FIRE AND FOG (11 page)

"You did a good job of it," I said sincerely. I got up from the
table and carried my dishes to the sink. "I expect I can find a
couple of men at the Tent City who would be glad of a few hours'
work, but they will want to be paid on the spot. As you know, I
have no money at present."

Alice beamed. "I was sure you'd know what to do."

To have Alice pay for everything bothered me more than I liked
to admit. "I intend to keep a record of all I owe you, Alice, and
I'll repay you as soon as the banks open. The papers said they are
waiting until the metal vaults are cool; otherwise, when they open
them and oxygen gets in, the money and anything else made of paper
will catch fire. I can't imagine the cooling process will take many
more days."

"Think nothing of it, Fremont. I have lots of money in the
house. But I'm so lonely! Can't you stay now, and sleep here
tonight? I can lend you a nightgown, and-"

"No, I cannot, but this is the last night you will have to sleep
alone here. Now I really must go. I'll be here, with helpers, about
nine o'clock tomorrow."

Alice pouted prettily and followed me to the door, where she
stood on tiptoe and touched her cheek to mine-a gesture of sisterly
affection that made me slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps if I'd ever
had a sister, or even a brother ... I did not finish the thought.
There is no sense speculating about something of which one has no
experience whatever.

I did not like to do it, but under pressure of time I had no
choice except to leave a note for Jim Albright.

I
am most dreadfully sorry
[I wrote],
but I
cannot go to the variety show with you tonight after all. I had
made a previous commitment that I forgot when I accepted your
invitation. Please accept my most sincere apology.

I signed my name and placed the note in an envelope on which I
printed his name in big block letters. Locking the door of my room
behind me, I balanced the envelope on top of the doorknob and
tucked one end into the space between the door and its frame. It
seemed secure enough, and certainly he could not fail to notice his
own name writ large.

I felt a bit cowardly as I hurried off, but did not let that
dampen my enthusiasm for my adventure with Meiling. I was to pick
her up two streets over from her family's encampment in the Sunset
District. She did not want them to see us together because, if
anyone found out what she was doing and that I was helping her, I
could be in danger. Or so she said, and I believed her; I well
remembered another time when Meiling's company had proved dangerous
to me.

The fog had come in while Alice and I ate supper, so I drove
cautiously through a whitish haze.
Meiling will be pleased by
the fog,
I thought;
it will hide our activities.

Meiling's was a plan after my own heart, but far more of a risk
than anything I had ever undertaken. When I left home, I risked
only my father's affection and an eventual inheritance, whereas in
pursuit of her own independence Meiling was risking her very life.
If American society is repressive of females (and it is!), Chinese
society is worse by far. The more highly born a woman is in that
society, the more cruelly she is repressed. The upper classes bind
the feet of women in childhood to produce a disfigurement they call
"lily-foot," which is much prized but has the effect of crippling
the woman. How convenient for her lord and master! No matter what
he does, the poor woman cannot run away.

Meiling's wise grandfather, Li Wong, had not allowed her feet to
be bound. He had also, perhaps intuiting his untimely death, given
Meiling a secret gift to serve as her own personal insurance: a
pouch of pearls. Pearls that were now buried under layers of rubble
and ash.

Because of the pearls, Meiling had been working out her plan
even before the earthquake. She wanted to leave Chinatown and
become what she called "a real American." She wanted a college
education that would prepare her for a profession, and she knew of
a university that had accepted women students from its beginning
only a few years ago. It is called Stanford, after the deceased son
of one of California's four railroad barons, and is located halfway
between San Francisco and San Jose. Meiling had already petitioned
for acceptance to Stanford as a special student, though she had not
yet received a reply. The sale of her secret cache of pearls would
provide the necessary funds. Provided, of course, that Meiling and
I could find them.

However, there was an even more significant problem: most
Chinese women are not allowed to leave Chinatown. Not ever. Indeed,
they are seldom permitted to leave their houses. The authority of
Chinese males over females is such that a woman can be kept a
prisoner, shackled, under lock and key, for the smallest
offense-real or imagined. For an offense of such magnitude as
Meiling planned, death might well be the penalty. I shivered to
think of it.

