Overland Read online

  The bird studied the cans carefully as if considering this before asking again, “What’s this?”

  “It’s fish,” said Mrs Ishi.

  The bird began bobbing its head rhythmically as if counting the cans then paused before repeating the question a third time.

  “It’s fish,” said Mrs Ishi patiently. She stroked the feathers of the conure’s chest with the back of her forefinger, which seemed to break the loop of inquiry. She then opened the wall cupboard.

  Inside, stacked in neat rows like a food-mart display, were several dozen identical cans.

  The bird gave a high, swooping whistle.

  In the women’s accessories section of a small department store shoppers milled about, inspecting the goods. Two ladies were trying on hats, while at the cosmetics counter an attentive salesgirl assisted a customer in choosing the right lipstick.

  The store manager, Mr De Silva, a middle-aged man with a flower in his buttonhole, stood behind a glass-topped counter bearing a display stand of perfumes. Facing him was Kay, perfectly turned out in a smart gray suit with a matching pillbox hat, looking a little like an air stewardess.

  “I don’t understand, Mr De Silva. When I spoke to you on the telephone yesterday you told me the job was practically mine, that an interview would be a mere formality.”

  “Yes, but that was before …”

  “Before you saw me?”

  Mr De Silva looked away. He tapped at some paperwork on the counter with his pen. “On the phone you said your surname was Ashborough.”

  “Ashborough? No, I didn’t. It’s not Ashborough, it’s Nashimura.”

  “Well it sounded like Ashborough when you said it. That’s what I have written down here.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mr De Silva, you were mistaken.”

  “Apparently so. Very much so,” He set down his pen. “Nashimura? The name is er … Japanese, isn’t it?”

  “Irish, actually.”

  Mr De Silva looked up, regarding her blankly. “Irish?” He quickly realized she was being perverse.

  A nosy customer who had been eavesdropping sidled up to an adjacent counter on the pretext of inspecting the goods on display. The woman looked Kay up and down. She lifted a perfume bottle and brought its glass stopper to her nose. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she set the bottle firmly back down. She shuddered, fanning the air in front of her face while uttering a sound expressing her repugnance. Mr De Silva clocked it; he wanted Kay out of his store. He smiled obsequiously at the customer and waited until she had wandered out of earshot. He lowered his voice discreetly to resume their conversation.

  “Look. I have nothing personally against your people, but it is my understanding that families of your … er … origin, Miss Nashimura, are to be relocated in the very near future so even if I were to offer you the position, within a couple of weeks you’d be sent away to your new home, wherever that is, and frankly, I’d be back to square one looking for a new sales assistant.”

  “I was born right here in California. So were my parents. We’ve never even been to Japan. I’m as American as you are, Mr De Silva, so I very much doubt that I’ll be relocated anywhere.”

  Mr De Silva did not agree, but was reluctant to prolong the debate; a florid-faced woman at a nearby display stand was inspecting a tin of face powder. He turned his attention to her with an unctuous smile.

  “Ah yes, madam. The new Cashmere Bouquet: nature’s aid to loveliness. Perfect for the cream rose complexion.”

  After the interview, Kay headed through the busy shopping streets in West Hollywood, replaying the conversation over in her head. Among the thriving businesses on Wilshire Boulevard, she noticed that Yamamoto’s Invisible Shoe Repair had boarded up its windows. Scrawled on one of the wood panels were the words Closed for good—to which someone else had added an extra Good! A little further along, Salzman’s Family Restaurant informed its customers that they were Famous for Steaks, Seafood, Real Spaghetti and Sandwiches. It also assured them, as if as further testimony to the quality of their food, that they were Not Hiring Japs.

  Next door was a camera store, outside which stood an Asian woman with three big looping curls set stiffly on top of her head. She wore a button on the lapel of her dress that said I am Chinese, not Japanese. Their eyes met for a second before the woman looked guiltily away, presumably afraid that Kay might be better positioned than most to see through her deception.

