The fire and the gold

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  She picked up her skirts and ran lightly up the long flight of narrow stairs to the second floor. Here chunks of plaster were strewn across the carpet and there were footprints and smudges in the white dust where others had crossed the hall.

  When she reached the third floor she ran along the dim hallway toward the closed door of the study. Did her father know by now what was happening to San Francisco, she wondered.

  She flung open the study door and ran toward the little alcove her father had built to do Kwan Yin special honor, show her off to best effect. The niche stood bare and empty and for an instant she thought the statue must have been jarred to the floor in the quake. But though she looked all about she found no trace of it. Even the carved stand of teakwood that had been made especially for the statue was gone. Someone else must have remembered too and rescued it.

  She stepped to the front window and looked down into the street where Mrs. Forrest still talked to the soldier. Beyond the lower rooftop of the house across the way, Melora could see the ominous thickening of smoke. It billowed upwards, pulsing with a wickedly vivid light on its underside. So close it seemed—she must hurry, hurry.

  Down the stairs she ran to the second floor hall. The strip of carpet softened her steps and above her own labored breathing she heard another sound—a stealthy, slipping sound from the first floor. Breathlessly she came to a halt with one hand on the bannister at the top of the stairs. There was someone else in the house. Not the soldier or Mrs. Forrest, who would move boldly and probably call to her. Someone who tiptoed furtively, cutting off her retreat to the front door. Looter? Thief?

  She slid one foot toward the top step and the whole staircase seemed to shriek with the creaking of the board. In the hall below the tiptoeing ceased. There was complete silence all through the house. But it was a waiting silence in which Melora's heart thudded wildly. As she listened the intruder drew a gasping breath.

  "Who—who's there?" she quavered faintly.

  There was an exclamation from the floor below. "Missy M'lory! How you come this place?"

  She laughed in relief and rushed down the stairs. She could have hugged the little man in blue linen with the pigtail coiled neatly at the back of his head. Except that he was always too dignified for hugging.

  "Quong Sam! Why are you here alone? Where has the family gone?"

  "I stay for take care house," he told her calmly.

  "Famly go Lafayette Square. I tell 'um go Bonner house, but you Mama say no wantchee."

  Melora well knew how her mother felt about the Bonner house, where she had lived after coming here from Virginia City. Mama had no head for finances and she had always resented the decision her mother and husband made to rent the house and move into smaller quarters. Since the move she had refused adamantly to set foot in the house, or have anything to do with the tenants. Until lately, Gran had taken care of all details concerning the house. Now that Gran no longer took an interest, Papa did what he could when he was home.

  "But you can't stay here, Sam," Melora cried. "I'm with Mrs. Forrest now. Suppose you come along with us."

  He closed his eyes—a familiar gesture signifying resistance—and then opened them and stared at her un-blinkingly.

  "Fire come, I go," he said. "Fire no come, I no go."

  She shook her head in despair, knowing she could never budge his determination, once he'd made up his mind. At least she knew where to find the family now and the major portion of her anxiety was slipping away.

  "All right, Sam—if you must. But take care. We need you."

  "I take plenty care," he promised. "This house no burn, you see."

  She started toward the door and then turned back. "Sam, did somebody take Papa's Kwan Yin away?"

  This time he nodded vigorously and waved toward the parlor. "Me catchee lady god. He takee care this house fine."

  Melora gave him one look and then ran past him through the parlor door. The black teakwood table from China had been pulled before the front bay window, and right in the middle of it rested the statue of Kwan Yin on her carved stand. The lovely blue coils of her hair had been unruffled by earthquake shock, her long ear lobes, bespeaking great wisdom, were unchipped, and her golden face with its benevolent and compassionate smile was turned toward the south and the fire.

  Quickly Melora reached for the statue, but Quong Sam was quicker still, gently patting down her hand as he had done sometimes when she was a child reaching toward danger.

  "You no touch!" he cried. "Him velly good for keep away fire. Him watchee, house no burn."

  A sudden vibration shook the floor beneath their feet. Kwan Yin tilted forward and then settled back as the shock passed.

