Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  “Right.”

  “Goddammit, Nordby. Get out of here! Write me a story on the Gayway!”

  “What about Okamura?”

  “Drop it! Christ, how many times do I have to tell you? Do the stuff you do. Freaks, carny men, nude cowgirls—I don’t care. Readers slop it up with their Wheaties. And stick around. You’re not planning on leaving town or anything?”

  “Where would I go?”

  “Dames like you, I never know.”

  “Sure, sure,” she said and headed for the door.

  “Hold on. There’s something else.” He flopped back down on his chair. The phone rang again. Voices yelled from behind the door.

  She paused and glanced back at him.

  The features of his face sagged like a hound dog’s. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “That’s what you say.” He waggled his finger at her. “Stay out of trouble. I want you in one piece.”

  BY NOON THE Gayway was clogged with amusement seekers hungry for carny thrills, daredevil theatricals, and sugar-rich, greasy concoctions. Lily jumped out of a rickshaw, tipped the sampan driver double, and surveyed the teaming crowds. A murderous mood pervaded her consciousness.

  Over the weekend, she had alternated between crying jags and stone-cold appraisal of her behavior. She slept the days away and skipped meals, preferring to slink down to the kitchen after everyone had gone to bed and filch food out of the refrigerator. She’d stand over the sink, shoveling leftover pie into her mouth, looking out the windows, lights flickering in the black night. Then, at 3:00 a.m. on Sunday, unable to sleep, she dressed and crept out of the boardinghouse. The houses along the street were wrapped in shadowed silence. Walking around the block, she stopped stock-still on the pavement. Something clicked: What would Tokido do with the camera? It was worth the risk to find out. She’d have to act fast. She bottled up her sorrow, replacing it with a fury that made her jumpy and reckless.

  A GIGANTIC BUILDING sponsored by National Cash Register was positioned near the entry to the Gayway, billed as Forty Acres of Fun. The attraction, built in the exact shape of a cash register, flashed the daily number of each visitor to the island high in the dollar window for all to see. Lily stopped and watched the ticker roll from 149,201 to 149,202 and keep scrolling higher. She scribbled the figures down in her notebook. She supposed that many visitors, after sampling the highbrow culture in the front of the island, headed, tired and thirsty, to partake of lowbrow enticements at the back. The concessions were packed.

  Despite the barkers in the shooting galleries crying, “Try your luck! Last chance”; the cries of riders on the giant crane, Tilt-a-Whirl, and dodger cars; and the whoosh of the Roll-O-Planes, an air of desperation soured the air. She drank a gin and ginger beer, snacked on a corn dog, felt a little woozy but mostly sick to her stomach, and kept going.

  Strolling by Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Odditorium, featuring a photo of the Mule-Faced Woman—a swollen, forlorn, pale-lipped creature—and an armless man who tossed knives with his feet at his wife, she picked up her pace. Nothing and no one seemed worthy of a story—not the fortune teller, the turbaned sword swallower, or the snake charmer who managed the reptile pits. If this place doesn’t rot your mind, she thought, it will rot your teeth. Even stopping in to see if Sally Rand would grant her an interview struck her as garish and cheap. Who in the hell really cares about nude cowgirls? she decided.

  On impulse, she considered striking out for the Cavalcade of the Golden West, a theatrical stage show in the northernmost corner of the island. If she hurried, she could see the two o’clock show. Until now, she had avoided it, perhaps because it reminded her of the tawdry concession that had installed eighty-two midgets dressed in cowboy outfits in a miniature Western village. She was sure Woodrow would be horrified by this vulgar ploy to parade the misfortune of another’s deformity in order to make a profit.

  A pang for her old friend gave her pause. Nonetheless, the cavalcade featured three hundred actors; two hundred animals, including a stampede of Herefords; covered wagons and steam locomotives; war-painted Indians, and soldiers on horseback—all on a stage that was four hundred feet wide and two hundred feet deep, with a painted backdrop of the High Sierras. Toth would give the story a thumbs-up. The Wild West lived on! Lily knew everything about it was big, but up close it was probably as fake as a wooden nickel.

