So she’d had a romance with Russ Hewett and, from the tone of the letter, a consummated one. (And I’d been worried about being too old for her!) She’d said in her note that she was living a lie, but what was it? That Russ and Gail barely knew or liked each other? Did her mother suspect the relationship? I wondered if Gail’s flirtatious behavior with me had been part of the deception, or just the way she was. Then I allowed myself the hope that this was an old note she’d written to Russ, that he’d kept it as a wistful souvenir of the briefest crush an impressionable young girl had once had for a day or two at most. Now it was over. Yes, that was possible, very possible indeed. It would also explain Russ’s drunken behavior and momentary pawing of Gail. After all, the only thing that dated the letter was that she’d been living at the Berkeley Club when she’d written it. She might have moved in there years ago.

Waiting for her now in Pacific House, I stared at a leaded-glass mural depicting the trade routes of the South Seas and watched the decorative clock alongside it reach two forty-five. If I was going to have to explain Gail’s absence to the Pan-Pacific Orchestra, it would be best for me to arrive at the rehearsal a little early.

I entered the impressive, high-timbered portal of the Japanese castle and passed an exhibition on the manufacturing of silk. A young Japanese woman in a kimono bowed to me and said in a delightfully high voice, “ Yoroshiku onegai shimasu. Irasshaimase. Welcome to Japan.” She handed me a little card with Japanese phrases on it and pointed to the translations of what she had just said.

“You do speak English?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, the staff is all Japanese American. To be honest, my Japanese has gotten kind of rusty. I can tell you all about the Pavilion though.”

I told her why I was there. “Oh sure,” she said. “The band is setting up in the rock garden. I think someone there is supposed to be greeting you. Phil . . .” She turned to a sober-faced, darker-hued youth, his hair pulled back in a tight bun appropriate to his samurai garb and long, sheathed sword. “Phil, can you cover for me while I take this gentleman to the official with the swing band?” She gave him her handful of phrase cards.

A low, broad platform about a foot high had been placed upon the white gravel of the rock garden, and the Pan-Pacific Orchestra was seated upon it, playing that universal, unwritten overture of a band warming up.