The Gilded Age

10

A Shindig on Snob Hill

“Where is she?” Daniel demands. “Always disappearing when I need her.” He flings his shot glass against the baseboard of the smoking parlor, demonstrating his pique. Shards scatter across the Persian carpet. He seizes the bottle of Scotch Oats Essence from Mariah’s tray, gulps down half the medicine while Mariah stands before him, impassive and stern.. Always judging him with those depthless black eyes of hers. As if she’s got any right to judge him.

“I do not rightly know, Mr. Watkins.” She is polite, always polite, no matter how badly he behaves. She will have to get down on her hands and knees and pick up his broken glass.

There, you see, sneers a voice inside his head. You do know when you’re behaving badly.

“She woke,” Mariah adds, “at the crack of dawn and went out with Miss Malone. And no, I do not know where they went.”

He runs his fingers through his hair. He’s never heard voices in his head, not before he met her, his lunatic mistress from six hundred years in the future with a voice of her own that he can hear quite clearly though she never seems to hear his. Now his voices—there are several—cackle and sneer, admonish him every time he turns around, call him vile names, especially when there’s a loud, sudden sound like the hoof-clops of horses.

“I will not have that madam stealing my mistress away.”

“Miss Malone is her employer, Mr. Watkins. Miss Malone may avail herself of Miss Zhu’s services any time she’s got a notion.”

Mariah holds out her hand for the medicine bottle, which belongs to Jessie. The stuff’s not cheap. Defiantly he tucks the Scotch Oats Essence into his jacket pocket. The smeared syrup will catch lint and tobacco crumbs and make a mess of the pocket.

Never mind. The medicine is the only thing that seems to soothe his nerves, if only for a moment. Drink sends him into a rage, and controlling the drink is why he sniffs cocaine night and day. He is cutting down on the drink, he’s quite sure of it. Poor old Schultz should have given Dr. Mortimer’s cure a try, and damn the expense. But then poor old Schultz was never long on wits. Other healthful effects of the cure are plain to see, too. He’s lost the paunch. He’s as skinny as a kid again. But he cannot understand this hellish anxiety. And his temper? Merely the aftereffect of cutting down on the drink, Dr. Mortimer assures him and urges him to persist with the cure till he’s done with the drink altogether. That will be another five dollars, sir. Ten dollars. Fifteen.

“’Any time she’s got a notion’?” Daniel says, mocking the maid. “Since when does a woman get a notion?”

Mariah says nothing. She harbors a personal vendetta against him though he has never committed one single transgression against her. He addresses her roughly sometimes, perhaps, but not beyond the bounds proper for decorum toward servants.

“Anyway,” he says, refusing to be shamed before her baleful glare, “my mistress has her own obligations toward me. She has no right to run off without consulting me first.”

“Miss Zhu,” Mariah says, “has the right to do anything she pleases.” She turns on her heel and stalks out.

“You’re dismissed,” Daniel calls after her retreating back. She’s got the back of a stevedore, that one does. “Hell with it,” he mutters, taking out the Scotch Oats Essence. Zhu claims the stuff is loaded with whiskey, but it cannot be whiskey that soothes his fevered brow. No, it’s medicine, by God, and he needs more of the same. Indeed, he needs something stronger.

He takes out his vial of cocaine and the spoon, and snorts. Excruciating pain knifes through his sinuses, then numbs to nothing as soon as the cure settles into his flesh, though not nearly quickly enough. His nosebleeds are getting worse but then, he suffered from nosebleeds when the drink had him by the throat. Zhu claims the cocaine is eating holes in his septum, but he scoffed in disbelief. She’s not a physician like Dr. Mortimer.

Daniel’s got things to do before he sets off for the shindig on Nob Hill tonight. Snob Hill, as Jessie calls the place. He needs to pay a visit to Stockton Street and old man Ekberg. Then he needs to stop by the courthouse and file foreclosure papers. He was hoping to take Zhu with him. For a woman, she’s awfully clever at paperwork, at facts and figures. Perhaps he should take her to London and go meet H.G. Wells himself. That might put an end to her lunacy. Good thing she doesn’t try to take his cocaine away. “I will kill you if you touch my cure,” he’s warned her. When his blood is up, he almost means it.

After his business at the court is done, he must stop by the tailor and pick up his costume. The shindig at the Art Association is a costume party, of all things. He would never have allowed himself to be talked into accompanying Zhu and Jessie if he hadn’t overheard along the Cocktail Route that the nabobs of the city will attend. In particular, a certain Jeremiah Duff will make his annual appearance. Mr. Duff has a reputation of being a man well versed in narcotics. Dr. Mortimer has promised to give Daniel a letter of introduction.

By God, he’s exhausted. If only he could sleep! He hasn’t shut his eyes for more than a few hours at a time in weeks. Everything seems fragmented and unreal. Days and nights splinter into shards of consciousness as scattered as his shattered shot glass on the Persian carpet. Sometimes when he’s sequestered in his suite—lamp burning low, shades and drapes drawn, a bottle of good brandy, his vial and his spoon, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing—he does not know whether it’s day or night, and does not care.

