Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (44 page)
Olana felt Matthew’s arms find her at last. She buried her head inside his coat. “Easy. Breathe easy, love,” he advised softly. “They’re alive,” he whispered in her hair. “We would know it if they weren’t.”
Olana raised her head. “Do you think so, Matthew?”
“Sure. And it doesn’t look like we’ll be free to find them until Sidney has his wedding, so how about it?”
“‘How about it?’” his grandmother mocked his speech pattern behind him. “Looking to sweep her off her feet with your charm, are you?”
He cast her an irritated look, then was caught in his daughter’s eyes, shining, expectant, above her bouquet. Other faces too, dozens of faces. “Uh —” he willed his voice to work. “Lady Hamilton. Will you do me the honor of becoming my legal wife in front of these here witnesses and magistrates before this city shakes itself into dust?”
Olana bowed her head so low he could only see the vibrant blue of the top of her hat. She felt the life inside her kick, and suddenly her mind cleared. “Oh,” she answered the child’s prompt, “yes.”
After they’d pronounced their vows, Matthew felt a tug at his oversized coattail, then heard a small voice, his daughter’s.
“Kiss her, Daddy.”
“What?”
“Seals the deal,” she informed him.
He
looked to his grandmother. “Seal the deal,” Annie Smithers told him in her brook-no-nonsense voice.
looked to his grandmother. “Seal the deal,” Annie Smithers told him in her brook-no-nonsense voice.
He raised Olana’s face with his hand and discovered his grieving bride tear-stained. Suddenly her big hat was all the privacy he needed. He bent down and kissed her. He felt her reach around his neck, press him closer. Someone began singing. A piercing, breathtaking tenor.
My love’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June.
My love’s like a melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonny lass
So deep in love am I
And I will love you still my dear
Till all the seas gang dry.
That’s newly sprung in June.
My love’s like a melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonny lass
So deep in love am I
And I will love you still my dear
Till all the seas gang dry.
It was Alisdair Dodge, bareheaded, with his camera tucked under his arm. When he was finished, Matthew took Olana’s hand and walked to him. She kissed his cheek.
“Why Alisdair, that was beautiful.”
He grinned. “You think only the Welsh can sing?”
Matthew took the photographer’s hand. “Alisdair. You’re cold. You’re so cold,” he whispered.
“I was worried, about being here on time. To sing, to shoot a photograph — “Love in the Ruins” Mr. Lunt says to caption it, later, after the emergency editions. Later, when we’re all laughing —”
“Take the photograph, double-quick. I’ve got a paper to get out!” Sidney interrupted. “Then get back up that hill, and keep shooting!”
“Take care of yourself, Alisdair,” Matthew told him, before taking his place beside his bride, at the center of the glassplate image.
When the flashpot exploded, a cheer went up among the homeless of Stockton Street. The yellow bird rose up through Olana’s house’s ruins and headed west, toward the sea. Possum squeezed her father’s hand. “He’s free,” she said.
Sidney gathered up the marriage papers hastily and handed them to Olana. “Here, you keep them safe. He’ll be back down to his nightshirt before the morning’s out.” He nodded toward Matthew, who was putting his borrowed coat over an old man’s trembling shoulders. Olana took the papers and put them beside her brother’s gift in her deep pocket. She was ready.
“Come on,” Sidney urged, “I’ll get you up the hill to your father’s house.
“We can’t stop, Matt,” he warned, as the carriage started up the hill, “I’m on deadline.”
“Just slow down,” he asked. Olana widened her stance behind him, holding onto his suspenders’ braces as he hauled. By the
time they reached her father’s house, two wandering, shoeless children and a woman with a gash on her arm were added to the wedding party.
time they reached her father’s house, two wandering, shoeless children and a woman with a gash on her arm were added to the wedding party.
The mansion looked intact, there in the morning light. What struck Olana was the breeze blowing through the doorway, the open windows. No, she realized, not open, broken. Aunt Winnie was sweeping glass from broken solarium panes. She raised her head from her task as the coach drove up. “I knew if I looked after the greenery you’d come!” she called out. “Stop your crying you silly girl, we’re fine, fine. Come in. Breakfast is on.”
Matthew lifted the barefoot boy from Olana’s lap and helped her from the coach. She took a hyacinth from her bouquet and wound it around his frayed suspender. “Breakfast,” she whispered.
“Imagine that?” he said. Sidney tapped his shoulder. “Send them my regrets. Got to shove off. Had to take your advice, Matt.”
