Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  Suddenly, Bunny shivered. “Let’s go back downstairs. I’m starving. All this excitement has given me an appetite, and I’m very thirsty.”

  A frown pinched Lily’s brow. “I would love to, but I can’t.”

  “Whoever it is can wait.” Bunny insisted.

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “You expect us to believe that, my dear?”

  “Believe what you will. Deadlines are my nemesis.”

  “Your friend Woodrow is here,” Bunny said. “He’s been asking for you.”

  “I really can’t stay.”

  Bunny narrowed her eyes. “There’s something different about you. Don’t you think so, Adolph?”

  Adolph appraised Lily with a mixture of consternation and tenderness. “Perhaps,” he said. “She’s definitely a lady with a purpose.”

  “It’s something else,” Bunny said. “What is it?”

  “I’m the same,” Lily insisted. “Dying for sleep, but who can sleep in this town?” She hugged Adolph, squeezed Bunny’s hand, and dashed toward the exit. “See you tomorrow at the Expo!”

  A BLACK LIMO idled at the curb. Lily opened the door and slid in. “Good evening, Hayato.”

  With a nearly imperceptible nod of his head, he acknowledged her presence and pulled into traffic. Lily watched the lights flicker past the window. She had tried to arm herself against Bunny’s interrogation. Women’s intuition was a powerful weapon used for either good or bad.

  Yet the look in Adolph’s eyes was disarming. She knew him to be exceptionally perceptive, as well as knowing. For the first time in her life, a magnetic force had overtaken Lily’s every action. In public, she steeled herself against watching Tokido. In private, with him as her guide, she existed in a paradise of erotic discovery. She did not want anyone to expose her. She knew what she was doing, and she knew the risk.

  The signals changed from red to green as Hayato navigated the streets smoothly. In minutes, he stopped at the curb on Post Street at Buchanan. “Thank you, Hayato,” she said, exiting the limo.

  Moving quickly along the street, she ducked into the alley. Glancing behind her, she stepped through the gate and found the key in a circle of rocks under a rain chain. She un-locked the door, returned the key to the place she had found it, and entered.

  Here, in this room, the outside world fell away and she became the woman she had always wanted to be. The reedy scent of tatami mats peppered the air. The shoji lantern emitted a warm glow. The futon was perfectly made with cotton quilts.

  She walked over to the tansu, less than three feet high, and ran her finger over its delicate wood. A compartment on the top was accessible by two sliding doors. She slid the doors open. The pungent scent of cedar met her nostrils. The compartment was empty. Beneath it were two drawers. She fingered the metal handle of the first drawer and peered inside. It, too, was empty. The last drawer, fitted with a tiny lock, was the deepest. She peeked inside. Empty. She paused, wondering why Tokido, so exacting in all his mannerisms, kept nothing in the exquisite tansu.

  Turning away, she stepped out of her shoes, peeled away her jacket and gown, and slipped out of her lingerie. The anticipation of pleasure rippled over her naked skin. Draping the clothes across the chair, she folded her underthings into a neat bundle and laid them on the chair’s cushion.

  She tiptoed into the bathroom, half closing the door. Two white towels were folded on a small bamboo table. She ran the water in the deep tub and submerged herself in the steamy bath, coming up slick as a seal, her dark hair plastered against her skull, her breasts floating above the surface of the water. She lay on her back and, with her toe, nudged a bar of sandalwood soap off the ledge, into the clear water. Its aromatic scent swirled into the warm, wet air.

  She heard the door unlock. A soft footfall. The rustle of clothes. A shoe dropping to the floor. She lay still, barely breathing, eyes half open. A bead of perspiration slid from her forehead, curved along her nose, past her lips, and onto her chin, and softly dropped into the bathwater.

  Tokido appeared in the doorway. He was naked, and she drank him in with her eyes. The musculature of his powerful legs, shoulders, and arms, the smoothness of his skin, were a constant source of mystery and wonder. Desire swept through her. She tilted her chin upward, beginning to rise out of the tub, water streaming off her shoulders.