Suddenly pain chases across the back of his eyes, and the room spins, bits and pieces swelling into his view and receding. He chuckles at the effect, though he thinks he may be about to retch. Now, why can he not do this with his kinesis machine?

The kinesis machine, that’s what he calls the device he’s rigged up in his suite to experiment with moving photographs, a design not unlike his toy Zoetrope. He’s mounted translucent sequential images on a large wheel, situated an electric lightbulb at the wheel’s center. When he spins the wheel, the pictures whirl past the eye, illuminated from behind. It works, after a fashion.

Still, the viewer cannot enter into the illusion the way he so desperately desires. Even a peepshow is more engrossing. The apparatus is distancing, the photographs too small. He considers enlarging the photographs to the size of paintings, constructing a giant wheel on which to mount them, perhaps forty feet in diameter. He’d need an auditorium to show the illusion. Frustrated, he finds it a paltry simulation of what he can envision. He still encounters problems with continuous motion, cannot quite determine the right acceleration. If he slows the action, the images jerk about. If he speeds it up, the images blur.

Like Zhu is a blur. Like Woman is a blur. He adores her, he abhors her. Which is it?

“Where are you when I need you, my angel?” he shouts in the empty parlor. His voice echoes strangely. Almost as if the reverberation preceded his cry. By God, he is going mad.

* * *

Daniel steps out onto Dupont Street and surveys the traffic with a shrewd eye. Harvey’s thugs don’t lurk about, but the evil way two streetwalkers glance at him merits his fingertips poised on his Remington derringer, a hand poised for the Congress knife. Is that the damnable Fanny Spiggot crossing at the corner? She has been following him, too, no doubt itching to see if she can lift another boodle bag off him. And wait—is that poor old Schultz? No, no, it’s just another portly German gentleman. Poor old Schultz is cold in his grave.

He sets off at an energetic clip for Stockton Street. They say the plague has struck Chinatown again. The smuggled coolies his mistress weeps about probably brought it over from China, which suffered a dreadful dose in ’94. Ah, there’s the dump, 567 Stockton Street, over which Mr. Ekberg has wept real tears. The old man has got himself a hidey-hole downstairs and who knows how many Chinese crammed into the little rooms upstairs. Daniel knocks on the door, impatient, tapping his toe, and Mr. Ekberg answers. An old prospector he is, his face as ruined as the termite–riddled boards of this tumbledown wreck. Daniel will have to chastise Father, extending a loan on such a poor property. Ekberg forks over thirty-five dollars in gold coins, then slams the door in Daniel’s face. Splendid. That settles his account for another month, never mind the arrears and accumulated interest. What will happen when old Ekberg kicks the bucket? What then? Will Daniel have to manage the place? He shivers and sidesteps a dead rat writhing with maggots lying in the gutter. Who would buy this dump at a price covering the loan balance? He can see the wisdom of floating old Ekberg for as long as possible. He recalls that the plague is spread by rats. Daniel clears out.

Mr. Harvey and his poolroom are another story. Harvey has been as intractable as a Hun and twice as dangerous. Resolution fills Daniel’s heart as he walks to the county courthouse on Mission Street, a fine granite building rendered in a worthy classical architecture. Now he’s feeling very righteous, sir, as the crusading knight must have felt. The power and the might of the law are on his side. His bootheels click across the marble floor, and he finds a clerk who assists him in filling out the documents. He did not need his clever mistress after all, well, he shall be sure to tell her so. Mr. Daniel J. Watkins hereby forecloses the mortgage on behalf of Mr. Jonathan D. Watkins of Saint Louis on said property, 412 Water Street, Sausalito, California, presently occupied by Mr. Nicholas S. Harvey, debtor. He will not be intimidated by a ruffian barkeep. He pays an extra fee to have the notice delivered by messenger boy. There could be a handsome profit in the Water Street property as long as poolrooms remain legal in Sausalito. Now, there’s justice. Perhaps some rich gambler from the green cloth circuit will show an interest and take the property off his hands.

He’s feeling much better, gold coins jingling in his pocket. He jogs back across Market, sprints three blocks to Montgomery, and up four flights to the top floor of the Monkey Block and Dr. Mortimer’s clinic. No more huffing and puffing, sir, he’s as spry as an athlete. Though his breath does whistle in his nostrils, his lungs are on fire, and his heart pounds like a drum in his chest. He taps out a ciggie to refresh himself, drags on it deeply, relishing the sharp stab in his chest. Now there’s a proper draw for a gentleman.

He knocks on the physician’s door. No answer. He checks his pocket watch. Well. He is ten minutes late for his appointment. Dr. Mortimer not only promised him a letter of introduction to Jeremiah Duff, but hinted that a judicious use of the physician’s new telephone might be in order, too. Splendid proposition. Daniel eagerly looks forward to speaking on the telephone with Mr. Duff. Even letters of introduction can be ticklish, rife with hesitation and awkwardness, but an actual voice transmitted over electrical wires—now there is a magnificent way to communicate.

