Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  In the dim of the Treasure Garden, she glanced down to the Court of the Moon, where she made out the long, rectangular pool ringed with huge Ali Baba vases and Irish yew trees. Beds of flowers and plants slept in stilled silence. She pressed on, her feet seemingly knowing where to go, her eyes searching every crevice and corner. An otherworldly presence hovered along promenades, in courtyards, near alabaster sculptures. Unexpectedly, her neck prickled. She came to a sudden stop. Her eyes scanned the area. Had she heard a footfall? Shadows angled in a crosshatch of elongated shapes. Perhaps a bird had fluttered in a bush, or one of the rats that roamed the island had scurried along the path. Her stomach dropped. She had hardly eaten all day. Her hands felt clammy.

  She picked up speed, turning at the Tower of the Sun, down the Court of Reflections, around the Lake of Nations. She alternated between sprinting and walking the final distance until she reached the Japanese Pavilion. Her breath came in short gasps. At the top of the wide stairs, underneath deep eaves, she folded into a corner and studied the grounds. The scene was as fixed as a woodblock. The frigid air seemed to hiss. She slipped her hand through the handle of the great front door and pulled. It didn’t budge. She tried the next door. It, too, was as immobile as the gnarled trunk of an oak. She darted past the smooth, round columns onto the deck overhanging the lagoon. Rice-paper shoji extended along the length of the deck.

  She crouched low, removed her gloves, and stuffed them in her pockets. As she crept along the floorboards, her fingers traced the shallow wooden grooves where the shoji frames rested. Every window was secured, except for one. The last one. It gave way, sliding in its track. Stock-still, she swiveled her head, her eyes sweeping back and forth.

  The water of the koi pond licked against the underpinnings of the pavilion. A distant beating of wings sounded in the sky. In one fluid motion, she opened the shoji, hiked herself up, and jumped through the opening. Landing on her feet, she spun around and closed the shoji.

  A calm, cool purpose settled over her.

  In semi-darkness, she deciphered the tables and chairs in the tearoom. She tiptoed through the long room and into the passageway, past halls leading to other displays. When she reached the hallway that she had been told would lead to a personal office for Tokido and his staff, she inched along the passage, her fingertips glancing the shelves. Perspiration trickled down her temples. The door handle was cool in her hand, and as she turned it, she found that it was locked solid.

  Without hesitation, she fished two hairpins out of her bag. With one hairpin between in her lips, she pulled the other apart until the legs formed a ninety-degree angle and bent the tip of one leg to form a pick. Holding the pick between her teeth, she bent the other hairpin to form a lever. Then she closed her eyes and listened. Dead quiet answered.

  She dropped to her knees, slipped the lever into the lower side of the keyhole, and turned it slightly, keeping pressure on the barrel. Taking the pick out of her mouth, she inserted it into the barrel and ran it back and forth under the pins. Meticulously, she tested each pin. The first two were loose; the third one was seized. Slowly and carefully, she forced it upward until she heard it click into place. “Ah,” she exhaled. The next pin had seized, and, clenching her teeth, she forced it upward. It, too, clicked into place. Three more go to! Her pulse pounded in her ears. Two! One! The door opened. “I’m in!” she whispered, and stepped into the office.

  The metallic face of an electric clock cast an icy green glow over the room. Swiftly, she closed the door and switched on an overhead light. Three desks were swept clean of the usual clutter of books, papers, and ashtrays spilling over with cigarette butts. A typewriter sat on the smallest desk. A black phone beside a blotter, notepad, and pen rested on each desktop. A bonsai pine bough and a spray of red holly berries in a shallow bowl was placed on the largest desk. Ah, Tokido’s, she thought.

  She pulled up a chair and slid open the slim drawer under the desktop. It was fastidiously arranged with writing implements, an engagement calendar, and an address book. There were no personal effects, photographs, or documents. She rifled through the pages, which were written in Japanese. The handwriting resembled inked bird scratches. She re-placed the items as she had found them and turned to the deep drawers. She grasped the handle and pulled. Locked. A groan escaped her lips.

