The ancestral Kout home on Jackson, north of Lafayette Park, had been the twentieth-century residence of the German consul. But the Wentworths had given this elegant brick mansion overlooking the Golden Gate and Alcatraz to the poor; it now housed a dozen families.
The donation came about after the current Mr. Kout, vice president of the Bank of San Francisco, aided by three lackeys, absconded with three flatbed dollies filled with gold ingots. After stealing the ingots from his own bank, Kout and his henchmen fled from the city, through the misty night, their booty-laden dollies in tow. Filthy, terrified, and covered with the black sweat of their toil, the thieves showed up at the doorstep of the ALA camp, where they were expected and welcome.
Historically, San Francisco loves its rouges. But no one loved Kout. San Francisco’s twenty-second–century wealth was based on its possession of the old Federal Reserve’s stock of bullion. The bullion made the peaceful city count in a land ruled by violence and duress. As is usually the case in times of great upheaval, gold again became the one, undisputable standard, used as coinage within and across political boundaries. San Francisco’s possession of the largest supply ingots in the west gave the city-state a significance which even the Angelenos had to recognize. But, far worse than the theft, the banker also betrayed San Francisco's most vital military secret: the twelve tunnels through the Shambles. The significance of the tunnels to the peace of mind of the citizenry could not be overstated.
In 2098, while rebuilding of the city, the first Wentworth ruler realized that in the dangerous new world where anarchy infested the land, renegade armies would be a long-term threat to San Francisco. So he had the people dig a dozen tunnels through the Shambles, to serve as escape routes and for the deployment of troops. For half a century, the secret remained behind the walls of rubble that encircled the city; the tunnels and the secrecy protected the town. Not every citizen knew where all the tunnels lay. Two, one east and one south, were used for general trade, and everyone knew about those. The other ten were military secrets, some more secret than others. That they could as a community keep such a secret gave San Franciscans great pride and satisfaction. It also kept the Wentworths in full control of their duchy’s frontier. Forbidden access, strangers seeking to trade with the city had to make their way above ground, through the disorienting Shambles. Despite frequent attacks, no marauding brigands had ever breached the city’s defenses; using the element of surprise afforded by the clandestine twelve tunnels, the San Francisco militia made quick work of all comers. Giving to LA the secret of passageways’ locations wiped out such advantages as the besieged city could muster. Fortunately for San Francisco, Kout knew the whereabouts of only four tunnels.
Civic fury lashed out at the old family, as well as at the man. Kout’s flight had left Councilman Spicer’s niece, Irma, the only available target for the popular ire. The councilman was merely an in-law, well known on his own and held in such low opinion and high affection that no one seriously thought he might be involved. But Irma Kout was a known nonconformist, haughty and beautiful. Narrow minds readily grasped the satisfaction her fall would provide. Public indignation clamorously rejected her profession of innocence and demanded a trial for treason.
Within a week of her father’s flight, Irma was hauled up before court; Chancellor Thaddeus Wentworth was her judge. He found that the accusers spoke with more venom than detail, that the accusations against her shifted each time she challenged them. But the chancellor noticed Irma’s voice waver slightly when she was faced with the allegation that she had foreknowledge of her parent’s intent. In fact, her voice wavered because, in retrospect, she saw that she could have known, and she therefore felt that she should have known. Not that her father had schemed blatantly or carelessly; but had she paid attention, she would have noticed his sinister slips of the tongue, which, she now remembered, were many. Irma convicted herself of being obtuse; and this guilt colored her tone of voice.
Her trial ended after an hour of screeched charges and tearful denials. The chancellor declared that on such flabby evidence as had been presented, Irma Kout was certainly not guilty of treason, and perhaps not even guilty as an accessory before the fact. Yet the rage of the people and the strong temperament of the girl left Thaddeus Wentworth leery of turning her free. He stared into her defiant eyes and saw indignation, fear, and perspicacity.
“I can’t,” said the august man, “just let you free.”
“Why not!” she cried.
