The Gilded Age, a Time Travel (25 page)

Hah!
There’s the ticket. He’ll start a union for drunks. The mustachioed senator and
the great burly fellow who owns the bank on California Street and all the other
fine gentlemen who stroll along the Cocktail Route will have themselves quite a
laugh. They’ll march in the Fourth of July parade with a cask of whiskey set in
a surrey. They’ll march in every damn parade the citizens of San Francisco
marshal every month of the year.

He
pulls himself to his feet, glances at the grandfather clock ticking in a corner
of the parlor. Four o’clock in the afternoon. High time to stroll along the
Cocktail Route.

He
starts up the stairs to his suite when his sinuses suddenly loosen. He pulls
out a handkerchief and touches it to his nostril, soiling the pristine cotton
with a blotch of blood. What a puzzle. He hasn’t had a nosebleed since he was a
kid in short pants.

Still,
he’s feeling
much
better. Buzzing like a bee! In his suite, he peels off
the morning jacket. Where is his shirt, his collar, his vest, his cutaway, his
bowler, his boots, his tie? Where in hell is a pack of ciggies? He’s gone
through the first pack today. He spills a handful of silver bits in his vest
pocket, thrusts his derringer in the back of his belt, along with his Congress
knife. He plucks a red carnation from the bouquet Miss Malone leaves outside
his door every morning. What a pill she is. It’s quite remarkable, how she
manages her sordid little empire. She told him she enjoyed Mr. Wells’s
Time
Machine
, but the character of Little Weena reminded her too much of Li’l
Lucy. A chit too trusting of strange men. Which is preposterous. Li’l Lucy is a
whore, whereas Weena is a woman of the future. He tucks the red carnation in
his lapel. Jessie says that a red carnation signifies, “Alas, my poor heart.”

And
he’s off. He’s stepping out the door of 263 Dupont Street when a coolie barges
in.

“Say,
you there!” He catches the scoundrel by the wrist, reels him in. “Just where do
you think you’re going?”

The
coolie mumbles something and struggles to get away, but the struggle knocks his
fedora halfway off his head, exposing his face.

“By
God.” Daniel stares. “Miss Wong? Zhu? My angel?”

“Excuse
me, Mr. Watkins,” says she—truly it is
she
—and moves around him, dashing
for the stairwell.

He
chases after, seizing her wrist again. Staring again.

Shock
ripples through him like the time when he was ten and a horse threw him off.
His nerves clang, his head spins. It cannot be true! He’s only just won her.
Only just gained mastery over her. He sinks into a chair in the foyer. “What
have you done to yourself?”

“Whatever
is wrong, Mr. Watkins?” She’s smiling. Smiling!

He
points at her clothes, speechless. The coolie’s costume is cut so loosely, he
cannot glimpse the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts and hips. Yet
the certainty that her body lurks beneath the ample rags nearly makes him ill.
Is she wearing proper undergarments?

She
laughs. Laughs! “You like my new togs?” She twirls before him like a mad child.
“Actually, you know, they’re quite modern. More like what I used to wear every
day in my Now. Maybe I’ll start a fashion trend.” She claps her hand to her
mouth. “Oops. I’m not supposed to say that. Anyway, what do you think?”

He
hasn’t the slightest notion what she is raving about. “It’s illegal,” he says,
scandalized.

“Illegal?”

“You’re
impersonating a man.”

“I’m
comfortable for the first time in months.”

“You
could get arrested. No, don’t laugh, I really mean it. The police arrested one
Miss Constance Malloy just last week for appearing in public wearing a suit
jacket and trousers. And you’ve become degenerate.”

“How
do you mean, ‘degenerate’?”

“Max
Nordau’s treatise is quite explicit. You threaten all of human evolution with
this bawdy display.”

“Bawdy
display?” She stretches out her arms, glances down at herself. The blue denim
hangs like a bag over her. “You see more of my bosom—what there is of it—in
those dresses.”

