Post the Panama-Pacific: a tale of two cities

By Peter C. Foller

As connected by the fate of a family’s once magnificent Victorian home, Post the Panama-Pacific intertwines a mystery through two juxtaposed tales, one set amidst the dynamism of Progressive Era San Francisco, against the backdrop of 1915’s Panama-Pacific Exposition, the last and greatest of the Beaux-Arts internati

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foller and Associates
• Release date: Apr 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997364910

Book preview

THE GATES WIDE OPEN

January - February 1915

LAST MONTH KWUN heard the massive explosions out on the bay, but due to his drive to keep the project ahead of schedule, he didn’t get the chance to see it all and ponder the context. To say the least, it was odd that the United States Navy had staged this rather unsettling greeting to the arrival of 1915. They were only showcasing their own coming vulnerability. But, perhaps, by their own peculiar logic, that was the point of it all.

To promote a little pre-exposition excitement, that famous birdman, San Francisco’s own Lincoln Beachey had used his trick biplane to dive bomb and blow up a near full scale mock-up of the renowned Battleship Oregon. The wood and gray canvas mock-up, complete with superstructure and smoke stacks was assembled atop a few barges and looked realistic enough out there, a mile distant from land. It was loaded with caches of explosives that went off cataclysmically in the simulated attack. Such things were clearly going to become possible in the years to come, and this was enough to send a chill through any of the veterans of the great victory at Manila Bay as may have been watching from shore. Modern war, total war, such as now raging in Europe, was proving every day to hurl more metal greater distances than any conflict yet seen. There was no holding back Progress.

Crowd pleaser as it was, the New Year’s Day militaristic display was, as so many of the high-minded organizers had argued, well out of tune with the planned tenor of the upcoming exposition. The stunning technological achievements celebrated by the westward aiming bowman atop the exposition’s iconic two hundred foot Column of Progress probably weren’t meant to include the fact that a single fragile aeroplane could threaten such a proud battleship of the mighty Pacific Squadron.

But no matter, today was finally February 20th, the highly choreographed day officially opening San Francisco’s new era of limitless possibility, and Kwun was losing that trademark outward cool. Today was the culmination of so much effort over the last few years, and he was missing out again. Simultaneously with the falling darkness, fog was methodically tumbling in through the Golden Gate and in over the waterfront of a city reborn. In the distance down there in Harbor View, he paused to observe the multicolored patterns traced by the radiating searchlights as they played through and against the ethereal backdrop.

The day had been kicked off promptly at 6:30 AM courtesy of the Noise Committee. First came the Fort Mason signal guns. Within seconds, there were motor fire wagon sirens, factory whistles, and church bells echoing across town. Policemen banged their billies on mailboxes and trashcans and particularly enthusiastic neighbors banged pots and pans from windows as the Model T hand klaxons ah-oo-gahed away in search of some peculiar harmony. Attempting to resist the rude awakening, Kwun, proud of his unlikely connections to the exposition, had had a string of surplus New Year’s firecrackers tossed under his bed by his grinning ten-year-old cousin. Barefoot as usual, young Nianzu’s mischief soon had him dancing a jig as, with each flash bang, the string crawled backwards toward him. Kwun had to laugh at justice making its fickle appearance as he caught little Nianzu when he leapt across and onto the bed for safety. Kwun reached for his shirt with the optimistic thought that the exposition might somehow help improve prospects for the rambunctious little devil, in whom he recognized something of a now distant self.

Though Kwun had committed to continue supervising his crew’s work on Karl’s new house, The City’s grand plan for the day was that as many people as possible would join in on an early morning march to the grounds from the magnificent new City Hall once again proudly defining a Civic Center. It had rained twenty-seven of the last thirty days, but the skies were at last clear. The march was to head up Van Ness Avenue two and a half miles down to and through the nine compound arches of the magnificent Scott Street main gate. Eight bands were positioned at intervals along Van Ness. One hundred thousand opening day entrance badges had been pre-sold at fifty cents apiece and ultimately, as the procession grew, another one hundred fifty thousand celebrants joined in. The idea was that everyone, from all walks of life, would walk together, no motorcars, traps, or carriages being permitted. In the spirit of such unity, and, as a prelude to the official speeches by Governor Hiram Johnson, Mayor Sunny Jim Rolph, the Mr. Crocker, and others, Catholic and Episcopalian bishops and a prominent rabbi bestowed their blessings.

