Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  “Whatever you say, Boss.”

  They secured a spot against the circular base of a light, and Rosy gave Woodrow a boost up onto a corner to see over the heads of the multitudes gathered for the speech. Woodrow hopelessly scanned the faces closest to him. He knew it was futile to search for Lily, but he couldn’t help himself. Even if he spotted her, there wouldn’t be a way to reach her. Somehow I keep trying to cross a divide between us that grows wider and wider, he thought. She’s lost to me.

  At last, Governor Culbert Olson, decked out in tails and striped pants, stepped up onto the stage under the Arch of Triumph. A cheer went up, bouncing off the walls. Olson waved his tall hat and took the microphone. After a bout of flu, he looked a bit wobbly. He declared the Exposition begun by opening the central span of a small replica of the Golden Gate Bridge with a gold key encrusted with precious gems donated by the city’s jewelers. The crowd clapped and shouted wildly, and as Olson stepped down, people emptied out of the court, streaming in different directions. At noon, the official ceremony was scheduled to begin in the Court of Nations.

  Rosy put his hand on Woodrow’s shoulder. “Let’s wait.”

  “Good idea. It’s going to be a long day.”

  “That was some key the gov used.” Rosy watched two officials wrap the key in a bunting. One official tucked it under his arm and exited the stage. “The shine in those jewels is something.”

  “It’s encrusted with rubies, diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds. I believe it’s been estimated at thirty-five thousand dollars,” Woodrow answered.

  Rosy whistled. “Better keep their eyes on it.”

  “Are you suggesting it could go missing?”

  “Ain’t no one immune to slippery fingers.”

  “By Jove, you’ve got a point.”

  “How you doing, Boss?” Rosy rubbed his hands together. “Shall I get us a rickshaw?”

  “Why not?” Woodrow agreed. “If anyone can snare one, you can.”

  “Great! You stay here until I come back. But the deal is, when we get to the next stop, I gotta get going. Don’t be asking me to stay. Agreed?”

  The logic of Rosy’s request was undeniable, although it pained Woodrow to acquiesce. He knew the humiliation of gawking eyes. His presence on the stage would pose awkward questions. “You’re right, Rosy. Agreed.”

  A SEA OF humanity jammed into the immense Court of Nations, spilling over into the Temple Compound near the lagoon. Forty thousand fairgoers had assembled to bear witness to the official inauguration of the Exposition, and they were still coming. Promptly at noon, bombs exploded and the blind virtuoso Alec Templeton unleashed the earsplitting power of the carillon’s bells in the Tower of the Sun.

  Leland Cutler stood on a large platform, surrounded by dignitaries, officials, and luminaries. Woodrow, hat in hand, found himself in the front row, wedged between Timothy Pflueger and Atholl McBean, chairman of Exposition’s officers.

  Cutler stepped up to the podium, cleared his throat, and, in a voice heavy with emotion, spoke into the microphone. “I have waited four years for this moment. Today, our Exposition, which we have been building, becomes your Exposition. Treasure Island is offered today upon the altar of greater peace and greater goodwill among all nations, among all the races.” His message was broadcast over a public-address system to every part of the island and all across America.

  Mayor Rossi, Governor Olson, and George Creel, US commissioner to the Exposition, each added their voices to the ceremony, until at long last the radio controls were switched to Key West, Florida.

  The voice of President Roosevelt rang out. “Washington is remote from the Pacific. San Francisco stands at the doorway to the sea that roars upon the shores of all these nations, and so to the Golden Gate International Exposition I gladly entrust a solemn duty. May this, America’s World Fair on the Pacific in 1939, truly serve all nations in symbolizing their destinies, one with every other, through the ages to come.”

  The right Reverend Edward Parsons, bishop of the Episcopal diocese, gave a benediction before the huge crowd, jammed shoulder to shoulder. With great fanfare, the band struck the opening chords to “God Bless America,” and every voice, led by the chorus, swelled in joyful song.