  "You go outside, Missy M'lory," Quong Sam said severely, and at the same time a loud halloo reached them from the street.

  Melora glanced out the window and saw the young soldier coming up the steps.

  "Hey there, Miss!" he called. "You all right? Come on out of there right away! The lady here wants you."

  Quong Sam fled into the dimness of the rear hall. Quite evidently he was in hiding lest he be ordered out, and the soldier had no notion of his presence in the house. Melora snatched up the statue and its stand and ran to the door, carrying them tenderly. Behind her she heard muttered imprecations from Quong Sam, but there was no way he could stop her now without betraying himself.

  The soldier waited for her at the turn of the steps. Melora smiled as she ran down toward the sidewalk.

  "Look—I got what I went after." She held up the Kwan Yin to show him and hurried to join Mrs. Forrest. That lady stared at the statue in disapproval

  "We can't eat that," she said. "If you were going to carry anything, why didn't you look for food?"

  Food? The thought of it had never entered Melora's mind. She shifted the weight of the statue in her arms. It was fairly heavy and its shape was awkward, but she did not regret rescuing it. Her father would be pleased. There were some things more important than food.

  She explained to Mrs. Forrest about Quong Sam as they went on and that the family had gone to Lafayette Square.

  Mrs. Forrest nodded. "Good. We'll head toward Van Ness and then go north to California. I hope you feel like walking. Why hasn't Quong Sam skipped out to Chinatown?"

  "Oh, he'd stand by us," Melora said with conviction. "We belong to him. Anyway, I don't think he has any relatives. Only a nephew he's sending to college over in Berkeley. At least that's the excuse he gives every time he wants to disappear for a few days—that he's going to see his nephew. Mama says the nephew is a myth Sam has been using for the last twenty years. So I don't really know if he has anyone."

  As they retreated along the street Melora glanced up at empty windows, wondering about people she knew. Not that she had many friends in this somewhat rundown neighborhood. Most of Mama's friends lived up on Nob Hill, or west of Van Ness.

  Now, as the fire lines were pushed still farther back, a new exodus of refugees began streaming across their path up the hill. One woman fell into step beside Mrs. Forrest for a little while, carrying an empty bird cage.

  "There's no more room in Union Square," the woman told them. "There're people swarming over every inch. But I wasn't staying. Looks like the fire may head that way before night."

  She rushed on, the bird cage still clutched in her hands. A block farther along they came upon an old man sitting on a trunk out in the middle of the street. He was calmly strumming a banjo and singing:

  When you hear dem bells go ding-ling-ling

  All join 'round and sweetly sing

  And when the verse am over

  In the chorus all join in,

  There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight....

  Melora had to laugh and he caught her eye and waved.

  "Just waiting for a cable car," he called. Then, with a glance at the quiet slot at his feet, "Might be a long wait."

  Half a block later Melora glanced back to see that he had tucked his banjo under his arm and was
dragging his trunk over cobblestones, pulling it by a rope through the handle.

  Now and then a flock of frightened pigeons soared above them, seeking safety, even as human beings were seeking it.

  On ahead the familiar sign of the bookshop of Gower & Ellis hung at a crazy angle, where the earthquake had jarred it. The glass show window of the shop had been shattered and a young man knelt in the window, gathering up volumes which had been stacked there for display.

  Melora didn't know his last name, though she'd heard Mr. Gower call him Tony, but she remembered him with interest. The last time she had been in the bookstore with Mama she'd had an odd interchange with this young man. Mama had been rather annoyed about it. Melora had known Tony by sight, since this was the Cranbys' favorite bookshop. On this occasion he had done rather a skillful job of separating her from her mother, and when Mama had entered into a discussion with Mr. Gower, he had said a most astonishing thing. Melora remembered his words very well and had thought about his behavior more than once since that day. Though without the indignation Mama thought she should feel.

  The young man had told her quite frankly that he'd been wanting to talk to her ever since he'd first seen her come into the store. He liked her taste in books, he said. Henry James, for instance—there was a writer! He was glad to see she didn't read that sentimental stuff her younger sister was so fond of. Apparently he had been observing the tastes of the whole family.