“Advice?”
“At the
Chronicle.
We’ve got no water, electricity, or gas. Yanked up the old hand-cranked machine out of the cellar. Serifs rigged a monkey wrench and flywheel to the press. We’ll use our muscle to get out the morning edition of the story of the century.”
Chronicle.
We’ve got no water, electricity, or gas. Yanked up the old hand-cranked machine out of the cellar. Serifs rigged a monkey wrench and flywheel to the press. We’ll use our muscle to get out the morning edition of the story of the century.”
“Watch your hyperboles,” Matthew warned. “The century is young.”
Sidney put the delicate buttercream confection of a wedding cake in Olana’s hands and closed the coach door. Serif drove his team toward the
Gold Coast Chronicle
Building.
Gold Coast Chronicle
Building.
They turned, only once, before they entered James Whittaker’s house, there on the top of Russian Hill. The morning’s early light finally spilled over the rooftops, naked steel skeletons, and debris. Through it all, columns of white or black smoke rose from different parts of the city.
“Fires,” Olana said.
Matthew’s arm slipped around her waist. “Water mains are broke,” he said. “Nothing will stop them.”
“Couldn’t you wait until I had some more of the nurse?”
“She was dead when you started,” Cal explained again.
“Still pretty,” Ezra contended. “And soft.”
They sped faster now that they’d emptied their load of groaning injured on the side of the road.
“You’re thinking, ain’t you?” Ezra interrupted again.
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
“Of the slim pickings around here. Of how this wagon deserves better, richer cargo now that we’ve ridded it of blaspheming loonies. I’m thinking of old scores. And where the real bounty will be.”
“Where, Cal?”
“Why, San Francisco, brother mine.”
James Whittaker rose to his feet, leaning only lightly on his cane. Around him the babble of Italian, German, Irish, and Chinese neighbors silenced. He raised his glass, and spoke.He is half part of a blessed man,
left to be finished by such as she;
and she a fair divided excellence,
whose fullness of perfection lies in him.
left to be finished by such as she;
and she a fair divided excellence,
whose fullness of perfection lies in him.
He watched with wonder as hushed, simultaneous translations finished. Everyone drank to his toast. He looked to the women at his side. “Was that all right, Dora? Winnie?”
“It was perfect,” his wife assured him. His sister nodded her agreement.
He searched among the faces, the prone, bandaged bodies, to find his daughter. She’d become a bride within the hour of being made a widow. Now she helped her new husband finish setting a woman’s arm in a makeshift sling. Matthew’s spectacles slid down his nose. Olana righted them, then held her champagne to his lips. She fed him a morsel of the wedding cake. Finished their joint task, she rested back in her husband’s arms. He arched a wide, protective sweep of her middle. Good Lord, James Whittaker
suddenly realized, she’s carrying a child. He approached. Matthew stood, rolling his sleeves down.
suddenly realized, she’s carrying a child. He approached. Matthew stood, rolling his sleeves down.
“Is everyone comfortable, Matt?”
“Yes, sir.” He pulled off his eyeglasses. “Mr. Whittaker, I think you should consider evacuation.”
“What?”
“The fires. They’ve started already. There will be storms of them. Storms of fire.”
“We’ve all had a terrible morning, Matt. But the house has withstood the worst. And we’re close to the summit of second highest hill in the city. We’ll be safe. We’ve become a refuge. These fires … the city will get them under control, son.”
Matthew closed his eyes. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, though the firestorm raged there, behind his eyes. Olana hugged his arm. “I warned you there would be no moving Papa,” she said.
“Go off to work, Matt,” Mr. Whittaker advised.
“Work?”
“Yes. They will need you there, to assess damage, keep the bank open, prevent panic, that sort of thing.”
Matthew looked around at all the need, and Olana. “We’re safe. We’ll be waiting for you,” his father-in-law told him.
“Well. Maybe I can talk more sense into Mr. Amadeo,” Matthew decided.
Olana held onto her father’s arm. If she hadn’t, she might have called after Matthew as he gave her that half-smile, before closing the gate. Annie had talked about the dazed look in his eyes. She’d called it shock. But didn’t they all have it? Or was he seeing something else? Whatever it was, she wanted to be with him. Not safe. Her father patted her hand.
“Let him go, darling,” he said. “Let him do something routine, normal. It will help settle him.”
“Are you two crazy?” Matthew blared at the cashiers.