  As she headed for the exit, she noticed a crowd, whooping and hollering, under a sign: AMAZING FEATS OF STRENGTH! She elbowed through the spectators to the front. A barker stood off to the side. He shouted into a microphone, “You won’t believe this, folks! Keep your eyes on the giant, now. He’s about to perform the impossible!” The tallest man she had ever seen in the flesh was hammering a railroad spike with his bare hands through an oak board resting on his huge knees. She estimated he was nearly eight feet tall. But it wasn’t only his height—his bones were as massive as a buffalo’s. He wore simple brown work clothes that strained against his muscles and tie-up boots, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up past his elbows. The palms of his open hands, as thick as beef chops, were unbloodied but bright red. With each blow, the crowd cheered. She couldn’t turn away. One last blow, and the spike pierced the wood. All the spectators shouted, “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

  The giant peered out from under his brow, dripping with sweat, and threw the board to the ground, wiping his hands together. He lifted his arms into the air, clasped his hands, and let out a victory yell. A shiver went up Lily’s spine. She was transfixed by his presence. His eyes swept out over the crowd, and when he saw Lily, a look of recognition flashed in his eyes. She stood glued to the spot. The giant turned away, lifted the board off the ground, and dragged it behind a red curtain. Gradually, the crowd dispersed. A barker swept aside the curtain and shouted, “Ladies and gents!” Come one, come all. See the Strongman perform amazing feats of strength!”

  She began to approach the barker, when the giant swept aside the curtain and walked toward her. In a few long strides, he was upon her.

  “I know you,” he said.

  “Really?” She tried to modulate her voice. “How is that?”

  “You’re the reporter.”

  “Right. I work for the Examiner. You’ve read my stories, then?”

  “Nope. I don’t read much.” He scratched his ear. “I listen to the radio.” He pursed his lips and swallowed. His larynx jumped, as if he had swallowed an apple. “The thing is, we have a mutual friend.”

  She shrugged. “We do?”

  “Yep.”

  She waited for him to continue, but his eyes bore into her as if she were a specimen under glass. “I’d like to write a story about you. Do you have time now to talk?”

  “Can’t,” he reported. “Next show is coming up quick.”

  “What about later today?”

  “Tell you what. Come to my place tomorrow, after work, around nine. You can ask all the questions you want.”

  She lifted her notebook. “What’s the address?”

  “Seventeen Gold Street.”

  “San Francisco?” she asked, but he had turned away, tramping back toward the curtain, which he swept aside with one swat. “What’s your name?” she called.

  “Rosy,” he boomed, giving her a final salute. “See you tomorrow night!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Tokido

  Tokido stepped from his apartment into the small courtyard. By force of habit, he glanced down at the circle of smooth stone. The key glinted in the morning light. He considered whether to remove it. Turning up the collar of his jacket, he unlatched the gate and rapidly walked away.

  Over the weekend, Consul General Moto’s wrath about the incident at Battery Townsley had not descended. But Tokido knew it would come. He was useless to the mission; it was only a matter of time before he would be stripped of authority. At the pavilion, he had circulated through the visitors, answering questions, engaging in conversation. He kept his dist
ance from the staff, knowing that around him had been built a wall of silence that no one, not even trusted colleagues, dared to penetrate.

  In the evening, he retreated to the apartment, alone and defenseless. He felt like a fugitive. He waited hopelessly, imagining Lily’s return. Driven back into the night, he found himself again on Treasure Island. In the pavilion, he walked through the rooms, studying the displays and artifacts that he had come to relish with pride and pleasure. In the tearoom, he remembered the day he had argued with her. An ache for her rose up so sharply that he rocked back and forth to dispel it. On the bridge above the lagoon, he paused to gaze west, past the sparkling outline of the city, as the foghorns sounded their constant lament.

  Morning brought determination. He recalled the saying “one must push to receive blessings,” and so he prepared to meet his responsibilities. Activity was brisk on the street. He sidestepped around vendors delivering goods, shoppers scurrying along on the sidewalk, clutching straw bags, and children hurrying to school. Ahead, the consulate limo idled at the curb.