On the appointed corner, a tall, dark shadow stepped out of a
swirl of mist: Meiling. "Keep going," she said, swinging onto the
running board, and I complied. She tossed a black bundle onto the
seat, opened the door with one hand, and slid gracefully in.

"You are very athletic," I remarked.

"Ha!" she said; she might have smiled, but I could not tell-she
had wrapped a black scarf about her head and face so that only her
eyes showed. The effect was rather sinister. I liked it.

I looked at the bundle. "Are those the clothes I am to
wear?"

"Yes. They are mine; I think they will fit you well enough."

"And shall I also have a scarf to hide my face?"

"Of course! That may be the most important part of the disguise.
Fremont," she said in a somber tone, "I have been thinking that
perhaps I should not have asked you to help."

"Nonsense. I am honored. You must say no more about it."

I drove in the direction of Chinatown. It was a surreal trip,
with ragged ruins looming through the fog on all sides, like
charcoal drawings for some gothic horror story. Familiar landmarks
were no more; street signs lay twisted and melted, half buried in
piles of ash. I was soon hopelessly lost and said, "I hope you know
where we are, because I do not.

"The fog is a good omen," said Meiling, "but perhaps you would
drive more slowly, Fremont?"

The burned stench was all around us, so thick it made me gag.
Our adventure would not be the lark I had painted in my
imagination. I coughed. The Maxwell crept along, and I knew that
the sound of its motor would carry through the fog and silence. My
hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough to hurt; I leaned
forward, peering intently into a moving veil of grayish white.

"I know where we are now," said Meiling softy. She directed me
to turn left and then right, and then to stop the auto. There was
no choice but to stop, as the street ahead was blocked by
rubble.

Meiling got out, and so did I. She had chosen a cul-de-sac
surrounded by partially standing walls that formed a ragged hiding
place for the Maxwell. She thrust the black bundle into my hands.
"Change clothes quickly. I will stand guard."

Undress in the open? How extraordinary! But strange times call
forth strange actions, and so, without a word and only a slight
qualm, I stripped to my camisole and donned a black tunic that
buttoned down the front. It felt like thick silk, far too fine to
wear for digging in the ashes.

Meiling glanced over her shoulder and whispered, "Hurry!"

My fingers fumbled with the buttons; I skipped a few. Then I
took off my skirt and petticoat, and for the first time in my life
stepped into trousers. I had long admired Meiling's trousers and
secretly desired a pair of my own, though I hadn't the slightest
idea where I would wear them. In spite of the tense occasion, I
felt a thrill as the silk glided along my nether limbs. As Meiling
had surmised, they were a perfect fit. I bundled my clothes into
the back seat out of sight and took the black scarf in hand. "Show
me how to do this," I requested.

A lifting at the corners of her already tilted eyes suggested a
smile as Meiling deftly wound the scarf about my head, covering
nose and chin and handing me the ends to tie at the back of my
neck. "There," she said, "you look dangerous, like a Ninja."

"What is a Ninja?"

"They are a Japanese cult, much feared by their own people and
by mine, for good reason. Come, Fremont. The remains of the Li
compound are not far from here. I hid shovels there earlier, and
screens to sift the ash."

We set off, creeping like dangerous Ninjas through the fog and
gathering darkness. I marveled at how easy it was to move without
the encumbrance of long skirts; I thought that if only I had
slippers like hers, instead of high-button shoes, I might go along
with almost as much grace as Meiling. I was quite enjoying
myself.

But my enjoyment did not last long. I became aware of a prickly
sensation at the back of my head, down my neck, and between my
shoulder blades. "Meiling," I whispered, "I think we are being
watched!"

7.

Resurgam:
Like the Phoenix I Will Rise

Meiling stopped in her tracks, like a deer, arching her neck and
tilting her head slightly in an attitude of concentration.

