The Gilded Age Part 23

"Mere Indians were not the only ones to acquaint themselves with the divine plant," Mortimer says. "It was the conquistadors, those stern men of swordsmanship and domination, who discovered the divine plant for the rest of the modern civilized world and laid it at our feet. For they knew it to be a healthful boon."

"I never heard of such a thing," Daniel says.

"Young sir, the divine plant has found its way into our American cities in manifold ways. The dockworkers of New Orleans were among the first to partake of it. An observer I know personally has witnessed the increased endurance, the remarkable persistence, the stamina, the building up of sheer strength, the suppression of appet.i.te, not to mention the cheerful disposition-without drink, mind you--among those hardworking men."

"Without drink?"

"Without drink, young sir, and laughing in the sun." Mortimer leaps to his feet, sprints around behind his desk, and produces charts, diagrams, ink drawings, more lithographs. "The divine plant is a stimulant, understand that, and as a stimulant not only does it produce all the salubrious effects I've just mentioned, but works as a cure for anemia, bronchitis, debility, la grippe, sore throat, angina pectoris, and lung troubles. Gastric carcinoma, pneumonia, typhoid fever, all these ills have been cured. Not to mention shock and s.e.xual exhaustion." He leans over the desk, and directs his blazing brown eyes into Daniel's dazed gaze. "Melancholia? Of course! Need I add the cure for dipsomania?"

"I must try it!" Daniel cries.

"The cure is guaranteed." Mortimer sits and folds his hands. "But, of course, living life is up to you, young sir. Dipsomania of your sort is a powerful disease. If you feel compelled to return to the bottle after the divine plant of the G.o.ddess, there is not much more I can do for you."

"I understand. Please! Let me try it."

Mortimer leaps to his feet again and leads Daniel to a side table. A wide flat mirror is set into the sort of silver tray a woman might use to display her perfume bottles. Mortimer reaches into a drawer, takes out a vial of fine white powder and a straight-edge razor blade. He spills a little mound of powder onto the mirror and chops at it like a Chinese cook preparing vegetables. In this fashion, he rearranges the powder into long, fine lines. Now he takes out a straw made of silver with cunning little designs of snakes entwined around the shaft.

"You ingest the cure like this," Mortimer says and, with a vigorous inhalation, promptly sniffs up two lines of the powder through the straw. "You try it now. Take one nostril, then the other," he says, coaching.

Daniel does as he's told. A short blast of pain a.s.saults him and the new discomfort of the astringent powder flying up his nose. A bitter taste pools at the back of his throat.

Medicine. By G.o.d, why must medicine always taste so dreadful?

And then sheer energy careens into his brain, a short blinding moment, a vertigo. The whole world reels and spins. And then the moment of reeling blindness pa.s.ses into a sheer wash of pleasure, of strength, of good health and stimulation. Bliss, vigor itself, this sacred gift from the heathen G.o.ddess!

"Dr. Mortimer, I am cured!"

"Well now, well now," the physician murmurs, clearly pleased. "Would you like a prescription?"

"Of course! How much?"

"Five dollars, please."

It only takes money, that's what poor old Schultz said. Daniel counts out coins. The proceeds from the sale of the Western Addition lot are flying out of his boodle bag like pigeons startled from a roost. Well. He shall spend no more cash on the c.o.c.ktail Route. He is cured of that expensive hobby.

"What is this divine plant of the Incas, Dr. Mortimer?" Daniel asks as he hands over the money.

"Young sir, the heathens plucked leaves right off the miraculous tree and chewed them as a cow chews her cud." Mortimer hands over a receipt, a tiny silver spoon, and three vials of the white powder. "As you can see, the sacrament comes in a refined form these days. We physicians call it by a scientific name."

"What name is that?"

"We call it cocaine."

Cured!

In the s.p.a.ce of an hour, Daniel has reclaimed his soul, restored his health and his sanity. Miracle! Invincible, he feels positively invincible. This must be how a t.i.tan feels, thundering across the primordial world, fearing no one, shrinking from nothing. His blood soars! The pathetic stupor of mescal for lunch and brandy for breakfast is long gone. A G.o.d of the ancients he is, his muscles mythological, his brain swooping like a hawk. His eyes take in the splendor and the squalor of Montgomery Street in one omniscient glance as he steps out onto the sidewalk.

