Intimate Strangers Affair Page 2

  Suddenly, I felt something light and airy brush against my cheek. It was like a breeze, faintly ticklish, but it wasn’t that. Couldn’t be. The air was calm, hardly more than a whisper. Baby winds, mild as milk. Still, whatever it was, it made me turn and look up. And then, I saw a tall shadow up on the bridge. It was him. Had to be. That stark profile, the broad shoulders, and slim hips could belong to no one else. The captain seemed very remote, so high in his solitary perch above the rest of the crew, the entire ocean. He looked as if he belonged there, and the thought made me a little sad as I watched him. Holding a spyglass to one eye, he moved gracefully to survey the sea before him. One slow arc, then a second equally thorough one. He paused just before he completed the final sweep, lowered his spyglass, and turned deliberately around to the stern. He looked straight at me.

  Caught. What was I expecting? I fought my impulse to hide behind some barrels. All of a sudden, I felt foolish like a schoolgirl, grateful that the night hid my blushing cheeks. Unmoving, he watched me for a long time, so long that winter melted into spring, spring to summer, summer to fall, and then the seasons seemed to turn around again as we looked at each other. I felt his gaze as if he touched me, heating places that I knew but had never really known before. Strange places. Dark places. It was…unbearable, and yet, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I just stood there, still and stupid, as if my feet had been tarred to the spot. I had to move, had to do something, but I didn’t know what. For all my education, I was ignorant in this. At last, I raised my hand and waved a little. I don’t know why, but I did. He waited for a few minutes before he barely lifted his chin in acknowledgement. A slight movement. Perhaps I’d imagined it.

  Chapter 2: Trapped

  The overripe smell of garbage and fish guts greeted me like a hug from an old friend, oddly comforting but a little too close. Ah, the sweet, sweet welcome of home. I immediately recognized the pungent San Francisco harbor, but everything else seemed different. When I stepped off the gangway, I was staring like all the greenhorns around me. I couldn’t help myself, I barely recognized San Francisco at all. Gone were the grazing ranchero cattle and the white laundry flapping just west of old Yerba Buena harbor. The gold rush had changed the town from a sleepy country cousin into a painted lady. Now the mud streets were covered with planks, and new buildings were crammed cheek-to-jowl. Rows of them lined the steep hillsides so that the gables and spires bristled like spines on a hedgehog. To the south of Market Street, voluptuous black plumes puffed from the smokestacks of the foundries and munitions factories.

  There seemed to be no time for a siesta now. It was all go, go, go. Everything and everyone bustled around me. I listened to the water slosh around the pilings, the horses’ hooves thundering against the street planks as the dray wagons creaked with their heavy loads from the ships. There were irate shouts from the drivers, sailors, and the glad greetings of reunited families. I searched the crowd for Claude, but among the hats and bare heads, I didn’t see his wavy black hair. Hard to miss. At six foot four, he topped everyone else, and if you didn’t see him first, you almost always heard his crazy laughter from miles off. Where was he? Whatever his other shortcomings were, Claude was never late. Worried, I listened hard for any hint of him. Nothing. No sign.

  Just nearby boys in dusty knickers and caps darting between the well-heeled passengers, hawking their papers.

  “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Pirates strike again!”

  Pirates? In this day and age? More likely privateers raiding Union ships, or running the blockade. So the Civil War had touched these shores too. I felt surprised. I’d thought California too far away, but then war was like gangrene. It spread everywhere, respected no boundaries. We’d been lucky to make it here without being attacked. Our clipper had carried cannons for fortifying the Presidio and Fort Point.

  I flagged a boy down. His cheeks were still pink from running. He was small and wiry from not enough food and too much work, but despite his scruffy clothes, he was clean, his hair trimmed neatly. When he saw me, a disappointed look flashed over his face as he reluctantly walked over to me.

  He shuffled impatient feet. “Sorry, Miss. No fashion plates. Just news.”

  “Perfect. I’ll take a broadsheet, please.”

  He looked skeptical. “No pictures, Miss.”