It was said not a breakfast dish was washed.

The countries of the world had been invited, and despite the hostilities, for the most part they had turned out, building elaborate pavilions to showcase their art, culture, and most modern innovations. As of Opening Day, the state of play was that France, Russia, Great Britain and her empire, plus ever-opportunistic Japan, were at war with Germany, Austria-Hungary, and the Turks, who the dangerously ambitious Enver Pasha had in the last months unilaterally committed. Italy tried to read her treaties narrowly and stay neutral, but, in due course, along with Bulgaria, Serbia, and Montenegro, they all would soon not miss out.

Immediately after the outbreak of war, the British telegraphed their regrets and quickly severed all subsea cables by which the Kaiser might have done the same. In any event, the Germans may not have found themselves welcome in that they were tarred by supposedly having instigated the irreversible sequence of mobilizations. In San Francisco, half a world away, the cancelations passed without undue comment and concern, as for most of the year would the war itself, in as much as it was in the power of officialdom and citizenry alike to deny the distressing and do so. The guns of August be damned, it had long since adamantly been decided that the show must go on.

Arriving at the foot of Van Ness, and through the gates at 10 AM, people could scarcely believe what they saw. The boisterous roar outside the Scott Street gate transitioned to an awed hush once through. People were just not prepared for it. Within its manicured grounds, the exposition presented a concentrated and harmonious color coordinated display of classical architecture on a scale never before attempted. Reporters struggled to convey what had been achieved. And this was just by day. The real surprise was to be after sunset when the novel electric illuminations kicked in.

Perhaps poor consolation, but Kwun and crew had the satisfaction of putting in another long day of hard work on Karl’s new house stopped only by the oncoming darkness. Now dusk, Kwun was making sure his trusty crew from Chinatown cleaned up sufficiently to ensure today’s progress showed well when Karl returned from the daytime festivities. Kwun was pleased with himself. He thrived on constant activity and, no surprise, it swirled about him. Mere sketches methodically took on three-dimensional form. Punch lists shrank. And there was always something left from his squeezing the pennies that, in a fairer world, had to scream, Pay this guy a bonus! Of course Kwun wanted to be there for Opening Day, but he knew his crew needed the money.

Agitated by missing out as he was, from the front door Kwun barked a few hurry up admonishments in Cantonese and then regretted how curt it all must have sounded. These were good men who put their faith in him as their bridge to The City at large. Kwun had the advantages of language, education, and a claim on the legitimacy of citizenship that none of them enjoyed. As a consequence of their trust in him, it had become his responsibility never to let them down, and he struggled with the thought that circumstances might one day compel him to do so.

Though continuing to watch was fascinating, Kwun turned away from the patterns being traced by the multicolored searchlights emanating from Harbor View, locked the front door, and surveyed the day’s installation of a good deal of the downstairs millwork. Enjoying its woody aroma, Kwun then crossed through the echoing house and stood by the back door with a supportive smile, silently and appreciatively making eye contact with each of his four men as they left the house tools in hand.

Kwun liked Karl Rademacher.

Karl had been in Asia as a signalman with the California Volunteers through the Spanish-American War and the beginnings of the Philippine conflict and was briefly in China with the Regulars for part of the Boxer Rebellion. Atypical amongst his comrades, he had come home with a fascination and respect for the various flavors of Asian culture he had been exposed to. Once he returned to The Philippines from China, back to the new outpost of empire as it were, at length he got his transfer to the Corps of Engineers and had the opportunity to supervise a series of polyglot workforces over the course of a major road-building project. Karl, thus, more than most, took a wider view of the world and its far-flung moving parts. He instinctively sensed even the most improbable pieces would someday grow up to be absolutely essential to and interdependent upon one another. If it wasn’t in the here and now for tapping rubber trees for the hardwearing Fisk Nobby Treads on his roadster or for decent naval quality hemp for the likes of Tubbs Cordage down in Mission Bay, it would certainly soon be for something else.