  “Don’t move,” he said, stepping between her legs. “You’re beautiful. This is how I want to remember you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tokido

  Hayato drove Tokido from the apartment to the island in the predawn. The number of cars on the road and people walking on the sidewalks at this hour always surprised him. The city never stopped. Lights flickered by the window as they crossed the bridge. Trying to settle his thoughts, Lily’s scent lingered on his skin, pervading his mood. Arriving on the island, he decided to walk from the gate to the pavilion, and with every step through the courtyards and past the buildings, he breathed deeply, the cold air clearing his mind. Birds twittered, the wings of gulls flapped, sea lions barked.

  Inside the pavilion, he hung his coat and umbrella and moved through the rooms, inspecting every detail. Sandal-wood incense laced the air. All was in readiness for opening day. The staff and workers had created a masterpiece. In the silence before the crowds that would certainly descend, there was order and beauty.

  Inside his office, at his desk, beneath his splayed fingers, he smoothed a thin sheet of manuscript paper and took up his pen. He paused before writing.

  Akemi,

  In this time when the cold winter gives way to signs of early spring and the promise of cherry blossoms and flowering quince, I send my regards. Thank you for your letters. I regret not writing more often, but my duties require my full attention and evenings are scheduled with diplomatic events that leave little time to attend to personal matters.

  Did you visit the Kaneiji Temple to hear the 108 bongs of the bell on December 31? On that night, I, too, prayed for the health, prosperity, and safety of our family. My mouth waters to imagine the feast you had on New Year’s Day and how delicious the mochi tasted.

  Kindly give my greetings to the family and especially to Uncle. Is he well? I wonder if perhaps you are keeping unpleasant news of his poor health? Please extend to him my greatest respect and admiration.

  It is a great honor to represent our country here in America. I do so in the spirit of humanity and philanthropy, with redoubled courage, knowing that I represent our revered emperor and our country’s ancient cultural achievements, and that someday I will return home.

  I send you and our sons my deepest regards, Tokido

  He folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. On the face of the envelope, he wrote his wife’s name and address. He sealed the flap, placed the letter in the diplomatic pouch for delivery to the consulate, and returned to his desk.

  He checked the time: 4:10 a.m. He opened the bottom desk drawer. At the back, behind accordion files, he removed a cardboard box no larger than a small tin of tea. Opening the top of the box, he removed a subminiature camera. MIDGET was inscribed on the shutter plate above the lens. From his desk drawer, he removed one roll of unperforated 35-mm film stored in a canister. Stepping inside the closet, with only the red darkroom light on, he sliced the paper-backed film lengthwise in two and loaded one strip into the camera. The Midget would take ten 14-by-14-mm images. He would have to shoot wisely. It would be impossible to load the camera in the field. Returning the camera to its box and the film to its canister, he left the closet and locked both items in the drawers.

  He glanced around the office one last time. Stepping out onto the landing, he reflected a moment. A brimming stillness greeted his ears. A saltwater mist coated the rocks, trees, and plants with silvery, feathered brushstrokes. He would spend the remaining hour before dawn onboard the Tatuta Maru. As he moved along the path toward the mooring, he resigned himself. His duty had been fulfilled. The course was set. There was no other way.


  Ferry Passengers to Treasure Island

  Cars on the Causeway Opening Day

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Woodrow

  Woodrow’s eyes snapped open, and he bounded out of bed. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy,” he mumbled to himself, hopping on one foot and then the other as he pulled on his pants. The cold and rain that had gripped the city all month had miraculously evaporated. The sun rose and bathed the air in a luminous vapor that cleared to bright, liquid sunshine. All the cares and woes that had plagued him vanished instantly.

  He finished dressing and peered out of the bedroom window at the silver-skinned Goodyear Blimp floating in the pale blue sky above Treasure Island. February 18, 1939—the opening day of the Golden Gate International Exposition! He felt like a kid again. Overcome with glee, he clattered down the stairs, gulped a biscuit and a swallow of tomato juice, and dashed for the front door. He flung it open and bumped smack into Rosy, knocking his hat off his head. Rosy scooped it off the stoop and handed it back.

  “Rosy, what are you doing here? I thought you were avoiding me.”

  “Don’t be asking me about that Sadie, Boss. We haven’t got time. Not now!”