  “That’s all right. I can read. I like to read, uhm…”

  “Seymour,” he said helpfully. His impatience melted into cheerfulness, no doubt prompted by the prospect of a new sale. He held up a newspaper. “Here you go, hot off the presses. USS Columbia down. A genuine blow to the Union. All hands lost.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Well, most.” He grinned, displaying three missing teeth. “But all the gold was stolen. One million dollars worth. That’s real dollars, not greenbacks, Miss. Supposin’ to go to the Union so Lincoln won’t have to print those paper bucks. Those ain’t worth nothin’. Not like real gold.”

  Laughing, I gave him a gold coin. He bit at it, then eyed it suspiciously.

  “French,” I said.

  His face brightened. “Frenchie? That’s okay, then. Thinkin’ it might be one of those brass pennies. Not worth nothin’.”

  I thanked Seymour for the paper, then searched the thinning crowds once again for Claude. All my fellow passengers had left the dock, and the last carriage was just leaving. Only the sailors were still left, unloading the crates. I felt a tug on my skirt.

  “Missy,” a little voice said behind me. “Missy. Señorita. Lady.”

  I wasn’t sure that any of those titles applied to me. Whoever was gripping my skirt tugged anxiously again on my poor serviceable gray-brown wool. I turned around. It was the cabin boy, Ling-Shen. He couldn’t have been more than five years old. Under the chopped black bangs, his near-black eyes tilted at the corners, and they shone as if he knew a secret. A delicious one.

  “For you,” he presented a slim rectangular wooden box to me. He bowed, then ran off, his queue bouncing against his little retreating back.

  What? Whose was this? There must be some mistake. I’d carefully packed my few belongings inside my black satchel; I hadn’t left anything behind. Certainly not this. This wasn’t mine. The box was fashioned out of a cinnamon-colored wood that I’d never seen before. Its plain surface felt smooth and cool as I fumbled with the clasp. The well-oiled hinges opened noiselessly, and I peeked in. My breath caught. Inside the top lid was a picture of two hands stretching over a wild ocean. The hands cupped something. I looked closer. Something faceted. A diamond? No, a blackberry? I couldn’t tell, but its beauty touched me. It was all done in inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl. Each piece joined perfectly so that it looked seamless, more like a painting than a puzzle. The word Zarzamora was carved along the bottom of the picture. What did that mean? It sounded like an exotic place with white sand and turquoise seas, rustling palm trees and sweet succulent fruit. I wanted to go there. Right now. But not by myself.

  I looked further. There was more inside the box, something wrapped in linen. I carefully opened the wrapping and smelled new kid leather. There lay a pair of dove-gray gloves with tiny pearl buttons on the side. The buttonholes were stitched with fine silk twist. I’d never owned such a pair, had only seen them on the hands of fine ladies or through shop windows. I stared at the gloves, my dismay growing by the second. I couldn’t wear these. I’d either lose one or pop a button. And the stains I’d get! Chloroform, carbolic acid, phlegm…my gloves would be totally ruined in a minute. I loved them, but I could never use them. Their simple elegance reminded me of something I wasn’t, never could be. It almost felt like a reproof instead of a gift.

  With a little sigh, I closed the lid and slipped the beautiful box inside my old black leather bag. My finger lingered for a moment over the box, feeling how the corner joints angled together and fit perfectly. Had he made it himself? Probably not. Probably purchased at some waterfront shop. Ling-Shen hadn’t said who had sent me the gift, but I already knew. The Captain. A goo
d-bye would have meant more to me, and yet, somehow I was strangely relieved that he had not.

  ***

  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. That last saloon had been hell, pure hell. No matter where you were or what those saloons were called, they all stank the same way. The older I got, the more I understood, and the more those places turned my stomach. They’d been the stepping-stones to my father’s slow ruin, and I was afraid Claude was following the same path. The reek of old whiskey and sawdust stuck to my nostrils like a bad memory as I stormed out and huffed up Montgomery Street again. I shouldered past the few rough-coated pedestrians, who either looked completely lost or were rushing to their next destination before the patrol arrested them. Along the waterfront, the Barbary Coast was not a place to linger lightly unless you were interested in some loose change or loose women. Liquor flowed freely. And there was every kind of imaginable vice if you had the right coin and the inclination.

