The fire and the gold

by Phyllis A. Whitney

Her father did not seem to think the notion silly at all. "After all," he said, "I've been reading your letters for a long time. I know how good they are."

  During the weeks that followed Captain Cranby was the center of all family activity. Everyone consulted him about every move. He and Gran had long sessions about matters of insurance, about the little trickle of boarding house income—since Quent and his father and Tony Ellis had remained as guests. And about other problems that were part of the new life of San Francisco. Even Uncle Will Seymour talked with him about the grave questions which faced him, but which looked now as though they might somehow be resolved, even though the Seymour fortune was gone.

  As Papa pointed out, the name of the Seymour company still retained its reputation in the city. New buildings were going up, those which stood in skeleton form were being rebuilt and repaired, and no San Franciscan would be likely to allow new property to go long uninsured. With new insurance money coming in to companies like Will's, the prospect was not hopeless. Of course Uncle Will had thrown his own personal fortune into this and had been selling his paintings right along. Thus he would be able to pay off his debts in part. If people could be persuaded to wait for the rest...

  Since there was no longer any hill of the nabobs in its former sense, Mama had become temporarily a homebody. Papa said jokingly that he didn't expect that to last, but all in all it was wonderful to have Papa home!

  The day came, as Melora knew it would, when the two of them went off for an afternoon alone.

  "Where shall we go?" he'd asked her and she'd answered readily.

  "The Plaza, I think. If there's anything left I haven't been back to see."

  The custom of visiting Portsmouth Square had begun when she was a little girl. First there was always a trip to Chinatown, with its sights and smells, then downhill to the old Plaza, around which the first buildings of San Francisco had sprung up, Spanish fashion. Portsmouth Square, it had been named, after the United States sloop which had first run up the American flag at the little settlement of Verba Buena on San Francisco Bay. It was there that Stevenson's Hispaniola sailed atop its monument.

  They'd gone by cable car in the old days, but the cables were not yet running into that part of town, so since Quent had an errand to do for his father down on the Embarcadero, they drove with him in the buggy.

  Papa observed the ruins with interest, but without sentimentality. Like Gran, it was always his philosophy to put the past behind him and walk cheerfully in the present. Chinatown was no more, and that was a great pity. But in the bright clear light of the June afternoon, its streets were alive with workers, clearing debris, dismantling. The noise of tearing down and putting up was everywhere. From any quarter at any time might come explosions as ruins were dynamited.

  There was little of the old peace that had once graced Portsmouth Square. Tents were pitched throughout the square, hiding paths that rayed from the center. The Chinese and Italians particularly had found a haven here.

  "Shall I wait while you look around a bit?" Quent asked. "Or shall I come by for you on my way home in an hour or so? Doesn't look as though there's much to do around here."

  That seemed true at first glance. On every side ruin hemmed the square—the skeleton buildings, the piles of brick and rubble, the sickish stench that would haunt San Francisco for a long time to come.

  "Shall we stay or go?" Melora's father asked.

  "Let's stay," she said. These paths at least were old San Francisco. Besides, there was still something she must see.

  So Quent went off without them and they threaded their way among tents and crowded benches, moving always toward the magnet of the square's center. The leaves on the trees had been scorched, but the shrubbery was still green, and everywhere leaves shimmered green and trembled in the breeze.

  Melora walked on toward the arch of poplars where the rayed paths met. Beneath shielding branches the little galleon sailed, golden pennant flying, sails billowing full in a wind that never died. Stevenson's Hispaniola was immortal.

  Melora sighed her relief. "It's as Tony said. The ship sailed away the night the fire came. Danger couldn't touch it."

  "What would you like to do now?" her father asked.

  Melora's eyes lifted to nearby Telegraph Hill. On its top she could see the wreckage of another fire. Some years before a curious structure known as Layman's German Castle had been erected there. But it had never been very popular as a restaurant and a few years ago it had burned down. Clinging to the cliffs below were a handful of little houses which had survived a far worse fire.

  "Let's go up there," Melora said on sudden impulse. "Tony's grandfather has a restaurant that wasn't burned down in the fire. Lombardi's. And his mother's living there now. I'd like to say hello to her."