And what a sight it is-the proper plain-faced ladies suffocating in their corsets, sweating in their heavy dark dresses. The painted chippies pathetic in their shame, but colorful and lively. The bloated men of all cla.s.ses leering at the women, filled with their self-importance and stupidity. All of them drunk, of course, from fine gentleman to roustabout. And the celebrants of el Dia de los Muertos, lunatics cavorting in their death's-head masks, making mockery of the grim ultimate solution to all man's ill's.

Not Daniel J. Watkins. He is restored from the Dead!

He stands at the corner of Columbus and Montgomery. The weird angle of the streets suddenly appears to him as a fork in the road designed by the Devil. He must choose his path. How he has longed to choose his path! And suddenly his path is clear. He will settle Father's paltry real estate dealings. He will make the deadbeats pay or quit the premises, make them settle their accounts one way or another. As is only right and proper.

And then?

Then he is desperate to figure out how to make photographs project on a wall in a sequence so that the persistence of vision will make each image a whole, make images move and dance like life itself. Indeed, designs for such a gizmo dance through his newly stimulated mind. Flip the images like a deck of cards? Or wrap a roll of photographic paper on a spool and spin it? And if such a feat could be done? Why, the story of civilization could be told in pictures. The mighty empires of Europe and the East. America's hardscrabble story, every sacrifice and adventure and great love. How many thrilling stories could be shown in pictures if only one could figure out how to make static images come alive.

Dr. Mortimer's cure is a rousing success. Daniel can think more clearly than he has in days. In years! His heart throbs with a glowing pleasure, and thoughts of sin swell in his mind. A happy side effect, according to Dr. Mortimer, encouraged by healthful radiance. He could take care of his vile need at once, for a red light glows in a little window on the third story of a commercial building two doors down. But Daniel J. Watkins does not pay for it.

Where is his mistress? He must see her at once.

He dashes downtown to Sutter Street, barges into the Parisian Mansion. There he finds Zhu and Jessie Malone conferring in the parlor, Li'l Lucy weeping. Several other sporting gals stand around with troubled faces. The ugly little Peruvian maid watches from the sidelines with a look of smug triumph.

"Please, Miss Malone," Li'l Lucy cries. "Give me a chance. Just one more chance."

"Your jig is up, Li'l Lucy," Jessie says. "And don't say I didn't warn you, neither, because I did. I've warned you over and over till I'm blue in the face. I'll not have a poxy girl at the Parisian Mansion. The biz is the biz."

"We can try to treat her symptoms," Zhu argues. "The disease goes into remission. It's not her fault, Miss Malone."

"And whose fault is it, then, may I ask?" Jessie snaps her fingers, and the Peruvian maid scurries over with a goblet of champagne.

"I was just saying today to a fine lady that you're fair, Miss Malone. Don't make me regret those words."

"She knows she gotta douche, and she don't do it. She ties one on and pa.s.ses out."

"Please, Miss Malone," Li'l Lucy whimpers. "Please."

"Have you heard about a method of protection called condoms?' Zhu says. "The girls should use them. You could practically eliminate your problems with disease, not to mention pregnancy."

"Missy, if this is one of your gadgets from six hundred years in the future, I am sure we cannot just go down to Kepler's Sundries and pick up a few."

"Actually, you can," Zhu says. "I read an article in The Argonaut just yesterday. I know you loved newfangled things, Miss Malone, and this is the latest thing in the French brothels. Really, I don't know why you don't already use them as a regular practice in your business. My spirit Muse tells me that condoms have been around since the 1700s."

"Sure and what is this thing, exactly, and what's it made of?"

Daniel listens closely, his face heating up at his mistress's frank talk.

"A condom is like a glove or a sheath that slips over the gentleman's member and catches his bodily discharge. His person doesn't touch her and his discharge doesn't enter her," Zhu says with nary a blush or a giggle, though all the sporting gals present burst into uproarious laughter. "In your Now, unfortunately, the thing is made of sheep's intestine."

"Sheep's intestine!" Jessie sputters. "If you think any one of my gentlemen is gonna put a sheep's intestine on his jockey, you're nutty, missy."

Daniel can tolerate no more delay. "Mistress, I need to see you." To Jessie, "Is there a room we may use?"

"Sure and take Li'l Lucy's room. She ain't needin' it no more."

