A Student of History, page 9
I arrived at the Colonial Club just after noon. I’d been so worried about finding it that I’d allowed too much time, and now, to save the embarrassment of being there so early, I circled the block a couple of times and then returned and pulled into the driveway at twelve twenty. Although I went downtown frequently to do research at the public library, or eat in Little Tokyo, or see exhibits at the art museums, I had never noticed the Colonial Club. Now I wondered how I’d overlooked it. It was an anomaly of ivy-covered brick walls and stone windows and doorways, like what I imagined East Coast establishments to be, as if a building had been plucked from nineteenth-century Boston and placed, incongruously, on the streets of modern LA. When I pulled into the garage—which was off the street and around a corner, to shield the members’ comings and goings—I surrendered my car with a pang of self-consciousness and told the attendant I was the guest of Ms. Morgan.
“Who?”
“Fiona Morgan,” I said, fearing I was in the wrong place.
“Oh, Mrs. Aaron Morgan,” he said, and then ushered me into the front entrance, where an older black gentleman in a full crimson suit and white gloves gave me a once-over and said, with a slightly disapproving air, “Mrs. Morgan is waiting for you in the fifth-floor dining room.”
The decor of the front entrance was expensive and old-fashioned—heavy furniture, floral rugs, and paintings of pastoral scenes. The elderly gentleman guided me to a small elevator and deposited me inside, repeating, “Fifth-floor dining room,” as the heavy doors drew shut. My heart was beating nearly out of my chest—not only because I was about to see Fiona, but because I felt like an interloper who’d wandered onto royal grounds, who might be discovered and escorted out at any time. When the door opened, I walked out into more plushness. In front of me was a giant oil painting of a mountain region, maybe somewhere in the Sierra. On the table beneath it was an iron statue of a cowboy on a horse, corralling a bull. To the left there was a sitting area, where several men in their sixties wearing jackets and ties were gathered around low wood tables. To the right was the dining room—a huge, high-ceilinged, wood-paneled space with square tables arranged diagonally all the way to the end. There must have been fifty or sixty of them, as well as more tables tucked in nooks along the windows. They were covered with plain white tablecloths and utensils I didn’t need to be told were real silver. About half of the tables were occupied, all by people older than my parents. I was the youngest person in sight, and the only one who wasn’t white—except for the servers, who were all black and Latino, and who moved gracefully among the tables holding platters. Again, I felt like I had walked into a scene from another era—an excursion not just through class, but through time. An older gentleman—the maître d’?—approached and asked if I was there for Mrs. Morgan. When I said I was—how did he know, did I look that out of place?—he led me to her table, about two-thirds of the way back on the right side. Along the walls were more paintings of mountains. I recognized, at one table, an LA city councilman, and at another, a prominent philanthropist whose picture appeared regularly in the paper.
“Richard! Hello, darling!” Fiona called out as we approached. She stood for a cheek-kiss greeting, which I proffered more smoothly this time, and I took in the form-fitting light-blue suit she wore, the softness of the fabric. I felt self-conscious in my own clothes—the same jacket I’d worn to the Polo Lounge, but a cheap pair of slacks, and a tie I’d bought that morning at Nordstrom. Most of the clothes that Mrs. W— had bought me were at the dry cleaners, but I’d needed to fancy up to meet the dress code.
“You look lovely,” I said, and then regretted it. Was this out of line?
“Oh, please,” Fiona responded, “I look like hell. I just dug this suit out of my closet because I couldn’t fit into anything else. I’ve gained a few pounds with all of these luncheons.”
“That’s hard to believe,” I said as I took my seat. “You seem very fit.”
“Well, thank you. It’s not easy being a woman, you know. We have to work so much harder for our beauty.”
We were seated, not across from each other, but on either side of a corner, so that as I moved my right arm and she moved her left—I hadn’t realized she was left-handed—our hands touched. I felt a jolt run through me; there was more heat in this one chaste touch than in all the sweaty acrobatics with the girl from the talent agency. I was sitting alone with Fiona Morgan, in a place that felt as unreal and inaccessible to me as King Arthur’s court, and I had not the first clue of how to conduct myself. But this void was filled by Fiona, who immediately started talking about a benefit she’d been to the night before, her friends’ struggles to choose the right schools for their children, the meeting she had scheduled for later that afternoon with the director of the Music Center. I only caught about half of what she was saying, partly because I knew so little about the topics she addressed, partly because I was mesmerized by her presence. Her blond hair was again pulled away from her face and gathered into a perfect bun; everything about her appearance was glamorous, untouchable. When she smiled—which she did often—she revealed perfect white teeth; when she threw her head back in laughter, I admired the lines of her neck.
A waiter appeared with a bottle of white wine; he was wearing a dark jacket with a white pin affixed to it. He looked about the age of my father, and he smiled at Fiona and gave a respectful nod.
“Hello, Ricardo!” she enthused in return. “Meet another Ricardo—my friend Richard Nagano.”
“Hello,” I said, thrilled to be called her friend. Was I supposed to shake his hand?
