As with most things, it started by accident.
Every September, San Francisco held a fall fashion show in Union Square Plaza. The planter boxes in the plaza were full of beautiful, bright flowers in full bloom. A ramp had been built so that the models could show off the latest revenge of a few Parisian fruits on the whole of clothes-buying womankind. The pit hi the middle of the raised, wooden rectangle was for the band.
Actually I seldom played at affairs of this sort, but the regular drummer got sick or something, and my name happened to be at the top of the union casual-call list. Herb and I got a pass from Ken Johnson to cut school, as the show was scheduled for noon, Friday. Herb wasn't playing, but I needed his car to haul my stuff and I still didn't drive.
We got to Union Square about eleven, and had a hell of a time handling the drums over that goddamn ramp to set them up. A local radio personality was MC, and some well-suited dyky-looking broad from the House of Fashion narrated as the models pranced around the ramp.
We played "A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody," and all the other trashy music that is reserved for fashion shows and beauty contests. The models came out of a large, gaily striped tent that had been erected at one end of the rectangle. They walked all the way around, stopping now and then to pose and twirl for photographers, and went back into the tent on the other side to change into their next "creation."
She had shown several suits before I even noticed her, or rather, noticed her noticing me. She had soft brown hair done up in high-fashion style, which made her appear still taller than her five-foot-six or -seven. Every time she spun around, her dark eyes searched me out from the band pit and glinted a message of warmth that made me feel strange inside.
I guessed she was about twenty-three. She had a small, pert nose, smooth, light skin, thin ankles, a narrow ass, and breasts I couldn't even guess at under her tweedy, full jacket.
She went back into the tent and I turned my head to the exit, waiting for her to come out again. It took several minutes, and when she reappeared her eyes immediately found mine once more. Each time she turned inward, no matter for how brief an instant, we found each other. I sat there playing the drums and getting hard as a rock, and I wasn't even sure why.
After the show the usual confusion reigned, as we got busy tearing down our setup. Trucks were brought onto the sidewalk to load clothing, and hundreds of people milled around. I told Herb about catching eyes with the model and he suggested that I go back into the tent and look for her while he brought his car around and double parked so we could load the drums. He disappeared into the crowd and I headed for the tent.
Inside, scores of people were pinning back and forth. Electricians were unhooking the lights. Effeminate, overdressed men were pushing their girls to hurry up. Some of the models were still in slips and bras while matrons removed dozens of the pins that held the fashion dresses to them in just the right way. I searched for the brown hair and flashing eyes, but didn't see her anywhere. It was a feeling of loss amounting to near panic, and again I didn't know why. I finally gave up and left, figuring that Herb must have had the car at the curb by then.
Dodging among the milling crowd, we loaded the stuff into his car. I told him I couldn't find the chick I wanted and he shrugged; after all, it was no skin off his ass. We were at the curb on Post Street, between Powell and Stockton, and the car was fully loaded. I started to get in when I heard a honk from a little MG convertible parked in front of us. I looked at the girl, who had turned around in the driver's seat, and for a minute didn't recognize her. She had let down her hair and it was flowing around her shoulders in soft swirls of brown. The high fashion had become a simple skirt and sweater, but the eyes were still unmistakable.
I walked over to her car, uncertain of what I would say. I had never been very good at that sort of thing.
She leaned over, opening the passenger door. "Get in," she said simply.
I had no idea what was going to happen, but I waved at Herb, who gave me a jealous, comprehending nod and waved back. I climbed down into the cockpit of the MG and without waiting for me to close the door she threw the car into gear and took off, jerking from first into second.
It was the strangest ride I ever had. I made several attempts to at least say hello over the roar of the engine, but she couldn't hear me. She didn't speak to me at all, though she turned her head toward me and smiled often, her eyes telling me things I only vaguely understood. She was even lovelier close up than she had been on the stage. I studied her small, square chin, thin, sensuous lips, delicate ears, and a small, almost unnoticeable scar at the right side of her mouth. Her green wool sweater skied out gracefully over her breasts, rising and falling rapidly with her breathing.
In a storm of noise we headed up Leavenworth Street and turned left onto Pacific. She downshifted for all the stop signs, double-clutching from second to low, and drove like a beautiful maniac, smiling at some secret joke the whole time. When we got way out into fashionable Pacific Heights, between Pierce and Steiner, she pulled hard over to the curb and cut the engine. She threw her arm over the back of my seat and in a low, cultured voice said, "I'm Mora, and you're sitting in front of my flat."
I was blushing. "I'm Richard, and I don't know what to say."
She smiled and nodded her head to show that she understood. "Then don't say anything. You never have to say anything with me if you don't want to, I mean, if it makes you uncomfortable."
She looked at me for a few seconds. "Let's go inside. It's too warm out here."
She grabbed a large handbag from behind her seat, while I got out.
Pacific Heights is one of the ritzy areas of San Francisco. It's a mixture of large houses where people from the society pages live, and large flats with spacious upstairs and downstairs living quarters for two separate families. Mora's flat was one of the newer ones, with an expansive redwood front, metal sliding windows, and planter-covered balconies facing the street. There was a steep, brick stairway leading to the lower front door with a well-kept lawn and hedges on either side. From the front portico, a second, wrought iron stairway wound gracefully to the upper entrance.
Mora lived in the top flat, and by the tune we finished climbing all of those steps we both were winded.
She fished a key out of her handbag, opened the large, white oak door, and we walked into an entryway of white terrazzo tile.
I could only suck in my breath with wonder, I had never seen anything like it. To my left was a black iron grating and two steps leading down to a huge, living-dining room area. The floor was covered with white, thick-pile carpeting, and a gigantic flagstone fireplace dominated the rear end of the room. In front of the fireplace was a massive bed covered with a purple satin spread and bright yellow pillows. To the right of the bed was a twelve-foot semicircular sofa of red velvet, with a free-form glass-top coffee table in front and heavy, metal lamps hanging over each end. There were several smaller -tables around the room, topped by pieces of modern sculpture. Separating the living from the dining area was a red leather chair and ottoman. Beyond the chair was a white walnut dining set with eight chairs, and a large, glass breakfront containing dishes and trays, which sat against the far wall, opposite the fireplace.
The entire north wall of the room was glass, and beyond the glass a balcony, containing plants of every type in brightly colored boxes. Beyond the balcony was the most breathtaking view I had ever seen of the shimmering, clean-white Marina district below, and the Bay with the Golden Gate Bridge on the left and Alcatraz on the right, a lovely fall panorama of white and blue that made the expensive-looking modern art on her walls pale by comparison.