The Gilded Age, a Time Travel (13 page)

Never
has Jessie seen such a Fourth of July.

*   *  
*

Huffing
and puffing every blasted inch of the three flights up, her stays cutting into
her liver at every stair, Jessie takes Mr. Watkins to her private parlor on the
top floor. “Got to look into one of them elevator contraptions that the swells
use in their skyscrapers downtown,” she tells him as she leads him inside. Sure
and this is her pride and joy. A room of her own design, not at all like the
sitting room for the sweet spirits and Madame De Cassin.

When
Jessie bought the three-story Stick-Eastlake mansion with the intention of
securing her private residence above, private boarders below, the place was as plain
as a pig, the paint peeling to shavings. Since the seventies, lower Dupont
Street had become a tenderloin. Respectable folk fled the old city as the poor
of every nation flooded in, tainting once-genteel streets with vice and sport
and crime, with laundry flapping on clothes lines and sour cooking smells and
unruly children.

But
the rooms were huge, the architecture sound, the views superb. A good purchase
it was, in spite of the rough neighborhood. To the southwest, Jessie sees the
top story of the Palace Hotel and Lucky Baldwin’s showplace. Due south, the
panorama of Market Street, the Cocktail Route, and all the delights of the old
city. To the northwest, the exotic curved roofs of Chinatown like another
little country. Behind Chinatown, purple hills scarcely touched by civilization--Russian
Hill, Pacific Heights. To the northeast the scruffy dome of Telegraph
Hill—“dirty awld smelly awld Telygraft Hill”—and the German castle at its peak.
And when Jessie throws open the wobbly glass of the east window and leans far
out over the sill, she glimpses the whole crawling heap of the Barbary Coast.
Beyond that, the bobbing masts of the great clipper ships, the steamers and the
fishing trawlers, the blue-gray bay sparkling when the sun rises like a sack of
spilled diamonds.

It
is a beautiful house, and Jessie has covered her parlor’s walls with the finest
rose-colored damask she ever did see with a rose-of-Sharon pattern. That’s for
starters. She has hung every window with scarlet velvet curtains that sweep up
and back and dangle thickets of tassels and thick furry fringe. She has laid
Persian carpets down on the plank maple floor, layer upon layer of carpets till
the floor is a patchwork of arabesques and medallions.

And
Jessie has bought and arranged good furniture, some wood, some wicker, some fancy
French gilt. Ferns in massive Chinese pots adorn every sunlit corner. And gold,
lots of gold—a gold tea set, gold dinnerware, gold lamp sticks, gold
embroidered doilies, gold statuettes of Venuses with their heads and arms
intact. She cannot abide Venuses with their heads and arms lopped off. Her long
mirror is framed in pure gold, the frame encrusted with birds and foliage in
gold and silver. A gold-plated spittoon is set out just for show, since Jessie
abides no chaw in her private parlor. Gilt frames surround every piece of Art.

Oh, and
the Art! She prides herself on her Art collection. She has made them Gump boys
richer than thieves in their import business. One of the Gumps’ best customers,
that’s what Miss Jessie Malone is, more than two of them Snob Hill ladies
rolled up into one. She’s got fauns playing flutes and cupids on the wing. But
mostly Jessie collects nudes, the female in all her glory. Nudes recline on
couches. Nudes stroll through fantastic gardens, through forests, through
fields. Nudes are sold into slavery, their hands bound behind their pearlescent
backs. Nudes pose in the bedroom, in the bath, in the stables. What a hoot!

Now Mariah
brings in goblets and a gold-plated ice bucket. Jessie frowns. She should have
bought the solid gold bucket, not this cheap plate, but her pony lost at
Ingleside Track and she balked at the expense. She pops the cork with a thirsty
smile, splashes champagne into the goblets. The young gentleman studies her Art
collection, his expression inscrutable.

“Why,
Miss Malone, you’ve got an Aubrey Beardsley!” Mr. Watkins exclaims over the
photomechanical reproduction of an odd line drawing Jessie has never understood
except that it is very wicked.

“A
gambler whose name you would recognize gave me that drawing.”

The
drawing depicts denizens of the night--a masked clown, a depraved ballerina, a
devil-eared satyr with a huge erect penis and cloven hooves.