The Army, though, had been a sickening mistake only partially redeemed by his later request for transfer to the Corps of Engineers. He had been rather suckered into the Volunteers by a couple exuberant friends on the promise of camaraderie and glorious adventure in the name of spreading civilization. He had carried it daily, but was grateful to have escaped ever having to fire his fancy repeating Krag-Jørgensen in anger. It was deeply embarrassing to him now that he could have been so influenced by his idiot friends and the excesses of youthful patriotism as to go to war. But there was also the jingoistic nature of his father’s politics, all the talk of freeing Cuba, and of forever and all time expelling Europeans imperialists from the new world. To miss out on the adventure, he was persuaded was to relegate oneself to a lifetime of being looked upon as unfit or cowardly. And, of course, amongst the Volunteers there wasn’t the slightest clue of what it would actually be like.

Based on his experiences, Karl’s views ran well counter to the times: we had no right to be in the Philippines doing what we were doing, back then or even now all these years later. To assure victory in Cuba, taking out the Spanish fleet in Manila certainly seemed like a good idea, but why had it not just stopped there? It was consistent with his Lutheran upbringing that, yes, there was that so-called destiny for the western races there across the Pacific. But not this way. If the Lord indeed expects us to be the instrument of His will, shouldn’t it more properly be achieved through some mutually beneficial commerce based on a more equal footing?

Upon his discharge, the mint-condition Krag was smuggled out of the Presidio in an overstuffed duffle bag for no particular reason other than as a minor random act of insubordination and to have a souvenir of six misspent years to nag at him. Once fully moved into his new Lower Pacific Heights home, he intended that it end up over the mantle in true pioneer fashion. To Karl, it would serve as a perpetual reminder of times both good and bad and of the consequences of once making a decision to allow others to make decisions for him. About his life, no less, and, indeed, the value thereof.

Consistent with conclusions he had reached about the worst recesses of human nature, Europe, as they do periodically, was now at it again. The optimists in San Francisco held to a line of thought that the Panama-Pacific could do some good in promoting a greater understanding between peoples. The realists were likely to be skeptical, but saw no harm in offering the world a splendid diversion insulated as it was from the fray at the westernmost edge of western civilization. As they have a habit of doing, the commercial interests held sway and heartily agreed with both camps. In any event, the nation broadly assumed that the belligerents would shortly be able to conclude the vulgar affair without any assistance.

Kwun appreciated Karl’s rather broad worldview and membership in the optimist’s camp, but he did worry about Karl’s judgment about people. Especially Mark, that so-called partner of his. Kwun did not know all the history between the two of them, and he did not feel it was his place to inquire. Yet. However, exactly parallel to Mark’s thought process, it was obvious to him that his own contributions were the true engine behind the success of the threesome’s joint endeavors.

Jangling a bulky set of keys, Kwun locked up and wound through the soggy side garden, careful not to step on any of the new plantings, and sat down on the front porch stairs to further appreciate the odd Aurora Borealis playing over the waterfront. He awaited Karl, who had promised to return by 7:30 with the weekly payroll. Sitting there, he pondered how he might best make whatever he could of his talents here in this beautiful young city now so prominently poised at an exciting crossroads. Kwun had already seen what was becoming possible-- even here. As a stubborn squatter and as a runner for the Elders, he’d helped win the battle over where to rebuild Chinatown a few years back. He forever resolved that underestimating him, or indeed the newly invigorated Chinese people, would be at one’s peril.

Presently, eyes closed and resting, Kwun heard a familiar chug, sputter, and transmission whine approaching from down the block. Each was a little unique, and with this one it was the downshift and, as it got closer, a peculiar ticking of the pushrods, tappets, and valves. In the favorable breeze, an oddly pleasant aroma of the progress of civilization preceded it. It was Karl. He pulled up with a double squeeze of the bulb horn.

Gottee ten bits for coolie boy? Kwun put his feet together and held a shallow mock bow as Karl turned off the ignition, reset it to battery, adjusted the choke, and pushed the lever up to retard the spark for the next unpredictable cold start. To his chagrin, the stunning new Mercer Raceabout dieseled for a moment.