"Please, Miss Malone," Li'l Lucy wails and falls on her knees. She crawls to Jessie, reaching up for Jessie's hands. "Please, please."

Daniel wants no more of this sordid little drama. He seizes Zhu's elbow, leading her upstairs. She points out Li'l Lucy's room, and he practically drags her there. The room is frilly and cheap, reeking of lilac cologne, cigarette smoke, spilt whiskey, and other odors he'd rather not identify. He locks the door.

"What is it?" she snaps. "I was in the middle of business."

"You were in the middle of the brothel's business, my angel. I want you now."

She stares at him, astonished. "Want me for what?'

He shucks off his jacket and vest and drops his trousers, his manly virtue tumescent. By G.o.d, he shall spill his precious bodily fluids any moment. "Need you ask?"

She shakes her head. "Well! You never ask me. I come from a Now where there's precious little romance or tenderness. And since I've come to your Now, so help me, I want romance. I want tenderness. And you. You're such a brute. Such a man of your times."

"I shall buy you candy and flowers, if that's what you want," he growls, advancing on her.

"Candy and flowers." She gives an exasperated little laugh. "In all this time, it's always the same. I don't why I let you get away with it, but I do. It's like the Gilded Age Project has subverted me. You wait till you're stinking and then you launch your attack. You never ask me," she repeats, her tone accusing.

"I'm not stinking now," he says imperiously.

She regards him curiously, taking her time.

Those slanting green eyes of hers, the bright green irises not at all like Mama's deep sea eyes. Quite alien, they are. Which suddenly excites him more than he's ever felt toward her before. Toward any woman. "I need you, my angel." You never ask me. Well, he's turning over a new leaf. "And I'm asking you. May I please have the pleasure of your company? You know how much I adore you."

He's hoping she will laugh and rip off her jacket, but she doesn't. No, she sidles toward the door, clearly contemplating escape. "This isn't supposed to be happening. None of this is supposed to be happening! Muse?" she speaks to her infernal spirit. "What are the probabilities of this happening? Why?"

He can stand it no longer! He has been a gentleman-sort of-and he is definitely not stinking. He seizes her, tears off her jacket and shirtwaist, ripping the silk. She silently struggles-or perhaps she abets him-but he is invincible, he is a G.o.d. She is a tiny writhing thing in his hands. He spins her around, seizes the laces of her corset, rips apart the knot, and pulls and pulls as tightly as he can. She gasps in pain.

They want to feel pain. Oh, this is splendid! He can circle her entire waist with his two hands. He whirls her around, presses her down on Li'l Lucy's bed. She is wide-eyed, distraught with l.u.s.t, in a trance of sinful ecstasy.

"Please, miss, may I?" He tears down her bloomers, her hands on his. Is she resisting him or a.s.sisting him? He doesn't know or care. "I know you hate it, but you must help me now."

And he takes her, feeling every sensation as he's never felt the sensations of the carnal act before. Divine plant of the G.o.ddess! Sacrament! He plunges, he rocks, strange-smelling sweat filming his skin. He hears her gasping, feels her moving beneath him. The dreadful moment of s.e.xual transport overcomes him like a seizure, an epilepsy of sensuality, a small death.

He rises off her and falls back on the bed, spent for the moment. How he hates that spent feeling. And her? She leaps up, reaches urgently behind her and tears open the too-tight laces. She gasps again. No matter, he thinks, no matter. She's a woman. She isn't supposed to like it.

"d.a.m.n you, Daniel," she says. "When I'm around you, it's like I'm possessed."

"Thank you, my angel," he says ironically and now she does laugh, a little bitterly. The quick heave of his breath subsides, and the fingers of a headache squeeze the backs of his eyes. The supreme brilliance of the cure is beginning to fade.

Fade! He could weep with disappointment. He wants this exultation never to end. He sits up, hands shaking, and retrieves his jacket. Ah, the vials, the clever silver spoon. Trembling and weak, he uncaps a vial, dips the spoon. Unsure of his technique, he awkwardly inserts the spoon into his nostril and inhales as vigorously as he can.

She watches him, openmouthed. No doubt she's never seen such strange behavior before. Well, t.i.t for tat. She engages in some mighty strange behavior herself.

Ah, the bitter sting in his nose, on his tongue, and the bitter fluid gathering in the back of his throat. And then that sweet bloom of power, the radiance of health.