“Don’t talk: listen!” he shouted. “I can’t let you go until after the war and your family can do no more harm. You might pose a threat, and I must act according to your potential for mischief, not on your stated intentions. Less caution would be remiss. You are sentenced to house arrest. Your term ends at my pleasure. It will not be your own house, which I declare forfeit, to be given to the poor. You will be taken to a hovel on the Richmond Cliffs. It will be suitably spartan, but not unduly harsh. Proper guards will be assigned.”
“I’m sure they will be,” she spat, still holding him in her angry eye.
The chancellor nodded and thought a moment. He did not intend to send her to a one-woman rape camp, and he knew the evil times could easily give rise to such a horror. After a moment he said, “You have my word that you will be safe. I will personally release you when the time comes, and you can tell me if you believe I’ve kept my word.”
Irma, seeing his wish to be just, cried with heartrending desperation, “I believe you will, sir. My allegiance is purely to you.”
“Silence!” he shouted. “Damn, I don’t want to hear your voice. I have heard enough. For the night, hold her at her home. Keep her house workers there too, so they can witness my fair treatment. I’ll find the right guards. Next!”
#
Irma was banished to a claustrophobic, broken-down shack at the eastern end of Golden Gate Park Farm, near the windblown Richmond Cliffs. The third great quake had severed the already uninhabitable western portions of the Richmond and Sunset districts; the high new palisade ran on a diagonal from 33rd Street and the tip of Lincoln Park through Golden Gate Park Farm to Diamond Heights. Fear of future quakes kept uninhabited the barren and gusty cliffs, although a few century-old houses were left standing and were used as refuge by drug addicts, religious recluses, and psychotics. Made of unpainted wood, blue plastic, and corrugated metal, the house was constantly damp during the winter monsoons; in the dank San Francisco fall, it smelled of mildew, let in the infernal winds, and never warmed. A less hardy soul than Irma Kout might have lost all hope in this gruesome prison.
#
The day after the councilman’s conversation at the Turkish Corner, Irma, sweat-covered, dressed in raggedy short pants and a badly-torn tee shirt, shot long baskets on the rough dirt court that she and her jailer had scratched out of the mud. Charging the backboard for the rebound on a miss, she leapt to the hoop; she volleyed the ball against the board, then grabbed it in her strong hand and stuffed. She dribbled back the imaginary top of the key, then attacked the low basket with a powerful lay-up.
Clayton Rollins stood beneath the basket and watched Irma with admiration. He fed her passes on request and retrieved her missed shots. She expected him to identify the imperfections in her game and give pointers for improvement. In his mid-forties, but still soldierly fit, Rollins had long, nappy black hair and a square, leathery, brown face, centered by a pug nose with large round nostrils; his small sleepy eyes were obscured by the wrinkles from decades of squinting into sun and living in the dirt of forward camps. He wore his beard long, and his right shirtsleeve was pinned to his shoulder. He served day and night as warden of Irma’s small world. Even in his lessened physical state, guarding a young woman was no job for such a venerable veteran. He had taken the job because the chancellor, whom he would obey in all things, asked. The chancellor saw the mood of the city was ugly: he needed a man he could trust not to take advantage of the girl, someone who would ensure that she was safe, as he had promised. The job had been described to Rollins as one with a potential for change, but no change had come. Day after day, the veteran soldier lived with the girl quietly and unobtrusively. She was never afraid of him and did not consider him a co-perpetrator of her misfortune. She empathized with his boredom and even understood that the job hurt his pride. In fact, Irma treated Rollins as a fellow prisoner.
He gasped enthusiastically when she made a basket, and Irma rewarded his admiration with heart-melting smiles. After her last lay-up, she stopped and dropped the ball into the wedge between her two feet; she wiped her straight, white forehead and took the water offered by Rollins. Panting and grinning, she said, "Whaddya think: Could I play with the boys?"
In his serious baritone, Rollins declared, "You would need to get used to a higher basket. This one is not regulation."
Irma looked up at the deficient hoop. She pursed her full lips thoughtfully, then nodded begrudgingly. She was too proud to pretend she was something she was not. Yet ambition led her thoughts to feats beyond her. She walked back to the top of the key and tossed an unsuccessful underhand free throw.