“Nordau
and the great Lombroso are both very clear. If humanity has struggled out of primal
indeterminacy into true manhood, then woman must become ever more feminine,
finding her refuge and her destiny within the family home. For you to dress
like a coolie, for you to take on masculine qualities is to sink back into
primal indeterminacy. In a word, devolution.”

“Why
don’t you think for yourself instead of quoting harebrained philosophers?
Surely you don’t really believe any of that drivel?”

“Belief
has nothing to do with it. What’s true is true.” He smacks his brow with the
palm of his hand. “Is it something I did, miss? Did I damage you so terribly this
morning?”

She
studies him with a bright, curious look like a bird cocking its eye at what the
rain has brought up out of the muck. “Not half so much as you damage yourself,
Daniel.”

Her
look and her words and the throb in her voice disturb him. His hands tremble.
By God, he needs a good stiff drink. Whiskey straight up. He doffs the bowler.
“Don’t go temperance on me, miss. Go upstairs at once and change your clothes.
I never want to see you pull this stunt again. Do you understand me? Now I’m
off.”

He
turns on his heel and strides out the door. But she follows him onto the street
like a spaniel, dogging his heels. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve
got business to attend to.
Not
,” he says, “that it’s any of your
business.”

“You’re
going to the Cocktail Route, aren’t you? Haven’t you had enough to drink
today?”

He
stops in his tracks. “I beg your pardon, but the president of the Bank of
California will probably take his usual at the Reception. He may be useful to
me, and I would do well to hobnob with him. I may need financing.” As he
lectures her, his nosebleed starts up again.

“Oh,
Daniel!” She pulls out a handkerchief of her own and takes the liberty of
blotting his nostril, seizing his chin, studying his face more boldly than any
other woman has ever dared look at him, even his mother. “I’m coming with you.”

“I
should say not!”

“Try
and stop me.”

“Only
whores frequent saloons. And you are not a whore, are you, miss?”

She
thinks that over. “I’ll come like this.” She plucks at the ridiculous denim
tunic. “I’ll come as your manservant.” She grins wickedly. “As your coolie.”

“By
God, no! That is absurd, that is. . . .”

Then
suddenly the idea tickles him. Wouldn’t Father be outraged by such a ploy? A
young woman masquerading as a manservant, accompanying him on the municipal
custom for drumming up business?

Yes.
Father would be outraged.

“All
right,” he says. “But you cannot drink.”

“You
know I don’t.”

“And
you’ll not be served the free lunch. Not as a coolie.”

“I’m
not hungry.”

“You
must keep your head down and your mouth shut.”

“Suits
me. I’m supposed to be only an observer in your spacetime, anyway, except for
the object of my project. The more invisible I am in your Now, the better.”

“Hm!”
Spacetime? What the devil kind of a word is that? And there she goes again,
raving about her Now and his Now. It’s really quite perplexing, and she has
never once offered an explanation. “Very well. But I want you to know, I do not
approve of this stunt at all.”

“Duly
noted, Mr. Watkins. And I want
you
to know, I do not require your
approval to do whatever I want to do.” She giggles. Quite disconcerting.

“And
don’t go temperance on me.”

“That
I can’t promise. But,” she adds with a grave look, “I don’t think preaching
will make much of a dent in your thick skull, so I won’t.”

“I’m
relieved to hear it. I can assure you, preaching doesn’t make a dent at all.”

And
they set off together, he striding down the street, the handsome young gentleman,
she trotting behind him, his coolie in disguise.

Yes.
Father would be outraged.

But
is he?

He
most certainly is. Outraged and amazed by Zhu Wong, by her easy banter now that
he’s had his way with her. No simpering or blushes or batted eyelashes. Not
like any other woman he’s ever known.

*  
*   *

Ah,
strolling along the Cocktail Route! What a splendid tradition the gentlemen of
San Francisco enjoy, hatching business schemes and enjoying a healthful
constitutional as they promenade from saloon to saloon. The Route proceeds along
Market Street, zigzags up Montgomery to Sutter, then down to Market again along
Kearny or Stockton. And all along the Route, first-class establishments sparkle
like stars in the sky. Each place, Daniel fervently believes, deserving of his
respectful visit.