Put a cork in it, Kwun! Karl pretended some irritation at the not-so-subtle wind-up, but it was really pretty funny. From his suit jacket pocket, he handed across a small brown envelope. Kwun had learned that the thickness of the envelope always belied the weight of the gold and silver coinage within. Its detailed accounting was routinely padded with a separate note of thanks crafted in Mr. Palmer’s fluid penmanship canted at a perfect seventy-five degrees, which any self-respecting schoolmarm would have been proud to beat into her snotty little charges.

Kwun was just messing with Karl. Through first their work on the exposition and then on the house, he had done very well for himself and certainly appreciated that he had been treated fairly. Probably the greatest advocate in ensuring Kwun properly benefited was Mark, though this was not at all his intent. Mark, as the much congratulated public face of their company, gradually developed an inflated sense of his contributions and had at several stages lobbied hard for a greater share of the profits. As the build out of the exposition progressed and as time was ticking, he kept coming back with successive new arguments. As Karl incrementally caved, out of fairness each time he would also do more for Kwun.

Perhaps the single greatest accomplishment of their lives had just been successfully completed and was there, however fleetingly, for the world to enjoy. It was completely unclear where the three would head next, though Mark seemed confident of some budding plans he was not yet ready to discuss. The prevailing assumption, though, was that the three might stay together for a next project or two.

Come on, you clean up a bit and lemme buy you a proper dinner. We have something to celebrate. Karl’s invitation was a first. Mark, for one, would never have suggested it. Wherever they would dine, it might invite the hushed comment of strangers. Karl was at least reasonably certain that down at the exposition there would be none of those embarrassing Negro and Oriental Patronage Not Solicited signs.

Yes, yes, back directly! The invitation appealed to Kwun’s upwardly mobile self and he readily accepted, spinning away while flashing a thumbs-up.

This would totally redeem a day in which he felt left out, if not slighted. Kwun was delighted. There would be a feast of triumph after all! His thought process required no assistance from English syntax, but in this instance words floating past assembled to an effect something like, How wonderful it will be to reinforce trust and celebrate alignment for a future of mutual gain. An hour or so for the climb to the Hyde Street cable car and a quick change, and he’d be back over Nob Hill without delay.

There was indeed something to celebrate. The yearlong Panama-Pacific Exposition had opened in spectacular fashion, and they had played their role. It had taken nothing less than a heroic effort. San Francisco was hosting the world, having risen like a Phoenix from the ashes of 1906. No visible damage remained. The exposition covered more than six hundred acres, replete with international, state, and territory pavilions, and eleven massive classical revival palaces. The palaces were dedicated to the arts and cutting edge technological miracles of the day. There were numerous stages for musical performances and venues for uplifting and educational lectures. In addition, there were one hundred acres of ornate and manicured gardens surrounding nearly fifteen miles of roads and a fifty mile maze of interlaced and branching pink-graveled pathways. The interplay of the gardens, the mellow toned-down palate of color, and the classical architecture were evocative of some mythical long forgotten Mediterranean ideality. The contrast to the sackcloth and ashes color of the hastily rebuilt, cramped, and rectilinear city could hardly have been starker.

It was an incredible feat to have built it all on time for Opening Day, with only three years of actual construction, and, as well, to have kept to budget. Directed by a well-crafted management structure and with the support of a plethora of committees of unpaid volunteers, the fieldwork was progressed by an army that peaked at some three thousand five hundred union tradesmen and some two hundred civil engineers and architectural draftsmen. As figured by the lumber used, it was as if a city to house twenty thousand souls had been born whole, fully formed, and flourishing.

Planning to return in one of his two for a quarter Arrow celluloid collars and sole nice suit and tie, except for his being twenty-five years old, Kwun thought he might even be taken for one of those Asian dignitaries he had seen coming and going! A proper winged collar and he certainly could be!