But he kept his distance and nodded politely and said, “Welcome to the Colonial Club.”
“Get whatever you want, Richard,” Fiona said. “Everything’s delicious.”
I hadn’t really had a chance to look at the menu, and now I was filled with anxiety. Everything sounded extravagant. Chilled poached salmon on a bed of organic greens. Filet mignon with a red wine pepper sauce and mushroom risotto. And no prices were listed anywhere. Fiona may have sensed my hesitation, because now she said, “Go ahead. You’re my guest.”
I tried to protest but she’d have none of it, and so I ordered pasta primavera—it seemed the least expensive—while she asked for the salad with salmon. After the waiter filled both our glasses generously with sauvignon blanc, she said, “Tell me, Ricardo, what does your pin mean?”
The man looked uncomfortable, shifted under the platter he held. “We’re trying to unionize, miss,” he said quietly.
Fiona had been leaning in, and now she frowned. I wondered whether she’d come out with flat disapproval or a polite word of noncommitment. Instead, she straightened up and said, “Good for you! It’s about time these bastards paid you properly.” When he shuffled off looking relieved, she added, to me, “I hope they ream this place.”
I laughed, surprised, not sure how to react.
“You think I’m kidding? These guys need to be paid a living wage. Running around after all of us and keeping all our secrets.”
“Well, I agree. I’m just surprised. Your sentiment is so—”
“Liberal? I know. My family can’t stand it. As you can imagine, I come from a long line of Republicans.”
“So how did you end up . . .” I wasn’t sure how to complete the thought, “feeling differently?” I somehow overlooked the fact that she herself was one of those bastards; she and her family were longtime members.
“I just opened my eyes and started noticing things,” she explained. “But my parents, they thought they’d done something wrong in raising me when I started paying attention to issues of inequality. They went through deep grief when I told them I was voting for a Democrat. I think they would have had an easier time if I’d told them I was a lesbian.”
“Were you?”
“No. Well, briefly. In college.” She grinned and took a sip of her wine and I laughed with her, not sure what to say. Then she leaned closer and looked into my eyes. “I’ve been doing all the talking. Now it’s your turn. So tell me, what’s your story?”
“Oh, I don’t really have much of a story.”
“We all have a story, whether we share it or not. Where did you grow up? Where’s your family?”
I felt a twinge of self-consciousness, followed by guilt. “I grew up in Westchester. My dad’s an electrician, just like my grandfather. My dad’s office is on Jefferson, near Crenshaw. My mother works in a pharmacy.”
“Really!” said Fiona, with an enthusiasm that seemed out of proportion to what I’d said. “Did your family used to live in Crenshaw?”
“Yes, my grandparents had a house there, and then my parents did too, until my brother and I were school age. Then they moved us to Westchester, for the schools.” Ah, Westchester: the not-quite-Westside. Near the beach, so people could boast that they lived by the water. Yet no one would mistake Westchester for Santa Monica or the Palisades. For one thing, it was racially mixed—the escape hatch for blacks and Japanese who’d come from grittier areas. It was also so close to the airport that when planes took off, you could read the fine print on their bellies.
“Well, that makes sense,” Fiona said, straightening up. “The schools in Crenshaw are just awful. There are a couple of decent charter schools now. We support the Inner City Education Foundation, mostly because Mayor Riordan did, and my mother does whatever he says. But there couldn’t have been much of anything when you were growing up.” She took a large sip of the wine that Ricardo had just poured. “We send a group of fifth-graders from South LA to summer camp each year. They go for two weeks to this lovely camp in Malibu, where they fish, ride horses, and go on nature walks. Sometimes I drive out to watch their final culmination. It always breaks my heart that they have to go back to South LA.”
I didn’t point out that I’d spent part of my childhood in South LA, or that I lived there now.
“And where did you go to college?” she asked.
“Stanford. Class of 2001.”
“Really!” And now she looked at me in a different way. “Well, you’re younger than me, not surprisingly. I was Wellesley, class of ’96.”
“Really?” I said, genuinely surprised. “You must have graduated when you were, what, fourteen?”
She laughed. “You flatter me, Richard. Really. I’m several years older than you.”
“I don’t believe it.” It was hard to believe. “And where did you go to high school?”
“Marlborough. Of course. Like my mother. And her mother. And hers. When you were at Stanford, did you know Parker Ludlow or Christian Wade? I think they might have been in the same class.”
“No, they don’t sound familiar.”
“Well, I suppose they wouldn’t. They were probably off drinking and playing golf all the time. They wouldn’t have graduated—or gotten in, for that matter—if they hadn’t been legacies. And neither of them has accomplished anything since, unless you count massive summer parties in the Hamptons and Europe and a couple of stints in rehab.” She took another sip of her wine. “But we’re getting off track here. So your father’s an electrician, and your grandfather was an electrician—were they just thrilled that you got into Stanford?”
“Well, yes. But my parents . . . it’s hard for them to understand why I’m still in school. They’ll be happy when I get a real job. My brother’s been working with my father for years, and he’ll take over the business when my father retires.” That was, I thought, but didn’t say, provided there was still a business to take over.