Still no answer. This is not like Dr. Mortimer, who usually sprints to the door before Daniel can lay his knuckles on the glass. He tries the doorknob. Not locked. The door fans open with an eerie creak.

“Dr. Mortimer?” Daniel does not like this stiff feeling of intruding. He certainly wouldn’t like another man to barge into his suite. “Dr. Mortimer?”

The first thing he sees and smells is the bright blood spilling from Mortimer’s nose onto the pale green paper of his writing pad. The physician slumps over his walnut desk, one arm hanging limp, the other flung across the desk as though attempting to seize something or ward something off.

Murder. Shock explodes up and down Daniel’s spine. Touch nothing. He knows enough about modern police procedure to know that. He circles behind the dead physician and around the desk, confounded by this heinous crime. But why? Who? Someone demanding the cure? Wanting the cure, needing the cure? Someone lacking money, like poor old Schultz?

Then again, nothing seems disturbed besides the physician himself slumped dead over his desk. The charts, the shelves of stoppered jars filled with preserved body parts, the side table where the physician kept his supplies. The mirrored tray dusted with white power, dappled with reddish brown stains. All of it quite the same.

Daniel strides to the side table, pulls out the drawer. Catches his breath. The drawer is stuffed with vials of cocaine and a good quantity of gold and silver coins.

Murder or. . . ? This is what an aneurysm looks like, idiot, one of his voices tartly informs him. Ah, now his voices are dispensing medical advice. Why does this particular voice sound so much like his mistress? “You’re not a doctor, Zhu,” he says out loud. No, I’m not, the voice says, it’s common knowledge about this drug in my Now. “Please,” he begs and struggles to remember. Did they actually engage in some variation of this conversation one tempestuous night? It seems so familiar. Or is it just his mad imagination?

He takes ten vials from the drawer and tucks them in his pocket, reluctantly leaving the rest of the vials and the coins. He does not approve of thievery, sir. He dutifully deposits five dollars in the drawer. The good physician would have required fifteen, but now that he’s dead, Daniel thinks five is a fair price.

Go straight to the police, that’s what he should do. But if there’s no foul play, sir, says another voice, persuasive, confiding, if it’s not really murder but just the fellow’s bad luck, why should you go to the police? Surely Dr. Mortimer has family and friends who shall miss him and seek him out. Why should Daniel pick up the pieces? Indeed, on further reflection, he does not want his presence here today known by the police at all. Not that he’s done anything wrong, certainly not. But Mortimer is of no further use to him, now is he? He returns to the drawer. Mortimer has no further use for any of the vials or, for that matter, the coins.

You’re not hurting anyone, the confiding voice assures him, and anyway where will you get more?

Daniel tiptoes out, gently closes the door. Damn bad luck—he didn’t get his letter of introduction or his telephone call to Jeremiah Duff. However. He’s got rather more pocket change and an excellent supply of the Incan gift. But still no means to ease his soul.

* * *

The cable car on California Street climbs straight up Nob Hill, aiming its prow toward the stars whirling in the heavens above. Truly the stars do dance above marvelous Californ’. Daniel has never seen anything like it, not even after his third glass of absinthe at La Nouvelle-Athenes. There, the stars would droop and smear, staining the night sky over Paris with blots of dull orange, and his fancy would turn to the sordid enticements of Rochelle. But in this night sky, the stars are frantic. Sparkling, wheeling, dancing across a dark infinity.

He snuffles gently, nursing the fluid in his nose. The cocaine he appropriated from Dr. Mortimer’s clinic has elevated him to new heights of health and well-being. By God, the stars are dancing! Gripping the pole, he leans off the platform as far as he can as the cable car jolts up the hill to the Art Association.

“Careful, Daniel,” Zhu calls to him. Proprietary, like a wife or a mother.

“Am I the only one in costume, then?” he demands, ignoring her and flipping up his eyepatch.

Everyone on the car chuckles because everyone on the car is in costume. There are nymphs and Roman soldiers, Buffalo Bills and winged fairies. An astonishing Egyptian pharaoh has stained his face blue and escorts a queen with a green-stained face on his arm. The royal couple is loaded with gold and gems that look real. You cannot get that glitter and gleam off a facet made of paste, Daniel is quite sure. There are several Dresden shepherdesses and their burly squires clad in varying degrees of authenticity and taste. An excellent mermaid with long silver hair, her lower limbs crippled by her gorgeous satin tail. She is carried in the brawny arms of two strapping bouncers adventurously clad as fishermen. One of Jessie’s rivals? Miss Malone cannot keep her eyes off the gleaming scales.

Daniel himself has stooped to this absurd swashbuckler’s getup with a real sword, a scarlet sash, a swooping hat, and the eyepatch. Not particularly original. Several other pirates loll about on the benches of the cable car in preliminary stages of inebriation. Yet he has been willing to engage in the pretense for the sake of the Artists’ Ball. The ladies he has agreed to escort have not, however, engaged in the pretense and he is mightily displeased with them both.