  THREE

  THE LONG SHADOW cast by the Overland Church steeple pointed like a compass needle towards a tennis court, which overlooked the gently sloping green pasture of a nearby farm. Two Residents in tennis whites sat, ankles crossed, on the ground with their backs against a wall, leisurely sunning themselves and chatting.

  George was coming from the shower block when he happened to spot them and decided to go over.

  “What gives? Why aren’t you playing?”

  “We lost all our balls,” the man whined. “Every time they go out of play at that end, they roll down the slope and drop over the edge. We must have lost a dozen balls down there. Now we’re left without a single one.”

  George was cheerfully cajoling. “That’s no excuse. You can pretend.”

  “Pretend?”

  “Sure. Swing your racquets, run around a little. You know what a game of tennis looks like. No one’s going to notice if there’s a ball or not.”

  “Kinda pointless, isn’t it? Playing tennis without a ball?”

  George sighed inwardly. “This isn’t a recreational park, created for your amusement. You’ve got a job to do.”

  The tennis players turned up their noses at the idea, but George wouldn’t be defeated. “Come on. Snap to it. Let’s see some fancy rallying. Show us what you can do.”

  Reluctantly, the couple hauled themselves to their feet and took their positions either side of the net. The man got things going with an apathetically mimed serve. The woman, feeling self-conscious, couldn’t bring herself to join in the charade.

  George tut-tutted as the imaginary ball bounced past her. “That was a gift. You could have gotten that one easy. Fifteen love.”

  Play continued. This time, the woman returned the serve with a languid backhand volley. Her opponent countered with a cross-court forehand, and so they went on, stepping from side to side and swinging their rackets through the air. As the rally progressed, their mimed strokes became increasingly athletic and graceful. The players realized that without the ball to spoil things, they were able to execute each shot faultlessly. They quickly became match-perfect professionals.

  “That’s the idea. Keep it moving.”

  Finally, the “ball” went out of play.

  “Excellent. Fifteen all.”

  The man still had a gripe to air. “If you had put a fence round the edge, we’d still have a real ball to play with.”

  “Ah, quit bellyaching. This is a good test of your acting skills. As a matter of fact, I think I like it better without a ball. You’re much more convincing as tennis players.”

  The woman registered the jibe just as she was poised to serve. She took out her annoyance on the make-believe ball and with a powerful swipe aimed it straight at George. He “saw” it coming and dodged smartly to the side. He gave her a look, pretending to feel affronted; she glared back with playful defiance. Stepping towards the edge, he peered down the slope to where the ball would have landed. He turned back to face them, wagging a reproachful finger.

  “See? That’s why you keep losing your balls.” George turned to the man. “You gotta teach Babe Ruth here a little self-control.”

  Over at the visitors parking lot, Jimmy kick-started his motorcycle. Using his feet to maneuver it, he carefully eased the chugging machine towards the exit

  where a series of

  descending ramps

  and transitional platforms

  of varying lengths and gradients

  zig-zagged a path

  to

  the—

  —ground.
At the far end of the final slope was a border fence and gate where a young soldier raised a red-and-white-striped rising-arm barrier to let him through.

  As the bike picked up speed, Jimmy noticed that to his left, several tanker trucks were parked haphazardly on a wide area of tarmac. A giant hose hung from one of them like an elephant’s trunk, its end supported by a man in coveralls who guided the nozzle as it spewed green paint all over the ground. Other men were walking up and down spreading the liquid with big wide brooms and squeegees.

  George was at the bus stop, checking his watch. A Roman centurion on a red bicycle sailed leisurely by, raising his hand in greeting. George returned his salute.

  Up on the hill next to the church was the tennis court where the game he had just instigated was hotting up. The play itself was silent, but he could just make out the players calling out the score. He turned to watch them for a moment, then noticed the bus approaching. It didn’t make the scheduled stop, as buses are supposed to do, but George was unfazed; he ran alongside it, opened the door and leapt inside. The driver’s seat was vacant, but he chose to sit in one of the passenger seats, settling down to enjoy the journey.

