The Secret of the Nightingale Palace (14 page)

“What are you thinking?” Mayumi finally asked.

Goldie didn't look up, though she tried to answer, her hands moving vaguely through the air. “Look at the folds of the fabric,” she said. “Look at the line of her neck. And look at her face. That poor girl has no idea what to do!”

The Nakamuras both knew that of the two artists in this collection, Hiroshige had always drawn the most acclaim. It was the Tokkaido pictures, not these illustrations from
Genji,
that elevated Henry's purchase from pleasant amusement to treasure. But Goldie's reaction made both of them look at the
Genji
illustrations again. In the mixing of these two foreign elements—Goldie and these works of art—an alchemy had occurred. Henry and Mayumi were able to look more closely and see, if only as a sudden flash, the beauty that Goldie experienced so completely.

Eventually Henry reached the last page of the book. Goldie, like someone waking from sleep, looked up at him, her face radiant. “I haven't ever seen anything so beautiful before.”

“They're here, any time you like,” he said. He was uncomfortable to have witnessed such a private burst of feeling, but he also felt obliged to make sure that she could see the pictures again.

Mayumi, of course, was even more encouraging. “Consider our house your personal gallery,” she said, squeezing Goldie's hand.

All this kindness suddenly embarrassed Goldie, who didn't know how to repay it. She searched the sky for something to say, and the darkness reminded her how much time had passed. Immediately, her expression shifted. “It must be nearly five!” she said, putting her hand on Mayumi's wrist to see her watch. “Oh, no. It's five thirty.”

Goldie's mind filled then with thoughts of the cranky Rochelle, the children with their dirty noses, Buddy and his beer, the fact that she had promised to cook a stew for them. “I don't even know about the bus!” she said, jumping up.

Mayumi grabbed Goldie's hand. “Don't worry. Henry can drive the car. We'll take you home.” A look of relief passed over Goldie's face, and Mayumi paused, her expression full of concern, to say to her brother, “I told you the terrible thing about Goldie's sister, didn't I?”

“No,” Henry said, reaching into his pocket to make sure he had his father's keys. “What?” He looked at Goldie, but she seemed baffled, too.

Mayumi took a deep, dramatic breath. “If Goldie doesn't get home before six o'clock,” she whispered, “Rochelle will eat her.”

For the briefest instant, Henry observed the range of expressions that flashed across Goldie's face: surprise and confusion followed by a flutter of giggles. She turned to her friend and swatted her on the arm. “I didn't say she'd eat me, silly!”

7

New World

I
t annoyed Rochelle that her younger sister enjoyed such success in San Francisco. Not only had Goldie found an excellent job, but she was popular with the young men, too. Goldie had already been to the Pied Piper Bar in the Palace Hotel twice. The first time, a men's shirt wholesaler from Seattle drove her there in his robin's-egg blue Mercury Coupe. The second time, she visited with Herman Isaacson, an annuities agent who worked with Rochelle's husband, Buddy, at F. S. Wreaker & Sons Insurance. Rochelle had introduced Goldie to Herman herself, but she found it aggravating to sit home every night while gentlemen took Goldie to the most glamorous spots in San Francisco.

“You need to pull your weight around here, you know,” Rochelle griped one Monday morning.

Though Goldie had spent a needy first few days in San Francisco, she had quickly found her footing. Now she had little time for Rochelle. She had her new job, her social life, and obligations to keep the house clean and help care for the children. “Rochelle,” she said, holding up the hand mirror to check on the foundation below her eyes, “I'm the one scrubbing the floor in the kitchen at six
A.M.
while you're sleeping.”

Rochelle was still in her robe, drinking coffee. The baby sat at their feet, his face a papier-mâché mask of oatmeal and the scraps of toilet tissue he had found in the bathroom. “I'm here all day,” she replied, thrusting her arms into the air to encompass the scope of her disappointments. “What are you, the Queen of Post Street, out there seeing the world?”

Goldie took a bite of toast. Rochelle had always resented Goldie's close relationship with their mother, which explained her bitter equation of Goldie's success in San Francisco with the popularity of Libke—the Queen of Bullington Avenue—back home. But Goldie ignored the swipe. She had a bus to catch and eight hours of selling stockings ahead of her. She had stuffed an apple, a hunk of bread, and a couple of pieces of cheese wrapped in old newspaper into her pocketbook, and it was all she would eat between now and dinner. Rochelle, on the other hand, was a married lady who didn't work. Her day would include a trip to the park and a stop at the grocer's for soap and onions. It seemed clear, on paper, which of these two sisters was better off. Still, what lay between them was not the relative comforts and discomforts of their daily lives. It was the fact that an eager young man had taken Goldie to an expensive Italian restaurant in North Beach the night before, while Rochelle and her children ate leftover chuck roast at the cramped kitchen table.