Jessie Malone is costumed as Jessie Malone, the Queen of the Underworld. Now, what kind of fool costume is that? She has pressed all her gorgeous flesh into a sparkly black dress of extraordinary shape and texture bedecked with black beads of jet, black sequins, black loops of satin, and frilly black lace. Her diamonds, by God, he had no idea she owned such treasures. He took one look at her jewels as they all stepped out of 263 Dupont Street and promptly returned inside to find Schultz’s abandoned Smith and Wesson, which he’d discovered going through the deceased fellow’s things. Daniel packs that pistol now along with his derringer, the Congress knife, and the real sword from the tailor. Armed robbers, sir, you never know where you may confront them on the night of a Big Celebration in the city.

Rocks the size of gumdrops sparkle on Jessie’s knuckles. What they call a dog collar, a band of captive stars, encircles her neck above a bosom worthy of the Queen of Babylon. Earrings to knock your eye out dangle amid her riot of golden curls. And bracelets? He remembers how his mother had a bracelet, a plain silver band she wore on a wrist as thin as the bone beneath the skin. Jessie has stacked each of her ample arms with more bejeweled gold bracelets than Daniel has ever witnessed on one arm, let alone two.

As for Jessie’s disguise, she has proposed that it shall be the Mask of Tragedy and Comedy, one side of the mask black and grieving, the other white and rejoicing, all of it set upon an ivory and ebony handle. She holds the mask over her exquisitely painted face the way a lady holds a fan, coquettishly flipping the thing between Comedy and Tragedy, permitting only fleeting glimpses of the mask behind the mask.

Ah, well. Jessie will be Jessie, and ever shall she be.

But his mistress? Her disguise is completely improper and unacceptable.

Zhu wears her denim sahm, felt fedora, tinted spectacles, and straw sandals. She has plaited her long black hair into a peasant’s queue. Her disguise worked well enough when she posed as his manservant strolling along the Cocktail Route. It is hardly satisfactory for the Artists’ Ball.

“What in hell are you doing, going dressed like that?” he demanded, outraged, before they stepped out the door.

“I’m going as a t-porter,” she said, attempting a joking tone. “A time traveler, to use Mr. Wells’s terminology. A woman of the future. I told you I actually dress pretty much like this every day in my Now. I did tell you that, didn’t I?” She looks worried.

Of course she did. His little lunatic says she likes disappearing in a crowd. What sane woman would ever want that? Perhaps H.G. Wells could make some hay of it, but Daniel would have liked to titillate the Smart Set by squiring the notorious madam on one arm, his lovely Chinese mistress on the other. Jessie as Jessie, very well, but Zhu costumed as a royal concubine clad in jade satin. Now that would have been something.

But Zhu got her way. She usually does, laughs one of his voices.

Daniel abandons the pole and squeezes onto the bench beside her. “I am deeply unhappy with your crude charade, miss.”

“I’m deeply unhappy with your cocaine habit, Daniel. I’m deeply unhappy with your drinking.”

He claps his hand to his forehead. “For the thousandth time, I am cured of the drink.”

His irritation spirals quickly down into anger. She is as plain as a pretzel except for one small detail he notices for the first time in the gaslight of California Street. He spots it at once. So does Jessie, seated beside Zhu.

“What on earth have you got there?” he says.

“Say, missy,” Jessie says.

Pinned to Zhu’s collar is the most charming bauble Daniel has ever seen, rendered in the Art Nouveau style with dazzling genius. A golden butterfly with diamonds and bits of multicolored glass. A nude woman poses at the center, a lovely slim thing like a dancer. He’s mesmerized by her languid little face, and he reaches to touch the brooch at the same time as Jessie, his hand colliding with hers.

Zhu shields her collar from them both, holding her hands over the treasure.

“Sure and what is that?” Jessie says, prying one of Zhu’s hands away.

“It’s called an aurelia,” Zhu says.

“Where’d you get it?”

“You like it?”

“It’s blowed in the glass. But it hardly suits your costume. Here, let me wear it,” Jessie wheedles. “Look, I gotta a little vacant spot on the neckline of my dress.”

“Nope. I can’t let it out of my sight.”

“Hmph! You can look at me all night. Oh, do let me have it.”

“Why? The diamonds aren’t much and the rest is just glass.”

“Why?” Jessie says. “You are forever asking why. Why why why?”

“Why?” Zhu says.

“Because she’s a nude and I gotta have it.”

“How about you, Daniel?” Zhu says. “You like it, too?”

“It’s corking,” he says and means it. “Quite decadent.”

“Decadent how?” she says urgently, as if his answer will prove something to her.

“Well, there she is”—he touches a fingertip to the tiny golden woman—“a woman borne away by an insect. The lowest creature on earth, though of course a butterfly is beautiful.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I’d say that the aurelia is Woman herself swept away by the brute force of destiny.” For a moment the cable car is silent except for the deep metallic humming of the cables churning beneath them. “That is all.” He needs another spoonful of Mortimer’s private mix for more inspiration. “Oh, and she looks just like you, miss.”

“No, she doesn’t!” Zhu looks horrified. “She’s white, Caucasian. A Gibson girl.”