  On the stage, the entourage shook hands and clapped one another on the back. Woodrow felt stunned by the events and unexpectedly world-weary. He was entreated to join the festivities but declined. He tottered down the stairs onto the ground. The loudspeakers thumped out “Flat Foot Floogie (with a Floy Floy).” People were fanning out in waves into the courtyards and promenades, where fresh flowers were sprinkled. Chair boys in blue uniforms and visored caps rushed forward, offering rides in rolling chairs and rickshaws. Woodrow waved his hat as high as he could and flagged one down.

  SLIPPERS ON HIS feet, robe wrapped around his body, brandy and cigar on the side table, Woodrow rested in blessed solitude. He had napped once he reached home and afterward warmed a delectable steak-and-kidney pie in the oven for dinner. A fire burned in the grate. He reached for a bundle of mail that he had brought up from the mailbox but had not yet bothered to sort through. He found an airmail envelope addressed in his father’s hand, postmarked Philadelphia. How unusual, he thought. He slid the blade of the letter opener along the envelope’s edge and opened a single sheet of onionskin.

  February 10, 1939

  Dear Woodrow,

  Of late, I’ve had an interesting call from your Harvard classmate Fritz Hobart. He inquired as to your whereabouts. I told him, of course, about your work at Treasure Island and passed on your address. I suspect he already knew you were in San Francisco. Since then, a theory has been brewing in my mind. The European theater of war is intensifying. Roosevelt has been meeting Churchill on the Atlantic in secret meetings. There is talk that Roosevelt may be recruiting intelligence officers for special operations. My hunch is that Hobart, as their representative, will come to you. You may be strategically placed to act should the need arise.

  Your mother and I send greetings.

  With affection,

  Father

  The letter fell from Woodrow’s hand into his lap. Night closed in around the house. Through the picture window, Treasure Island shimmered cobalt blue and deep gold. Beams of white light swept back and forth across the night sky. Woodrow lit the cigar, inhaled, and set it down on an ashtray. He lifted the brandy, cradling the bowl between his fingers, inhaling its intense aroma, and savoring the heat of it sliding down his throat.

  Court of the Seven Seas

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lily

  It was dusk as Dudley and Lily walked down the vast promenade in the Court of the Seven Seas, dominated by sixteen sixty-foot pylons along the walls of huge, rectangular exhibition halls on either side. On the top of each pylon, winged figures depicting adventure perched on ships’ prows.

  At the far end of the promenade, in the Court of Pacifica, the monumental form of Pacifica gazed outward. Behind the statue, a shimmering, one-hundred-foot-high metal prayer curtain rippled in the cool breeze, sending out a murmur of tinkling wind chimes. Nearby, and equally arresting, was a huge, bold relief mural, Peacemakers, done by the Bruton sisters, emphasizing the fair’s underlying motif, Pacific peace and unity.

  On the other side, the Hall of Electricity and Communications displayed the inventions of modern technology, and beside it, the Hall of Science exhibited the miracles of biology, chemistry, and physics in an eye-popping array of visual-mechanical demonstrations.

  “Hey, Nordby, let’s duck into the science building and check out Mendel’s law of heredity. We can find out the color of our kids’ eyes. It’s a battle of dominant and recessive genes.”

  “Let’s not. Those puppet dolls they use give me the creeps.”

  “How about I get a quick shave with one of Remington Rand’s electric razors, and then we can neck at the television demo?”

  “How about no? Let’s double back to the Fine Arts Palace to see the European art. I’ll n
ever tire of looking at Michelangelo’s and Donatello’s paintings or Lalique’s glass, and, oh, those tapestries from Aubusson, France.”

  “Heck, someday you’ll be in Europe and you’ll see all the art you can stand.”

  “Not likely,” she sighed, “but nice of you to suggest.”

  As they drew closer to Pacifica, Dudley nudged Lily. “Look at Stackpole’s mystery woman. What do you think of her?”

  “Mesmerizing. Whether he meant for her to be Mayan or Oriental makes no difference. That placid expression, those upturned palms—she’s all-powerful. She reminds me of those monolithic Easter Island statues.”