“Rochelle,” Goldie said, getting up and slipping her bag over her shoulder, “you've got a husband and I don't.” Neither Rochelle nor Goldie would have been able to explain, exactly, why they were arguing. Issues of happiness had never been central to their consciousness. Are you healthy? Do you have enough to eat? Do you have money? Are you safe? Goldie and her siblings had learned to assess the quality of their lives by only these practical measures, and so they had no means by which to judge the general state of their emotions. Goldie blew a kiss to the baby, and disappeared out the door.

Although Goldie worked hard, she loved every single thing about her job—the lush textures of the wools and silks in couture, the weight of the crystal vases and bowls in domestic lifestyle, the fine little gold filigree on the necks of the atomizer bottles in fragrance, even the sheen on the silk stockings. She loved her customers' need for her attention, the respect on the face of her boss, Mr. Blankenship, when he sought her out with a question, even the businesslike clip of her heels across the marble floors. It amazed her that a girl from Memphis who had only finished eighth grade could now be earning thirteen dollars a week in San Francisco, and though she had no expectations of a long career in sales—Goldie planned eventually to get married—the idea that she could take such good care of herself gave her a sense of confidence in her own abilities that she had not previously thought possible.

Unlike shops that carried more ladies' fashions, Feld's had an idiosyncratic way of combining “manly” merchandise, like humidors and decanters, with a wide selection of very feminine offerings, like negligees and perfumes. As a result, the establishment attracted a large number of male customers, many of whom liked to purchase gifts for their mistresses, if not their wives, and who appreciated the attentions of a pretty young shopgirl. These men, as well as the men on Feld's staff, noticed Goldie right away. It wasn't that she was prettier than the other salesgirls. All the salesgirls at Feld's were pretty. Anyway, regarding Goldie by that measure put her at a disadvantage. Her face didn't have the smooth and pleasing proportions that one saw on the face of Margaret, for example, the sweet girl in the hat department. She didn't have that startled and innocent look that made Shirley, in gloves and scarves, so fetching. And she didn't have the sophistication of French Agnes, who moved like a dancer, with long limbs and graceful hands that seemed destined to model nail polish and diamond rings. Goldie, who “floated” among different departments from day to day, had attractions that were harder to describe and, for most of the men in the store, more alluring. Her body was lean but curvy, and the clothes she wore covered her in a way that was both discreet and inviting. Women's fashion called for a balance between modesty and revelation. Most women found a place of comfort that tipped the balance too far to one side or the other. Some, like Margaret, dressed with too much hesitation and ended up looking prissy. Others, like Hollis, who worked in fragrance, wore blood reds and hot pinks and allowed their necklaces to disappear into their cleavage. As a result, those girls looked loose. Goldie, though, had found her balance on the knife-sharp edge of decorum. She wore her blouses buttoned nearly to the neck, but they were formfitting and thin, and covered her breasts like the tightest of gloves. The men in the shop, both customers and fellow employees, paused to watch her move across the room. Goldie knew that men found her attractive. She had learned when she was only fifteen how to dodge their ardent hands and attempts at kisses. Their desire had sometimes surprised her, but she had never felt afraid of it. The interest of men added to her sense of control over her life, and that was exhilarating to her.

But despite her charms, Goldie's social life was not as glamorous as she might have liked. Men asked her out every day, but out of concern that they were criminals, or married, she only accepted invitations from those to whom she'd been introduced by someone she trusted. When she did go out, she didn't have a lot of fun. Herman Isaacson, the annuities agent, was jovial and doting, but his manners were crude, and he ate with his mouth open. Goldie felt no joy in dining with him, even at the famous North Beach Italian restaurant, because bits of food constantly spun from his mouth, flying at her from across the table. Stan Margolis, the shirt salesman, was also doting, but cheap. True, he had taken her to the Palace Hotel for a drink, but he had only ordered a seltzer (Goldie, who avoided alcohol, had sipped a Coca-Cola). Afterward, instead of inviting her into the hotel's fashionable restaurant, he had walked her over to Third Street, where they ate dry meatloaf at Sherman's Diner. Other men, mostly friends of Buddy's, took her out as well, but none of them interested her. Out of all these dates, the only man who really stirred her was Alan Stevenson, a Nebraskan who ran men's shoes. He had a sportsman's shoulders and, despite his childhood on the farm, wore beautiful clothes. They had been out one time, to a French restaurant on Sacramento Street that Goldie found both elegant and exotic. Alan was Christian, though, unlike her other dates, and since Goldie had never known many Christians, she had a hard time reading his emotions. He hadn't asked her out again.

Goldie most enjoyed her time with Mayumi. The girls never tired of wandering through the expensive shops around Union Square, discussing fashion and men. While Mayumi talked about “finally falling in love,” Goldie was pragmatic. She wanted someone handsome and charming, but her primary concern was “a good salary and solid future.” The idea of love didn't factor into her calculations.