  Her father was willing, so they left the square and started up the steep slope.

  'Tell me more about Tony Ellis," her father said as they followed the middle of the street.

  She had wanted to talk to him about Tony ever since he had come home. He'd had time to observe Tony himself by now and she wanted very much to know what he thought of him. She told him of that day on Van Ness when Tony had auctioned off the burned books. Of the time with Alec, and the story of Tony's father and Lotta Lombardi.

  Disappointingly, her father made no comment. Whatever his own opinion of Tony might be, he did not betray it, and she could not ask. Instead, he began to talk about Quent and the new interest he was taking in his father's business.

  "Do you think," Melora broke in at last, "that people can really be changed by a happening like this? Sometimes Quent seems different. But other times he's just as he used to be and I don't see any change at all."

  "Not changed, necessarily," her father said. "It seems to me that a terrible disaster may serve to test a man, to bring out qualities he already has, whether good or bad. I remember reading something while I was at sea, after news of the earthquake and fire had reached me. Something the old philosopher Seneca once wrote: Tire is the test of gold; adversity, of strong men.' I'm inclined to think that when strong men are tested, they show the gold."

  "Like Gran," said Melora and did not return again to the subject of Tony or Quent.

  The lower slopes of Telegraph Hill were as grim as the rest of the city, but as they mounted steeply a haven of green bowers hung above them. Houses clung precariously to the cliff amid vines and shrubbery. In small gardens hung cages with yellow canaries in them, and everywhere the riotous red and pink geraniums made a splash of color. After the desolation below, this spot seemed unbelievably brilliant and gay.

  "It's not real," Melora said. "Someone has painted it there."

  Papa smiled. "There's the Lombardi place just above us. I've dined there a few times long ago. Shall we go up?"

  They started up a steep flight of steps. This visit would be something to tell Tony about.

  "I expect Tony seems rather an exciting young man, to you and Cora," her father said as they climbed.

  "He certainly seems exciting to Cora," she said carefully. This, at least, was no secret. Cora flirted

  openly with Tony and it seemed to Melora sometimes that Tony was altogether too ready to play the same game.

  "I've noticed," Papa said. "But I wasn't thinking altogether of Cora."

  She went ahead without answering.

  It was Mrs. Ellis who saw the visitors from her vantage point on a narrow veranda and called out in delighted greeting. By the time they reached the veranda, an old man had come out to welcome them and Melora gathered that this was Tony's grandfather.

  Antonio Lombardi had black hair and a flourishing black mustache, at which he tugged when he was particularly enthusiastic. His was the warm and fluent nature of the Italian homeland and he shook Captain Cranby's hand heartily, then took both Melora's hands in his and squeezed them till she could feel her bones creak.

  This was a great joy, an honor, he cried. His daughter, his grandson, owed their very lives to Captain Cranby's family.
The debt of the Lombardis was enormous and he would accept no denial. But how fortunate that they should come here this very day.

  "Is most fortunate, no?" He prodded his daughter, who nodded in agreement.

  It seemed that Papa Lombardi was planning to open his restaurant again—perhaps for two nights a week. The roads were clear enough for cars and carriages to make the trip. And where in all San Francisco was a fine meal to be had these days? The Poodle Dog was gone. Gone was Papa Coppa's. But there were those who were tired now of earthquake fare and who longed for such a meal as only Papa Lombardi could prepare in his restaurant here on Telegraph Hill.

  "But firs'," he went on, "it is for my friends that

  I give the beeg dinner. You be here nex' week, Cap'n Cranby? You come, I give the beeg party."

  "Of course," Papa promised. "I'd be delighted to come."

  Mrs. Ellis explained further. "My father means of course that you are all to come. Everyone in the Bonner house. Your grandmother, Miss Melora, your mother. Mr. Seymour and his son. Your sister. And of course, my Tony. You will tell him, please?"

  Melora was puzzled. Why should she make a special point about Tony? Obviously her son would come.

  "Of course I'll tell him," she said. "Of course we'll all come."