“I beg to differ. She is golden, just like you. Look at the slant of her eyes, her slender figure. She is you.”

“Where’d you get it?” Jessie asks again.

“In a totally unexpected place. I’m thinking Chiron knew that from the start,” Zhu replies. “So that means the aurelia must be an enigma. A time enigma.”

“Who is Chiron?” Daniel demands, enraged. She belongs to him. “Where is this Chiron?”

“Not where, when. The red-haired man Chiron,” she says to Jessie, who nods. Jessie has heard about this man, apparently. “From six hundred years in the future.”

* * *

The cable car grinds to a halt at the crest of California Street, finding level ground at the peak of Nob Hill. Daniel helps Jessie down, but Zhu leaps off on her own, as spry as a boy. Daniel stands breathlessly and looks around. These astonishing mansions of the fabled rich—from mining, railroads, banking, sugar, so much money Daniel’s teeth ache—are really only town houses, and half the time the houses are empty. The original builders or the builders’ heirs are off to New York, Europe, or their country villas down the peninsula with acres of lawns for privacy. Not much privacy atop Snob Hill. These mansions rub elbows with each other and everyone else passing by on the street.

Daniel crosses the street to the Hopkins mansion. They say old man Hopkins never lived here at all, though he poured a fortune into the monstrous construction. Part cathedral, part Mansard, part Gothic, a dark moodiness like a German castle, a hint of Queen Anne with all the excesses and none of the frivolity. The place is atrocious, in Daniel’s opinion. After the old man died, the widow moved East and took up with her interior decorator. Daniel has heard the rumors along the Cocktail Route. Young spunk. Knew which side his bread was buttered on. The widow died a couple of years ago, and the interior decorator inherited everything. He built another bigger, gaudier house over in Massachusetts, felt no need to hang onto this one. He donated the whole kit and caboodle to the San Francisco Art Association, which took up residence in a gleeful flash.

Hence the shindig, quite a show-off for the bohemian crowd. There’s Ned Greenway, he of the rumored twenty bottles of champagne a day, dressed like Puck, a wreath of laurel leaves crowning his sweaty pate, a tremendous white toga billowing around his girth. As if one should aspire to drink twenty bottles of champagne a day. Daniel sniffs disdainfully. A good snort of the Incan gift might do the tastemaker a world of good.

He, Jessie, and Zhu sweep into the foyer beneath candelabra all ablaze. Forests of asparagus fern sprout in every corner, smilax drapes the walls. Fresh flowers everywhere, from banks of orchids surrounding the polished dance floor to rose petals floating in the champagne cocktails. The baroque ballroom is sheer chaos as the orchestra strikes up a mazurka. Filters rotate over the gaslights, sending a kaleidoscope of colors over the dancers. Jewels wink in abundance, masks bob with ostrich feathers, pale curves of flesh abandon modesty. Sideboards groan with punch bowls and platters of food rivaling the offerings along the Cocktail Route. Daniel smells terrapin in sweet cream. Huge parlors converted into galleries are hung with a profusion of oil paintings, landscapes, still life, some sculpture. All rather dull to Daniel’s eye but with the exciting scent of fresh oil paint, chalk, newly cut stone. Revelers throng around the exhibitions, offering shrill critiques and chattering like monkeys.

A nabob costumed as Louis XIV strolls in, leading a donkey dyed green upon whose back perches the nabob’s mistress. She is costumed, so to speak, as Lady Godiva. By God, she’s naked as a jaybird, for all Daniel can see, but for a pair of lady’s riding boots fitted with green spurs. The mistress’s own ample golden locks, generously supplemented with fake curls, conceal her, more or less. She does not look very happy about her charade, as her wrists are bound and lashed to the donkey’s cinch. His face livid with drink, the nabob announces, “It is she who spurs Green Jealousy. Feast your eyes. The other gentleman surely did.”

Zhu clucks her tongue and shakes her head, and ladies of the Smart Set avert their eyes. “Really, Duncan,” exclaims a leading social maven, “we shall not be a party to this disgraceful spectacle. And poor Bernice”—Daniel is guessing that’s the nabob’s wife—“in the very next room.” She gathers up her chums and steers them away.

“Ah, but that’s why everyone comes to the Artists’ Ball,” Daniel says, laughing. “To witness disgraceful spectacles.”

“In my Now,” Zhu says, “she’d sue his ass for all he’s worth.”

“My diamonds is bigger,” Jessie murmurs, watching the maven sail off with her ladies.

Fortunately, no one pays Zhu any attention. But Jessie turns plenty of heads, as much for her bejeweled bosom as for her reputation, and Zhu hovers behind her like a shadow, her face drawn and dark. Suddenly Daniel feels frazzled and claustrophobic in the crowd. Panic gathers in his throat like too much rotgut.

“Miss Malone.” He takes her aside, and Zhu huddles with them. “I was supposed to receive a letter of introduction to a gentleman who’s attending the ball tonight. He’s a gentleman I need to meet.”