  “You could say so. I’ve seen little kids scream and cry when their parents drag them down here.”

  “You’re jaded.”

  “Maybe so. There’s only so much splendor a guy can take. Come on, Nordby. Let’s get off this island and drive out to the beach in my pal’s old Plymouth, eat It’s-Its, and listen to Benny Goodman on the radio.”

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I’m punch drunk. Aren’t you? After one nonstop week of shooting people stuffing their faces with scones, Junket, and Coca-Cola, plus the Cossack choir, daredevils going down the ski jump, and the steer auction in the ag hall, I’ve had it.”

  They sat on a low wall by the sunken circular basin of the Fountain of Western Waters, which was flanked by primitive statues of native people reclining in various poses of play and work.

  Dudley hooked his arm around Lily’s neck and tried to nuzzle her neck.

  “Cut it out!” she protested, pushing him away. She slipped off her shoes and began to rub her feet.

  “Exhibition feet, eh?”

  “They’re killing me.”

  “I’m glad to be of assistance.”

  Just then, the floodlights switched on, transforming Pacifica into a marbled white goddess, the prayer curtain a scintillating copper backdrop, and the fountain an iridescent green waterfall.

  “It’s just all so beautiful,” she said wistfully. “Not meant to last.”

  “What’s with the dark circles under your eyes?”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Like what?” He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Tell me everything. I’ll make it better.”

  She pulled on her shoes and jumped up. “No deal, Dudley. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  He looped his arm through hers then broke away to snap a picture of children running through the courtyard.

  She watched him go, his good-natured, easygoing manner, trying to remember what it was like to be that carefree. Tokido’s remark, “This is how I want to remember you,” haunted her. The words had stung and burrowed into her mind. Several nights, she’d awakened in his bed to find he wasn’t there. Reaching for him, her hand had grasped empty space, the sheet cold, the covers pushed down. Then she’d lain awake, listening to the hum of the street noise that never seemed to cease, wondering where he had gone, until she’d drifted into a fitful sleep.

  When she asked him, he had the same response. “My work is never finished.”

  Was the apartment a setup? Possibly to snare her, possibly to what? There were so few personal items—an empty closet, except for a few shirts hanging on wooden hangers, no books or papers, no photographs.

  Would a moment come when he’d reveal himself to be something other than her lover, other than a diplomat on a mission of goodwill? Were her early suspicions, confirmed by Schuman, a flight of fancy that had sent her on a wild goose chase? There was no proof of his deception. She had fallen into forbidden territory, and for now, the only thing she wanted, desperately needed, was for their affair to go on. There was no way out.

  Dudley rushed back to her. “I’ve got an idea. Let me take you to the Argentine Café, and we’ll do the tango.”

  “You’re insufferable.”

  “We’ll toss out your blues, and then I’ll send you home. Unless, of course, you’d like to come to my place.” He winked at her. “You’re nuts about me. Don’t resist. I’m your man!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Tokido

  The resplendent rooms of the Japanese Pavilion were adorned with ikebana and sprays of pink cherry blossoms in vases placed on low tables. Pale light from tasseled lanterns illuminated their fragile beauty. The Japanese community had turned out in force. On this night, the pavilion overflowed with dignitaries, their wives, and civic leaders. They lifted delicate cups of cool sake to their lips. Silk kimonos rustled, black hair gleamed, and voices rose and fell like ripples lapping at the koi pond below in the garden.

  Tokido mingled among the crowd, pausing to speak with the guests and at the same time scanning the crowd. Kiyoshi walked patiently by his side, offering information and prompting him with cues about those whom he didn’t recognize.

  Tokido noticed Moto and Chizu in a far corner, apart from the others. Their heads were together, and Moto’s ear dipped toward her painted lips. A searing flash of suspicion raced up Tokido’s spine. Since the night he had turned Chizu away on the street near his apartment, she had been evasive, even aloof. In a confidential meeting when he had questioned her about securing the calculations of Golden Gate Bridge, she had reported that her contact was still active, but then she had gone quiet. He hadn’t pressed her. Her performance as lead hostess was beyond reproach.