  Woodrow looked up at him incredulously. “You’re going to help me?”

  “Not today.”

  “When?”

  “Soon, Boss. It ain’t as easy as you think. There’s a lot of factors to be considered.”

  “As long as you give me your word.”

  “You got it. Come on, now! Let’s go to the Expo!”

  Woodrow hesitated. “I’m expected at a dedication ceremony.”

  “I’m expected, too. But we still got to get there. I’ll be your escort!” Rosy opened the gate and started to bound down the steps.

  “Wait!” Woodrow called. “I ordered a cab. It’s up on the street.”

  Rosy ground to a stop, changed direction, and bounded back up the stairs. “I ain’t never been in a cab!”

  Woodrow jogged behind as fast as he could. At the top of the hill under Coit Tower, which gleamed crystal white in the morning light, he found Rosy standing beside the door of an idling cab. A radiant smile lit up his face. A two-seater plane buzzed high in the sky.

  “Jump in,” Woodrow called.

  Rosy threw open the door, nearly ripping it off its hinges. He swung one leg into the cab, bent at the waist, and folded his body double onto the seat. Woodrow slid in beside him. As Rosy straightened, the top of his head pushed into the roof of the cab.

  “Ferry Building, sir!” Woodrow ordered.

  “I’ll be damned,” the cabbie said, squinting into the rear-view mirror. “Don’t this take the cake?” He pushed back the brim of his cap. “I don’t get many fares the likes of you two. But this ain’t just any day. Hold tight, gents. I’ll give you a ride you won’t forget.”

  The cabbie tore through the congested streets. Fairgoers poured from their homes in their Sunday best, wearing hats, coats, and gloves, clutching ten cents in their hands for the ferry crossing. The cabbie dropped them off on a curb on Market Street mobbed with men, women, children, cops, and newspaper boys. Horns honked and streetcar rails squealed.

  “There you go, gents. This is as close as I can get. See you at the Expo!”

  “You bet!” shouted Rosy.

  Woodrow paid the cabbie, and they jumped out. Instantly, Woodrow clamped his hands over his ears. Right outside the Ferry Building, two streetcar lines and two municipal bus lines converged in a roundabout, picking up and depositing hundreds of passengers.

  “That was some ride!” Rosy exclaimed. “What’s wrong with your ears?”

  “It’s the roar of the four,” Woodrow mouthed. “The din bruises my ears.”

  Ordinarily, Woodrow would have been obscured in the tangle of trousers or hemlines walking through a sea of humans, but with Rosy it was otherwise. He cleared a path like Moses parting the Red Sea. His black boots gleamed, heels pounding the pavement. People stepped aside, staring up at him, before nearly tripping over Woodrow. The ferries blasted their shrill horns, and they charged ahead to board the Key System ferry, which puffed smoke from its two stacks. They stood alongside charter patrons and fair-goers on the decks who shouted and waved as the ferry churned away from the pier to deliver them to the Magic City.

  Streaming across the bay toward Treasure Island, they saw the Tower of the Sun piercing the sky and the Elephant Towers glowing in pastel shades of golden cream and coral pink. Beyond the gates lay the promise of opulent gardens, sparkling fountains, exotic courtyards, and pavilions from strange lands. Housed in the many halls and buildings, industrial exhibitions and wonders of the modern world awaited inspection. For fairgoers weary of grand art and lofty architecture, the lure of the Gayway beckoned with its carnival enticements, forbidden pleasures, and mouthwatering foods.

  Rosy and Woodrow held fast to the top railing. The ferry plowed through the strong currents, and the spray of marine air filled their lungs. Whitecaps scalloped the sea-water, and sunlight sequined its surface. Around them, passengers surged and fell back, shoulder to shoulder, laughing and talking. Seagulls cried caw, caw, caw, diving from the sky.

  On the lower span of the Bay Bridge, the Key System rail lines delivered patrons in endless pursuit of work and play. Today the trains would make a maiden stop at Yerba Buena Island to deposit thousands of patrons to the Exposition via a connecting road.

  “Ain’t it grand, Boss? Just look at it. Right out of a fairy tale,” Rosy said. “I can smell the flowers from here.”