“Is
it true Mr. Beardsley slept with Oscar Wilde?” Jessie hands Mr. Watkins a
goblet and smiles at his surprise. She follows the international gossip as best
she can. “I heard that after the glory of his play,
The Importance of Being
Earnest
, Mr. Wilde was imprisoned for having his way with young men.”

“Mr.
Wilde languishes in prison even as we speak, but I cannot vouch for Mr.
Beardsley. We do call him Awfully Wierdsley,” Mr. Watkins says. “Poor fellow is
a wreck with the consumption. They say he won’t live out the year.”

“So
young and talented, what a shame.” Jessie clinks her goblet with his. “That’s
why I say eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” They drain their
goblets and Jessie refreshes them. “Mr. Watkins, what with your interest in ladies’
fashion and art and the theater, you’re not a queen, are you?”

“Heavens,
you are blunt, Miss Malone. But no, whatever else I am, that I am not,” he says
without missing a beat.” He drains his goblet again, holds it out for another
round. “Have you read Mr. Wilde, then?”

“Of
course. Why, I’ve read all them French poets, Baudelaire and Verlaine.” Jessie
takes her copy of
Salon
from the side table where she keeps naughty
magazines like
The Pearl
and
Boudoir
. She leafs through the pages
and strikes a pose, her hand aloft. “’Goddesses riding hippogryphs and
streaking their lapis lazuli wings with the death agony of clouds.’” She slaps
the book shut. “Ain’t it grand?”

“Indeed,
but what the devil does it mean?”

“Jarred
if I know, but it makes my head spin!” She refills her goblet. “This world has
become such a cold, gray place, Mr. Watkins. Look at how life has changed. Them
big ugly factories, and everyone sufferin’ from the booms and the busts, and no
one lives in the old hometown anymore. Maybe poets give us back romance and wonder.
Maybe they can tell us what the world is really like, or used to be like, or
will
be like better than the newspapers. Maybe they tell us things one else will
tell us, whether it’s pretty as pink or black as death. What do you think of
that, Mr. Watkins?”

“I
think you’re a remarkable woman, Miss Malone.”

Hmph.
Jessie whips out her fan. She’s acutely aware of his unspoken insinuation, an
insinuation she’s heard before in conversations with gentlemen. She’s a whore
and never forget it. “I’m a woman of nice sensibilities and simple desires who
has to keep up on the culture, Mr. Watkins,” she says coolly. “These are modern
times. We sporting women have got to amuse you men. You cannot imagine how easily
men get bored of sex.” With a weary sigh, she lies down on her rose-colored
satin divan, stifling a groan of pain. “You men would much rather drink or bet
on the ponies than please a lady.”

“Really.”
He stands over her like a lord claiming his territory. Lord Watkins, is he?
“Boredom is the province of the unimaginative soul.”

“Indeed.”
She is no man’s territory. Not anymore. Jessie pulls herself up, though the
pain is excruciating. “Look here, Mr. Watkins. I’ve been in the biz for damn near
twenty-five years. In case you don’t get it, I own the Parisian Mansion on
Sutter Street and cribs on Morton Alley and this boardinghouse which, thankfully,
is also my own private residence after many years in the saddle. And a
respectable place. I own what I own, I’m a proud citizen of the United States
of America, and I can drink any man in San Francisco under the table. I am the
Queen of the Underworld, Mr. Watkins, and don’t you forget it.”

He
clinks his goblet with hers. “Tomorrow we die, my Queen.”

“That
we do, sir,” she says primly, “and you must pay for your lodgings. Too bad
about your boodle book being pinched and all. But how do you propose to pay me?
The other gentlemen boarders pay me two months in advance. The rent is
twenty-eight dollars a month for the suite with a private water closet and bath.
Oh, and that includes board, too. Mariah cooks up a whopper of a breakfast.”

“Miss
Malone,” he says returning to his chair and slumping wearily. “All the money I
had was in that wallet.” His face twitches, and Jessie instantly knows he’s
lying. But not about much. “The porter said the dip who took me is known as
Fanny Spiggott.”