  The sun was drifting lower in the sky and the shadows lengthened, creeping up the sides of the half-deserted clapboard buildings. It was late afternoon, and I still hadn’t found my brother in any of his old haunts. The neighborhood was deceptively quiet. It was early yet, too early for the gambling and carousing.

  I walked even faster. My boots clonked steadily against the plank sidewalk, carelessly kicking aside mud clumps. By the time I’d checked the Bull Run and the El Dorado, I was mightily irritated, and working my way up to furious. My feet ached and my bag felt like it was packed full of cannonballs. A dull gnawing in the pit of my stomach made me miserably aware that it’d been hours since my last meal. Or maybe it was worry instead of hunger. Where the hell was my brother? I was ready to kill him.

  I walked another block to where the buildings turned from cheap wood to brownstone with polished brass fixings. Here the people were riding prime horseflesh or in carriages instead of slogging through the mud. I hid my sneer. This was the soft-handed bon-bon crowd. No illnesses, just neuroses, and the same need for vice. The more exclusive, the better. In this high-class neighborhood was my last chance - The Golden Catherine. The place hadn’t changed since the last time I’d been here. Its facade was fancy and anonymous. The Italianate brick and gleaming Doric pillars made it appear like any gentlemen’s establishment: fine, elegant, discrete. And so it was, after a fashion. Instead of a thick-necked bouncer, a liveried doorman stood at attention underneath the portico.

  I paused in front of the brass-tipped wrought iron fence. Immediately, the doorman looked at me and then past me as if I were of no significance at all. Not even a smirk registered. I realized then how I must look to him. I was gloveless. My boots and the hem of my split-skirt were caked with mud, and my little hat hung off to one side, resting low on my bun at the nape of my neck. Bits of hair had straggled out of the hairnet and stuck nastily to my sweaty neck. I must look more like a lady wrestler than a lady doctor. No, drop the lady, I didn’t look like a lady at all. Must be a new lad. I didn’t recognize him and he didn’t know me. Better not to make a fuss. Catherine wouldn’t appreciate it. Discretion was the byword of her profession. After all, she was running the most luxurious bordello in San Francisco.

  I walked around the fence and into the side alley, then jogged down the narrow stairs leading into the basement and through the delivery entrance. The service hallway reflected its owner’s orderliness: all the boxes stacked neatly, the chintz wallpaper unstained. The gas lamps were freshly dusted, everything polished to a proud shine. I passed the open door of the kitchen, the smell of onions and freshly chopped vegetables making my mouth water.

  “We’re in trouble,” said a portly woman, wiping her hands on a white apron. Mrs. Bernard used the hem to pat her forehead, then her rosy cheeks. “Don Cabrillo’s coming tonight. Oh, my life. And we’re fresh out of pheasant. And those crinkly mushrooms. Catherine will kill us. The Don is so particular, nothing else will do. What shall we do, Frankie?”

  “François, not Frankie. Get the name right,” said a voice that was born and bred in the Bowery, not Paris. The closest Frankie had ever come to France were the cancan dancers at the El Dorado saloon.

  “How can I remember? You change your name faster than your soup. Why can’t you stick with one name? You can’t expect us to remember.”

  “No hysterics in my kitchen,” Frankie stabbed a stumpy finger at her.

  “Your kitchen?” she said, her voice rising like a tea kettle about to boil over. “So this is your kitchen?”

  Uh, oh. I recognized that tone, all right. Time to intervene, or else there’d be blood on the kitchen floor. I didn’t want to be stitching anyone up on my first night home. So I ducked my head around the door. “Hello.”

  “Nathalie!” Mrs. Bernard shrieked suddenly. She dropped her wooden spoon and ran to me, embracing me with her meaty arms. “Look at you, just look at you. Oh, my. All grown up and…” she examined me thoroughly. “And messy as usual. Mud! Three inches at least. What happened to you, child? Did you fall into one of those potholes?”