Chinatown being in a relatively low-lying area, the fog was
thick here. "I'm sorry," I whispered, "I've alarmed us both for
nothing. If anyone is out there, he can't possibly see us through
this fog."

Meiling held her index finger up to her masked lips in the
universal sign for silence. I listened with her, intently. After a
few moments she said, also in a whisper, "I don't hear anything. Do
you?"

I shook my head. "No." We went on. I do not know how she did
it-perhaps she numbered Chinese homing pigeons among her honorable
ancestors-but Meiling led us unerringly to the place where she had
concealed shovels and screens in a frame, such as are used by gold
miners for sifting. We worked through the long twilight until
darkness closed in, and we got very dirty. We dug up many things,
including (most horrible!) a skull and bones that Meiling
identified as dog. Not a family pet, she said; nevertheless it was
awful. We did not find a single pearl that night, nor on many
nights thereafter. And though I did not say so again, I continued
to feel that we were being watched.

On Tuesday morning, after my first night of digging with
Meiling, I loaded the Maxwell with my few possessions. They seemed
to multiply in direct proportion to my eagerness to be done with
moving them. As I marched back and forth with my arms full, I kept
expecting Private Albright to appear, but he did not. I admit I was
relieved; I assumed he must be out of countenance with me for
breaking our appointment. Assembling the final load, I
inadvertently closed Michael's dresser drawer on my fingers.
"Damn!" I swore, yanking my hand out. It smarted terribly, and I
was sure there would be some swelling and bruising, to boot.
Keep moving. . . .

At last I was done. I cranked the Maxwell and got it started,
but then I sat there, beset by the notion that I had forgotten
something. I couldn't for the life of me think what it might be.
Not the typewriter, which occupied the passenger seat. I had my
clothes, and the few books I owned. Not nearly so many books as
Michael-I had been living in the midst of a veritable library for
days.

"Michael!" I exclaimed. I had forgotten to leave word for him as
to my whereabouts. I was sorely tempted not to bother. After all,
he had not written me a single line from Monterey.

Well,
I mused as I reluctantly cut the motor,
it is
true that he has been gone only a week.
It was just that this
particular week might as well have lasted forever-that was how it
felt. Certainly I should excuse him, but I did not want to. He
could have written. There were boats and trains steaming up from
points south every single day. If he had cared to, he could have
gotten a letter to me overnight; what is more, if he had done so, I
could have written to him in answer. (Independent I may be, but I
hope not forward where men are concerned!)

So went my thoughts, but I slid out of the Maxwell and strode
back into the building. Feeling self-righteous as the Queen
(Victoria, may she rest in peace), I wrote with stiff, smarting
fingers:

Dear Michael: I have arranged a more suitable
accommodation, with Alice Lasley, who lives on Haight Street at the
corner of Belvedere. If your auto is not in the garage here, it is
because I am still using it for the Red Cross. I will return it as
soon as they no longer need me. Yours most sincerely, Fremont
Jones.

I left the sheet of paper in the middle of the bed, where he
could hardly fail to find it. I locked the door again and pocketed
the key, reflecting that I was sure to see him at least once
more-he would want his key back. Someday. Would he not? I had a
perverse feeling that I was about to cry.

"Keep moving," I muttered, blinking hard. I did, and I did not
cry.

As I drove away from the Presidio, my foot lightened on the gas
pedal and the Maxwell coughed in protest. What was this, could I be
reluctant to leave? Considering that on the whole I disliked the
regimentation of the place, and certainly had never felt I
belonged, such reluctance was difficult to understand.
Perhaps,
I thought,
it is only that I will miss the
splendid vista. . . .

I did not really think that was the reason, but it was the only
one that came to mind. I pulled the auto over and said a silent
farewell to the sweeping view from the Presidio's heights. The sun
had burned last night's fog down to a thin layer of white that
shimmered like diamond dust upon the surface of the Bay. Boats of
different sizes and configurations sailed blithely through the
magical sheen. Farther west, the strait of the Golden Gate and the
Pacific Ocean were as dark and rich a blue as sapphires.