  Kiyoshi lightly touched Tokido’s elbow. “It is time now to speak.” He acknowledged Kiyoshi’s cue, excused himself from the group that had gathered around him, and moved toward a small dais that had been placed to the side of the front doors. He climbed onto the dais and faced the audience.

  “Ladies and gentlemen”—he bowed respectfully—“please allow me to formally welcome you tonight.” His voice rang out full and sure, and every person turned to listen. “The success of our presence on Treasure Island has been due to your support. As special envoy from Japan, I am honored to preside over the festivities. Thank you for your generous participation. Art displays have been presented for your viewing, and we trust you will find pleasure in their creation. Now, Consul General Moto would like to say a few words.”

  Tokido watched as the stiff form of his superior parted the crowd. When Moto stepped onto the dais, a thinly disguised aura of contempt frosted the air between them. Tokido stepped down and faded to the side.

  “Good evening,” he said. “The Golden Gate International authorities have been particularly considerate in allotting to us one of the best locations on the site of the Exposition. Not only that, but they have also extended to us every assistance and facility at their command, in order to make our part in the Exposition, which consists of properly introducing Japanese culture and civilization, a more significant and brilliant success.”

  Moto’s words buzzed like an insect batting against a windowpane. Tokido’s mind wandered as he watched the attentive faces in the audience. Chizu was not to be seen. Then he caught sight of Lily standing alone at the far end of the tearoom. He had not believed in falling in love. Love was earned through devotion. To dishonor one’s family was fatal. Love sprang from order, from a mutual pledge to undertake responsibility and join together as the roots of a tree grow into the soil, its branches reaching toward the light and its leaves opening in season. He had tried to convince himself that what he felt with Lily wasn’t love. It was wild, chaotic, ungovernable—a torment without purpose or reason. Why, then, had he allowed himself this passion? She had only to appear to answer his question.

  As Moto concluded his speech, Tokido glanced at him. The slide of his eyes and inclination of his chin toward the hallway that led to the office were clear. Tokido waited for him to pass, and, after an interval of several minutes in which he engaged in conversation with Kiyoshi, he slipped away.

  The office door was slightly ajar. Tokido opened it slowly.

  “Come in,” Moto said. “Lock the door.” He was perched on the edge of Tokido’s desk, with his arms folded. Without any civility, he po
sed a question cloaked in disdain: “What intelligence have you uncovered?”

  “My attention has been on the opening of the pavilion and this event tonight. Details have required my total concentration. Thousands of San Franciscans and travelers from across the United States have poured through the pavilion. It is the most popular destination on the island. Are you not pleased?”

  “Of course,” Moto said grudgingly. “However, our mission must not waver.”

  “I have continued night surveillance and will speak to Chizu about—”

  “Leave Chizu to me,” Moto interrupted. “From now on, she is under my direction. Prepare yourself to gather intelligence about the high-security operation in the Marin Headlands. There is increased chatter about the installation of two sixteen-inch guns in Battery Townsley. The rumor is that either gun can swing in a 180-degree arc and hit a target twenty-five miles out to sea. As a naval coastal defense, it will be unparalleled. Find it,” he ordered. “Record the topography, study its location, and report back to me.”

  “All the forts at the mouth of the bay are heavily guarded. Entry to Fort Cronkhite is through a tunnel that is protected by military police. How, then, do you suggest I gain access to the battery?”

  Moto sprang to his feet and paced back and forth. “There are public lands called Tennessee Valley that abut the fort. Trails crisscross the terrain.” He stopped dead and faced Tokido. A tight smile curved around his thin lips. “Perhaps a hike in those hills would suit you and your reporter?”

  Tokido flushed with anger. “What are you implying?”

  “Do not require me to ask where your loyalties lie.”

  “Is there any question?”

  “Your association with her must reap more than personal rewards.”

  Quaking with frustration, Tokido clenched his fists in rage. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do not lose focus. Locate the battery. Move about the perimeters. Proceed with caution. If you are detected, the military will show its teeth. Act swiftly.” Moto left without another word.