FIRE AND FOG (2 page)

The typewriter was more than my most prized possession, it was
my sole means of livelihood. Even more than that, it was the symbol
of my freedom. Without the typewriter there would never have been a
Fremont Jones living in San Francisco, I would still be Caroline F.
Jones of Beacon Street, Boston. I would probably by now have been
forced to marry the loathsome nephew of Augusta, my widower
father's new wife. God forbid, I might even have given over to
convention and started wearing a corset!

My heart beating much too fast from these unpleasant thoughts, I
came to the building that housed my second-floor office. The
windows of the bookstore on the street level were broken and
cracked, and its insides were a shambles. This did not bode well
for the condition of my own office. Ted and Krista Sorenson, who
owned both the bookstore and the building, were nowhere in
evidence. I couldn't blame them for not wanting to face such a
daunting cleanup project. Taking a deep breath for courage, I
looked up to the second floor.

My office window with its painted sign-fremont jones typewriting
services-was no longer there. I'd been so proud of that sign, and
now its fragments were being crunched under the feet of passersby.
Well,
I thought,
there is no point in delaying the
inevitable.
I took out my key and unlocked the door to the
stairway. The stairs were thick with debris that, after a few
steps, caused me to stumble, sneeze, and cough. I stopped for a
moment to let the dust settle, and suddenly became aware of a
profound unease. Really, it was almost fear-and I am hardly ever
afraid. So I asked myself:
What am I afraid of? What is the
worst that can happen here?

Worst would be that I should find everything destroyed,
including the typewriter. In which case I supposed I would have to
give up and return to Boston. My business had been doing quite well
from month to month, but I had not sufficient capital to start all
over again. My mother's small legacy was long gone; in the bank I
had funds to last perhaps a month, no more. When I came right down
to it, I doubted there was enough to purchase a train ticket to
Boston. I couldn't even return there without asking my father's
help-a thought not to be borne!

A kind of black pit seemed to open up inside of me and
threatened to swallow me whole. I couldn't allow it, so I did what
I had done since I'd first conceived my plan to come to San
Francisco: I reminded myself that my name was Fremont, and that the
blood of my ancestor, John C. Fremont, fearless explorer and
founding father of the Great State of California, ran in my veins.
I truly belonged here, and I could be fearless enough. I charged up
the remaining stairs.

Ignoring the mess all around, I unlocked my office door and made
straight for the desk in the center of the room, and the typewriter
on its special table that stood at right angles to the desk. But
the typing table was not there; it had slid all the way across the
room and come to a stop by the broken-out window. The typewriter
was nowhere in sight. "Oh, no!" I cried, rushing around the desk,
stepping over I knew not what, feet sliding on the sheets of paper
that littered the floor.

I found the typewriter. It lay on its side where it had fallen,
half in and half out of its dust cover. I went down on my knees
beside it, removed the dust cover, and tugged the heavy machine
upright on the floor. It thunked and made some clattering metallic
sounds that to me, in my state of mind, were quite terrible.

Nevertheless, the typewriter looked all right. All its round,
silver-rimmed keys were present. I ran my fingers over them, and
over the high black carriage, as if the machine were a person and I
a doctor searching for broken bones. I opened the cover in the way
one does to change the inked ribbon, and conducted the same search
on the inside. The slender ribs of the striking mechanism seemed
sound. The ribbon was loose; I fixed it. Then I let out my breath
in a long sigh. Absently I wiped inky fingertips on my skirt as I
arranged myself cross-legged on the floor in front of the
typewriter.

I took the piece of paper nearest to hand, ignored whatever was
typed on it, and turned it over so the blank side came up when I
rolled it in. I closed my eyes. (Somehow hope comes easier when
one's eyes are closed.) My fingers found their well-known
positions, and I typed:
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy
dog.
Three times. The keys felt firm and made a crisp sound as
they struck the paper.

I opened my eyes and read what I had typed. It was
letter-perfect, and tears of joy streamed down my face.

At some point in the process of restoring my office to rights, I
realized that I was engaged in an impossible task. I didn't know
how long I'd been at it, because I'd lost my pendant watch
somewhere in the bedroom on Vallejo Street.

I had picked up all the papers from the office floor and
reassembled them into their respective documents. A tedious
process, to say the least. Nothing was missing, but there were a
considerable number of scruffy-looking pages that would have to be
retyped before I could hand them back to my customers. The question
was,
where
would I be doing the retyping, the handing back?
Not here, that was almost a certainty. If my office were any
measure, this whole building was a wreck!

Before now, I really had not registered the full extent of the
damage. Whole sections of the wall had ripped away, exposing the
wooden laths beneath. A huge crack zigged and zagged in one corner
from floor to ceiling; most likely this crack went all the way down
into the bookstore below me. The more I looked at it, the more I
fancied that the crack widened before my very eyes. I glanced up at
the ceiling, then quickly away: it looked like an eggshell about to
yield to a strong-beaked baby chick.

Still, I reflected, I had not heard any ominous creaks or groans
in the building, nothing to herald its potential or imminent
collapse. Surely it looked worse than it was?

A gust of wind shot through the glassless window, bearing on it
a sharp scent of smoke. I turned my head and looked out, frowning.
Was it only my imagination, or was the day getting darker? No
matter; I had to decide what to do here. This was all such a
bother. The telephones were out, and the electricity, and I assumed
some intelligent person would have shut off the gas mains at their
source. How was one to proceed in this unprecedented situation? And
where were the Sorensons? It was their building, after all.

I decided to explore the other two rooms on my floor. Perhaps if
one of them was in better condition than my office, the Sorensons
would allow me to move into it until repairs were made. I went out
into the hallway.

