Breath of Earth (12 page)

She noted the surname. “No mystery as to why.” Ingrid toyed with the knot of her belt. “Thank you for escorting me to see Mr. Sakaguchi. I know it's asking a lot—”

“We're being killed off, Ing, and you demand entrance to
one of the few places left in the world we can call ours. Hell yes, it's asking a lot.”

She flinched. “I'm sorry. I . . . I didn't think of it like that.”

“No. Of course you didn't.” He sighed. “I know what he means to you. I know what he's come to mean to me, and I'm Chinese. When we're off Dupont, you have to stay close to me, understand? Do whatever I tell you to do.”

“I understand.”

“In Chinatown right now . . . things are very strange.” His voice lowered so much she could scarcely hear. “People are leaving. No one is saying why. Mr. Sakaguchi is leaving the city. I'm supposed to leave, too.”

“Isn't it dangerous to move him in his condition?”

“Yes. But the
Chinese
are moving, Ing. If we're leaving, you know something bad is going to happen. For us to take that risk . . .”

“Good God. Is the A-and-A going to level the district?”

“I don't know.” He sounded so frustrated, vulnerable.

“Where would you even go?”

“No one's told me yet. All I know is the Chee Kongs started to leave, then the Hop Sings. They are leaving in a trickle to avoid suspicion. Uncle is leaving within hours. This . . . this might be the last chance you have to see Mr. Sakaguchi, whether he lives or not.” He shot her a frantic look, and in that second she knew.

“I'm a fool,” she whispered. “A
lingqi
doctor that good wouldn't simply be a back-alley businessman. Your uncle works for a
tong,
takes care of their highbinders. Do they know who Mr. Sakaguchi is? Of course they do. Oh no.”

Ingrid forced her leaden legs to move forward even as her stomach squeezed in a vise of terror. Mr. Sakaguchi had never promoted the politics of his homeland—quite the opposite—but the fact that he was Japanese was enough to make him a useful pawn. Then there were his skills as a warden . . .

“Which
tong
holds him?”

“Wui Seng Tong. It means Hall for the Restoration of Life.”

She hadn't heard of that one. The name made it sound like some sort of
lingqi
fraternity, but it didn't mean they were a cluster of pacifists. There had to be at least a dozen different
tongs
in the city, and most all of them had names that boasted of protecting one virtue or another.

They crossed Market. A horse neighed shrilly, followed by a man's yell.

“Ingrid, they're not going to harm him.”

“No. They'll wait until he's well to torture him so he'll fill kermanite. He won't cooperate. They'll realize that. They'll kill him.”

Ingrid emitted a small moan. Mr. Fenris glanced back, and she forced her hands away from her mouth as she attempted to act normal. Mr. Thornton had always been the warden who worked in Chinatown because of his knowledge and experience in Asia. Mr. Sakaguchi never entered the ghetto.

“I wanted him to be kept alive. I knew there was a risk, but . . . oh, Lee. What have I done?”

“What have you done? I'm the one who took him there. What were the alternatives, Ing? Really? Mr. Sakaguchi would have died under the care of any other doctor, or he'd be in the custody of that captain. Would the Unified Pacific treat him any better?”

“I don't know anymore,” she whispered. Mr. Sakaguchi had wondered if he would be safer in UP custody. Maybe he would have been, up until his execution.

Lee's elbow brushed hers, a subtle attempt at comfort. “Mr. Sakaguchi has worked with Wui Seng before. Not in person, but through me. Mr. Sakaguchi is respected. They won't
want
to kill him.”

“Wait. He's worked with this
tong
? When?
Why?
”

Certainly, she knew Mr. Sakaguchi didn't agree with the Chinese genocide, but this? Mr. Sakaguchi wouldn't fill any kermanite that went directly to the war effort, not for either side. What else was he up to? Was Captain Sutcliff right in insinuating Mr. Sakaguchi had committed some act of treason—not simply speaking out—against the Unified Pacific?

And why hadn't she known about it?

Ingrid shook her head. She had no idea how to muddle through this mess. As for Lee, he hunched up his shoulders, making it clear he had nothing more to say on the subject.

A bell signaled the approach of the California Street cable car. Mr. Fenris rejoined them, his face impassive. Ingrid made sure to stay very close to Lee as they boarded the dummy car; his gaze stayed down, as was proper. He needed to appear meek.