  The bus ran, like all the other vehicles, on a track like on a scenic railway or a fairground ride, its route predetermined by the metal rail on which it traveled and its speed regulated by the mechanism that drove it. It was a two-way street so vehicles were approaching from the opposite direction, always perfectly in line, yet randomly spaced so that groups of vehicles might move together to simulate natural traffic flow. George watched as cars, taxis and trucks idled by, punctuated by the occasional motorcycle and dummy rider.

  The traffic ahead curved to the right—past the library, past Kaiser’s corner drugstore, where two men with ladders were fitting smart new green awnings over the windows. George’s heart sank a little; they were supposed to be red, not green. How had they managed to get it so wrong? He wondered if the new Vanguard color chart was to blame and took out the concertina-folded sheet from his breast pocket to inspect it.

  In an attempt to make their color range sound more exotic, they had named their colors with reference to faraway places: Zanzibar Storm, Oxford, Havana, Belgian Mist. He’d never visited any of these places, and he suspected that his painters hadn’t either. Without the swatches they’d be clueless to guess which hues these names represented. Color names, in George’s view, depended on a shared point of reference: charcoal, peach, blood, buttercup—most people would be familiar with the inherent colors of these things. But what was the predominant color in Oxford? Only the dons could be expected to know.

  As for the awnings, the painters appeared to have mistaken Geneva (which was green) for Genoa (which, for some reason, was red).

  George didn’t want to make the men feel bad about their mistake, but the green wasn’t right. Kaiser’s was based on the drugstore he knew as a boy and those awnings had always been red. He resolved to leave a note for them later.

  The bus rolled along past other stores with sporadically populated parking lots. Nearer the Orpheum movie theater, clusters of Residents gathered to chat; some of them, including a pair of middle-aged twins dressed as banjo-playing minstrels, saw George on the bus and greeted him with a theatrical wave.

  Catching sight of a military uniform George realized too late that he’d also been spotted by First Lieutenant Franks who was on the sidewalk, trying to catch his attention. The military presence in Overland was a niggling element that had the potential to curdle the cream. It was important to keep it at bay.

  “Mr Godfrey!” The lieutenant started to trot alongside the bus to keep up. “Can I have a quick word about Major Lund’s visit?”

  George talked to him through the open window. “Sorry, Lieutenant. Can’t stop now. I’m late for an important meeting.”

  “You haven’t forgotten he’s coming on Friday?” The lieutenant’s voice shuddered in rhythm with his footfall. “The thing is, we’ve just heard that Colonel Wagner may also be visiting. It’s very important that we make sure everything is in order.”

  “Look around you, Lieutenant. Everything’s perfect. We’re in Paradise.”

  “Yes, but—”

  George turned a deaf ear and faced cheerfully ahead, relaxing back in his seat to resume his journey in peace. The lieutenant gave up the chase and was left stranded on the sidewalk.

  MEANWHILE At a news kiosk at Sepulveda and 11th, a string of true detective mags dangled by their corners from a string above the vendor’s head. Lust, violence, revenge and greed seemed to be the major motivators of the crimes within. Other magazine covers: Fighting fit with Barbara Stanwyk; on the road with Dorothy Lamour; behind the scenes with Claudette Colbert. Stabbed 78 times by her jealous lover. Grow your own mushrooms. Build muscles in just 3 weeks and be a REAL he-man. A stack of newspapers announced the latest war news from the pacific: Bataan Collapses.

  The bus passed a newly wooded area of parkland, its trees constructed from vertical wooden poles, each with an armature of cross-beam branches draped with netting and covered with painted burlap strips or dyed chicken feathers. Care had been taken to use a range of green shades and hues—deep emerald, celadon, fruity yellow-green, jade, mint, malachite, moss—according to their designated varieties. Further along, on a patch of open ground, a handful of men in workwear were using ropes to hoist the timber studwork frame that would form the gabled end wall of the new schoolhouse.

