The Secret of the Nightingale Palace (25 page)

For her part, Goldie only really needed one thing from these encounters: a sign that his feelings for her had not changed. When she caught him looking at her, she felt it. If he avoided her gaze and kept up an appearance of friendly distance, she retaliated by freezing him out.

Which is what she did right now. “Thanks so much for bringing this by,” she told him briskly. And with that, she set her sights on Alan Stevenson, who was buffing some loafers in men's shoes a few feet away. “Oh, Alan! Can you help me with this urn?” she said. “I'm just trying to adjust it.” Then, turning to offer Henry one last dismissive wave, she saw the look of desolation on his face, which gave her exactly what she needed.

By the time of Henry's wedding, they had each become so tortured by these encounters that both of them came to hope that their impending doom would bring some relief. In short, Henry and Goldie were old enough to comprehend the finality of marriage, but too young to understand that such an event might have absolutely no effect on their emotions.

The wedding took place just before Christmas on a Saturday afternoon at the Pine United Methodist Church. Among the mostly Japanese crowd, Goldie and Rochelle stood out, not simply because they were Caucasian but because Goldie always attracted attention. She wore a slim-cut green dress with a white patent leather belt that cinched her waist into something so tiny a man could imagine stretching his fingers around it. Many of the women, Rochelle included, wore hats, most of which looked like little teacups turned upside down on their heads. Goldie went hatless. She had recently begun to wear her hair European style, pulled back into a bun, like Mayumi, and the effect, with the dress and a pair of large white geometric earrings, made her look like a visitor from Paris.

“Do you think they'll make us bow?” Rochelle asked with some concern. Her knowledge of the Japanese came from what she had seen on newsreel footage at the movies. She was six months pregnant with her third child, and bending made her queasy.

“No, they won't make us bow,” Goldie responded. As the younger, unmarried sister, she continually suffered from Rochelle's comments about her ignorance. It was nice, for a change, to find herself the worldly one. “They're just like us,” she said, “only Christian.”

Soon, the organ struck a few notes and the congregation stood and turned toward the rear of the church. A door opened. Henry walked in with his father. For weeks, Mayumi's talk about the wedding had included discussion of Henry's suit. Goldie had some idea, then, of what he had chosen, but she was not prepared for the sight of him walking up the aisle. He wore a simple, London-style dark gray suit, but unlike the badly cut and shapeless suits that most men purchased, Henry's had the crisp lines of the clothes worn by the young industrialists she saw in photos on the society page. Goldie considered Henry almost impossibly handsome, but she had gotten used to that. What she found unbearable was the fact that now, walking gracefully down the aisle in his wedding attire, he had a manner that proclaimed, “I'm going somewhere.” Of course, Goldie wanted to go with him.

Rochelle, who had never met Henry, whispered, “He's not bad looking for a Japanese.”

Henry stared straight ahead, and though he saw Goldie, he didn't show it. The organ paused and, a moment later, began again with the bridal march. Mayumi appeared in the lacy pink dress that she despised, followed by three other bridesmaids and finally the bride herself, on the arm of her father. Her dress was lacy as well, with a prim collar, a shoulder-length veil, and a bouquet of carnations so large and pink and weighty that the fragile Akemi appeared in danger of toppling over with them. The girl moved slowly, eyes on the ground, and Goldie could almost believe she was counting her steps. Akemi did have a pretty face, as Henry had acknowledged, but she seemed wholly docile and without spark.

Henry, from where he stood at the front of the church, saw these qualities in his bride as well. He had never looked at Akemi from any point of view that wasn't completely objective. He didn't love her; he didn't hate her. His opinions were entirely reasoned and devoid of emotion. She was sweet and pretty enough. She would probably make an excellent wife. He didn't compare Akemi to Goldie, because he didn't consider the two in relation to each other. He loved one and he was marrying the other. From where he stood now, it seemed that the sunlight streaming in through the southern window fell like a beam directly onto Goldie's face. Henry wasn't a complete romantic, though. He maintained enough self-awareness to recognize that the effect was most likely a trick of his imagination.