Kwun was third generation Chinese in California. This place was more an ancestral home to him than to most of the relative newcomers now running the place. His grandfather, Ruisong, was one of the first in Guangdong to reluctantly and near of necessity board the Great Republic, a 380 foot side-wheeled wooden leviathan, bound for Gum San, Gold Mountain. He settled in Oroville to group up with assorted compatriots and, in blue cotton knee-length tunic and baggy cotton trousers, work the more marginal claims of the northern end of the Sierra Nevada mining. Far from prior hardships along the banks of the Pearl, the Feather River provided a modicum of familiarity. Net of Foreign Miners Tax, he did well enough to return to China as planned, but, unfortunately, he never actually managed to do so in life.

The Oroville Chinese community eventually grew to ten thousand strong, enough even to merit the attention of the tempestuous Empress Dowager CiXi, resulting in a donation toward the construction of, in solid brick no less, Liet Sheng Kong (Oroville’s Temple of Assorted Deities), their part Confucian, part Buddhist temple. As their community grew and looked to becoming a permanent fixture of the rolling foothills, Kwun’s grandfather was lucky enough to soon marry his one and only prostitute and, in time, became a respected elder in the community. Years later, his father, Feng, though, was among the first to decamp back to San Francisco as the small time dust gleaning played out. Thus, his family was spared the slow death of their beautiful little Ah Moon Bar along the north fork of the Feather. There was no way to compete with the steam dredgers, nor to watch the advance of their heartbreaking depredations.

The 1907 flood finished off the precarious riverbank community, and most all of the survivors ended up in Sacramento, The Delta, back to Dai Fow (Big City), or shrimping the shoreline of San Pablo Bay. The Chinese diaspora were well aware of the slow inexorable drop now back to half their peak number.

Feng and his new bride, Wenjing, settled in Chinatown, and, consistent with a very cautious worldview, lived more modestly than perhaps necessary. Though mining had been good to him over the years, there would be no second chance at it. The two were determined that their number one son, born soon before arriving in San Francisco, should have every advantage in life. They very nearly sent him back to China for a proper education but were persuaded by missionaries that Kwun had a better chance of truly prospering were he to stay. To balance what they thought these Methodists were in reality up to, his parents attempted to instill every tradition, viewing them as necessary insurance should someday Gold Mountain loose further luster.

Nearly all aspects of life reorganized after the earthquake and fire, and Kwun ended up attending Stockton Street’s Oriental Public School for the 1907 academic year. Amidst the general chaos, the Board of Education ordered that The City’s Japanese students attend school in Chinatown. As one of the older students, and now possessed of what passed for impeccable English, Kwun was reluctantly assigned to help teach the little outsiders within outsiders. Given an uproar that reached diplomatic circles and even summoned Mayor Schmitz to Washington, the Japanese children eventually returned to the citywide school system. But after all this hubbub, that schooling for the Chinese remained segregated was another front-and-center reminder of the obstacles life was determined to place before him.

On the other hand, Kwun’s obstacles were mitigated by a keen intellect and a talent for gleaning lessons from observing people’s interactions with one another. Even as a boy in Chinatown, he looked to have ambitions above his station and in this regard was sometimes cautioned. However, those who got to know him well enough to appreciate that he actually was exceptional quickly forgave any transgressions. Even the insistence upon left-handedness. From an early age, Kwun became comfortable in either traditional or western dress. His parents saw partial assimilation as a passport to opportunity. The daily decisions that resulted were a constant reminder of his lifelong conflict between standing out and fitting in. A further passport was his height and build and quick smile, all of which kept him out of trouble on many an occasion. He took liberal advantage of the Stockton Street YMCA the do-gooders completed in 1911, and, foregoing the piano-accompanied exercises, Indian clubs, and medicine balls, kept himself quite fit playing pick-up basketball just well enough so as to not discourage any others. He soon became adept at dodging the various flavors of Baptists, Methodists, Catholics, and Presbyterians proselytizing in Chinatown and planned as well to dodge the Ten Judges of Hades through his occasional visits to a small and obscure Taoist temple up four long flights from an obscure Chinatown back alley. One’s innermost beliefs, he was certain, were hardly to be displayed in an ostentatious manner.