  That was when Mama had discovered what was happening and hurried back to sweep Melora out from under the young book clerk's interested gaze. Melora had been curious about him ever since. He didn't in the least fit the pattern of the young men she knew and it might have been fun to talk to him.

  Now it didn't seem strange to come opposite the shop window and find him kneeling in it, looking straight at her over the stack of books in his arms. His skin was rather dark and he had thick dark hair and eyes that were velvety brown under heavy lashes. Italian, probably, Mama had said, and "bold like those Italians so often are."

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Forrest, Miss Cranby." Tony spoke as calmly as though he had fully expected them to turn up outside his window. "Rather a warm day for April."

  Mrs. Forrest looked surprised and then laughed. "It is, indeed, and likely to be warmer. Is Mr. Gower planning to move his place of business?"

  "I'm not sure," Tony said. "But it's possible that we may take a short leave of absence. For alterations. Oh, Miss Cranby—we have something for you. Something your grandmother, Mrs. Bonner, ordered. Won't you come in?"

  Mrs. Forrest looked off in the direction of the fire uncertainly. "This is hardly the time—"

  "Perhaps we could sit down for just a minute," Melora suggested.

  At once Tony waved them into the shop and brought folding chairs. Mrs. Forrest said her feet were beginning to hurt and sat down gratefully. After all, she admitted, there was no immediate hurry and a rest would do them good.

  Since electricity and gas had been turned off right after the earthquake, it was dark inside. Mr. Gower was working by the light of a single candle and Melora saw that he was packing books into a cardboard carton. He peered short-sightedly through his gold-rimmed glasses when Tony spoke to him, and came around a counter to greet them.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Cranby, Mrs. Forrest," he said. "Tony is right about that order for a book. Mrs. Bonner asked us to get the red leather edition of Kingsley's The Water-Babies some time ago. It just came in yesterday. Hand it to her, Tony. Compliments of the house, Miss Cranby. Please give it to your grandmother." He tugged at his gray mustache with an air of vague gallantry.

  Melora started to protest, but Mr. Gower waved his hands sadly. "These books are nothing but fuel now. And your grandmother has long been a valued customer. Please give it to her."

  Melora took the small leather-bound volume from Tony. She remembered that Grandmother had ordered it for Alec, but reading The Water-Babies aloud to Alec didn't seem a very likely prospect at the moment. However, she could not refuse Mr. Gower's gesture.

  A sharp command was barked at them suddenly from the doorway and Melora turned to see a soldier standing there.

  "Hey, get that light out!" he shouted. "The mayor has ordered no lights. We've got fires enough to worry about."

  Mr. Gower puffed out the candle and the blustery soldier disappeared.

  Somewhat rested, Mrs. Forrest was ready to go on again. As Tony walked with them to the door, he noted the statue Melora carried.

  "I see you set value on important things," he said. "Kwan Yin and The Water-Babies. Items worth saving in a fire."

  "I'm not so sure about that," said Mrs. Forrest tartly. "Come along, Melora—we've still a lot of walking ahead of us."

  She went out the door, but Tony spoke again before Melora could follow her. "Where are you going now, Melora Cranby?"

  She paused in the doorway. "Our Chinese cook says the family has taken refuge in Lafayette Square. We'll look for them there."

  "But doesn't your grandmother own a big house out that way?"

  "Yes, on Washington Street, across from the square. I expect we'll go there eventually, though tenants are occupying it." She was aware of Mrs. Forrest waiting for her outside the door, but she stayed a moment longer. "Where do you live?" she asked him.

  "Near the top of Russian Hill," Tony said. "Though my mother's family is on Telegraph Hill. We should be all right."

  "I do hope so," Melora said. "Thank you for thinking of the book. I'd better go now—Mrs. Forrest is waiting for me."

  "It wasn't the book alone I was thinking of," he said softly. "I'll see you again, Melora."