“Yeah?” Jessie says, grinning with delight as she blows kisses at her best clients, their scandalized wives by their sides, and waves excitedly to other wealthy madams who shamelessly promenade around the ballroom. “Who’s the gentleman?”

“Why do you need to meet him?” Zhu quizzes him.

“His name is Jeremiah Duff,” Daniel says, ignoring his mistress. Her concern is touching, yes, and also quite tiresome.

“Jar me,” Jessie says, paying attention at last. “You want to speak with Jeremiah Duff? You’d best gather your wits about you, Mr. Watkins. That dope fiend is no gentleman.”

He gestures her to keep the bray of her voice down. “He is prominent in Society, is he not?”

“Prominent, hell,” Jessie declares. “Jeremiah Duff made a killing in the silver mines. Never touched a pick or a shovel in his whole lousy life. Oh no, he shipped booze up into them hills for them poor sufferin’ miners, that’s what Mr. Duff did. Married himself to Elaine Hennessy, heiress to the dry goods fortune. A proper lady if I ever did see one, with her white cotton gloves and black cotton stockings. If she was more of a slut and less of a shrew, her husband wouldn’t come to me.”

“Then you would recognize him if you saw him?” Daniel says, greatly encouraged.

“Dope fiend?” Zhu says, her voice rising, too. “What does she mean, Daniel, dope fiend?”

Fortunately, so many other revelers are shouting and laughing and drinking that no one pays them any attention. The orchestra strikes up a rousing waltz, and the pharaoh and his queen wheel onto the dance floor.

“Recognize him?” Jessie says. “Darlin’, Jeremiah Duff visits the Parisian Mansion every Thursday evening at seven. Used to ask for Li’l Lucy. Left that girl black and blue. Maybe he’s the one who left her with the pox, too. He likes my new redhead well enough. At least she listens to me about douching. The biz is the biz.”

Hope soars in Daniel’s heart, which is beating a trifle too rapidly. “Could you introduce me? Please?”

“Oh hell, why not?” Jessie says. “Then you shall owe me a favor, Mr. Watkins.”

The madam strides off, Daniel following, Zhu dogging his heels, protesting and nagging him. Jessie moves fast for a woman of her size, positively sprightly in spite of the wasp waist imposed by her corset. She sashays, bold as you please, up to a tall, gaunt man in an immaculate black tuxedo, a simple black satin mask tied over his eyes. Daniel feels like a fool. He should have had the sense to do the same. By God, a silly pirate. He must remember that the next time he attends the Artists’ Ball. If there is a next time, sneers a voice in his head. Before he knows it, he is being presented to Jeremiah Duff. Jessie knows how to be gracious.

Duff looks him critically up and down. Good thing Daniel has lost the paunch. Duff has the stringent look of a man who disapproves of the plump Ned Greenway type. They exchange gentlemanly salutations and retire to a secluded corner buffered by three marble monoliths. There’s an air of conspiracy about Mr. Duff. Splendid.

Zhu sidles up next to them. There’s no graceful way to get rid of her. “My manservant,” Daniel says. “At my beck and call.”

“Useful,” says Duff and whips off the mask. He looks Zhu up and down, too, with the same blunt appraisal. He apparently doesn’t mind her looks, either, in the disguise. “Speakee English, boy?”

“Yessir,” she mumbles in a low voice and averts her face.

Daniel heaves a sigh of relief. He must remember to behave nicely to her later tonight.

“Indeed, very useful,” Duff says. “A faithful Chink can pick up the goods for you in Tangrenbu. I may want use of him, myself.” Duff is a skeletal man with a receding hairline over a high bulging forehead, a complexion like white wax, and pale brutal eyes. The kind of mouth that never smiles, the mustache drooping regretfully down the long, stern face. Did his mother ever love him? Daniel sincerely doubts it. “Been taking Dr. Mortimer’s cure, have you?”

“Religiously. sir. Puts me off the drink well enough, but I’m at my wit’s end about the nerves. Plus, the ticker goes too fast at times. Gives me a bit of a pain through the chest.”

“Don’t sleep much, either, eh?” Duff scrutinizes him. Brutal eyes, yes, but thorough. Daniel appreciates the stringency, the conspiratorial huddle. “What did you say your age is, sir?”

“I’m nearly twenty-two.” Daniel catches a glass of champagne and a clever little pastry from a tray sailing by on the shoulder of a harried waiter.

“Twenty-two,” Duff says, ignoring the tray. “When I was twenty-two, sir, I trucked goods into the mountains. Even higher than the Gold Country, that’s where the Comstock Lode lay. Even higher, even harder, even crueler than the hills. I wore a burlap shirt, sir, and denim like your coolie here, and padded cotton crawling with lice.” He casts a baleful glance at Daniel’s silk and satin pirate’s costume, the spit-and-polished black leather boots. “We climbed rocks, sir. We ate stone soup when winter came to the mountains.” Another baleful glance at the champagne and pastry in Daniel’s hands. Daniel hastily sets both delicacies down on a side table. “We ate squirrels when we could catch ‘em. With no campfire, we ate them raw. Have you ever tasted raw squirrel? Tasted raw squirrel’s brains, raw squirrel’s intestines?”