  Very nice, thought George. He hoped one day to have children, though in hindsight it was just as well he and Muriel had never got round to it.

  The sneezing put paid to the morning affections that had once played a part in their marriage, and for George this became something of a blessing. An enthusiastic yet demanding lover, Muriel always somehow made him feel that whatever he was doing, he wasn’t quite doing it right. During what he came to think of as “the preliminaries” she often seemed irritated by his advances and once even repositioned his hand, with an impatient “Not there. There.” It was the same way she dealt with Fuffy if he misbehaved; a firm jerk of his leash would bring him in line.

  Muriel was skeptical of medical opinion, however sound, always thinking she knew better.

  “Allergic? Baloney! Allergic to what, for instance?”

  “Dr Kowalski said it could be anything in the home. Pet hair, dust mites. He actually suggested it might be your perfume.”

  She stared at him indignantly. “What’s wrong with my perfume?”

  “Nothing. It’s lovely, but I may be allergic to it, that’s all. And well, it is quite strong.”

  Dr Kowalski had not in fact mentioned perfume at all in his list of possible triggers for his symptoms; this was more George’s diagnosis. Muriel suspected as much.

  “No one else has a problem with it, George. I’ve had many compliments about my perfume. Other people can’t get enough of it.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  Muriel caught the snide edge to his remark.

  “It’s just you, George. You’re peculiar.”

  At the next bend he jumped down from the moving bus and continued on foot. In the town-square gardens the ground was covered by lengths of rough undyed burlap. A man wearing a metal backpack tank with a hose attached was spraying the area in a wide sweeping motion, transforming it into a luxuriant green lawn.

  George headed for an adjacent building that had a painted sign over the door. The Overland Diner wasn’t a fancy place, but it was cosy; popular with the Residents—somewhere they could hang out and chat over coffee. Outside tables with cheerful umbrellas gave the establishment a Continental feel, like the “Gay Paree” cafes George had seen in pictures. At one table a man reading a newspaper sat with a woman holding a shopping basket.

  She looked up. “Morning, Mr Godfrey.”

  The man felt the need to justify their presence. “We’re on our break.”

  “I didn’t say a thing.”

  “We’re allowed a break: fifteen minutes in the mor
ning.”

  George laughed, halting the argument with outstretched hands. “I know. I know. Please. Relax. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  A Negro man, elegantly dressed in a splendid check suit and bowtie was perched on the edge of a barrel of plastic flowers at the diner entrance. George touched his shoulder warmly. “Hey, Tommy.”

  “How’s it going, Mr Godfrey?”

  “I think we’re getting there.”

  “Did you do anything nice and relaxing at the weekend?”

  “Sure did. There’s still a lot more work to do, but hey, you know. A guy’s gotta take a little time off now and again, hasn’t he, sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labor? I mean … even God took Sunday off.”

  “You got that right. Good for you to get out of town.”

  “Oh, I didn’t leave town. I stayed right here in Overland.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Why not? It’s beautiful here. Travel is very overrated.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, I had the place to myself so I sat around, enjoying the scenery. Did a little fishing down by the lake.”

  Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m guessing you didn’t catch nothing?”

  “Not yet, Tommy. But I’m hopeful.”

  “Well, let me know when you do.”

  George nodded. “You bet.”

  Inside the Overland Diner was distinctly less Continental: a long tiled counter with a row of stools in front of it. It was kitted out with the usual stuff: a cash register, napkin dispensers, sugar shakers. A few of the Overland Residents sat at the counter drinking coffee or reading newspapers; other customers occupied the tables and chairs. Some had lunch pails in front of them and were busy eating.

  A woman in her sixties wearing a little cardboard hat stood beside a big metal coffee urn and a tray of donuts.

  “Morning, Effie.” George approached the counter, studying the extensive list of “breakfast suggestions” on the painted menu board behind her. “Now then. What will it be today? My, my. It all looks so good. Hot meatloaf platter? The blue plate special? Pork chops? Hmm. No, bacon and eggs, I think. Yes. Two eggs over easy.”