  The contents of the other two desks were the same—almost identical and just as orderly. What had she missed? She returned to Tokido’s desk, took out everything, and flipped the drawer over. On its underside, she stared at a small key taped to the wood.

  She wet her lips, bent down to the first deep drawer, and carefully slipped the key into the keyhole. It wobbled. She wanted to scream. The key fit a much smaller lock, but to what? Her mind raced. She inspected a closet that held reams of papers, raincoats, an umbrella, black galoshes.

  A display case on the wall caught her eye. She stood in front of it and stared through the glass front, which held ivory miniatures arranged in niches. Along the cabinet’s edge, small birds, vases, and floral motifs were carved into the gleaming, dark wood. She ran her finger along the carvings, tracing their smooth shapes.

  A buoy tolled on the bay. Her blouse was soaked through with sweat. The clock read 10:37 p.m. A calendar and architectural renderings of the pavilion and samurai house were pinned to the wall. What had she found? Not a goddamn thing. She replaced everything as she had found it, killed the lights, and carefully opened the door, straining to hear. A hush met her ears. She decided against resetting the lock, which would take precious time. She crept back to the tea-room and hiked out through the shoji window.

  She left the pavilion as quickly as she had arrived, retracing her steps, deflated, hungry, and very cold. She felt like a fugitive dodging a searchlight.

  At last she was back on the esplanade, weak and shaken, standing in front of the Tatuta Maru. Nothing had changed—not the impregnable girth of the ship, the faint hum of traffic in the distance on the Bay Bridge, or the ticket booth, safely within sight.

  “Good evening, Miss Nordby,” a voice said.

  She whirled around. “Who are you?”

  His face was shrouded in shadow. The red glow of a cigarette flashed in his fingers. “May I escort you aboard?”

  “Wait. I know your voice.”

  He snuffed out the cigarette beneath his foot and started for the gangplank.

  As he passed, she peered more closely. “You’re Mr. Okamura’s chauffeur, aren’t you?”

  “He is aboard. Follow me.”

  Don’t be a fool, she thought, yet she hurried to keep up behind the man’s long steps. How much had he seen? How much did he know?

  He led her to a reception room filled with stately, stiff chairs and ornate tables. Minutes passed excruciatingly slowly. She paced, straightening her skirt and hose and running her fingers through her disheveled hair. And then, in an instant, Tokido was striding through the room, concern written on his face. He wore an elegant tux as naturally as other men wore sweaters and slacks—the luster of the material as black as his hair, the crease of the pants knife-sharp.

  “Lily, this is so unexpected. Are you well?” He reached for her hand, his fingers glancing hers.

  “Of course.” She plunged her hand into her coat pocket. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Your hand is freezing. I’ll order tea.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “It isn’t an inconvenience. In fact, I like to close my day with jasmine tea. I would like you to join me.”

  “In that case, I accept.” She flopped into a high-back chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, jiggling her foot.

  He broke away and spoke into a receiver hanging on the wall. When he returned, he took a chair across from her.

  “You’ve been celebrating,” she said.

  “Yes, we’ve just returned.” He looked at the face of his wristwatch. “Not thirty minutes ago.”

  She blinked at him.

  He smiled pleasantly. “It is Christmas
.”

  “For some people.”

  “There were parties all over the city. I had hoped our paths would cross.”

  She struggled for an answer. None came.

  “I remember what you said about this holiday.”

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “‘Christmas is for children,’” he said gently. “I wondered if you were in the company of children.”

  She waved aside his question. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  He quickly withdrew a small, thin silver box from his pocket and offered her a slim cigarette. She brought it to her lips. He bent close and flicked a lighter. As she inhaled, her hand shook uncontrollably.

  “Let me take you somewhere less formal,” he suggested. “It’s where I like to spend the final hours of the evening. I was there when you came aboard.” He held out his hand. “We’ll have our tea there.”