"I don’t mean to slight you," her jailer said, his great forehead creviced with concern that he might dampen her sprits—an infringement that they both tried to avoid. "You are very adept. No doubt you would make a contribution on any men’s team."
Irma turned and kicked the ball toward the house with her blackened bare foot. Without a word she walked to a wooden stool topped with a metal cup of water. Although her thirst was immense, she drank slowly: water was always precious. After finishing the drink, she picked up a much-used rag and began toweling off. The dust from the dirt court clung to her moist body; she wiped away as much gunk as she could. She kept rain barrows for precious bathing-water and used them sparingly.
She looked slyly at Rollins. "I could fight in a man’s army, too."
"You are quite strong," he said cautiously. He feared he had offended her by mentioning the height of the basket; he did not want to see her lapse from her innate happiness into the gloom this place was intended to inflict.
"The militia cowers," declared Irma. "If there were soldiers like me in the field--" She broke off when she saw Rollins look at the empty sleeve where his arm once was.
"All men are frightened in battle,” said Rollins, head held high. “Our soldiers fight as bravely as any."
"You overestimate them. They aren’t as bold as you. They do more hiding than fighting. And the siege goes on." She flipped the towel to him, and her moisture upon it pleased him. "War between cowards is interminable!"
Rollins pulled the towel to his stomach. After a pause he said, "The soldiers of this city are my comrades, I won’t talk against them. It hurts to hear you do so."
Irma nodded with a contrite grimace. In the past, she had not lashed out so readily. It was another example, she thought, of imprisonment eating away at her character. Although she intuited that confinement degraded humans, she had hoped for more from herself.
She sat on the stool and took off her shoes. She sniffed under her arm and made a face. Gently, she said, "You are loyal to your inferiors."
"I am loyal."
She surmised what he meant, albeit incorrectly. "Whereas, I’m untested. And my father is the arch-traitor."
Rollins sought an answer that would impart to his prisoner that he held neither of those things against her. He deeply admired this young woman who had fallen from wealth without complaint. The maimed soldier saw himself as Irma Kout’s protector more than as her jailer. She discerned this good intent in him and reciprocated the affection. Before Rollins could formulate the words to fit his meaning, a playful falsetto shout came from around the house.
"Irma? Irma?"
Rollins frowned and glared over his shoulder toward the shack. His neck grew hot, and his lip twitched. He said, "Your uncle is here."
Irma jumped up and clapped her hands. She ran to Rollins and put her hands against his chest, but she saw that he was not soothed. "Oh, Major!" she pleaded, "try to . . . to look for the good in him. You can do that, see the good in people. Do it with my uncle. He is the only person who’s stuck by me. Other than you . . . but then, you have to."
Rollins restrained himself for her sake. He did not consider biweekly visits to be “sticking by her.” He was certain that Spicer had never once petitioned the Wentworths for leniency on Irma’s behalf. Also, a councilman whose vote was known to be for sale was a discredit to San Francisco. Yet visits from the scoundrel enlivened Irma. She laughed at his silliness, intended and otherwise. He had amused her since infancy. Throughout her imprisonment, she had never been glum or despondent; but Rollins knew that her ability to remain buoyant in the face of calamity was just that--an ability. Her joy was not an expression of her spirit's tenor, but a mere discipline. Spicer gave her real joy, so Rollins endured his visits. But he knew the councilman for what he was: a cynic and a relativist, exactly the kind of man that should be kept away from receptive young minds.
Irma shouted to her uncle; her cheeks grew red, her cadence grew girlish. Her sprit was uplifted by his unconditional love. Spicer had adored his late sister. He could never remember a bad moment with her and she had thought him the world’s funniest man. After her death, Irma was only person on this Earth who had actually admired him. His needed an outlet for his impulse to love, and Irma requited.