  Hayato sat at the wheel, his gaze aimed straight ahead.

  Tokido opened the rear door and slipped onto the seat. “Ohayo gozaimasu. I trust you are well.”

  “Hai,” Hayato replied curtly, pulling into busy traffic and accelerating cautiously.

  Tokido watched the back of Hayato’s head, waiting for him to resume their familiar banter, but neither conversation nor comment came. Unease bubbled in Tokido’s stomach. He picked up the morning Examiner lying on the seat next to him and scanned the front page. Under a banner headline that read: “Mahatma Gandhi Fasts to Protest Autocratic Rule in India,” he zoomed in on a feature article: “Festivities for Japan Day!”

  He skimmed through the article, trying to decipher whether Lily had written it. “Mayor Rossi has proclaimed Sunday, April 29, as Japan Day to commemorate the 38th birthday of Emperor Hirohito. . . . Thousands are expected for a grand celebration. . . . Parades and floats will mark the grand occasion. . . . Takarabune, a treasure ship, will float in the lagoon. . . . Japanese Ambassador Censure Horinouchi will speak in a broadcast coast to coast and in Japan.”

  There was no byline. The content was boilerplate factual. It was impossible to know who had written it.

  Abruptly, Tokido glanced out the window. This was not the usual course that Hayato took to the consulate. He was driving east, toward the rising sun.

  “Hayato, are you taking a new route this morning?”

  “No, Tokido-san, I am not.”

  “I have an appointment with Consul General Moto at the consulate this morning.”

  “With respect, Tokido-san, I have been directed to take you to Treasure Island. We are headed toward the bridge. I will have you there shortly.”

  In that split second, Tokido registered the blow that he had known was coming. The newspaper slipped from his fingers. Before it fell to the floor, he caught it. He wondered how much time he had left.

  INSIDE THE OFFICE of the pavilion, Kiyoshi stood at attention as Tokido entered. Posture erect, suit and tie immaculate, eyes downward, he bowed quickly. “Ohayo gozaimasu.”

  Returning the salutation, Tokido removed his coat and settled at his desk. He ran his fingers over the polished wood, observing with detachment the ikebana of curly willow pierced by a single purple orchid.

  With pristine formality, Kiyoshi offered him a file.

  Tokido received the document with equal solemnity. “Domo arigatou.” Inside, hand-printed pages were fastened by a clip. He flipped through them. As he turned the last one, an envelope with his name printed in ink appeared. It was stamped with the return address of the consulate. Without expression, he closed the file. “Are there any messages?”

  “None,” said Kiyoshi. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “I see.” Tokido surveyed the office—black phones, lamps, notepads atop ink blotters on each desk, prints on the walls, and, on the back wall, the glass-fronted display cabinet of netsuke. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  “Tokido-san, shall we continue?”

  “Ah, yes, plans for Japan Day. It is essential that all steps are taken to ensure festivities for the emperor’s birthday unfold without a flaw.”

  “Of course. I’m at your service.”

  Just then, a young woman whom Tokido had never seen before, dressed in a pale peach kimono printed with white blossoms, entered the office, carrying a tray laden with an earthenware teapot and two blue-and-white porcelain cups. She placed the tray on Tokido’s desk, poured green tea into the cups, and departed without a sound.

  “Where is Chizu?” Tokido asked, lifting the cup to his lips.

  “I do not know.”

  “When is she expected back?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Please,” Tokido said, “enjoy the tea while it’s hot.”

  “Arigatou,” Kiyoshi said, taking the cup to his desk and sitting in his chair. A fleeting glance of worry belied his calm demeanor. “Shall we proceed?”

  Tokido nodded, removing the schedule from the file, lifting his fountain pen, and unscrewing the cap. “Please continue.”

  “Here is the plan of the day. The opening celebration begins at nine a.m. in front of the pavilion,” Kiyoshi began. “The ambassador will review the parade alongside Consul General Moto. Mayor Rossi, officials from city hall, and dignitaries from the Japanese community will also be present.

  “First, hundreds of young girls wearing kimonos and hats intertwined with flowers will march alongside grand marshals. Some of the girls will carry paper umbrellas, and some will play flutes. Young boys will play drums.”