To Ingrid's relief, the gripman was familiar to her—a freed slave she'd spoken with a time or two before. He'd never forced her off a cable car as other gripmen had when she traveled alone. However, the old man's face tightened in disgust as he looked back at Lee. Ingrid met his eye, making it clear that Lee was with her. The man ratcheted up the hook that snagged
the cable underground. The back car consisted of bench seats facing outward, with poles and a sideboard for standing passengers; this side was almost empty. She understood from experience that it wasn't safe for any Chinese to hang from the poles on the outside. She motioned Lee to sit.

By the telltale grinding beneath the car, Ingrid knew to grab hold of the nearest pole as the six-ton car lurched forward. Mr. Fenris bowled into her and bounced off, fortunately landing beside Lee instead of in the street.

“First time?” she asked, surprised.

“Actually, yes.” He looked away, obviously embarrassed.

From the front of the dummy car, a man advanced on them, clinging to poles as he walked. “I don't share no car with a goddamned chink,” he snarled.

“Hey!” snapped Ingrid. “He's mine.”

The man spat at Lee's face. Lee blinked as the spittle struck but otherwise sat immobile. “Yours? 'N who do you belong to?”

Cheeks flushed, Ingrid stepped between Lee and the stranger. “Do you want to explain to Warden Sakaguchi why we couldn't complete his shopping list?”

The name did the trick. The man scowled and retreated. He had only one hand. The other probably rotted somewhere overseas.

She stood over Lee, alert for anyone else's approach. In the shelter of her shadow, he wiped his cheek with a sleeve.

Fenris observed the whole exchange, his lips tightly compressed. Ingrid was irked that he hadn't spoken up, but pleased that she'd handled the incident on her own.

At the next stop, a woman and child boarded, the boy
about ten. The woman glared at Lee from down the bench and jerked the boy closer to her. The child never looked up—he was too engrossed in a dime novel. Ingrid caught a glimpse of the cover. It portrayed the iconic image of Theodore Roosevelt, a rifle held on high. Likely a propaganda piece about how Roosevelt's brilliance crushed the Spanish Empire.

The man could have easily won the election for United States president in 1900. Instead, he rose to become one of the twelve Ambassadors of the Unified Pacific—a more prestigious position, no question.

Few Ambassadors' names were known publicly. Roosevelt's tactical acumen, wealth, and his reputation as a social luminary made him the most prominent American. He occupied the vacancy left by the late Leland Stanford, whose mansion wasn't too far away on Nob Hill.

Ingrid genuinely liked Mr. Roosevelt and had always enjoyed his visits with Mr. Sakaguchi. She had been perplexed when their friendship so suddenly ended. Mr. Sakaguchi had refused to explain what happened, which made it even more peculiar.

Ingrid, Fenris, and Lee disembarked the cable car as St. Mary's tolled out the hour in resonant tones. An old Chinese man rattled by pulling a handcart brimming with three ladies in fur-trimmed smocks. The brilliant crimson gates of Chinatown flanked the entrance to Dupont Street. Brusque singsong calls of vendors rang out from within the district. The flow of pedestrians slowed at a bottleneck.

Just within the gate, Ingrid noted a soldier in deep navy blue. His full focus rested on what seemed to be an infinite line of Chinese men and women, each in diverse uniform attire.
All of them carried their paperwork in hand along with small parcels or metal lunchboxes.

“Is the line always that long these days?” she yelled to Lee. She barely heard her own voice in the din. It'd been months since she had visited Chinatown.

“For the registry checks? Yes.” He tapped his chest pocket out of habit.

All the effort was on checking the Chinese as they left. Nothing impeded the returning Chinese, or the influx of whites. The avenue seemed busier than ever, so claustrophobic that Ingrid wanted to scrunch her shoulders to make herself fit. Brick and wood buildings extended a dozen stories high. From the rooftops, radio towers and bright red dirigible-warning beacons stabbed the heavy belly of the overcast sky.

When she was younger, she had talked with Mr. Sakaguchi about the odd nature of Chinatown. Many people openly hated the place and argued that it was a waste of prime real estate, sandwiched as it was between Nob Hill and the Financial District. But even as San Franciscans beat Chinese people to death for daring to walk down a street, or praised the butchery of thousands of chankoro across the Pacific, Americans and Japanese shopped in Chinatown and spent quiet Sunday afternoons pacing the length of Dupont.