Spicer came into view, waving his straw hat. Rollins unlocked the gate in the twelve-foot-high wire fence. Spicer smiled at the sight of her; tears came to his eyes. He ran to Irma, accepted her great hug, and kissed her moist and dirty cheek. With a wary side-glance, he noted Rollins standing, looking straight forward like a Beefeater Guard. With a halfhearted smile and a catch in his voice, Spicer said, "Good day, Major."
Rollins said nothing. The councilman nodded, knowing that his gesture had been made and was sufficient for the visit. He gave the old soldier wide berth. He saw the contempt in the one-armed man’s eyes, but Spicer had thick skin and was untroubled by disdain.
Irma now sat primly on the old stool, her hands in her lap, her back erect. "What’s in the Gazette?" she asked. During Spicer’s visits, the relatives played a little game: he was Cyrano, and she, Roxanne in the convent. They had played this game since her childhood, when her uncle recounted stories about the important people he met. The moral of his stories was always the same: how invariably daft proper people showed themselves to be if given half a chance. Over the years, these droll yarns of the city had inculcated Irma with a bemused skepticism regarding human nature. But something in her natural character kept this skepticism from rotting into cynicism. The councilman was blind to the difference, but the heady girl was not.
His face was red with excitement, and, to a degree, the exertion of his brisk, uphill walk. "This news will rock you," he teased with a wink. He accepted a drink of water from her and wiped his lips with his sleeve.
"Juicy?" She squirmed childishly. She looked toward Rollins, hoping he would relent and join in the fun. But the major blankly returned her glance.
"Let me sit," pleaded Spicer. He pulled a rusted metal chair toward himself and plopped down his soft bulk. "I’ve been jostled and accosted all the way across the city. The panhandlers are more aggressive than ever. When the war began and only women beggars were left, I thought the streets would be less of a nuisance. But, it’s worse than--"
"Get to the juicy stuff!" Irma cried. She grabbed his small hands and grimaced playfully. "The prisoner starves for news."
"My gossip is cheery," said Spicer. With a taunting calm, he looked at her provocatively and raised a knowing eyebrow. She had the wide-set, dark sapphire-blue eyes of her mother, his sister. Those limpid eyes now rounded with curiosity, and the sight brought tranquillity to the sybarite’s small soul. He shook his head and looked away. She pushed his arm good-naturedly, but with the firmness of her strength. He put up his hand, glanced back at the unresponsive jailer, then touched the tip of her straight nose and said, "You are the subject!"
Irma's jaw dropped Her face wrinkled with incredulity. "Me? What’s to gossip about? It’s just me, the cloisters, and the Major!"
Spicer coyly pointed his fat little finger at her. But he said nothing, merely shook his head and grinned.
Irma was genuinely puzzled, yet she perceived that he meant what he said. "I haven’t been out of this cage in six months!"
"That will all change." He paused for effect. Now Rollins watched him carefully, his curiosity piqued. Irma bent forward and her strong hand tightened on her uncle’s arm. She gestured for Spicer to spit it out. Despite her show of courage, imprisonment without prospect of freedom had cut deeply into her young heart. Any word of escape brought that wounded heart to her throat.
"Strap your little ass in. A Wentworth is in love with you!"
Irma (who had not thought of her rump as little since she was twelve) and Rollins looked from one to the other. Spicer smiled wickedly and again raised an eyebrow.
Irma’s face contorted with incomprehension and alarm. She stared out toward the cliffs and her face drained. The two men watched closely, not understanding what had come over her so suddenly. After a few moments of silence, she turned blankly toward her uncle and muttered, "He wants me as a whore?"
Her uncle waved her off. "I said he loves you!"
"Loves me?" This made no sense at all. She had not thought of romance in so long.
"And that’s an understatement,” her uncle said, now speaking more seriously. He had anticipated that this victim would expect the worst from her oppressors, the Wentworth clan. He took her silky chin in his fat fist and whispered, "We’re talking about an obsession here. He is a lonely young man whose life is empty. It is a neurosis of war. In order to forget the war, he has diverted himself with a passion.”
“How contrived!”