  She refused his hand—was he a worldly diplomat, or was he an enemy? She burned with a hot, hard flame to know the truth. He waited; she stood. He led her silently through the ship, toward the bow. At the end of the passage, he opened a door.

  A glow warmed the interior of a small salon, and, through wraparound windows, the brilliant lights of the city blazed against the skyline. Nearby, the island’s high, sculptured walls were covered with a gray, opaque haze.

  Tokido pointed to two deep club chairs flanking a low, burnished table. “Please.”

  Lily folded into a chair. A knock sounded on the door. A demure woman in a dark kimono entered, carrying a lacquered tray that contained a pot of steaming tea and two cups.

  “Arigatou,” Tokido said.

  The woman placed the tray on the table, bowed, and left the room.

  Tokido served, and, as if in silent agreement, they sipped the tea without a word. Lily was acutely aware of his presence, but she dared not look at him. She felt his eyes studying her.

  Finally, she sighed, placed the empty cup on the tray, and approached the windows. “I wonder if the city will be the same after the Expo.”

  He came up behind her. “Nothing remains the same. Such is the nature of all things.”

  He stood so close that his proximity radiated heat. A deep ache rose up in her. She turned to him. He filled her vision, only him. With his finger, he lightly touched her chin and searched her eyes, as if to ask permission. His hand circled her neck strongly. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back. He kissed her mouth, his breath filling her lungs, his body enveloping her being, his desire answering her longing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tokido

  The streets of Japantown glistened with a sheen of fog lit by the headlights of passing cars. On Post Street, Tokido stepped from a limousine and walked up Buchanan. People passed by in twos and threes. Wind chimes tinkled a muffled greeting. Automobiles were parked along the curb, their rounded bumpers dripping with moisture. The scent of charcoal stung his nostrils. Through the window of a restaurant, flames leaped from a hibachi. His mouth watered in anticipation: crispy duck, pungent fish, juicy pork-and-cabbage gyoza, hot sake.

  An alleyway, bordered on either side by shops and businesses, appeared ahead. Just before he turned to go into the alley, he heard his name being called. He watched as a small figure hurried toward him. It wasn’t until she was upon him that he recognized her.

  “Chizu, what is it?”

  “Forgive me, Tokido-san.”

  “Yes?”

  “The reporter from the Examiner.” Her voice trembled. “She went into the alleyway and through your gate. She did not return.”

  “There is no cause for alarm.” He reached out and gently touched her arm. “It is best that you return home now.”

  She dropped her eyes. A tear hovered on a lower lash and cascaded down her petal-soft cheek. “As you wish.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he called, as her small steps spirited her past shops and doorways and she disappeared into the night.

  “I SEE YOU found the key,” Tokido said.

  “It was easy.” The light from a rice-paper lantern fell on Lily’s face. She sat at a low table, the collar of her coat spread open and draped over her shoulders. The room was furnished simply: tatami mats on the floor, a shoji panel over the window, a futon covered with cotton quilts, a tansu against the wall.

  “Perhaps I should make it more difficult.”

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “Shall I reward you for your skills?”

  “How would you do that?” she asked.

  “There are ways.”

  “I like it here.”

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “So am I.”

  He reached for her hand to pull her to her feet, and her coat slipped to the floor. Her warm lips were moist, her eyelids heavy with desire. The taste of her flooded his senses, and he lifted her off her feet, carrying her to the futon, laying her down, kneeling at her side. She was tearing at his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons.

  They undressed each other in a flurry, clothes slipping from their bodies, until it was skin on skin, their hearts pounding. He was intent, moving on a different plane, waiting, until her yelps of pleasure told him she was ready and he burst inside her.

  He stroked her hair, traced the shape of her lips with his finger, and kissed her brow. The branch of a tree in the courtyard scratched against the glass of the window. “Still hungry?”

  She lay in his arms. “Ravenous,” she sighed. “Simply ravenous.”