“No, Mr. Duff, I have not had that privilege.” Daniel swallows hard.

“You young men with your petty troubles, your women, your drink, and your drugs.” Duff surveys the whirling party, contempt pulling at his features. “One day I fell, sir. A slip on the ice. Oh, I had slipped many times before. But that slip did me in. I fell down that cliff like a son of a bitch and shattered my goddamn leg forever.”

Duff raises his right leg, showing Daniel his boot with the heel built up three inches high and a brace that disappears into the leg of his trousers. “That’s when I started on the medicine, sir. I had to. Pain all the time.”

Daniel murmurs, “I am truly sorry.”

Zhu is watching and listening, her slanted green eyes wide behind the tinted spectacles.

“I took whiskey to the miners,” Duff says. “God knows they needed it. I make no apology for it. My wife and her people”—he spits this out—“enjoy chastising me for the source of my wealth. Take pleasure in suggesting my injury was God’s punishment for bringing them whiskey. Well, sir, there are punishments and punishments.”

“Real estate is hardly a better enterprise,” Daniel says, cringing when Duff’s frown deepens. A shiver of panic runs through him. Is he, in his bourgeois pirate’s costume, losing his friendly connection to the inestimable Duff?

“I took them whiskey,” Duff says, ignoring him. “I took them good whiskey, but I never touched a drop of it myself. No, sir, those were our goods. When we needed the fire of alcohol of warm us in the cold, we drank puma piss. Not a drink a fine young gentleman like yourself would know a thing about.”

“Ah, puma piss,” Daniel says. “Terrific rotgut. Homebrew, tobacco juice, and a dose of strychnine. Gave me astonishing visions.”

Duff finally cracks a small smile, and Daniel knows he’s in. “Let us find the gentlemen’s facilities, Mr. Watkins.”

Duff leads the way, Daniel follows, and Zhu dogs his heels again. He turns and whispers, “You cannot come in with us.”

“I follow master,” she protests in a low voice.

By God, he could throttle her!

Duff turns in midstride. “Oh, your manservant may attend us. Indeed, he should learn how this is done, Mr. Watkins. Like I said, he may prove very useful to you. And to me.”

They find the gentlemen’s urinal on the far side of the ballroom. Not too many fellows in here yet. The serious drinking has only just begun. They tour the gilt and scarlet antechamber set with spotless mirrors, marble tables, and upholstered chairs, porcelain sinks and pitchers of water, trays with brushes and combs designed for a gentleman’s special needs, freshly laundered towels, smelling salts, pots of mustache wax and hair tonics, tapers burning in candelabra, and colognes in cut-crystal flasks.

Negro attendants in scarlet uniforms swarm around them, politely offering various hygienic services. Duff dismisses them, takes a pitcher of water, and finds a table and a mirror on the far side of the chamber. “Now look here, Mr. Watkins.” He takes out a leather case from a pocket inside his tuxedo jacket, unsnaps the top. Inside nestle several vials of powders, a large steel spoon, a thick white rubber thong rather like an oversized rubber band, and a hypodermic needle.

Zhu expels a soft breath. Daniel knows that breath. The sound of her perpetual exasperation.

“Your manservant is impressed, eh?” Duff says, casting a keen look at his mistress who, despite her attempt at this manservant’s masquerade, cannot completely conceal her delicate feminine charms.

But if Duff is distressed by her charade, he gives no indication and promptly sets about tapping a quantity of powder into the spoon. He carefully pours drops of water from the pitcher and stirs the concoction with a silver toothpick over the hot tongue of a burning candle. Like an alchemist he sits, intently stirring, and says at last, “It is done. Take off your coat, Mr. Watkins and roll up your sleeve. Lay your arm down on the table, like this.” He proceeds to roll the thong up Daniel’s arm. “You must cook the medicine as a chef cooks a fine sauce. Like a fine sauce, it requires the right ingredients and attentive care.” Duff draws the liquid in the spoon into the hypodermic needle in one neat suction.

Daniel watches, enthralled. “This will help me sleep without the drink?”

“Has the drink ever helped you sleep?”

“Not really, now that you mention it, Mr. Duff.” He asks again, his hope soaring higher. “And this will calm my nerves from the dipsomaniac cure?” So tired, so overwrought, what he would give for relief! “I will rest?’

“You will rest,” Duff says and, tapping the inner aspect of Daniel’s elbow, promptly jabs the needle into his arm and pushes in the plunger.

Pain! But not so much, Daniel can take a bit of pain, and then—

--then he’s torn from his body, this pale wriggling worm, flung like a stone into the sea, waves of pleasure, sheer pleasure, pressing his very soul into oblivion. Flat as death, dying without dying. A rush—by God!—the most incredible. . . .pleasure, pressure, pain so vast he is transformed into. . . .sensation itself, mindless, nerveless pleasure like the moment of sexual release but wrought a hundredfold, a thousandfold, tongues of pleasure caressing him all over his body, and his brain, his poor sleepless harried haggard brain—

Rest, my son, says a voice in his head, and a chorus of voices sing, discordant yet beautiful, the way the sea smashing into rocks on the shore is beautiful.

