The fire and the gold (8 page)

Quent swallowed a mouthful of beans before he replied, "From a distance the Call doesn't look damaged at all. I'm sure it's burned out inside, but it can probably be restored. If San Francisco had built of steel and concrete everywhere, it wouldn't be so bad off now."

"People always said redwood was slow burning," Tony pointed out.

Quent shook his head. "Not under heat like this. Redwood's burning like tinder now."

"What about your father's business, Quent?" Mrs. Forrest went on.

"It's the wrong business to be in," he said lightly. But I expect we'll muddle through. What worries Father most is the loss of all his records. He had to be I with the Mayor yesterday, so he sent me downtown to see if I could rescue anything. I couldn't get through ' the fire lines because his building was already burning. But I met one of the clerks from the office who had come through on an early ferry."

"Then some of the office force actually reached the building?" Gran asked.

"That's right. They didn't have much time though. This fellow told me they got a big roll-top desk of Father's out of the ground floor office and carted it to a nearby vacant lot where some excavation had been going on. They buried it in a pit and left it there, but it's probably nothing but char. Right now Father's more worried about San Francisco than about business, anyway."

Melora hadn't considered the nature of Uncle Will's business until this moment. To be in insurance at a time like this was certainly not enviable. Everyone would be expecting payment. But Quent in his usual irresponsible way seemed to be taking it pretty lightly.

He bolted the last of his food and stood up. 'Thanks for your hospitality," he told Gran. "I'll be getting along now so this car can be put to use. They're still getting the injured out of sections that haven't burned. But we'll probably be back tonight, Father and I, if you'll have us. A good thing Mother and Gwen are in New York. As for me—I wouldn't miss this for anything!"

He waved jauntily, but at the curb he turned back and ran up the steps to where Melora perched on the balcony rail. There was nothing she could do but endure the resounding kiss he planted on her cheek. He was overdoing the performance, but he paid no attention to her annoyance as he ran down the steps and went to crank the car.

When he'd chugged off toward Fillmore Street, Melora became aware of the attention of the others. Tony was watching her curiously. Cora was smiling. Even Gran seemed to be observing her attentively.

"How nice to know that Quent is all right," Cora said.

Melora nodded in agreement. Of course it was nice. Quent was an old friend. But everyone—including Quent—didn't need to make so much of it. Disturbed at what had happened, Melora jumped down from the rail and went inside.

All day the fire raged on. The refugees in the Bonner house roamed restlessly in and out from sidewalk to attic. Only Carlotta Ellis remained rocking in a wicker chair Sam brought out to the porch. She sat there, well wrapped in her own shawls, taking the liveliest interest in the refugee throngs which continued to pour along Washington toward the unburned part of town.

Once Melora sat down on the steps to listen to a conversation Mrs. Ellis was having with an old man who pushed along the street a cart heaped high with his possessions. Both cart and owner smelled strongly of fish and Melora suspected they had had a close association with them in the recent past. The old man spoke Italian volubly and was apparently giving Mama Ellis all the latest news.

When he took up the cart again and pushed it on, Mrs. Ellis explained ruefully to Melora that her brother, Vito Lombardi, who had a fishing boat, and her own Papa, Antonio Lombardi, whose fine restaurant on Telegraph Hill was famous in San Francisco, were not fleeing from the fire at all. They were boasting that they would fight it with casks of wine, if necessary. They would not retreat until the fire touched them with its own flaming fingers. Mama Ellis put her plump hands before her face and shuddered over such foolishness. It was fated, she said, that all the Lombardis should be wiped out in this fire. All except herself and her son. And perhaps her son too would be devoured by the flames. For had he not gone wandering back into the danger zone like a man demented?

Melora assured her that Tony wasn't in the least demented. In fact, she envied him the freedom of a man who could go about at will, without hampering skirts and hampering conventions. He at least might be of some use somewhere, she thought. Even Quent, who so seldom lifted a finger to do anything useful, was working now. While all the women could do was moon about this house and wait for news.

