“As you wish. Shall we have another drink?”
“How about these instead?” She produced an enameled cigarette case. “Humboldt County’s finest. Gift of the Free State.”
He smiled and nodded and took the joint from her. It was elegantly manufactured, fine cockleshell paper, gold monogram, igniter cap, even a filter. Everything else has come apart, he thought, but the technology of marijuana is at its highest point in history. He flicked the cap, took a deep drag, passed it to her. The effect was instantaneous, a new high cutting through the wooze of bourbon and wine and brandy already in his brain, clearing it, expanding his limp and sagging soul. When they were finished with it, they floated out of the hotel. His driver and hers were still waiting in the parking lot. Christensen dismissed his, and they took the Republic of Monterey car down the slopes of Berkeley to the marina. The boat from San Francisco was late. They stood around shivering at the ferry slip for twenty minutes, peering bleakly across at the glittering lights of the far-off city. Neither of them was dressed for the nighttime chill, and he was tempted to pull her close and hold her in his arms, but he did not do it. There was a boundary he was not yet willing to cross. Hell, he thought, I don’t even know her first name.
It was nearly eleven by the time they reached San Francisco.
An official car was parked at the pier. The driver hopped out, saluting, bustling about—one of those preposterous little civil-service types, doubtless keenly honored to be taxiing bigwigs around late at night. He wore the red-and-gold uniform of the imperial dragoons, a little frayed at one elbow. The car coughed and sputtered and reluctantly lurched into life, up Market Street to Van Ness and then north to the palace. Ms. Sawyer’s eyes were wide and she stared at the ancient high-rises along Market as though they were cathedrals. When they came to the Civic Center area she gasped, obviously overwhelmed by the majesty of everything, the shattered hulk of Symphony Hall, the Museum of Modern Art, the great domed enormity of the City Hall, the Hall of Justice and the Imperial Palace itself, awesome, imposing, a splendid many-columned building that long ago had been the War Memorial Opera House. A bunch of imperial cars were parked outside. With the envoy from the Republic of Monterey at his elbow, Christensen marched up the steps of the palace and through the center doors into the lobby, where a great many of the ranking ministers and plenipotentiaries of the Empire were assembled. “How absolutely marvelous,” Ms. Sawyer murmured. Smiling graciously, bowing, nodding, Christensen pointed out the notables, the defense minister, the minister of finance, the minister of suburban affairs, the chief justice, the minister of transportation, and all the rest. At midnight precisely there was a grand flourish of trumpets and the door to the throne room opened. Christensen offered Ms. Sawyer his arm; together they made the long journey down the center aisle and up the ramp to the stage, where the imperial throne, a resplendent thing of rhinestones and foil, glittered brilliantly under the spotlights. Ms. Sawyer was wonderstruck. She pointed toward the six gigantic portraits suspended high over the stage and whispered a question, and Christensen replied, “The first six emperors. And here comes the seventh one.”
“Oh,” she gasped—but was it awe, surprise, or disgust?
He was in his full regalia, the scarlet robe, the bright green tunic with ermine trim, the gold chains. But he was wobbly and tottering, a clumsy staggering figure, gray-faced and feeble, supported on one side by Mike Schiff, the imperial chamberlain, and on the other by the grand sergeant-at-arms, Terry Coleman. He was not so much leaning on them as being dragged by them. Bringing up the rear of the procession were two sleek, pretty boys, one black and one Chinese, carrying the orb, the scepter and the massive crown. Ms. Sawyer’s fingers tightened on Christensen’s forearm and he heard her catch her breath as the Emperor, in the process of being lowered into his throne, went boneless and nearly spilled to the floor. Somehow the imperial chamberlain and the grand sergeant-at-arms settled him properly in place, balanced the crown on his head, stuffed the orb and scepter into his trembling hands. “His Imperial Majesty, Norton the Seventh of San Francisco!” cried Mike Schiff in a magnificent voice that went booming up into the highest balcony. The Emperor giggled.
“Come on,” Christensen whispered, and led her forward.
The old man was really in terrible shape. It was weeks since Christensen last had seen him, and by now he looked like something dragged from the crypt, slack-jawed, drooling, vacant-eyed, utterly burned out. The envoy from Monterey seemed to draw back, tense and rigid, repelled, unable or unwilling to go closer, but Christensen persisted, urging her onward until she was no more than a dozen feet from the throne. A sickly-sweet odor emanated from the old man.
“What do I do?” she asked in a panicky voice.
“When I introduce you, go forward, curtsy if you know how, touch the orb. Then step back. That’s all.”
She nodded.
Christensen said, “Your Majesty, the ambassador from the Republic of Monterey, Senator Sawyer, to pay her respects.”
Trembling, she went to him, curtseyed, touched the orb. As she backed away, she nearly fell, but Christensen came smoothly forward and steadied her. The Emperor giggled again, a shrill horrific cackle. Slowly, carefully, Christensen guided the shaken and numbed Ms. Sawyer from the stage.
“How long has he been like that?” she asked.
“Two years, three, maybe more. Completely insane. Not even housebroken any more. You could probably tell. I’m sorry. I told you you’d be better off skipping this. I’m enormously sorry, Ms.—Ms.—what’s your first name, anyway?”
“Elaine.”
“Elaine. Let’s get out of here, Elaine. Yes?”
“Yes. Please.”
She was shivering. He walked her up the side aisle. A few of the other courtiers were clambering up onto the stage now, one with a guitar, one with a juggler’s clubs. The imperial giggle pierced the air again and again, becoming shrill and rasping and wild. The royal levee would probably go on half the night. Emperor Norton VII was one of San Francisco’s most popular amusements.
“Now you know,” Christensen said.
“How does the Empire function, if the Emperor is crazy?”
“We manage. We do our best without him. The Romans managed it with Caligula. Norton’s not half as bad as Caligula. Not a tenth. Will you tell everyone in Monterey?”
“I think not. We believe in the power of the Empire and in the grandeur of the Emperor. Best not to disturb that faith.”
“Quite right,” said Christensen.
They emerged into the dark clear cold night.
Christensen said, “I’ll ride back to the ferry slip with you, before I go home.”
“Where do you live?”
“The other way. Out near Golden Gate Park.”
She looked up at him and moistened her lips. “I don’t want to ride across the bay in the dark alone at this hour of the night. Is it all right if I come home with you?”
“Sure,” he said.
She managed a jaunty smile. “You’re straight, aren’t you?”
“Sure. Most of the time, anyway.”
“I thought you were. Good.”
They got into the car. “Frederick Street,” he told the driver, “between Belvedere and Cole.”
The trip took twenty minutes. Neither of them spoke. He knew what she was thinking about—the crazy Emperor, dribbling and babbling under the bright spotlights. The mighty Norton VII, ruler of everything from San Rafael to San Mateo, from Half Moon Bay to Walnut Creek. Such is pomp and circumstance in imperial San Francisco in these latter days of Western civilization. Christensen sent the driver away and they went upstairs. The cats were hungry again.