  She rejoined Mrs. Forrest in some confusion. This young man left her with a pleasant sense of exhilaration. Knowing him better might be interesting. When would she see him again?

  As she walked on at Mrs. Forrest's side, carrying Kwan Yin and the book, she found herself plagued by a desire to look back at the Gower & Ellis shop. She didn't give in to the urge until she was a good block away. Then she glanced over her shoulder. Tony knelt in the window again. He wasn't working at his task but staring after her with the frankest interest. When he saw her head turn he waved to her and she smiled and waved back.

  Mrs. Forrest glanced at her appraisingly. "That's a bright young man—Tony Ellis—and I think he'll climb, if I know his type. I can't see him hidden forever in a bookshop. He's too flamboyant. I suspect he likes an audience, that one."

  "Ellis?" Melora repeated in surprise. "You mean of Gower & Ellis? But I thought—that is, Mama said he was probably Italian."

  "His father was John Ellis, Mr. Gower's partner. He died some years ago. I suppose Tony will own half the store one of these days—if there's any store left to own. So Mr. Gower must be trying to break him in. But he's Italian enough on his mother's side. That's what gives him the exotic touch. Quite a collection there—opera singers, restaurant owners, fishermen. Odd sort of marriage for his mother, with books on the other side. I wonder which branch Tony takes after. Come along, my dear, you're lagging a little."

  Melora hurried her steps, but her thoughts were on Tony's background. It all sounded different and fascinating. So different from Quent, whose father was in insurance—a dull sort of business, as even Quent himself admitted—and whose mother was very "old" San Francisco.

  Even in Chicago life had been enough different to make it great fun to set things down in her diary. She'd always loved to turn happenings into words. But at home there had often been days on end when nothing seemed worth recording. The sudden realization came to her that since this morning the whole face of existence had changed for all of them. She would hardly need to worry about the monotony of life for quite a while. Already there were a hundred things to write in her diary when she had it in her hands again. And one of them would be this odd meeting with Tony Ellis.

  Before they reached Van Ness they had one other encounter. A grocery store keeper gestured at them from his doorway.

  "Come along and help you
rselves!" he invited. "It'll all burn anyway. Pick up what you can carry. Hurry, hurry!"

  Along with others in the street, they dashed across and into the store. Burdened with book and statue, Melora couldn't manage many tins or packages, but she juggled four or five articles into her arms. A tin of peaches, a loaf of bread—the last in the shop—a tin of tomatoes, and one of string beans. All sensible things which she was sure Mrs. Forrest would approve. Then one little exotic item she couldn't resist—a small tin of caviar. She'd tasted it once at a luncheon at the Palace Hotel and had loved the strange, salty flavor. But she hid it under the other things, knowing caviar wasn't the best possible fare for refugees.

  Mrs. Forrest hesitated no more than a moment. Then she pulled up her street skirt, loosened the waistband of her top underskirt and swished herself out of it. Into the voluminous skirt she piled as much foodstuff as she could carry, tied the skirt openings in knots and slung the improvised bag over her shoulder.

  Melora bit her lips to keep from smiling. Mrs. Forrest, still wearing her big hat with the increasingly bedraggled feathers, and carrying the huge skirt-bag over her shoulder, made a strange picture indeed.

  More and more now along the street they came upon pitiful heaps of belongings, either moved out of the houses and then abandoned when the occupants left, or dropped by the way because they grew too heavy to carry. Never, never, Melora thought, would she let Kwan Yin join their sad company.

  Van Ness was a wide and dignified residential avenue of fine houses. Like Market Street, it might make a fire break if one was necessary. Considerable earthquake damage was evident in the buckled pavement, roof tiles cluttering the street and fences twisted awry.

  They began to climb toward Lafayette Square, but as they came in sight of sloping, grassy banks and high walks, a new anxiety filled Melora. The square—it was a park really, covering several blocks—was black with people. There must be thousands up here—and how could she ever find her family in such a throng?

  Children and dogs and cats were all intermingled. Here and there some lucky family had set up a tent for shelter against the coming chill of evening and the dampness that was inevitable.