Gambling
resorts, sporting houses, and steam baths also offer their delights. During the
stroll, which the city’s most important gentlemen engage in as a nightly ritual,
one may encounter friends and potential friends, acquaintances and associates,
competitors and enemies, newcomers and ladies of a certain charm. Milton and
Shakespeare are quoted, Latin and Greek flow like wine. The latest political
gambit, gossip, and rumors are mulled over, interpreted, and adjudged. Business
deals are discussed, negotiated, and consummated. No one cusses, guffaws, or
tells lewd stories. Not along the Cocktail Route, sir.

Daniel
notices a flit of shadows behind them, and Zhu whirls around, anxiety stitching
her brow beneath the brim of her fedora.

“
Boo
how doy?
” she whispers.

He
surveys the street. A couple of thugs are roaming about, nobody he knows. No
hatchet men, either.

“By
God, why are you so skittish? What business have you with hatchet men?”

“None,”
she says, but continues to glance about anxiously.

“If
you say so.” He heartily disapproves of her propensity to dissemble. “We’ll
start at the Reception. Always good for the first visit.”

Daniel
eagerly sweeps through the grand mahogany doors of the Reception Saloon. The
dark, high-ceilinged burrow is splendidly lit by gaslights in crystal
candelabra. Liquor bottles banked before vast mirrors behind the bar glow like
rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and topaz. Fastidious bartenders in white jackets
attend to one’s every need. They’ll hold a gentleman’s gold and other valuables
behind the bar for the evening, ensuring he won’t lose his kit and caboodle to
the pickpockets who roam these streets, the thugs, or a light-fingered sporting
gal. The black-and white-marble floor gleams like a giant checkerboard.
Polished brass spittoons stand between each brass and leather bar stool. Daniel
sniffs. The air is thick and rich with cooking smells. Among the delightful
odors wafts the delicate fragrance of the Reception’s specialty, Maryland
terrapin.

The
bartender raises on eyebrow at Zhu, and Daniel says, “He’s my manservant.” He
orders a Sazarac—rye whiskey, a dash of bitters, and a dash of absinthe shaken
with ice and served in a glass rubbed with anisette. Father would die at the
expense of four bits, but Daniel adores Sazaracs. “My just reward,” he tells
Zhu. “I’m celebrating the entertainment of a creative thought I had this
morning.”

“What
creative thought is that?” Zhu says in a lowered voice, hunching her shoulders,
and concealing her delicate woman’s hands in her long sleeves. Very good. She’s
quite a clever creature, he must admit.

“There’s
a scientific theory called the persistence of vision.”

“Oh,
right. The principle behind how our perceptual apparatus works. Led to the
technology of movies.”

“Movies?”
What an odd word!

“Yep.
But of course, insects and other creatures have evolved other perceptual means.
Just goes to show you, that old cosmicist homily is so true. ‘What you see is
what you are.’”

“What
on earth are you jabbering about?” he demands.

“Never
mind. Sorry, Daniel, I interrupted you. What was your creative thought?”

The
director of the Pacific Title Insurance Company huddles over bourbon with the
president of Bankers Investment Company. Daniel should join them. New financing
is just what he needs to refurbish that blight of a boardinghouse, perhaps
develop those weeds in the Western Addition, too. He can practically hear
Father’s stern scolding voice. “Go on, Daniel. He who hesitates is lost, sir.”

But
Daniel does hesitate. Why can’t he linger with his new mistress discussing the
persistence of vision? Movies? What does she mean? Why can’t he ever do what he
wants to do?

The
bartender brings his Sazarac, and he knocks it back. Ah, finally a sharp
feeling against which he can rebel—shirking family duties, carousing with a
degenerate woman, guilt. Better and better. To hell with new financing. He’ll
see about new financing some other day.