  Indeed, as the ferry grew closer, a magical carpet of rainbow-hued ice plants bloomed along the western flank of the island. Along the rock seawall, palms seventy feet high, interspersed with shrubs and tropical grasses, waved their fronds. American flags rimmed the Avenue of Palms, rippling and snapping in the wind.

  “Yes, it’s a fine sight, Rosy.” Woodrow swiped an unexpected tear from his eye.

  “Something in your eye, Boss?”

  “No, it’s just the wind.”

  “I want to see it all. I hear there’s a Westinghouse robot that sits and stands and smokes cigarettes, and a see-through real-life Pontiac, and Pedro the Voder, a talking machine operated by punching keys. Imagine that! What won’t people think of next?”

  “That is the question.” Woodrow turned and gazed at the orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge in the morning mist. “Who would have thought that the Golden Gate could be spanned? The bridge is a miracle.”

  “Sure is, Boss. And look at the cars and rail lines humming across the Bay Bridge. Everyone is coming!”

  “I expect you’ll be spending some of your time in the Gayway, performing feats of strength?”

  “Bending steel ain’t too bad. Or hammering a spike through a board with my hand. But I’m not going to wrestle a croc again. No sirree. Not for me.”

  “I’ve seen men torn apart by those beasts.”

  “Down in the Mexican jungle?”

  Woodrow narrowed his eyes as he remembered the cool, serene surface of a tropical lake broken by the snout of a twelve-foot crocodile. “Someday I’ll tell you about it.”

  “Thing is, some of my friends are working the Gayway. The bearded lady is real sweet, and the Chinese lady that gets sawed in half is a trouper. Now, that Sally Rand—she’s a live wire. She could tame a bull or make a pig dance. She told me to come by anytime to see her girls.”

  “Sounds like you’re a fan of the ladies.”

  “You could say that. Say, will that lady Lily be here today?”

  Just then, the ferry steamed up to the dock and the crowd surged forward. Rosy shoved Woodrow in front of him and plowed ahead. Their feet hit the landing as they were swept along with fairgoers toward the ticket stations. In the vanguard of seven thousand patrons who poured through the turnstiles in the first hour, they paused to stare up at the great golden walls. Civic pride swelled in Woodrow’s heart. He was amazed that in a world where the drums of war pounded ever louder, Treasure Island could happen a
t all.

  “We’re here,” Rosy said. “I’m so excited I could spit! Let’s get you on an Elephant Train so you can make your way inside for the governor’s speech.”

  “What about you?” Woodrow asked.

  “My feet are itching. I gotta walk, Boss. I’m headed to the Gayway.”

  “No, sir.” Woodrow exclaimed. “You’re coming with me.”

  “Really?”

  “Why not? Here comes a train!”

  Rosy burst into laughter, and as the Elephant Train rolled up, they caught an outside seat. The usual stares aimed at the men evaporated in the grandeur of the moment. Suddenly, the train drove through the wind baffles and into the Pageant of the Pacific. All eyes focused instantly on the spectacular though puzzling nature of the architecture—what exactly was Pacific Basin style? Was it Cambodian, Mayan, Malaysian, Burmese, or Indonesian? And how did it fit with the beaux-arts courts and the campanile thrust of the Tower of the Sun?

  The train circled the tower and stopped just outside the long Court of Reflections. Woodrow and Rosy joined the crowd filtering into the court, graced by a long pool, rows of towering Siamese umbrella lights, and dazzling beds of flowers. The view afforded a look from the court through a ninety-foot Arch of Triumph into the Court of Flowers.

  Rosy gaped in wonder. “How many courts are there, Boss?”

  “Too many. No one will ever be able to keep track of them.”

  “And promenades?”

  “Miles and miles of them. You’ll be able to walk your feet off.”

  “What about the naked-lady statues?”

  “Same thing.”

  “This one is dressed. She looks like a goddess.”

  “She’s called Girl with Rainbow, modeled in the Greek style. Quite lovely, really, holding a rainbow aloft. Wait’ll you see the Pacific statues.”

  “Huh?”

  “Massive, thick-lipped, native people meant to signify Pacific unity.”