Being third generation, the inevitable citizenship questions were particularly galling. Kwun was now a paper son, meaning that his position was that, of course, he was a U.S. citizen; however, all records were lost in the Oroville flood. It was well known that such records were lost in the ‘06 earthquake and fire, so he sometimes simplified his story to just that. Local officialdom was not uniformly up to speed on Oroville goings on. (Nor were they uniformly up to speed when Kwun would recite the ’98 Wong Kim Ark Supreme Court decision, which held that Chinese born in the U.S. were indeed citizens, despite the Exclusion Act.) It was infuriating to have to invoke such a back door approach to rights he believed were set to paper at the very foundation of the only country he had ever known.

He learned to control his chip on the shoulder attitude; but, manage it as he may, it was a part of him. Kwun knew that even as a citizen, all The City had to offer would never be entirely accessible to him. Nevertheless, he would work to set new precedents day-by-day, though the world was seemingly doing everything possible to keep him in the shadows.

Kwun developed a keen political awareness at a young age. As a boy, well prior to being pressed into service as a messenger after the great earthquake and fire, he was known as a runner for the Chinese Telephone Exchange on Washington Street. He saw firsthand the determination of those who stepped up to save Chinatown from exile to Hunter’s Point. There had been so little left, it would have been very easy to have lost it all.

Since it was such a great way to learn the inner workings, when allowed to, as a teenager he enjoyed paying his respects to various elders and discretely eaves dropping upon their goings on. The domestic politics that at first most interested him later took a back seat to the larger goings on in China. Given that in those days there were pro-Qing monarchists, reformers, and outright revolutionaries, when not overly confusing, it was highly entertaining to try to sort it all out. He therefore understood what was going on at Dr. Sun’s small office above Spofford Alley, and ultimately celebrated what mischief his Tung Meng Hui were going to make back in China with all the money being raised.

Thus, Kwun landed on the revolutionary end of the spectrum and deeply disappointed his parents the day his queue, the symbol of monarchist fealty, disappeared forever. In running errands for Dr. Sun’s third fund raising campaign leading up to The Revolution, he gave it up in 1909, well prior to those that did so come the triumph over four thousand years of imperial rule in 1911. Enjoying its in-your-face ambiguity, he ended up keeping enough of his coarse black hair to draw it straight backward into a neat loop of a topknot finished off with a short shiny ponytail. To Nianzu, he became Fan Kwei (foreign devil) Kwun and he rather enjoyed the moniker as it began to spread. He was attempting, however imperfectly, to push that fine line between fitting in and defining himself independently of convention. He did himself little good.

As time progressed, Kwun looked for ways to enter into some sound, stable business of his own, though the minor opportunities that generally fell at his doorstep all consisted of dealing with the outside world on behalf of various interests in Chinatown, mainly the Ying On Merchants and Labor Benevolent Association. Though he aimed higher, year after year Kwun was, thus, largely relegated to being a translator and go-between. He was riding ox to find horse, or so he would say.

More so than the Ying Ons, the conservative cronies of the Six Companies that largely controlled commerce in Chinatown were pro-Qing and regarded Kwun as a firebrand, but with continued application of the carrot and stick, still likely within reach of redemption. They engaged him sparingly in the pursuit of their web of interests, assuming the young man bright enough to someday get the message, cooperate with the status quo, and respect the hierarchy they had transplanted from China. So far, though their occasional tasks appeared a dead end. Kwun’s small time brokering of construction labor within the confines of Chinatown was what had paid the bills.

Awaiting Kwun’s return, Karl had a look around the house, his footsteps echoing from empty room to empty room. His new home was nearing completion. Only some scored plastering, application of lincrusta, and graining the cheaper woods remained. The large claw foot bathtub still needed to be plumbed in with the rest of the bathroom machinery, but it had thankfully made the journey up the stairs. He thought perhaps he had overdone it a bit. The house was much more than he needed, and it could easily be mistaken for some egotistic over-reach. Even more so than the three feet of walnut wainscoting in the dining room, the thirteen-foot ceilings with crown moldings and the heavy brass combination electric and gas electroliers bespoke that kind of sense of one’s own grandeur. The three bedrooms and separate drawing and dining rooms were absolutely unnecessary at this point in his life. Perhaps it was all a manifestation of the conspicuous consumption of the age, but he intended to marry, raise a family, and move absolutely nowhere else ever again. At thirty-three, it was well past time to settle down and even casual acquaintances were now embarrassing him by pointing out the fact. He was now quite the eligible bachelor and had all intentions of overcoming any obstacles and working his way into the best possible Blue Book society.