The reception took place in the church social hall downstairs. The guests sat at round tables, drinking tea and punch and helping themselves to cookies and dainty sandwiches arranged in artful designs on silver trays at the center of each table. Goldie and Rochelle found themselves at one of the two tables reserved for “professional acquaintances,” which was basically all the people who weren't Japanese. One table consisted of Golden Gate Park officials who worked with the baron, and the other of Feld's employees and Henry's associates in the antiques trade. A few seats remained empty, including, notably, that of the Golden Gate Park supervisor, Mr. Banes, who, as a World War I veteran, was assumed to be too patriotic to attend such an occasion.

Goldie sat between Alan Stevenson and Rochelle. Today, the qualities that had once attracted her to Alan—his exemplary sales record, his brown-haired, brown-eyed all-American good looks, his jokes about car racing and sailing—now struck her as terribly boring and indistinguishable from those of so many other San Francisco men. Rochelle, though, was delighted to have the chance to speak with a clean-cut non-Jew with excellent manners. She leaned forward on Goldie's other side, employing her rusty conversational skills to engage his attention. “And are you a habitué of weddings, Mr. Stevenson?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, never my own,” he responded with a mock self-pity that made Goldie sigh audibly with irritation.

“I'm just sure you could find some lovely girl whenever you set your mind to it,” said Rochelle, who had retrieved her southern accent from the same mothball-laden chest out of which she had scrounged up her best brassiere.

Alan Stevenson leaned a little closer toward Goldie now, the conversation bringing out a friskiness that he had rarely demonstrated during their lackadaisical romance. “You see, Rochelle,” he said, “lovely girls don't seem to see me in the same way that I see them. I think I'm destined to be a bachelor for my entire life.”

Rochelle gave him a sympathetic smile. “Oh, I doubt that. Take it from a married woman. You'll find someone. Or maybe I should say, someone will find you.”

While Rochelle laughed, Goldie felt the weight of Alan Stevenson's shoulder pressing against hers. He had never been as ardent as she might have wanted, but he had continued to ask her on dates. She idly wondered if a wedding could bring out the same kind of longing in an unmarried man as it did in a single girl. She felt his fingers under the table, nimbly tapping against hers. A few months earlier, the effect might have been tremendous, but she felt annoyed by it now.

At the front of the hall, the band struck up the tune of the first song. Alan stopped talking, listened to a few notes with his eyes closed, then opened them and looked at Goldie. The song was “You'd Be So Easy to Love,” and he crooned the words softly. Rochelle drummed her fingers against the table in accompaniment. Goldie turned her eyes downward and examined her nails.

Rochelle encouraged Alan. “You've got to get her out there,” she said.

He took Goldie's hand. “Shall we?” he asked.

Goldie watched the dance floor. “The bride and groom take the first dance,” she reminded him.

And there they were. Henry and his bride had been stolidly moving around the hall, greeting guests at each of the tables. Now, halfway through the task, he stopped and took his new wife's hand, leading her toward the dance floor. Akemi didn't show any more vivacity than she had shown walking down the aisle, but at least she was smiling now.

“Do you think she's ever danced an American dance?” Alan asked, speaking softly enough that only Goldie and Rochelle could hear.

“I hope she doesn't trip,” Rochelle said.

Goldie had no patience for this kind of chatter. “She's been living in this country since she was seven.” She watched as Henry slid his arm around Akemi's waist. They danced well together, with poise and precision, but no one could miss the formality between them. His hand rested high on her back, but well below the point at which her lacy collar stopped, revealing her bare skin. His gaze floated somewhere above her head. She stared into his chest.

Rochelle said, “You could drive a truck between the two of them.”

Other dancers had begun to take their places on the floor. Alan pulled Goldie along behind him, and soon she felt herself relax as she glided to the music. Whatever other emotions she might be experiencing, dancing could still give her joy. Alan moved with grace, too, and pulled her closer toward him. “It does seem a shame,” he sang into her ear, “that you can't see your future with me.” His hand moved down her arm, then squeezed her fingers.

“You flirt,” she said, not even bothering to look at him.