The graft may have preserved it, but Chinatown had also become a destination. Mr. Sakaguchi had explained to Ingrid, grief in his eyes, “Native tribesmen of Africa, America, and Australia have been exhibited in fairs and zoos around the world as curiosities, as
things
. Now people visit Chinatown for a similar reason.”

His words made her shudder back then; now, in light of Lee's concerns, the memory made her stomach twist in a hard knot.

Wooden balconies jutted over the narrow snake-tongue of the street below. Ingrid did a double take as she spotted a familiar figure. Victoria Rossi was on a balcony above, facing away to take a picture of the avenue. Ingrid had no desire to say hello, not after the way Miss Rossi had treated her before.

Someone jostled Ingrid and forced her attention to the street. Vendors lined the sidewalks. Some sold wares from open windows and Dutch doors, while others utilized wagons with rainbow-bright canopies.

“Tea! Buy tea! Hot-hot!”

“Silk! Silk for the lady!”

“Marconi, brand-new! Super fine! Opera at home!”

Lee stepped between her and Fenris, and Ingrid felt him grip the side of her coat. They waded through a sea of humanity. Smells assaulted her: the delectable odor of roast duck, the rankness of unwashed men, the saltiness of sea, a bludgeoning of jasmine perfume. She gagged.

Textures billowed from shops—satin in dozens of tints, many still reeking of dye. An embroidery shop featured old women on a balcony, their figures small and stooped like oversized porcelain dolls. Tailors advertised Western-style suits in their front windows, the creases ironed so finely they could cut like a blade. Signs boasted of the high fashion of Tokyo and Paris, all done for cheap.

No one here wore traditional Chinese clothes like mandarin collars, pajama-like suits, or broad basket-woven hats. Such fashion was taboo.

Lee jerked her to the left, toward an alley so narrow she did squeeze in her shoulders. Dented metal trash bins lined the way and seeped sweetness. Ingrid winced as her hips brushed the bins. The cacophony of Dupont faded, but the place was not quiet. Voices in broken English became more distinct as they neared the next avenue.

“Stay close to me. If anyone stops us, let me do the talking.” Lee glanced between her and Mr. Fenris and then proceeded.

Light pierced her eyes. Autocars and handcarts moved along at steady clips. A donkey brayed somewhere out of sight. Most everyone was Chinese, adorned in drab, threadbare dungarees and striped cotton shirts, the sort she expected any poor white to wear. Few wore shoes. The glamorous scent of spices and food had been replaced by the dankness of rotting wood and the reek of chickens, along with ubiquitous autocar exhaust and manure.

A couple of white men walked along with low-pressed hats. Ingrid was keenly aware of how conspicuous she was, and couldn't help but walk closer to Mr. Fenris.

About a half block down, Lee guided them inside a building. They passed a window shielded by heavy curtains. Through the gap Ingrid saw a naked woman. No, not a woman—a girl, her chest flat and hips narrow, silken black hair falling to her waist. A man laughed, unseen, and the girl walked to one side with a practiced saunter to her hips and—

“Ingrid,” Lee's voice was sharp as he yanked on her arm. “Walk.”

She hadn't even realized she had stopped moving. Dry-mouthed, she followed.

After a series of quick turns, they pattered down a gray-walled staircase that stank of roasted peanuts. The smell invaded her nostrils as they walked on, down and down. She had heard rumors that Chinatown extended five stories underground, but had long dismissed them as ludicrous; anyone building that deeply underground into turf so readily liquefied in an earthquake, even with a school of wardens nearby, was foolish. Now she wondered if the rumors were true.

Slits in the brick walls cast slivers of light on the floor. She glanced at an opening and met a pair of eyes staring right back at her. Ingrid barely bit back a squeal. She jerked her gaze forward, to Lee, as the itchy feeling of being watched followed her all the way down the corridor.

“Boo how doy.”
Lee whispered the words so softly she almost missed them.

“What?” she whispered, discomforted to hear him speak Chinese.

“Hatchet men. Highbinders. Guards. Just walk, Ingrid. You're with me.”

Assassins, the real thing—not a turbaned, dashing Thuggee on the cover of a dime novel. She walked. She walked quickly.

Finally, Lee led them upward. Ingrid sagged in relief at the presence of sunlight, and then they turned again, delving into the interior of some building. Not a ramshackle abode like the weary yet bright stores along Dupont either. Her boots clip-clopped across a parquet floor so reflective she could have paused to fix her hair. White wainscoting adorned the walls to waist level. It was what she'd expect of a staid office building off of Market.