“Cra — zy?” Eltore, the one balancing the six-shooter, asked back.
“Give me that,” Matthew said, putting out his hand and flinching only when the man did so, barrel first. “Eltore,” he said more gently, “like this.” Matthew pointed the weapon down, then placed it in his oversized vest’s pocket. He sat on the stool, breathing deeply, trying to think. “Are your families safe?”
“Yes. And yours, Matthew?”
“We lost one.”
“Who? Not your little girl?”
“No. One of my wife’s people.”
The cashiers patted his shoulder, looking puzzled. “Wife?” Titus asked.
“Olana. Lady Hamilton.”
“Ah. Her lord …”
“Died. Yes. A fall. Helping me get my daughter.”
“A good thing. He was doing a good thing.”
“Yes. A good man.”
They continued patting his shoulder as Matthew stared past them, at the three heavy canvas bags the two had been guarding when he walked in. “You brought our assets from the Bank of California’s vault?”
“Same as every day,” Titus explained. “We opened up at nine-twelve. A little late. No customers have come in. The women have not come in.”
The women always knew best, Matthew thought suddenly. Olana didn’t want him to leave her, leave her father’s house. What was he doing here? “Well, without the women, we’d better close.”
“Close?” Eltore didn’t seem to understand the word any better than ‘crazy.’ “But, Matt, it is Wednesday.”
Matthew flinched at the crash, then screams from the Chinatown refugees streaming past the storefront windows. He opened the door and fought his way through the running swarms to the middle of the street. It was strangely empty. And calm, like the eye of a hurricane. There’d been a collision between a merchant’s and grocer’s wagons. Crates of bamboo shoots, gaichoy, and dried sea slugs were still tumbling to the ground, gongs and trinkets were babbling in the hot gust of wind. Pinned under one wagon
lay a big man in a gold embroidered tunic and greased hair. The dead merchant’s crib girls were tied with silk cords that led from their wrists to iron rings on the brightly painted wagon. In their struggle to free themselves, their bonds were closing tighter. Their hands were swollen and purple. Their silk clothes were like bright, mad flags, their white painted faces, masks of terror. Around him, Matthew heard snatches of English among the panicked Chinese language. “Go back!” and, “Your brothers need you under the world!”
lay a big man in a gold embroidered tunic and greased hair. The dead merchant’s crib girls were tied with silk cords that led from their wrists to iron rings on the brightly painted wagon. In their struggle to free themselves, their bonds were closing tighter. Their hands were swollen and purple. Their silk clothes were like bright, mad flags, their white painted faces, masks of terror. Around him, Matthew heard snatches of English among the panicked Chinese language. “Go back!” and, “Your brothers need you under the world!”
Matthew looked up the broad expanse of crushed stone and brick, felled telegraph poles and bent back trolley tracks, to see the huge red bull of his nightmares. The sound the beast made pierced through all the others as a new machete entered his already bloodied side.
The bull stumbled, then raised his head. Their eyes met. Matthew widened his stance and stood, transfixed. He felt mesmerized by the strength and spirit of the animal, this bull caught with them in a labyrinth of destruction. Screams rent the air from the crib girls behind him. The bull swayed slightly, pawed the ground. Then he charged. Matthew’s hands worked independently of his mind as they reached into his vest for the cashier’s gun. It was only when he pointed it out in front of him that he had a fleeting hope that the weapon was loaded. He compressed the trigger. It was. The bull fell dead at his feet.
Matthew turned to the collided wagons. He put down the smoking gun and searched for his pocketknife. The girl he cut loose first fainted in his arms. He gave his knife to the one dressed in purple beside her. She freed the others, then all started bowing before him as he waved his hat in the unconscious girl’s face.
“This little one needs water,” he said. The woman in purple disappeared, but returned with a bowl she placed to the crib girl’s lips. The girl drank, opened her eyes, smiled. Matthew gave her to another. They all began bowing again. He tried to show them how to rub the life back into their hands.
“There, good,” he approved, when they followed his motions. “Best gather your things,” he told their expectant faces. The one
in purple translated. When he turned to battle his way toward the bank again, the small one tugged at his vest, then pulled her fine embroidered blouse down to reveal a primrose tattoo above her left breast.
in purple translated. When he turned to battle his way toward the bank again, the small one tugged at his vest, then pulled her fine embroidered blouse down to reveal a primrose tattoo above her left breast.