Alan held her tighter. Her disdain inspired in him an interest that those earlier months of dogged conniving for his affections had never managed to secure. With a burst of drama, he twirled her. The novelty of the move surprised her and she laughed. Then, suddenly, they turned, and she found herself facing Henry directly. The two couples began to circle in each other's orbit. “It's a beautiful afternoon,” Alan announced, pulling Goldie closer. “You two have started something. Romance is in the air!”

Akemi offered the same polite smile she'd been offering all afternoon. Henry looked at them, unable to say anything and equally unable to pull himself away. He made no attempt to disguise the emotion in his face. For the first time, his suffering gave Goldie no satisfaction. Instead, it nearly shattered her. And then she felt an enormous, unexpected anger well up inside. Why had he done such a thing? Why had he caused them both so much pain? Without Alan Stevenson's strong arms around her, she might have slapped Henry across the face. But Alan was holding her. She turned her eyes toward him, lifted her hand to his cheek, and gently held it there. “My sweet boy!” she exclaimed. And then, just as suddenly, the music switched tempo and he swept her away.

They were all drinking coffee when Henry and his bride finally arrived at their table. Rochelle, overcome by the sentiments of a wedding (even a Japanese one), fairly gushed over Akemi's hair, dress, and suede shoes. “They're so fetching!” she exclaimed.

Alan, too, seemed taken. “You're just as cute as a China doll,” he said.

“And the gloves,” Rochelle said, “they're so elegant.” Akemi's giggle sounded like the tinkling of little bells. She held her fingers up shyly while Rochelle examined the gloves' intricate lacework and patterning. For once, Goldie appreciated her sister, whose exclamations were so voluble that Goldie herself didn't have to say a word.

With all this attention focused on the bride, then, Goldie and Henry found themselves standing alone. “This is really divine,” she said, using her lightest tones.

He smiled, but she could hear the words coming out of his frozen lips. “I'm dying,” he told her.

She laughed then, loudly, throwing her head back as if she had heard a hilarious joke. To Goldie, it sounded like a scream, but no one else appeared to notice this odd exchange between the groom and the best friend of his sister. Whose devastation was worse, she wondered, Henry's with his future sealed, or Goldie's with hers so uncertain?

After the wedding, Alan drove Rochelle home, and then he and Goldie headed south out of the city toward a little restaurant he knew in Pescadero. It was just after four o'clock. Though the sun set early in December, the sky remained so deceptively bright that it seemed the day would last forever. They rolled down the windows and turned up the radio, sending the notes of the Benny Goodman Orchestra flowing like a wake behind them on the narrow road.

“The girl from Memphis needs to see the coast,” he told her as they rounded a bend and saw to their right the great expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

“I can't think of anything more perfect,” Goldie said, the buoyancy of her tone reflecting, to Alan at least, her wonder over the extraordinary vista. In reality, Goldie was not so much amazed by the view as grateful to have left behind the oppressive good cheer of the wedding. Even this relief, though, remained tempered by the fact that the man she loved was married.

Alan drove with one hand, resting the other lightly on Goldie's knee. He had been making such gestures all afternoon—a hand on her leg, a finger sliding along her neck, an arm resting across her shoulders. In the past, Alan Stevenson had always balanced a strong attraction for Goldie against a fear of entanglement. Despite his statements to Rochelle, he didn't actually regard himself as a marrying kind of man, or at least not the kind to marry a charming but penniless Memphis Jew. Until now, he had taken Goldie out regularly but not very often, and never with the kind of eager attentions that would telegraph to a girl that he was in love. Lately, though, his rhythm had begun to change. Simply put, Alan Stevenson's interest increased as Goldie's waned. Her occasional requests for help at the perfume counter notwithstanding, she had neglected him, and he didn't like it. He had gone to the wedding fully intending to woo her back.

The road wound through the hills, the ocean always beside them. They rumbled past beaches and farmland, following the contours of the land to trace the edges of cliffs above the churning Pacific. “Don't be scared,” Alan assured her. “Some girls get nervous on this road.”