Like in a dream, a distant dream, hazy and meaningless, he hears his lunatic mistress shouting at Duff, “What did you just shoot him up with, you bastard?”

“Ah, I’m a bastard now,” Duff murmurs. “You will be very, very useful to him. And to me.”

“I asked you what?”

“I hope you followed how to do the procedure. What, you ask? Only one of the most beneficent medicines God has ever granted to us poor mortals exceeding, in my estimation, the gift of the Incas.”

“What is it?”

“Calm down, boy, or whatever you are, and hold your tongue,” Duff commands. He packs up his leather bag and strides out of the gentlemen’s facilities, heading out to the Artists’ Ball. “I merely graced Mr. Watkins with God’s great gift of morphine.”

* * *

Daniel is sick, then, of course. Somehow that seems inevitable. The price of admission. He retches, clutching his gut, retches over and over till there’s nothing left inside, nothing but his gut. And it feels as if the gut itself will come up, too.

His face is filmed with tears and sweat and bile. By God, he looks like hell in the spotless mirror confronting him. “My poor mistress,” he says as she leans over him with a basin, a washcloth, a pitcher of water, ice cubes. The sound of her breath, quick and close, thunders in his ears. She does not weep, but he can see the sorrow molding her face like the carved grief of an icon. “What I make you endure.”

“There’s nothing I can do for you, Daniel,” she says over and over. A catechism of despair. “I’m not supposed to. I’m not allowed to. I can’t save you.”

Bloody sleeve, bloody face—his nose is going out on him, again. “Save me? You silly goose. Save me from what? You’re not responsible for me.”

“No, I’m not,” she says miserably.

“I mean, you’re not my mother,” he clarifies, and as soon as he says that word—mother—a cold draft blows over him like an exhalation of the dead. Shivering, teeth chattering.

Zhu summons an attendant, a handsome black fellow, all high cheekbones and dark glancing eyes, who sets down a pot of steaming hot tea.

“She had a lover,” Daniel says.

“Who?” Zhu says and directs the attendant to wrap a blanket over his shoulders. The attendant pours out tea. Daniel can smell the bitter steam, waves the cup away.

“I know that now, though I didn’t understand it at the time. I cast the memory from my mind. I was a boy of seven. I didn’t understand that the lovely proper lady, my mother, had taken a lover.”

The incipient summer, the heat fecund and poisonous, winding like a serpent through the blackness of his heart. The river black beneath the bending hickory trees, the cypress sighing, and the beautiful girl with deep sea eyes who had married a cold, scowling man found herself in love with a man who conducted a gambling business up and down the river. A quadroon. Daniel saw him perhaps once or twice. One of those quick-eyed men with charm, even little Daniel could see his charm. Mama crying, always crying, slap of flesh on flesh. That would be Daniel’s father. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—give up her quadroon, her quick-eyed man with his high cheeks and crinkled hair, his laugh like the crack of a branch breaking. Like a woman’s heart breaking.

Her quadroon left her. Montgomery Ward iron tonic after that. And then Daniel watched his slender mother grow fat and luminous as the moon waxing full.

“I don’t know when Father realized she was carrying the quadroon’s child.” Daniel suddenly feels much better and the gentlemen’s antechamber hums with new activity. The pharaoh stumbles into the urinals and Louis XIV reels in, too. “God knows she tried to hide it. But there was no hiding a child coming by the time she was well along.”

Zhu tenderly wipes his face with a cool, damp washcloth. “And what did he do, your father?”

“Oh, he beat her. What else could he do? He had social position, a business, political pull, money, property. He had his pride. And his own child. A son. Me. When I think of it now, miss, I can comprehend it. What else, what else could he do?”

“Ah,” Zhu whispers. “And what else did he do?”

“One night he beat her, kicked her, and kicked her again when she fell down, kicked her in the belly, over and over.” Slap of flesh on flesh. Daniel crouching in a corner of Mama’s dressing room, watching as Father beat her. Daniel at Mama’s bedside when she lay bleeding into the bedpan. Haven’t I been good to you, Danny?

“She lost the quadroon’s baby,” Daniel says. “Lost her capacity ever to conceive again. I suppose Father could have killed her that night. Perhaps he should have. Instead, he only damaged her for the rest of her life. It must have been on that night when Dr. Dubose came. He was the one who gave her the iron tonic, but now she needed something stronger. He was the one who first administered morphine to my mother. She was in a lot of pain.”

Zhu is pale, like pale gold marble, her strange green eyes dark with horror behind her tinted spectacles. For once she, who spouts off about everything, has nothing to say.

“And here I am, my mother’s son. Sins of the mother, eh?”

And there, Jeremiah Duff comes striding back into the gentlemen’s facilities. Dour old Duff is positively jovial.

“Now, Mr. Watkins,” Duff says, sitting down before him and taking his arm, tapping the inner aspect of his elbow. “Now that you’ve recovered from your first taste of God’s greatest gift, let us try another shot, shall we?”