  As Kiyoshi spoke, Tokido could see how it pained him to uphold the pretense that nothing had changed between them. The greatest honor Tokido could show Kiyoshi would be to spare him further discomfort. “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Naturally,” answered Kiyoshi.

  “Leave the plan with me. If additions are needed, I will make notes. You are free to go.”

  Kiyoshi looked startled. “Tokido-san, please allow me to finish.”

  A fragile balance, as fine as spider silk, stretched between them.

  Tokido bowed his head and nodded. “As you wish.”

  Kiyoshi began again. “Next will come a procession of our countrymen in traditional costume, interspersed with many floats depicting village life, agriculture, and the arts. Takarabune, the treasure ship of the seven lucky gods, will end the parade.

  “At ten thirty, His Excellency Censure Horinuchi will receive military honors. He will then speak from the Federal Plaza. The speech will be broadcast coast to coast and by shortwave radio to Japan. A formal luncheon will follow.

  “In the afternoon, pavilion hostesses will offer special tea cakes and refreshments for all visitors. Origami cranes and wagashi will be offered as gifts. Cormorant fishing demonstrations will take place in the pond. The men, also dressed in native costume, will catch fish exactly as it is done on the Nagara River in Gifu Prefecture.

  “In the evening, paper lanterns will be lit for a feast to honor the ambassador and spectacular fireworks will conclude the night.” Kiyoshi placed the schedule on the desktop and folded his hands together.

  Tokido fingered his pen. He hadn’t made a mark on the plan.

  Kiyoshi waited.

  “Excellent. You have done well. I’m sure the day will be a great success.”

  “Domo arigatou gozaimasu.”

  “As it is, then, Kiyoshi-san. You may go now.” He rose to his feet and bowed deeply. “Sayonara.”

  Kiyoshi whispered, “Sayonara,” bowed, and departed with all the dignity and intelligence that had proved him to be an invaluable ally.

  Tokido leaned against door. This was no time for regret. He pulled the letter from the file and ripped it open. His eyes raced down the page.

  You are ordered to return to Tokyo on the Tatuta Maru, which departs San Francisco on March 15. In the interim, perform the diplomatic duties and community conta
cts required at the pavilion. Make no contact with the reporter Lily Nordby. Upon departure, leave all documents in the office. When you arrive in Yokohama, a car will take you to headquarters for a debriefing. Speak to no one about your departure.

  Sincerely,

  Consul General Moto

  Tokido moved rapidly to the display cabinet and ran his finger down the carved molding on the outside of the case to the head of the seventh carved bird. He pressed its head. The molding popped open. He peered inside. The cavity was empty. The hydrographic map of the San Francisco Bay, the land map of coastal defenses, and the black-and-white photos of the construction of the Golden Gate Bridge that Chizu had secured—everything gone.

  His movements became automatic: leave nothing behind. Close the cabinet, find the motorcycle key in the desk drawer, grab his coat, exit the office. He looked neither left nor right; figures moved by him in a blur. The doors were open wide. He leaped down the stairs and dashed for the motorcycle at the back of the pavilion. It leaned against a wall. He pushed it out, jumped on, and pressed the starter button. The motor sputtered, missed, sputtered again, and turned over. He revved the gas and popped the gearshift into first. The motorcycle growled and sprang forward as he steered it around the buildings and out onto the street.

  He throttled the motorcycle until the engine screamed. He tore along the Avenue of the Palms, the bitter wind off the bay whipping him senseless. Up onto the bridge approach, he leaned into the curve and sped through traffic. The bridge cables whined in the wind. Maybe there was a chance that the camera wouldn’t be found. They would confiscate his logbook. They were welcome to it. But the film in the camera. The one photo of Lily. That was his.

  Ten minutes over the bridge, twenty minutes to his apartment. He bargained with the fates. Even though he knew he was too late, he rode as if his life depended on it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Woodrow

  Woodrow had no sooner pushed open his front gate than he heard, “Boss, hold up!” He turned to see Rosy running down the Filbert Street steps like a bull in charge.