  The old man was silent and Melora suspected a displeasure that she did not understand. Mrs. Ellis must have noted it.

  "We will be very happy if my son comes," she said. "Please try to persuade him."

  "Why should he need persuading?" Melora asked blankly.

  Papa Lombardi snorted. "That Tony gets the swell-in-the-head. He think we smell too much of the fish and the spaghetti sauce. But his Uncle Vito fish— so sure he smells like fish. And how you think you cook Spaghetti Lombardi and no put in what makes the so wonderful smell?"

  "I—I'm sure I don't know," Melora said, a little taken aback. "And I'm quite sure Tony will come. I'll promise you that."

  "My Tony did not like it when I came to live here with my papa," Mrs. Ellis explained. "He has not come here to visit me since I left your house."

  "I'm sorry," Melora said. "I didn't know that." This was something she did not understand and which carried embarrassing undercurrents. She was relieved when Papa Lombardi said he must show them about the place. A place that was now practically a museum—a remnant of old San Francisco.

  They had trouble tearing themselves away and returning to Portsmouth Square in time to meet Quent. But the interlude had been fun and by the time they got home Melora was eager to see Tony and tell him of their visit. She felt she could dismiss the odd things his grandfather and his mother had said as the words of an older generation likely to fuss over new ways.

  ON TELEGRAPH HILL

  Tony's dismay, his almost surly silence over the plans for the Lombardi party, came as a surprise to Melora in spite of Mrs. Ellis' words. At first he said flatly that he would not go. His attitude was almost one of being offended because such a party was to to be given. But he would not explain or offer a reason for the way he felt.

  It was Cora in the end who coaxed him into going. Cora could charm the knob off a bedpost, as Gran sometimes said. They all needed a party, Cora pointed out. San Francisco was growing unutterably dull. After the excitement of the earthquake and fire, life seemed very tame when there was nothing to do but work and go around showing how brave you were all the time. She, for one, was very tired of being brave. She couldn't stay excited forever about donkey engines and pile drivers. She wanted some fun. And this party wouldn't be fun at all if only the older people went.

  Tony smiled and Cora went right on.

  "I've always loved Telegraph Hill. The view up there is so wonderful. Perhaps we can get away during the evening and climb right to the top where we can see everything."

  Tony's ill-humor vanished. "Telegraph Hill it shall be," he said. And Melora, who was watching, saw him look away from Cora's merry face and meet her eyes directly. It was an eloquent look that was almost a signal, a challenge. She was not at all certain what to make of it.

  Papa Lombardi was making a big thing of this re-opening. It was a good opportunity for publicity. The newspapers would be glad to report a social function for a change, especially when such a function would be held right in the middle of San Francisco's ruins.

  There was considerable to-do in the Cranby household over the matter of dress. Not that one looked askance at any manner of costume these days, but women folk liked to be beautiful and there were, after all, party dresses from Melora's trunk. None of these would fit Mama, but Mrs. Cranby was able to compromise by wearing a frilly peekaboo shirtwaist of lace with her everyday skirt, and her new jade pin at her throat. There was a green frock that went well with Cora's blond prettiness, while Melora wore her favorite gown of lilac satin, with yards of flounces around the bottom and tiny bows of lilac velvet trimming on the bodice. Gran bought a new lace collar to go with her black dress and would wear the garnet earrings which Henry Bonner had given her.

  There was something of a scene in the afternoon when Cora insisted on putting up her hair. She would not, she announced—she would absolutely not!—go to this party with her hair down her back in a schoolgirl curl and a hairbow. Mama said Cora was really only a baby and she couldn't bear to see her children growing up, but Papa came to Cora's aid and the matter was settled.

  Melora worked over her sister's hair for an hour, with Mama and Gran helping, and even Quong Sam criticizing the fashionable pompadour as being too "floppy." At length, with tortoiseshell combs and hairpins, Cora's graduation to adult status was achieved and Melora had to admit that she looked very grown-up and strikingly pretty.