Here was something I had not seen in my headlong rush into the
office: a part of the hall ceiling had caved in, with a stout beam
poking down at an angle. I walked under it gingerly. The room next
to mine had been vacant since I'd rented my office-in fact I had a
long-range plan to expand into that room someday. But when I shoved
the door open with some difficulty, I found that, unbeknownst to
me, the Sorensons had stored crates of books there.

When had they done that? And why? How could they afford such a
large inventory? The back room was the place they used for storage.
I knew this because I'd seen similar crates there several months
earlier.

I returned to the hall and proceeded to the back room. I did not
think I would find anything except more crates, but I might as well
be thorough. The door would not open; it was either locked or
stuck.

There are few things that pique my interest more than a
stubbornly closed door-especially when, at a previous time, that
door has been open to me. Whether what is behind the door is my
business or not is quite beside the point. (Unless, of course,
there are people behind it, in which case I should certainly
respect their privacy.) I set my shoulder to the door and pushed
with all my might. It did not budge. Reflecting that a woman's
shoulder is not the strongest part of her anatomy, I set my hip
against the door and again pushed as hard as I could. Still the
door did not budge, whereby I concluded that it was indeed locked.
How very curious!

I stood back, tapping my foot. There were ways, one heard (or
read-I am a great fan of Mr. Sherlock Holmes), to open a door
without the key. I wondered if I could do it. . . .

And shortly thereafter discovered that I could. I used a hairpin
I had found in the bottom of the capacious bag I carry for a purse.
This is not the most fashionable of accessories, indeed Augusta and
her ilk have been known to call my preference for it absolutely
perverse, but time and again I have been able to find whatever I
need among the things that accumulate there. I wielded the hairpin
until, with considerable satisfaction, I heard a click and felt the
lock disengage. Then I turned the doorknob and entered the
room.

The crates were there, as expected, but while the middle room
had been in fairly good condition, this one was even more of a
disaster than my office. Curious as to the extent of the damage, I
edged my way among the crates.

I was not really paying much attention, rather I was thinking
that, of the three rooms on this floor, only the middle one could
serve me for an office, and perhaps I could persuade the Sorensons
... I stopped, looking down. I stood stock-still.

How amazing,
I thought,
how fascinating!
And most
likely, how very, very wrong!

2.

Fire and Fog

The earthquake had tossed the large wooden crates about as if
they weighed no more than egg cartons; what had once been an
orderly storage arrangement was now all higgledy-piggledy. One
crate in particular had been slammed against the back wall and
suffered the additional insult of having a part of that wall fall
down on it. Not too surprisingly, it had broken open and spilled
out a part of its contents.

The crate contained books, yes. But also something else. Many
somethings else. Artifacts, I supposed one would call them. Objects
that belonged in a museum, or the most expensive sort of shop. One
item in particular drew my attention: a golden knife with a narrow
blade that was curved like a scythe-it had a large, dark blue jewel
in the hilt. If that was a sapphire, it was certainly the largest
one I had ever seen. I bent closer. The curved blade was inscribed
with a kind of squiggly writing-I had no idea what the language
was. I reached out to touch it but snatched my hand back before
making contact. Somehow I did not think touching any of these
fascinating things was a good idea.

There were a number of items made of leather, decorated with
brightly colored beading. Some of these had fat red or gold tassels
hanging from them. Ceremonial pouches of some sort, I presumed; I
would have liked to examine one more closely but did not dare. I
strained my eyes in the dim light and saw more: brass or bronze or
perhaps even gold vases of various sizes, cut in swirling designs,
some inlaid and some enameled in more bright colors; several little
chests of elaborately carved dark wood, about the size of a sewing
box, inlaid with ivory; long strands of beads that looked to be
made of semiprecious stones, or they could have been precious, for
all I knew of such things; and finally what I guessed were the
hilts of a great pair of swords, their blades obscured under a pile
of books. There was much more I could not see well enough to
identify.

I virtually itched with curiosity and frustration! Keeping my
hands to myself with a good deal of effort, I got down on one knee
and peered into the crate through the part that was broken. This
observation confirmed that the exotic things were contraband: in
the part of the crate that was still intact, books were packed
around the sides, top, and bottom only, leaving a central space
that must have been intended to hide the treasures, for treasures
they assuredly were.

What had we here? A smuggling operation? And if so, did the
Sorensons know about it? If they knew, would they not have rushed
to their building at the first opportunity after the
earthquake?

It was a puzzle. . . .

A commotion on the stairs made me start guiltily. Ted and Krista
Sorenson, come at last? Or someone else, someone more sinister?
Anyone who knew about the contraband was not likely to be pleased
at finding me anywhere near it!

I hastened out of the back room, remembering to close the door
behind me. Whoever was pounding up the steps, I hoped that I could
make it back into my office before I was discovered-but, by the
sound of it, I would not.

I was still frantically thinking up excuses when I saw that I
would not need them after all. Out from the stair enclosure emerged
the familiar figure of Michael Archer.

"Michael!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to help you remove your things." He started for my
office door. "Not the furniture, there isn't room for that, but at
least we can save your typewriter."

I hurried after him. "My office is in bad condition, but the
next room seems all right. I thought I'd ask the Sorensons to move
the crates out so that I- Oh! Michael, I found the most
extraordinary thing in the back room. Come with me, you should
see-"

"Fremont, really, there's no time." Michael was the picture of
impatience, already striding toward the typing table to which I'd
restored the typewriter.

I fisted my fingers and planted them on my hipbones. I do not
like being bossed and was ready to stand my ground. "I think you
are overreacting. I've been in the building for quite some time,
and it shows no signs of falling down."

He turned to me with a most serious expression on his face.
"You've no idea what's happening out there, do you?"