"Daniel," she cries, "what in h.e.l.l are you doing to yourself now?"

"Tut tut, watch your language, miss." He does not like that prudish expression on her face, doesn't like it at all. "I went to Dr. Mortimer for the cure."

"The cure?"

"The cure for dipsomania. I shall be a slave to drink no more." His eye wanders to Li'l Lucy's nightstand, to a carafe of whiskey. He takes out the stopper, sniffs. Dreadful booze the wh.o.r.e swills, but he tips the carafe anyway, floating a taste on his tongue, which has suddenly gone quite dry. Ah, just the slightest touch of relief. The divine plant of the Incas is too strong for the evils of rotgut. Still, the effect is very nice, a soothing counterpoint to his jumpy nerves. He puts the carafe down. That's right. He can put the drink down anytime he wants to. He is cured.

"And what is this cure?" she insists in that tone of hers.

"It is the divine plant of the Incas. Dr. Mortimer says the scientific name for it is cocaine."

She claps her hand to her mouth. "Oh, G.o.d. You can't. You mustn't!" She strides up to him, bold as you please, and holds out her hand. "Give me the vial. Give it to me right now."

"I should say not!"

She tears off the remnants of her shirtwaist, exclaiming over the rough treatment he gave the garment, shifts her eyes to the side, muttering in her strange way to her infernal spirit. "Which is it, Muse? Am I supposed to rescue Wing Sing from the tongs or rescue him from himself? Calculate the probabilities, d.a.m.n you! Tell me what to do!"

Oh, splendid. She is quite insane, well, he's already established that. After all her scolding about the drink, the ciggies, the b.u.t.tery feasts, now she scolds him about his very salvation? It's too much. Too much.

He splashes water on his face from Li'l Lucy's wash basin, pulls on his clothes, and heads out the door without saying goodbye as she exclaims over a b.u.t.ton he tore off her jacket. The second spoonful of the cure produces somewhat less of an effect than his glorious first taste at Dr. Mortimer's clinic. Still, it's a fine feeling, this exuberance. Encouraged, though ever so slightly disappointed, he strides through the parlor, past the little drama he witnessed on his way in, still unconcluded. By G.o.d, weeping wh.o.r.es.

Daniel J. Watkins will not linger in a sordid place like the Parisian Mansion. This is a place for the weak among men, the ones who exhaust their precious essence on degraded creatures like Li'l Lucy. He will do no such thing. He heads out, striding vigorously down Market Street, bound for the ferry to Sausalito. Invincible once more, clear-headed and powerful. He knows what he must do. He must confront that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Harvey, once and for all.

"Daniel! Daniel!"

Zhu hurries after him. Her face is flushed, the black ribbons of her Newport hat streaming behind her. She wears her mauve silk, his favorite dress, which is most becoming with her golden skin, black hair, and emerald-green eyes. With a sudden pang, he realizes he does adore her. But the realization does not overwhelm him in a maudlin way like when he's stinking and dwelling on the lack in his life. No indeed, in some peculiar fashion he cannot quite explain, Zhu Wong has changed his life. Changed him irrevocably. Perhaps her entreaties are what inspired him to seek the cure. And his fate-this great fate he felt so powerfully on the Overland train-has subtly altered.

But how? Everything seems to be shifting and changing all around him.

That she clings to this lunacy about being from the distant far future has a certain charm, an insouciance. Yet her lunacy is not the raving of the savagely ill, whom he has seen in Paris, but rather is supported by her quick intelligence, an extraordinary knowledge of things a woman should not rightly know about, and, of course, her clever accoutrements. The mollie knife. Her spirit voice, which he's beginning to suspect is not a spirit at all, but some scientific invention he hasn't heard about.

He pauses, permitting her to catch up.

"Where are you going in this state?" she demands.

"To Sausalito. It's high time Mr. Harvey squared his account with me."

"You'd better not go while you're so high."

"High?"

"Intoxicated."

"For the last time, I am not intoxicated. I am cured!"

"Cocaine is a powerful narcotic, Daniel. Trust me, you're intoxicated." She looks him up and down and sighs. "Don't go alone, then. I shall accompany you."

At earlier time, he would have scoffed. Not now. "Ah, but can you fight in those lady's clothes."

"I can fight."

"And you've got your mollie knife on your person?"

"Always."