”Sure
and the faintin’ pickpocket.” Jessie permits herself a mocking smile. Mr. Saint
Louis, London, and Paris, taken by the likes of Fanny? Lordy, he’s greener than
he lets on. But she relents. “That little twist bamboozles the best of ‘em.”

“Then
you know I’m not lying. Look, Miss Malone, my father owns several properties in
town. The mortgagors defaulted in the ‘93 crash. I’ve come to collect back
payments and renegotiate terms or repossess the properties. When that’s done, I
shall be flush. It’s as simple as that.”

“But
in the meantime, sir.” She will permit this pup no slack.

“In
the meantime? In that hellishly heavy trunk I’m lugging is all the junk my
mother left me when she died. Father doesn’t want the stuff. French and English
antiques, dusty eighteenth-century bric-a-brac. Maybe some of it is worth
something. Do you know where I might sell it?

“Sure
and you should take it to the Gump brothers. One thirteen Geary Street near
Union Square is where you want to go. But first”--she’s ever the fool for European
antiques—“you must let me see what you’ve got.”

“Certainly,”
he says with a sly look. “As for your advance on the rent, I’ve got something
else in my baggage that may very well interest you.” He clatters down the
stairs and clatters back up again, carrying a square of canvas tacked to wood
stretchers.

“Feast
your eyes.”

He
shows her a painting of a bare-breasted woman with haunted, dreamy eyes rising
up from a frothing sea. She clutches a young man in her long-fingered hands.
But wait. She’s not just a nude. At her naked waist, the woman transforms into
a sea creature with shining scales and an elegant fanned tail. A mermaid. A
living mermaid, not a stone carving like the statue in Copenhagen, but a
werewoman with pink and silver flesh, filled with strange passions and
ambiguous intent. She is lust incarnate. She is death.

A
mermaid, the way she and Rachael were mermaids at Lily Lake long ago.

“Jar
me,” Jessie murmurs.

“Like
it?”

“Ain’t
never seen anything like it.”

“She’s
yours. I picked her up for a song on the Left Bank. She’s the latest fashion in
Symbolist Art.”

Jessie
calculates, and calculates again. A modern French nude with an erotic fantasy
theme? Sure and that’s worth two months’ rent at Miss Malone’s Boardinghouse
for Gentlemen. Not that she will ever sell this mermaid. Not in a hundred
years.

“Done,”
she says, taking the painting before he can change his mind.

“Superb.”
Mr. Watkins relinquishes his treasure readily, eager to please. “And I shall
sweeten the deal.” Now he hands over a stack of magazines. “This is only to
lend since I don’t want to part with them permanently. But if you enjoy stories
about other worlds, stories about what the world will be like, take a look.”

Jessie
takes the stack.
The New Review
, a British magazine from January through
May, 1895. “But what is it?”

“This
fellow named H. G. Wells wrote a terrific novel called
The Time Machine
.
The
Review
ran it in five installments. All the literary critics in
London, even that curmudgeon Frank Harris, call Wells quite the genius. And it
is wonderful, Miss Malone! The story goes like this. A fellow invents a machine
that takes him far into the future and back again, all to tell the tale. Can
you imagine such a thing?”

“Do
women have the vote in Mr. Wells’s future?”

Mr.
Watkins laughs. “Mr. Wells does not discuss woman suffrage. Which is a shame,
now that you mention it.”

“Will
these magazines amuse my other gentlemen boarders?”

“I
should say so, if they’ve got half their wits. And I shall be happy to lend
them out, if that is your implication.”

“Then
I shall allow you to stay, Mr. Watkins, and see how the biz works out.” Jessie
drains the bottle of champagne. “Let’s have a look at your rooms.”

*  
*   *

Jessie
shows him the suite, which Li’l Lucy speedily vacated, leaving only a hint of
her fleshy scent behind. The parlor is furnished with handsome redwood tables,
chairs, a chest, and a writing desk. A fireplace and a store of dry kindling.
The bedchamber is larger, with a Belgian wool carpet in somber hues, and a
sturdy brass bed frame which Mariah polishes to a gleaming gold. The water
closet is quite modern, as well as the large claw-footed tub with running hot
and cold water. She informs him that he will have to schedule his bath since
the plumbing can tolerate only one soak at time.