Party
His sister’s place was in a nondescript three-story house on 32nd Avenue between Fulton and Cabrillo Streets, just half a block from the park and deep in Fat Boris’s territory. The street wasn’t passable now — the territory had been converted into a greenhouse providing fresh produce. So I found parking around the corner and walked over on foot. It was windy, and I was suited up, and I had to wait five minutes outside until the people who had arrived right before me went through the decon tube. Inside, my plastic booties on, I was greeted by a server in a formal black and white dress holding a tray of drinks. “Good evening, sir,” she said, inclining her head and flashing a weak smile. “Would you like a vodka cucumber infusion? It is from the host’s own distillery.” I accepted and walked into the house. There were people everywhere. Women were in evening wear. Men wore jackets and slacks. It was like a high-end cocktail party.
I had only been over to Yulia’s house once, years before the war, and I was surprised by the transformation. Yulia and her last husband had been programmers — she worked at Facebook and he worked at some big financial firm, programming trading algorithms. They made good money, but like most programmers, they lacked any class or style. And so their house, although nominally expensive, had been decorated in the most uninviting utilitarian style: everything was painted white, there was harsh lighting, and IKEA furniture with no care or feeling for how any of it came together. They were typical that way. Nothing out of the ordinary. But now, the house had had a massive makeover. The living and dining rooms were all outfitted in a uniform, elegant mid-century style. There were nice carpets on the floors. Decent abstract art of the mid-century style. And the house itself, built in the early 20th century out of old-growth redwood like most of the original houses out in the Richmond District, had all of its original intricate wood carvings and details restored, and buffed to a deep, almost burgundy brown. It looked like a house decorated in an old-money way — tasteful and reserved. I noticed what I appeared to be a small Louise Bourgeois sculpture on a pedestal — a vaguely phallic shape reminiscent of a dick and balls. A replica? Or pilfered from some museum or private collection? I knew that she had remarried after her old husband died of cancer. So I wondered if this remodeling was the work of her new man — a guy named Hudson. Leo told me about him when I was out at his resort. He was a native San Franciscan who apparently could trace his lineage back to an original East Coast Anglo family that came here to cash in on the Gold Rush. I remember Leo bragging to me what a catch he was. “Very, very high class,” he had said. “His family made their money on cows. Hudson’s great-great-great-grandfather had at one point supplied half of San Francisco with beef. Or that’s the story, anyway.”
RADIANCE, my serialized novel, continues.
I spotted Yulia chatting with a few people by the window, and I walked over to say hello.
“Jake! So glad you could make it,” she said.
“Of course. Thank you for inviting me. What a beautiful house you have,” I said, leaning over and giving Yulia a tepid hug, noticing she had a rather large golden cross hanging on her breast. Another Jewish convert to the Christian faith.
“Hudson, you remember Jake. I told you about him. He’s an old friend of Leo’s,” she said, turning to the man next to her wearing a dinner jacket. “Jake, this is Hudson, my husband.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” I said.
“Yes, a pleasure,” he said, smiling and showing a row of perfect white teeth.
Hudson introduced me to the other people standing with them — people I had never seen before. “This is Robert, Masha’s husband. And this is Yana, she runs the bakery and grocery store—”
“Oh, I know Yana,” I said. “We went to the same middle school.”
I gave Yana a hug.
“What are you up to these days,” Yulia asked.
“The usual. Not much,” I replied. “Although, I’ve recently started to get into the private detective business. So if anyone has any need of one, you should look me up. I’d give out a business card, if I had any,” I joked.
“Really? What kind of things do you do?”
“Well, now just missing persons stuff. Trying to track someone down who disappeared.”
“Fascinating! Was it a kidnapping or…”
“Well, I’m not quite sure exactly. That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I said. “Unfortunately, I can’t discuss the details.”
“Of course, I understand. It’s a rough world out there, isn’t it? So much violence. So much death. People disappear every day,” he said.
Yulia and Hudson were a strange pair, I thought as I stood around listening to the people make small talk. She was tall and thick and dumpy, a dark shadow of a mustache forming above her upper lip. Hudson looked like an older model straight from the pages of an L.L. Bean catalogue. He was lean, had a square jaw, and a full head of blond hair with just a little bit of gray at the temples. He radiated health and vigor. A guy like him would never have even glanced at Yulia before the war. But everything’s changed. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hudson’s old family home is now occupied by some Chinese or Mexican bigwig while his family had been forced out onto the street…
It was then that Leo appeared at my elbow. “Hey, glad you came! I wasn’t sure if you would given how much of a shut-in you’ve been the last few years.” We shook hands. Leo then turned to a beautiful slender woman who walked up just behind him. “Olivia, I want you to meet an old friend of mine. A really talented guy. One of the best,” he said.
“Pleasure to meet you, Olivia,” I said, reaching out my hand.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she replied, taking my hand and shaking it.
Tall, blond, and slender and probably twenty years younger than Leo, she was another beauty who would have been out of Leo’s reach before the war. But the war changed everything. After collapse, the immigrant was ascendant.