“Whatever. For him, you fill the bill. You are his obsession. He has worshipped you from afar for some time. He expects salvation from your love--”
Rollins frowned and glared at Spicer. Spicer stood and, taking her hand, brought his dumbfounded niece to her feet. He looked back at the armless brute. The councilman thought for a moment about the fact that Rollins would not understand the emotions of a man like Todd any more than he understood his own actions.
"Which Wentworth?" asked Irma. Her thoughts now drifted back to the prospect of freedom. Her voice was now strong and clear, her mask of horror gone, and her face, though still pale, relaxed.
"The youngest--Todd. Rich, handsome, powerful; and gonzo for you."
Irma shook her head. "He’s the one no one ever talks about. Isn’t there something odd about him?"
Finally, Rollins spoke. "He is a great man. He would not take advantage of an imprisoned woman. This must be a lie.”
"As true as the quakes," Spicer chirped. He looked again into his niece's dilated eyes. "He will end your imprisonment without condition—other than that you keep a date."
Irma put her hand to her mouth, and her eyes narrowed. "He said that?"
“Essentially.”
Spicer walked in a small circle as Irma stared down at the dirt. Rollins watched her protectively, angered by her uncle’s cruel or foolish joke. After a moment, the councilman sat back in his chair and made a great show of being at ease. He declared in a comforting tone, "All you have to do is encourage him. I can have him here an hour after sundown."
"Too fast! " she snapped
"Why wait?"
Now Irma walked in a circle. She looked around the bleak fog-shrouded landscape that was her world. Wearing an athlete’s game face, she glanced down at her uncle. "I have to consider how far I’ll go to get his help.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You will go as far as he wants you to. Once you see him and get to know him, it won’t be hard.”
"Irma?" Rollins shouted with outrage.
Irma nodded at Rollins, which seemed to relieve him. Through a blush she said firmly, "Uncle, I am a virgin!"
He waved her off.
"That means something!" she cried with conviction.
Spicer again waved her off. "The times are too desperate for quaint scruples.”
For the next few minutes, Irma pondered this horrible fact; frowning, she walked in circles. Rollins scowled at Spicer. Spicer rolled a cigarette and waited. He assumed she would come around because of her animal need for freedom. She picked up her basketball and started shooting again, missing basket after basket.
Spicer gently urged her to the only conclusion. "It's only a blind date, you know. No more, no less."
She stopped shooting. Still holding the ball, she stood with her free arm akimbo and looked at her uncle with troubled eyes. Irma was young and this offer was beyond her experience, far beyond. She was keen enough to see how badly it could go for her, either way. The positive potential of accepting this lubricious proposition was obscured by the dread of being alone with a man who was so powerful and so hungry for her.
Rollins looked from one to the other. In spite of himself, he suddenly realized that he hoped Irma's uncle could demonstrate that this was a true opportunity for her to escape the crushing ennui of house arrest. The major wanted to finally see joy re-enter this estimable girl’s life.
Spicer stood again. He walked to Irma and took both of her hands, which she gently gave to him as the basketball dropped and bounced languidly away. She looked into her uncle's eyes as if pleading for sage advice--which, despite her love for him, she doubted the old man was capable of providing.
He sighed. "Look, you and I have lost much. We keep each other going with gallows humor. That works, but sometime when you live on dark humor, you can fail to see all of the possibilities around you. Serendipitous luck can be laughed away before its reality is recognized. Let's not miss the good. The major is right: Todd is an honorable man. He is embarrassed about having to approach you this way. He's only asking for a date, a private one. You will be at my house; I will be inside. The major can come as well. Todd Wentworth just wants a chance to know you."
"Biblically," gibed Irma.
But by now the thought of liberty had exploded in her mind. She could not repress the wish that the man’s crush could be the key to her escape. Pictures of what she would do raced through her mind. She realized, as did her two friends, that above all else in life she wanted out of this compound. Her sprit was vibrant enough to withstand the grim loss of freedom--but too vibrant not to seize an opportunity for a breakout, even a dangerous chance, even a humiliating one. The thought of new scenery made her tremble with desire. And a new person, a social occasion--this was manna from God. She leapt into her uncle’s short, fat arms and crushed him in a bear hug.