“And yet your dissertation is related to your family’s business, right?”
I paused for a moment and drank some wine. Which dissertation should I talk about? The one I’d just proposed to Professor Rose? Or the one I was actually working on? “Yes, exactly.”
“How far into it are you?”
“Oh,” I said, embarrassed, “it’s coming along. It’s just that, since I’m not teaching anymore, I’m living off a fellowship, which is great, but not quite enough. That’s why I took the job with Mrs. W—.”
“How long is the fellowship?”
“Hopefully through next year. I’m not sure, though, if it’s going to be renewed.”
“Do you want me to talk to the president?”
“The president?” I looked at her blankly. “Of the Blain Foundation?”
“No, silly. Of USC. He’s a good family friend. He’ll make sure your funding’s extended if I ask him.”
“Oh. No. But thank you,” I stammered. “I’m sure I’ll find out soon.”
“Anyway, tell me more. You said your work centers on the revolving group credit mechanism that provided the early capital for your family’s business.”
With the prospect of someone actually being interested in my topic, I probably told her far too much. I told her of my grandfather’s joining the Okayama kenjinkai in 1928, the monthly picnics and excursions to the beach or the mountains, Tuesday bowling nights. I told her of him meeting my grandmother at a coffee shop in Crenshaw, and how her father was one of the original contributors to the revolving fund. I told her of my grandfather opening his business, and how he could only find work amongst other Japanese, and later the African Americans who moved into Crenshaw, but never the whites. I told her of how, when my grandparents were sent off to the internment camp during the war, their black neighbors kept watch over their house and business; and how my family’s loyalty to their clientele had made them keep the business in Crenshaw, even when their rising income and the changing racial tides would have allowed a move to a fancier area. I told her of the other loans the kenjinkai made possible—to the Japanese language school, to several gardening ventures, to a nursery, even a funeral home. And I told her of how the members pooled their money too, to help families of members who’d died.
Through all of this, Fiona looked at me attentively, seriously, as if hearing about the workings of a different country, which in some sense I suppose it was. “It’s a lovely concept,” she said.
Our lunches arrived, on china plates with decorative flowers. I released the silverware from the napkin; it looked too fine to dirty with food. And then Fiona told me more about what her foundation was trying to do: team up with a few other family foundations to create a pool of capital for small businesses in the inner city. Some of the major banks had promised loans to minority businesses, she said, but then set the credit expectations prohibitively high. As she spoke, she’d put some food on her fork and hold it above her plate, then raise it to her mouth, and lower it again, never putting it in. She would do this three or four times with each forkful, and I watched first with interest and then growing frustration as the fork made circles in the air, since I didn’t want to eat unless she did. Finally I decided I had to go ahead—I was starving—and tried not to be too distracted by her.
“Our idea” she continued, waving a forkful of greens, “is that any business owner would qualify as long as there was proper collateral.” She smiled and took another sip of wine. “So what do you think?”
What did I think? I thought it sounded well-meaning but completely naïve. Honest people like my father would never trust someone like her or take what they perceived as a handout. And dishonest people—and there were plenty of those—would fleece these people blind. But I wanted to keep her talking, and smiling, so what I said was, “That’s a very interesting idea.”
I felt a twinge of guilt now, thinking about my father. Growing up, I’d rarely seen him in daylight. By the time I’d wake up at six fifteen, he was already gone for the day, driving to his office off Crenshaw before he headed out to job sites. After he and his crew finished their work for the day—at a house, an apartment complex, an office building, or hotel—he’d go back to the office, where he’d return messages, process invoices, and order supplies before coming home for the evening. It was almost always dark when he turned into our driveway. My mother would sit with him while he ate dinner, a warmed-up version of whatever she’d made for my brother and me that night, after her own shift at the pharmacy was over. She’d always held the family together. My mother was from Polish stock, dark-haired and gray-eyed, and in pictures of my parents from the early days of their courtship, they’re good-looking and fresh, a mixed-race couple in a time when such unions weren’t common. If there was any protest to their marriage on either side, I never heard about it. My mother would have shut it down anyway.
I didn’t talk much with my father those evenings. After he ate, he would settle into his recliner and watch his beloved Dodgers, sometimes followed by the late-night news. By the time he’d settled in, I was already in my room for the night—doing homework, or talking on the phone, dreaming of the world beyond Westchester. When I wandered out to the kitchen to get a drink, he’d wave at me wearily. And on Sundays, his one day at home, the only time I saw him in daylight, he’d smile at my brother and me, delighted, surprised, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he’d made us.
Suddenly I felt a large, hostile presence at the table; I looked up to see the unpleasant man from the museum event. He was wearing a blue jacket with some kind of insignia; he looked like an overgrown frat boy.
“Fiona,” he said gruffly, with an irritated edge to his voice.
“Oh, hello, Bryson,” she said, smiling up at him brightly. “You remember my friend Richard Nagano.”
“Sure. You’re the artist,” he said definitively, in a way that allowed no room for correction. He didn’t offer his hand, and neither did I.
