“Madam Rose, she here?” she asked.
I told her she wasn’t around.
“She told me if ever I needed, she’d put us up.”
“She isn’t here,” I said.
The woman pointed toward the flames engulfing downtown. “Well, she isn’t there.”
“We have blankets to spare,” Dr. Sugarman said, and he offered the woman and her baby his seat at the end of the table, far from me.
When a photographer, his name was Arnold Genthe, appeared out of the smoke, a lanky sort of fellow dressed in a khaki riding outfit, Sugarman welcomed him too. Genthe explained that his cameras and studio had been damaged in the quake; he’d borrowed a Kodak Special from a friend and had spent the day walking the city, recording the devastation.
Sugarman offered him a plate and a cup of wine, and, as payment, he told us some of what he’d seen.
“The Hearst Building went up at noon, followed by the Mechanics’ Pavilion,” Genthe said. “Then the top of the Call Building caught fire and Portsmouth Square, both going fast, by early afternoon. Still they thought they could save much of downtown. They were wrong. They dynamited around the Mint. But once Delmonico’s restaurant shot up in flames, well, there was no stopping the spread.”
Mr. Levinson, who also lived on the square, piped up. He was in the insurance business and he’d spent the day sending telegrams to Washington until the telegraph office caught fire.
“We have our suspicions regarding Delmonico’s,” Levinson said. “The Alcazar Theatre that housed Delmonico’s took on a lot of damage, but that fire was later. Very neat. Not a whiff of smoke, then full-bore blaze.”
“Gas lines?” Sugarman queried.
Levinson wasn’t convinced. “Looks to me to be arson. An insurance job. ’Course, nothing on that front will go forward anytime soon.”
Genthe then said that Mayor Schmitz had given orders for the police to shoot looters on sight, no questions asked. “The fellows, they’ve been doing just that—downright recklessly,” Genthe added, his voice coarse from the smoke. “I’d say the fire is covering many tracks.”
Dr. Sugarman turned to me. “Vera, that soldier, he did your General a good turn. Don’t doubt it for a second.” Sugarman turned to Genthe. “Please, go on.”
“Chinatown in cinders. The clock tower at the Ferry Building cracked. San Francisco Gas and Electric’s silo chimney split in two.” Genthe shrugged. He had seen too much, and could only recite the calamities, as if reading off a list. “The Palace Hotel, touted as unburnable, burned to its foundation. And, of course, you’ve heard what happened to the fire chief.” Genthe looked at the surprise on all our faces. “Oh, well, that was a blow. When the building next door collapsed on the firehouse, the chief fell several stories down and was scalded by the furnace in the basement. The poor chap, just when the city needs him most. Burned over most of his body. They don’t expect him to live.”
“Dear God,” Sugarman gasped. “And where is Sullivan now?”
“They’ve got temporary hospitals set up in the Presidio and by the Ferry Building. Thousands of wounded. Thousands dead.” Genthe hugged his arms and stared at the ground.
We all fell silent then. Till Sugarman nodded and said, “Go on.”
Genthe sighed. “Next I went to see about the Ham and Eggs fire. That’s what the fire chaps are calling it. A woman in Hayes Valley, she didn’t want her kids to go hungry, so she made a fire in what was left of her busted chimney.”
“She didn’t even think about the broken gas lines,” Sugarman said, pounding his fist on the table.
Genthe nodded. “That’s right. By the looks of it, the whole mash will burn, everything south of Market, as far as Hunters Point.”
“Oy.” Sugarman cupped his hands over his eyes.
“City Hall,” Genthe added, and shrugged. “The priciest building west of the Mississippi? All a fake, a palace of sleaze.” Genthe’s lip curled with contempt. “The columns, why, they aren’t even marble. More like… papier-mâché. I took a photograph of these little bits of newspaper tooting out of their tops. I took it, ’cause otherwise, who would believe it?”
Genthe handed his empty cup to Sugarman. “As for City Hall, picture the carcass of your Thanksgiving bird picked clean.”
Again we were silent, imagining what we couldn’t quite imagine.
“And the mayor? Where’s he in all this?” Levinson asked.
“Oh, I’ve seen him about,” Genthe said. “Driving from fire to fire. His neck got saved for now. Actually, he’s doing a good bit. Last I saw him, maybe an hour ago, he was up with the fellows on Nob Hill fighting to keep the Fairmont from burning. Good luck with that.”
“Excuse me,” Pie said, coughing while straining to have her voice rise above the roar. “Have you heard news of James O’Neill? He has a shop—”
Genthe looked at Pie and slowly shook his head. “Sorry, miss, don’t know him.”
Squinting, he turned his gaze to Tan. “Your man there. Why isn’t he with the rest of the Chinese? You know, they’ve put them in a camp in the Presidio. They won’t let them leave.”
Pie and I exchanged a look. So that’s why Tan was so nervous. And why he’d come.
“I’d like to have a picture with him,” Genthe said. “ ’Course with all of you.” He stood and everyone stood with him. Genthe herded the group to stand beside Tan’s kitchen.
“Miss, may I ask you to pose with your Chinaman?”
“He is not my Chinaman,” I said.
“Vera,” Pie whispered. “No need to press the point.”
“His name is Tan,” I said. “And he is not and never will be mine.”
“Right. So, are you in the photo or out?” Genthe’s impatience was matched only by his dissatisfaction that no one seemed to be listening to his directives. He arranged Tan, LowNaa, and Lifang in front of the canopy,