  HE LED HER through back alleys, over cobbled streets, and through the door of a small noodle shop. In a private booth, the entry covered by an indigo fabric panel, they sat opposite each other, bent over steamy bowls of miso ramen. Chopped scallions, ginger, garlic, a slice of hard-boiled egg, and pork floated atop the golden, aromatic broth.

  “I had no idea how delicious this would be,” Lily said, stabbing at the noodles that swam beneath the fragrant liquid.

  “Go ahead and slurp the noodles. It’s a compliment to the cook.”

  She leaned over the bowl, trying to manipulate the chop-sticks. The noodles slipped, and flecks of broth flew over the tabletop.

  He laughed. “Don’t give up.”

  She shook her head. “Easy for you to say.” She bent her head and tried again. “I’ve never been to this part of town. How long have you lived here?”

  “Since I first arrived. On occasion, the Tatuta Maru re-turns to Yokohama. I was given an apartment on Nob Hill, but I prefer this part of town. When the ship docks at Treasure Island, I have a choice of where to stay. My quarters here are private, quiet, and simple. Exactly the way I like it.”

  “Do you miss home?”

  He looked up at her, waiting before he spoke. “I do. I have an uncle who is very old. I hope to see him before he dies. When I was young, he taught me many things, like how to fish and grow bonsai and tie knots. Our family would take the train to the mountains. We stayed in ryokan, somewhat like your lodges, and bathed in hot springs and ate until we could eat no more. The air was pure, white birds flew over the river, and my brothers and I laughed and played until we were tucked side by side under quilts and sleep claimed us.”

  She was the first to look away, and they ate until their bowls were drained and their faces were flushed with satisfaction.

  She broke the silence. “I’d like to take you somewhere that you may not know about.”

  “Where is that?”

  “The lookout on Mount Tamalpais in Marin County. There’s a view of the Pacific Ocean, the bay, and San Francisco. It’s breathtaking.”

  “Tonight?” he asked.

  “No, not tonight. You must see it during the day. There are trails everywhere. Impossible, given our schedules. But I’d like to try.”

  “Then we’ll find a way.” He reached for her hand and kissed it. “Come back with me now. It’s hours before dawn.”

  BEHIND THE LOCKED door of the Japanese Pavilion’s office in the frigid mid-January predawn, Chizu unfurled
a set of plans from a bolt of silk fabric.

  “As you requested, Tokido-san,” she said, laying them on a desk. She smoothed the sheets with the palm of her hand and anchored the edges, which had begun to yellow and crinkle, with four smooth rocks.

  Tokido stepped forward and bent over the drawings; Kiyoshi joined him. A faint smell of ammonia lifted off the blueprints. The title page read: “Golden Gate Bridge. Construction Drawings. Firm: Strauss Engineering Company. Signed: Chief Engineer, Joseph B. Strauss.” Beneath this insignia, the engineer’s seal was stamped in black ink.

  “Well done, Chizu,” Tokido said. “You have shown great resourcefulness.”

  “Hai,” Chizu said, weaving her hands into the sleeves of her kimono and bowing slightly.

  “Kiyoshi, let us confirm that we have a complete set.”

  Side by side, the men examined each sheet, upon which line drawings depicted anchorage structures, main piers, towers, deck, and cables. Each sheet was numbered, and all the sheets were stapled together.

  Tokido peered at Chizu. “Did you receive calculations or specifications?”

  “No, my contact assures me this information is forthcoming.”

  “I see,” he said. “Utmost discretion is practiced at every turn?”

  “Hai,” she answered.

  “Did you receive anything else?”

  She reached inside her obi and withdrew a small envelope. “Here are photographs taken during construction. The quality is poor.”

  Tokido opened the envelope. The two-by-three-inch black-and-white glossy photographs were perforated by sprocket holes running down one side. The images of the bridge’s ironworkers erecting two towers, stringing cables, and building the concrete deck were out of focus.