responsibility and allegiance. When he dropped her off a block from the French boardinghouse, he was astonished to find himself bowing. Usually he suppressed this custom around American women. But not then. The gesture was pure; it could not be resisted.

  He doubled-back toward Evening Star in the Court of the Moon, the architectural blend of modern Cambodian, Mayan, and Oriental styles that he usually found distasteful, and forced himself to focus. On a whim, he careened around the Court of Honor and whipped down the Court of the Seven Seas. At the far end, the haunting statue of Ralph Stackpole’s Pacifica rose up against the backdrop of the metal prayer curtain. The curtain rippled in the wind, sending a vibrational tone out into the mist. Her elbows were bent at the waist, palms turned open in supplication.

  He slowed and looked up into her face. The serenity of her placid expression cannot be denied, he thought. But he believed the ideal she represented in this place, at this time, did not exist. Across the seas, the world was at war. Hitler and Mussolini had roused the masses to a furor. His countrymen had occupied China. It repeatedly baffled him that thirty nations on this artificial island were each working side by side to bring about a fair devoted to peace. And even more perplexing was the hand of generosity from the Chinese community that continued to be extended to him.

  Christmas was fast approaching, and he had no sense of what to expect, other than another round of dinners and political receptions that, however necessary, would divert his concentration. Then, in less than six weeks, the Exposition would open and festivities would start. There would be celebrations, dedications, parades, concerts. In many of the halls, art treasures would be on display. In buildings devoted to scientific discovery, modern technology would be demonstrated. Flowers, food, and music would win every visitor.

  It will all be in vain, he thought. It will all come to nothing.

  A blast from a passing ship’s horn sounded, winter’s air pierced his jacket, and he rode on. At the entry to the pavilion, he stopped and peered into the grounds. In the pond, the swans were sleeping. Around the garden, the raked paths were empty. He removed a ring of keys from his pocket, slipped one into the lock, opened the door, and locked it b
ehind him. A trace of sandalwood incense lay in the air. Rice-paper lanterns emitted a dim glow in the hallway.

  Passing by the Silk Room, he heard the faint sound of silkworms moving about the mulberry leaves in the demonstration cages. He turned into a smaller hall, where blue-and-white porcelain teacups and teapots were arranged in glass-fronted display cases that lined the wall. He stopped in front of a small door, unlocked it, and stepped into a windowless office. He flicked on an overhead light and double-locked the door behind him.

  Three desks occupied the space, one for Chizu, another for Kiyoshi, and the largest one for him. A lamp and telephone rested on each desk. To the back wall was affixed a large, glass-fronted display case. Inside, a collection of netsuke was arranged in tiny wooden cubicles. The carved ivory figures, no more than three inches high, were happy Buddhas, rabbits, elephants, monkeys, dragons, bent old men holding walking sticks, skulls. The erotic couplings of naked men and women so valued in his country were absent. The case was trimmed in a bird pattern constructed from Japanese cypress.

  Tokido ran his finger from the top of the trim down to the head of the seventh bird and pressed. The trim opened smoothly to reveal the edges of two panels. He grasped the first panel and pulled it out. A hydrographic map of the San Francisco Bay was pinned to a cork surface. The map depicted the water’s depth, shipping lanes, navigation hazards, and aids, such as buoys and range markers, that delineated shipping lanes. Alongside it were black-and-white aerial photographs of the bay.

  Suddenly, a low rumbling interrupted his thoughts. A clock on the wall said 4:12 a.m. He froze in place. Was it a Clipper taking off? An explosion from across the bay? The gardeners? They had been arriving earlier and earlier, their trucks and cranes delivering crates of plants. He cocked his head and waited. The rumbling faded.

  He drank deeply from a container of water on his desk. Plagued by headaches that began in his temples and marched up his forehead, he rolled his head and massaged his neck. Chizu and Kiyoshi would be arriving by 6:00 a.m. There was work to be done.