Alec had made a fuss when Gran wouldn't let him go off with Tony to fight the fire, and Mama had come downstairs to object because Gran was apparently taking in refugees right and left. Melora was concerned lest Mrs. Ellis hear the controversy. Fortunately Grandmother was her old, strong self again. Even though her voice sometimes quavered into a high note as she tired, she remained calm.

"I would like to remind you, Addy," she said, "that you were, after all, born in Virginia City, not in San Francisco. And there wasn't the slightest hint of a silver spoon in your mouth. What's more, I am not your only parent. So you needn't go dredging up old plantations and southern blood. If s nice to have them in the background, but when you get down to brass tacks, San Francisco cares only about what a man is as he stands in his boots today. Your father Henry Bonner hadn't a penny to his name when I met him, but he stood very well in his boots as a man. And I was working in a boarding house. If necessary, I can work in one again. This is no time to go swishing around in pearls and superiority, daughter."

Cora ran for Mama's smelling salts, but after that there were no more objections to Mrs. Ellis sitting out there on the balcony chatting with the refugees.

That evening all the men came home. Uncle Will and Quent, with the Oldsmobile still chugging away, despite a breakdown or two and some tire changes.

Cars had their good points, said Uncle Will, springing up the steps as lightly as though he hadn't been working desperately from dawn to dusk. Of course they would never replace the horse, but nothing else could get you around so tirelessly at fifteen or twenty miles an hour. Unfortunately there weren't enough in the city for the great need,

Melora had always been fond of Uncle Will. In fact, one of the things she most regretted about her pretend engagement to his son was the fact that Mr. Seymour had been so genuinely delighted. She had, he'd told her, always been his favorite girl, and nothing could make him happier than to have her become his son's wife.

Uncle Will brought real news of what was going on in the city. He told them what was happening as they all sat around the circular dining table eating an early supper while Quong Sam carried things in from the street kitchen.

Uncle Will said there would soon be relief trains bringing in food enough for everyone. Bread cards were being issued and there'd be no famine. There was water too, though not for bathing. In spite of the fact that San Francisco was cut off from the rest of the country as far as telephone and telegraph went, word of her need had gone out and the Red Cross was already at work.

The Ferry Building had not burned and throngs were still pouring out of the city by that gateway. The Southern Pacific Railroad had been furnishing free meals and free transportation for all those who wanted to leave the disaster area.

Governor Pardee had proclaimed a bank holiday through Saturday, but he'd probably extend it after that to give the banks a chance to get their records in order and prepare to meet the demand for money. For the moment money wasn't much good anyway because there was so little left to buy. The important matters at hand were to halt the fire, minister to the sick and injured and take care of the thousands of refugees. No, he said in answer to a question from Mrs. Forrest, he didn't believe all the wild reports about looting and the shooting of looters. There had been some incidents, of course, but on the whole San Francisco was behaving better than anyone might have expected. There was still no telling, of course, how many were dead in the earthquake and fire, but as far as could be judged the disaster might have been a great deal worse when it came to loss of life.

Tony told dramatically of how he had stood at Geary and Larkin that morning, with the fire burning two blocks away on Leavenworth. There was no doubt at all, he said, that the Cranby house, far over into the fire area, was gone.

After supper Melora stole outside to sit on the back steps alone. She wanted to escape the earthquake and fire talk for a little while. Here on the steps with the dusky garden sloping downhill below her, she could glimpse the bay and see the lights of boats on the water—bright sequins scattered across the dark satin shimmer. To be sure, only a reddish glow marked the sunset. The heavy smoke clouds, reflecting fire, brightened the sky unnaturally. Dynamite shocks still went on, though Uncle Will had said the dynamite gave out from time to time and more had to be brought in.

She knew she had only to turn her head to see the great expanse of flaming sky, with nearby houses on Gough Street standing up in black silhouette. But she did not want to look. She wanted to find a moment of peace where there was something left of the world besides fire and disaster.