In the best traditions of the San Francisco interpretation of Queen Anne Victorian, the house sported an ornate arch under the vaulted second floor entry with a grand balustraded stairway ascending thereto. A landing half way up invited one to pause and take in the view of the bay and city below. There was a two-story turret with curved windows, which donned a conical witch’s cap minus one of those much too old fashion finials. There was fish scale shingle work under the dentil-accented eaves, and bay windows aligned over one another on the first and second floors complete with pilaster columns accenting their casements. A layer or relief panels broke up any potentially flat surface. It was all painted in predominant whites and grays to give the appearance of substantial stone construction with, where customary, a highly dignified broader brown then thinner black trim. The corbels and other decorative exterior millwork were mass-produced; a benefit of the post-quake building boom, but it all looked first class none-the-less.

The house’s location was framed to the north and south by the Union and California Street cable car lines and, to the east and west, by the Polk and the Fillmore. With a short hike, it thus allowed for easy access to most all of The City. The view of the bay was rather unhappily centered on the military prison of Alcatraz, but with the verdant Angel Island beyond, it was pleasant enough. Unfortunately, the view was sliced to ribbons by several dozen individual electric power cables and telephone lines above the sidewalk opposite. But such was the price of Progress.

Aside from appearing young for his age, Karl had an unremarkable sort of look to him and was rather difficult for people to describe. He had no particular outstanding features that might rise to the top of memory. He still had a full head of brown hair, which, in a later era, might have been used for a little self-expression, but consistent with the times, it was parted in the center, unimaginatively oiled, and combed back securely in place as a little extra length allowed. When out and about weekdays, it was generally under a business-like Derby. Cloth caps were reserved for weekends. He owned three dark and conservative wool suits, which actually were slightly different, yet to anyone other than himself, were utterly indistinguishable uniforms. Conventionality was a comfortable refuge. High stiff collars and ties might not be terribly comfortable, but he liked to think they made him look dignified and trustworthy. Even on weekends.

He was 5 foot 8 and, despite being marginally concerned with what he ate and less so with what he drank, managed to hold to about a hundred sixty pounds due to an active metabolism. He considered himself in reasonable shape; and those rare devotees of physical culture who aspired to more, the type who frequented gymnasiums, he considered either aspiring boxers or bizarre narcissists to be dealt with with suspicion.

Karl had started out as an instinctual follower but in time looked for a means to rise above and take charge of his life. Had he not lost his parents, he probably would have fallen into rebuilding the family business after ’06 without a second thought. He had always taken for granted that such a life path was pretty much preordained for him. He admired both his parents greatly and was satisfied that they knew him well enough to know what was best for him. Their loss had introduced a random element into his life that he had been deeply uncomfortable with, though Karl had now passed its test. He was finally navigating his way through with a sense of autonomy and control. His newfound prosperity had all come in a relative whirlwind and, looking back on the improbability, such success was entirely unexpected. If nothing else, Karl’s principle virtue was that he was not averse to getting his hands dirty. For him, there was little activation energy, as he learned that’s what the chemists called it, in getting up to do what needed to be done. This was a legacy from his father, Otto, or rather from his belt, but as well as from his years under the merciless tutelage of the officer corps of the U.S. Army. As his parents expected it might, the stint in the Army had helped, but it did not hurt to have somehow survived another kind of trial through to his fresh late-life degree from Cal.

Karl had an understanding of leadership sufficient to make sergeant in the Philippines; however, he did so on the strength of his organizational skills with materiel, and the deadlines for moving it about from place to place, rather than being able to motivate men-at-arms into harm’s way. Any success he enjoyed came after extricating himself from the day-to-day prospect of agonizing over the morality of orders and the relative wisdom and stability of the old Indian War veterans who gave them.