  There was one small worry at the back of Melora's mind. Mama had heard from Nell Forrest and had reported that Nell and her son Howard were going to attend Papa Lombardi's dinner. Nothing had happened about the account Melora had written and Tony had mailed to Mr. Forrest at the magazine. Tonight she would have to meet the editor and perhaps discover exactly what he thought of her effort. Somehow she was more concerned because of Tony than because of her own feelings in the matter. She herself knew what the result was sure to be. But Tony had been so confident.

  Alec was heart-broken because he was too young to go to the party, though he was up now and hobbling around on crutches. But Quong Sam could be counted on to keep him entertained for an evening.

  It took both the Seymour car and the buggy to get them all to Telegraph Hill. By zigzagging, the buggy reached the foot of the steps leading to the restaurant. But the car coughed and died on a steep slope and everyone had to get out and walk.

  Melora had been paired with Quent, while Cora had made it her business to annex Tony. He'd been especially flattering about the new hair-do and Melora suspected that Cora's hair was now up for good, no matter what Mama said.

  The big main room of the restaurant reached across the front of the building, overlooking the bay area. The Golden Gate was out of sight over the top of the hill, but the lights of Berkeley and Oakland twinkled across the bay, and Verba Buena Island made a small patch of blackness on the water.

  Lombardi tables wore red checked cloths and there were candles in big bottles half hidden beneath melting layers of colored wax. Fish nets looped across the ceiling to add atmosphere and on the walls were hundreds of drawings—caricatures of famous folk drawn by local artists.

  But the most important, most colorful piece of all was Tony's grandfather. He was everywhere at once, joking and laughing, hearty and uninhibited. Tony's Uncle Vito was there tonight too, helping out as a second host, and where Uncle Vito was, Melora discovered, there was likely to be a strong smell of fish. She saw the wrinkling of Tony's nose, saw the way he edged back and stood in the shadow, as if he did not want to be connected with these relatives on Telegraph Hill.

  Was he ashamed of them, she wondered, and tried at once to dismiss the idea. He couldn't possibly be scornful of this old man who warmed the entire place with his kindness and good will.


  She was glad to see Quent talking boats with Uncle Vito. Mrs. Ellis' brother was obviously more at home with the business of catching fish, and this matter of greeting strangers made him uneasy.

  The Forrests were already there and were to sit at the Cranby table. But the table was a long one and to her relief Melora found herself nowhere near the editor. She sat between Quent and Uncle Will Seymour, with Tony and Cora down at the other end. Mrs. Ellis had the place beside Papa and was already talking to him like an old friend. Tony's mother looked especially beautiful and dramatic tonight in wine red satin with rhinestones sparkling at her neck.

  But it was the fresh crabs, the Spaghetti Lombardi, the ravioli and crusty Italian bread that held first place in everyone's attention for a while. Surely there had never been a gayer party given in all San Francisco. Both ladies and gentlemen wore everything imaginable—and no one minded. Stories of earthquake and fire were exchanged gayly and the talk was of the beautiful city that was to rise again here beside the bay.

  When they had eaten as much as they could hold, someone started a call for Lotta Lombardi. Mrs. Ellis clasped her hands to her heart and shook her head vehemently. Her voice was long gone, she protested. She could not possibly sing—a thousand times no! But sing she did, in a voice that had not entirely lost its beauty. First an aria from Madame Butterfly, then an Italian folk song or two, and finally a snatch of popular music, with everyone joining in.

  Afterwards there were impromptu speeches. Bouquets were tossed at Papa Lombardi, and Papa Lombardi tossed bouquets at his guests. There was much laughter and applause from the tables.

  Among others, Howard Forrest was called upon to speak as editor of the California magazine, Mission Bells. Mr. Forrest told them that the rest of the world still did not believe what San Francisco could do.

  "When oh-six goes out," he said, "we'll be well on our way to realizing a brand new city. This will be the biggest New Year celebration ever. Some of the big downtown buildings will be open again. And it won't be long before the Fairmont will be taking in guests. There'll even be a new Palace and the St. Francis will move out of its makeshift quarters in Union Square. All this while the rest of the world is pitying us and pulling long faces about the length of time it will take us to recover."