a huge oak cask from which black cast-iron Niagara sprinkling heads protrude. The driver sprinkles water onto the dusty street, but without rain for three months, his efforts don’t help much. Another Studebaker wagon follows, a huge cylindrical brush sweeping the dampened grime into the gutter. Still another wagon follows that, accompanied by a hunchback on foot. The hunchback shovels horse manure, dust, and refuse, and deposits his burden into the back of the wagon. The wagon buzzes with flies. Dust not captured by the sprinkling water rises over the street in a filthy brown haze.
Zhu sneezes again, pulling an antihistamine out of her feedbag purse, as well as a freshly laundered handkerchief. Tears spurt from her eyes and nose. Muse has managed to identify the source of her allergenic reaction—powdered horse manure mingled with fly refuse. The fine particulate matter hovers in the city’s air everywhere. Sometimes luckless horses drop dead on the street and are abandoned. Along with the feral dogs, the flies quickly descend there, too. It’s the fly refuse that really gets to Zhu.
She smelled plenty of compost in Changchi. She breathed carbon monoxide, carbon dioxide, and methane. But fly shit? Not till 1895.
Now the blare of a brass band fills her ears as a Columbus Day parade wends its way up Columbus Avenue. Leading the way on a prancing black stallion rides the grand marshal, resplendent in a scarlet top hat and cutaway coat, a scarlet sash and a blooming rosette, white breeches, and high black boots. Zhu claps her hands and shouts, enchanted by the sight. Fancy carriages follow with black leather hides and silver chasing, their convertible roofs folded down. Wealthy Italian families ride inside, decked out in bright silks and black gabardine, red, white and green sashes slung over the ladies’ ample breasts. They wave to the crowd, as regal as royalty, and Zhu waves back, happy as a child. Now nuns in crow-black robes trudge solemnly past, called out into the festivities on this honored day to look after their obedient charges who march along next—little girls in white veils, each with prayer books embossed with purple crosses, and little boys in black suits and green and red ties. The children sing, their birdlike voices lost in the air. Orphans, Zhu thinks with a sudden pang. Then jugglers follow, flinging silver balls, painted wood pins, flaming torches. Lovely! Zhu has only seen live jugglers on holoids. Juggling is a lost art in her Day. Now clowns costumed like the great Joey Grimaldi caper and prance, and the goggle-eyed children lining the street curbs scream with laughter. An emaciated brown bear with a muzzled snout snuffles and sways miserably. The clubs and special interest groups from the Italian community bring up the rear, each with its own spangled banner, caps and jackets, and high-stepping drummers beating time to a measured strut.
Zhu follows the parade up Columbus to Union Street and turns the corner there, leaving the parade to promenade north to the waterfront. She sneezes once, twice, three times. Her feedbag purse slides off her shoulder, and her button boot slips on something slick.
Not spillage from the street cleaner’s drudge, thankfully. No, the macadam is slick with squashed grapes, grape pulp, and dark mottled juice. Could this be the wine merchant’s address? Well, yeah. Zhu steps inside.
The place is in a frenzy. The front countertops have been rolled back, revealing a warehouse of surprising size. Huge wooden presses are busily employed by boisterous young men. Young women, their hair caught back in red and black bandanas, fill and cork green bottles as fast as the raw wine can run out of the spigots. Racks of new wine bottled at the start of the season are stacked on the rolled-back counters, ready for a fast sale. Other women fill great wooden casks with the rest of the runoff for proper aging. Bins bulge with purple grapes the wine merchant had carted down from Napa vineyards.
“Ciao, bella,” says the jovial wine merchant, doused with grape juice and sweat. “You take a taste?”
New red wine will surely taste dreadful. Zhu doesn’t drink, and anyway, what does she know about wine? “No, thank you, Mr. Parducci,” she says. “How much for twelve cases of well-aged Chianti for the Parisian Mansion? We’re celebrating Columbus Day tonight.”
“Twelve cases? Eh, fifteen cents a bottle.”
“Dear sir, since Miss Malone is your steady customer, I think that is way too much. Ten cents.”
He’s drunk. He’s also staring at her. “Yeah, okay.