Both girls, though, wanted to have fun. Mayumi, a native San Franciscan, became tour guide for her new friend. Though Goldie found the experience repulsive, she willingly followed Mayumi through the back alleys of Chinatown, where streams of blood drained out the doors of the butcher shops and down the sidewalks. She also hated the smells along the wharves, where men in galoshes sucked on fat cigars and hauled fish as big as they were on their soaking backs. Goldie never complained, however. Every sight and smell contributed to her education. Once, they walked to the top of Telegraph Hill and stood at the base of Coit Tower. Mayumi pointed toward a patch of silvery gray beyond the Golden Gate Bridge. It was Goldie's first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean.

“One day, I'm going to travel to Japan,” Mayumi said.

Goldie replied, “I'll come with you.”

Sometimes Mayumi brought Henry along as well. Because of his business, he traveled up and down the coast, buying goods in the antique markets of Los Angeles, Seattle, and Vancouver and bringing them back to sell in the fine stores of San Francisco. Often he sold merchandise to Feld's. He had exquisite Chinese wooden boxes, each with dozens of working drawers. He had Siamese ceramics in shades he described as “cerulean” and “azure” and “celadon.” Goldie had never heard these words before and never seen such porcelain. He also showed her two tiny Italian chess sets that had arrived in the United States, he didn't know why, through Indonesia.

If Henry dropped by Feld's in the late afternoon, he waited until closing time so that he could ride home on the bus with his sister. Sometimes, after work, the three of them walked to a diner a couple of blocks down Market Street, where they drank coffee and, if they had time, played penny games of gin rummy. Although Mayumi had easily warmed to Goldie, Henry took longer to adapt. He had been born in the United States and had business relationships with many different kinds of people, but his personal life remained entirely Japanese. He was surprised to realize how little Goldie understood about the exclusivity of San Francisco's various communities: the Chinese didn't mix with the Japanese; the High Society on Nob Hill didn't mix with the Irish in the Mission; the Mexicans lived in their own little world. Goldie, however, only seemed to notice who interacted (or failed to interact) with the Jews, and now that she had become an ardent friend of Mayumi, she focused primarily on their similarities, not their differences. “I'm an immigrant, too,” she remarked one time, stressing the parallels between their lives. Though Henry wasn't sure that Goldie fully understood the meaning of the term—they had all actually been born in this country—he had to agree that she was right. They were all outsiders here.

One afternoon Henry suggested that they take Goldie to see Japantown. She had heard of the neighborhood and had several times mentioned a desire to visit, but unless she had a date after work, she needed to be home by six thirty. “I wish I had time,” she said.

Henry pushed up the sleeve of his shirt and showed her his wristwatch. “It's just five now,” he said. “Japantown is on one of the bus lines that leads straight back to your house.” Goldie had lived in San Francisco for three months by then, but she still didn't understand the geography of the city.

“We'll make sure you get home,” Mayumi promised.

On the streetcar, Goldie felt the urge to describe her latest confounding interaction with Alan Stevenson, the Nebraskan. Mayumi had an intimate knowledge of the ups and downs of that relationship, which despite flirtations at the store had yet to lead to a second date. Because Mayumi was Japanese, the two girls did not consider the same men as potential boyfriends. Over the months of their friendship, they had each taken on a singular role in the other's life—that of an adviser who was interested but personally uninvolved. Today, Alan Stevenson demanded their entire attention, and though on another occasion Henry's presence might have kept Goldie from speaking on the subject, her emotions this afternoon so weighed on her that she felt he might, as a man, offer needed perspective.

“I was in the stockroom when he came in,” she began. “He saw that we were alone, and he immediately came over to me. I was so nervous. He whispered in my ear, ‘That shade of blue brings out the color of your eyes.' Those exact words.” She looked at Mayumi. “Have you ever heard anything so romantic and sweet?”

The two girls sat on a long bench facing the center aisle of the streetcar. Henry, pressed among the crowd of afternoon commuters, stood above them, holding one of the metal poles that stretched between the floor and ceiling. Mayumi said, “Of course it's romantic. He's stuck on you.”

Goldie liked that idea. She anticipated that another invitation—perhaps to the Pied Piper Room?—would arrive soon.

“But,” said Henry, looking down at her, “your eyes aren't blue.”

Mayumi scowled up at her brother. “What does that matter?”

“It's still romantic,” Goldie suggested, but his comment touched on a fact that she had herself considered.

Henry seemed unconvinced.

“You don't think he meant it?” Goldie asked.

“I think it sounds stupid.”

Mayumi chastised her brother. “You don't even know Alan Stevenson. He's not stupid. He's from Nebraska. And handsome. And he wants to open his own shoe shop one day. He's going to call it Stevenson's Fine Shoes.” This last bit of information had come, of course, from Goldie herself, who had taken Alan's revelation of his career aspiration as a signal that he might ask her to join him in the enterprise. It had seemed somehow perfect to her that a girl with twisted toes could end up with a purveyor of beautiful shoes.