She rose and went down into the garden. The color of the grass was no longer visible, but she knew it wore the soft green of April Across the back of the house a heliotrope vine grew lush and heavy with dark blossoms. And somewhere there was a scent that was not of smoke and cinders, not the hot breath of fire.

She searched it out in a far comer of the garden and knelt on the grass before a flower bed. Roses. Bright red roses, glowing in the dusk, breathing a gentle defiance of the harsh smell on the wind. Heedless of thorns, she bent toward them. She did not hear the footfalls on the grass until they were close and a voice spoke to her in the dim garden.

"I'd forgotten how roses smell," Tony said quietly.

He bent beside her and fragrance was all around them.

"They'll only wither here under the rain of cinders," Tony said. "Shall we cut them and carry them into the house? We need them there."

She shook her head regretfully. 'There's no water to spare to keep them alive."

"One rose then. There must be enough for one rose in your room."

He took a metal instrument from his pocket and leaned past her to snip a long-stemmed blossom. "Wire cutters," he said. "I needed them in the streets today. The burned-out part of town is a wilderness of wires to trip you at every hand. Here's your rose."

She took it from him, pleased. She would put the flower beside the statue of Kwan Yin, and her room would be beautiful and fragrant. His gesture touched her and she tried to thank him. But he went on earnestly.

"It's it true then, Melora, that you are engaged to marry Quentin Seymour? That ring on your finger— you always wore gloves when you came into the shop."

She hesitated, seeking the right words. She would tell him the truth. There was no need to fool this young man with her make-believe engagement.

But he seemed to consider her hesitation an answer, and before she could find words to explain, his tone changed.

"You'll be marrying into an eminent family. The Seymours of Snob Hill. Quent, as always, will have everything handed him on a silver platter, with never an obstacle in his path. My congratulations."

The note of resentment in his voice startled her and her impulse to tell him the truth faded. She knew that many people used that nickname for Nob Hill. But she did not think it applied to the Seymours. Uncle Will was as far from being a snob as anyone could be. He had even insisted on sending his son to a public high school against his mother's wishes. And Quent was an old friend. She did not like to hear Tony dispose of him with such words.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," she said and started toward the house.

He came after her quickly. "If I've offended you, I apologize," he said and opened the door for her with a sweeping gesture.

He behaved, she thought, almost like a character in a play. Perhaps that was what made him a rather exciting person. And since he had apologized she smiled. There was the rose and she couldn't stay indignant with him.

In the dim kitchen Gran was talking to Sam, and Melora held out the rose so she could smell it.

"Tony picked it for me," she said and was uncomfortably aware of the appraising look Gran turned upon him.

Since there could be no lights in the house, everyone went early to bed. Melora, however, felt restless and not at all ready for sleep. As she undressed in the dark she kept thinking about the unexpected contradiction that Tony had so suddenly revealed. Though if it was only jealousy of Quent that had made him speak so—jealousy because of her—she could only feel a little pleased.

She smiled to herself as she put the rose on the shelf beside the statue. Kwan Yin's presence brought again the thought of her father, and she wondered where his ship was now, and if the terrible news about San Francisco had reached him. She wished she might send reassuring thoughts winging in his direction. In a month or so he would be home and with his coming troublesome matters always seemed to clear up.

She turned toward the bed and felt over it in the faintly luminous dark. To her surprise she found her own nightgown laid out upon it and laughed softly. This would be Quong Sam's doing. That bulging carpetbag again! She got into bed thinking guiltily of all the thousands of refugees sleeping in the parks, in the open. Perhaps she shouldn't have undressed tonight. Perhaps there would be a new alarm at any moment and she would have to leap from her bed.

Somewhere at a window a woman was singing sweetly in Italian. Tony's mother perhaps? Mrs. Forrest had said his family was made up of restaurant owners, fishermen, opera singers. Had this plump little woman with the still beautiful face once sung in opera?

The song was like a lullaby. Fear and anxiety stole away and Melora fell deeply asleep.