It was not surprising that Karl rather admired Kwun. Kwun gave every appearance of someone with a cool head and strong opinions who, also, would not lose but a minute if only he knew where the heck he was going. Unlike so many Chinese Karl had encountered, Kwun gave the impression he stood up for himself when called to do so. As well, Karl’s inclination to contemplate dozy what if sorts of situations added additional imaginary redemptive dimensions. To Karl, Kwun looked like someone he may have, in a now distant time and place, been in danger of rendering bodily harm. He felt in some way that the present unorthodox friendship was in some measure fated as atonement for the collective sins of the dark campaigns now over a decade distant.

Kwun caught the Hyde Street Line on upper Powell and returned from Chinatown at the appointed hour. The sight of him was somewhat startling. He was in a crisp black serge suit and full-Windsor knot, rather than in his work-a-day rotation of either mail order gray suit or simple steel blue tunic. Karl was glad to see it was within his repertoire.

Doffing his derby with a flourish, Kwun straightened himself, brushed off, and spread his arms with comic intent, Wear sometime when Six Company no find good translator.

Very convincing, honorable commissioner general sir! With your permission, Excellency, let’s go see what we’ve accomplished for civilization! Karl could not have been prouder of his young associate.

All the better to enjoy the precision drill the radiating searchlights were putting on, the two walked from the house over to Fillmore Street and down its steep hill to the exposition. Before them, the sky was illuminated with a multicolored vision worthy of a Maxfield Parrish composition. The forty-three-story Tower of Jewels, for now, the west’s answer to the Woolworth Building, was targeted by further fixed searchlights and shimmered as if somehow animate. The orange glow of the brightly illuminated palaces reached upward into the high fog. Framed by Pacific Heights and the abutting relative darkness of residential Cow Hollow to the south, the gentle rise of Fort Mason to the east, and the hills of the Presidio to the west, the grounds were nestled in a natural amphitheater and, now fully illuminated, beckoned as if some legendary phantasmagoric city of gold.

They were still able to get through the Fillmore Street gate using their contractor passes. Ahead was what neither had yet fully seen, the electric illuminations by night. It was so spectacular that the daytime throng had not at all thinned. The remarkable thing was that the buildings were brilliantly illuminated, but it was all designed in such a manner that direct rays never offended the eye. Just through the main gate, in the center of the South Gardens, immediately to the front of the imposing Tower of Jewels, the Fountain of Energy was given pride of place. The symbolism behind the out-sized brilliantly illuminated fountain was far from subtle and was meant to capture the spirit of the exposition, if not the era as a whole. In its midst, a god-like figure atop a stallion bestrode the globe, galloping ever forward accompanied to either side by Fame and Valor. The athletic young rider’s arms outstretched arms unmistakably channeled the sheer force of national will and rightful destiny to part the Isthmus of Panama and unite the vast oceans below. The unity of the two great oceans had to presage the unity of the world, or so had gone the thoughts of Mr. Calder and his artisans so many months earlier.

Slowly circling through the crowds in the three great courts to take it all in, both felt a welling sense of pride and achievement. The layout of the Court of the Universe was meant to recall Bernini’s peristyle at the Vatican, using two rows of forty-eight foot columns rather than four. The massive arches along the exposition’s central axis recalled the triumphal arches of Constantine and Titus. However, the triumph in this case was originally supposed to have been that of peace, not the achievements of war. At the two foci of the court’s elliptical sunken garden were fountains from which rose eighty-foot glass columns engineered to glow from within. Atop one, was the winged male figure of Rising Sun and, atop the other, the female Descending Night. The Court of the Four Seasons focused around a half dome reminiscent of Hadrian’s villa. The central green dome and four surrounding smaller domes of Festival Hall with its enormous semicircular front thermal window had a light and airy French theatrical style. From there, facing westward across the pools and fountains of the South Gardens was the imposing wired-glass bubble of the Palace of Horticulture, at night lit from within as The Electric Kaleidoscope. The dimensions of its dome surpassed that of St. Peter’s, and