  “Give the kid a break, Mrs. B. She just went ‘round the Horn. Just docked.” Grinning, Frankie punched me on the shoulder and I punched him back. He rubbed the spot, laughing. “Haven’t grown soft on me. Good, good. Do you remember the moves?” He tilted his chin, pointed. “Give you a free one. Come on, come on. Take your best shot at me.”

  Weariness forgotten, I danced a little around him, my fists cocked and up. We bobbed and weaved around each other.

  “Stop it. Stop it this instant,” Mrs. Bernard said indignantly behind us.

  We ignored her. I took a jab. Frankie ducked.

  “You can do better than that, kid.”

  Mrs. Bernard pulled me away. “Frankie, your consommé is boiling over.”

  Breaking off, he swore and ran to the stove range.

  Mrs. Bernard shook her head. “Oh, Nathalie, look at you. Still the same. And we had such high hopes for you.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Stop wailing, woman. She’s not some milk gone sour. Leave her be.”

  “Well, never you mind. Just wait ‘til Catherine gets a hold of you. Come on, better go upstairs. I’ll send up a nice tray. Some tea and those little cakes you like. Oh, and my blackberry jam. I bet you’ve been missing that.”

  “More than you know.” Smiling, I walked up the skinny stairs to the main floor. I could walk this way blindfolded, had done so in my dreams. No matter how many years or how many miles had passed, I knew this place. This was my home port. I could only run away for so long, I suppose. And now, I had finally returned.

  ***

  My feet sank in the soft thick Turkish carpet as I passed through the pulled-back velvet drapes and into the front parlor. The walls were still covered with red damask, but the crystal chandeliers and the gilt chairs were new. What a far cry from Catherine’s first “house of joy” which had once been a ship left in the harbor by its gold-fevered crew. Now, this place, a true casa grande. I was impressed. Catherine must be doing well. Of course, she would. She could do whatever she set her mind to.

  I walked by the first sofa. My fingers brushed against its plump velvet cushions while I listened to the slow rippling notes of a fine piano. The music built like drops of rain gathering together, then flowing from stream to river to sea. And over the fluid bass notes, the melody climbed slowly like a heavenly astral across the night sky.

  Moonlight Sonata. So he still plays that piece. “Hey, Doc,” I said softly.

  My old mentor didn’t reply. Doc James Calhoun only tilted his head as if he were listening harder to his music, trying to catch every nuance, and continued playing. On top of the grand piano were a fine cut-crystal decanter and a glass of bourbon. Next to his drink was a top hat with a pair of white gloves carefully laid over it. A gold-topped ebony cane rested against the keyboard. And his fine coat-tail suit, brocade vest and spats were more suited to a concert hall than a joint, even a classy one like this. I bet James would go to a bear baiting dressed like a gentleman. He had
probably been born in those spats.

  I set my bag down on to the floor, walked up to him, and sat next to him on the piano bench. The notes fell like the last random drops of a passing storm, drizzling into the silence. He sighed. His shoulders relaxed forward. His fingers paused as the last note faded, then they suddenly flew over the keys, adding a melodramatic flourish.

  “Only you could improve on Beethoven.”

  “Naturally.” James pulled back a little and gave me a quizzical look.

  His hair was grayer, his skin more seamed with lines than I remembered, but the courtly kindness in his silver-blue eyes was just the same. And he still had that little smile as if he were remembering a good joke and just holding back a laugh. Only this time, his smile seemed tighter than usual. What was wrong? I couldn’t quite diagnose it.

  “Nathalie,” he shook his head slowly like he did everything else. “Well, well, well. My dear, dear Nathalie. Or should I say Doctor Arnaud? Congratulations. You did it, you finally did it.”

  He didn’t touch me, and I didn’t touch him. I should have hugged him, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. It felt awkward, as if we were strangers, as if I hadn’t known him since I was three and unrolling his bandages so Claude and me could dress up like Egyptian mummies. Something had changed, but I didn’t know what. I only knew not to touch him. Maybe it would only make things worse. Maybe I might damage something, damage him. He reminded me of a Chinese fan I once had: one careless touch and it broke forever. I had learned caution since then.