“No,” he said gently, taking her arm, leading her to where the one in purple was helping the others load makeshift packs for their backs. Matthew looked at their smeared, painted faces more carefully. They were children, underneath the paint, he realized sadly. They were all children.
“Master?” the girl in purple asked.
He glanced down at the fat merchant. “No. No more masters. Take care of each other now.”
She nodded gently, and took the smaller girl under her arm.
Somehow Eltore and Titus had opened a pathway back to the bank for him. Mr. Amadeo stood in the doorway, shaking his head. A chain of hands worked against the crowd’s flow to pull him inside.
His employer handed him the “closed” sign. Matthew put it in the window. Mr. Amadeo squeezed his shoulder as they watched the sea of humanity pass.
“Yes. The people leave. The bank will leave,” he decided.
“The bank?”
The small man smiled. “We have no marble, no vault, no fancy chandelier. We have a movable bank, yes?”
“If we had wagons.”
“Two wagons my brother, the grocer, will supply. Will that do?”
Matthew scanned the bank’s chairs, desks, cabinets, and its three canvas bags of working asset currency. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Good. We must open again, Matthew. We must open where the people are.” He glanced out the soot-laden window again. “Do you know where that will be?” he asked his employees.
Matthew saw the same disorientation he’d perpetually felt in this city mirrored in each of their faces. It was a comfort. He didn’t care that it took an earthquake to accomplish.
“No? Well, first we find a place for our currency,” Mr.
Amadeo decided. From a distance, the men heard the dynamite squads setting off their first charges along California Street.
Amadeo decided. From a distance, the men heard the dynamite squads setting off their first charges along California Street.
By late afternoon, the Bank of Naples was piled onto two wagons. Matthew looked back at emptied rooms that had given him his livelihood in this city. He felt unaccountably sad, even resistant. Behind a door of his office he found the new adding machine. He couldn’t lift it alone. “Eltore! Mr. Amadeo!” he shouted, but they’d left.
Outside, the roar of fire, humanity, and explosions had grown louder. How was it affecting Olana, Possum, the baby? The thought made his heart race in panic.
“Matthew!” Mr. Amadeo called down from the driver’s seat of the grocery wagon. “Come aboard!”
“The adding machine is still inside!”
“There’s no more room.”
“It cost three hundred and fifty dollars!”
Antonio Amadeo leaned down and tapped the side of his loan officer’s head. “We will have to depend on this adding machine for a little while.”
“God help us,” he muttered.
“Oh, he will, Matthew, he will!” His employer put out his hand and hoisted him up. “First, we go up Columbus Street, named for my countryman who loved America. He will guide us.”
As they rode, Matthew saw the ferries running across the bay, their decks jammed with homeless. For how long would the ferries run? Mr. Amadeo took hold of his shoulder.
“Some go for Oakland. We must not. We must stay in the city.”
Matthew sighed. “You sound like my father-in-law.”
“Father —”
“Olana and I got married this morning, Mr. Amadeo.”
“That’s what Titus and Eltore were saying? It was her lord Englishman, the one of your people who died?”
“Yes.”
“He was a gentleman, and I pray for his soul. But these are the Almighty’s ways, Matthew, which your good Catholic daughter
and I, we are trying to put into your heathen heart.”
and I, we are trying to put into your heathen heart.”
A fresh round of dynamiting. Then a shot rang over their heads.
“I said, halt!”
Mr. Amadeo’s shaking hands dropped one of the reins, just as he was pulling in the other one. Matthew recovered it, and together they brought the frightened horses to a stand.
A dozen mounted federal troops surrounded the wagons. Their rifles were at the ready, bayonets fixed.
“Why didn’t you halt when first instructed?” rapped out their leader.
Mr. Amadeo stood. “I am Antonio Amadeo —” he started.
“I didn’t ask your name.”
His second in command shoved his rifle butt into the banker’s abdomen, sending him into Matthew’s arms. “Shit,” Matthew whispered out his bile of anger, then stood and faced the soldiers.
“We didn’t hear you,” he said evenly. An explosion that spooked most of the soldiers’ mounts punctuated the statement.
“What are you carrying?” the commanding officer asked briskly.
“The Bank of Naples. Mr. Amadeo is the director. We three are his officers, Lieutenant.”
One of the soldiers peered into the contents of the second wagon. “Sure, I recognize this junk, sir! The dago bank! He pointed at Matthew. “This lunatic gave my sister a loan on the damned piano she uses to give lessons! She ain’t even married!”
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