Bride of the Rat God (44 page)
A self-portrait that Hambly drew while studying abroad in France in 1971.
Hambly dressed up for a Renaissance fair.
Hambly at an event for the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. She served as the association’s president from 1994 to 1996.
The “official wedding picture” of Hambly and science-fiction writer George Alec Effinger, in 1998.
Hambly with her husband, George, in New Orleans around 1998. At the time, she was researching New Orleans cemeteries for her book
Graveyard Dust
(2002).
Hambly at her birthday party in 2005.
Hambly (right) with her sister, Mary, and brother, Eddy, at a family reunion in San Diego in 2009.
PEKINGESE
M
Y CONTENTION THAT
Pekingese dogs were originally bred as demon catchers is, of course, entirely a fantasy of my own.
How far back the breed existed is not definitely known, but they are clearly identifiable in Chinese art of the fourteenth-century Ming Dynasty and possibly identifiable as early as the ninth. Some say the Pekingese was bred down from ancient Chinese war dogs; others point out resemblances to similar breeds of Oriental short-faced dogs, such as the Tibetan spaniel, Lhasa apso, and pug. They were definitely, by the Qing (Ch’ing) or Manchu Dynasty, specifically reserved for the imperial palaces, and it was a crime for commoners to own or injure such dogs. The notorious Empress Dowager Tzu Hsi was especially fond of them—her favorite was named Shadza, “Fool.”
In 1860, when British troops looted the imperial summer palaces in Peking at the end of the Second Opium War, four (some say five) Pekingese were taken back to England, one of which was presented to Queen Victoria (who is said to have nicknamed her “Looty”). Others went to the Duchess of Portland and the Duchess of Wellington. Through the remainder of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, other Pekingese found their way to England from the imperial palaces, either as gifts or as a result of palace eunuchs being bribed. By 1906 the breed was sufficiently established to be given AKC registry, and the first specialty show for the breed was held in January 1911. A Pekingese named Sun Yat-Sen was one of the survivors of the sinking of the
Titanic.
During the late teens and early twenties Pekingese were immensely fashionable, appearing as essential accessories in the short stories of Saki, the paintings of Norman Rockwell, Dr. Seuss’s newspaper columns, and fashion illustrations in
Vogue
magazine.
Modern Pekingese, if they are not hopelessly overbred and inbred by unscrupulous “puppy mills,” are for the most part calm, sunny-hearted souls whose leading characteristics (in my experience) seem to be possessiveness about their belongings (both human and material), friendliness (more common in males—the females I’ve met tend to be aloof), curiosity about almost everything, and personal fastidiousness. Other than a tendency toward respiratory ailments (undoubtedly arising from having only a quarter inch or so of sinuses), they are healthy, though their digestions are delicate and eye injuries must be guarded against. Of my own four, two have been one-eyed.
Personally, I believe that no breed is more charming, beautiful, and lovable, but I must add that several of my friends disagree, one going so far as to refer to them as “one step above bunny slippers.”
In 1924, when the last Manchu emperor finally quit the Forbidden City and the imperial system came to an end in China, the eunuchs who were left killed all the remaining Pekingese, lest they fall into “unworthy hands.”
O
WING TO THE
perishable nature of the film stock and the poor conditions of storage, only a small portion of the output of most silent-film stars remains. The work of many stars who were idols in their own times is not preserved at all or exists in one or two movies out of scores.
It is fairly well known now that early films should not be judged by the clouded and silent videos frequently available. Projected at their original speed of sixteen frames per second (rather than the twenty-four frames per second of sound film) and backed by the fully orchestrated scores that all the “picture palaces” played in accompaniment, they were frequently beautiful, powerful, and truly international works of art.
Surprisingly little of what is generally considered characteristic of “Los Angeles in the twenties” or “Hollywood in the twenties” existed as early as 1923. Hollywood itself was still very much a town of midwestern clapboard bungalows surrounded by orchards and barley fields. Photographs of the Pickford/Fairbanks studios show that a few blocks west of La Brea Avenue there was very little but bare ground, grading into the oil fields along Wilshire Boulevard, which had yet to be widened and turned into the extensive shopping thoroughfare it became only a few years later.
Graurnan’s Chinese Theater was not built until 1926; the current Los Angeles city hall (known worldwide as the
Daily Planet
of Superman fame) came into being in 1928. Chinatown occupied ground now covered by Union Station, spreading over into the oldest adobes of the original Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles on Olvera Street, an area that has now been restored as it was (more or less) in the days of the town’s Hispanic beginnings. “Symphonies under the Stars” were held amid the weeds, trees, and foxtails of Daisy Dell in the Cahuenga Hills, though the curved shell people associate with the Hollywood Bowl was not built until 1929; prior to 1926, the Philharmonic played under a canvas canopy. Scattered developments existed between Los Angeles and Hollywood on the east and the beach cities of Santa Monica and Venice on the west, but in 1923 it was mostly open land and far hillier than a current tour of the town would lead one to believe.
The Million Dollar Theater is still in existence on Broadway, showing Spanish-language films, but I do not advise going to that part of town alone. Most of the huge estates in Beverly Hills have been broken up into expansive lots with grand homes on them. Only one amusement pier remains—the Santa Monica Pier—and it is chiefly devoted to fishing, fortune-telling booths, and hot dog stands. A number of rides remain there, including the exquisite carousel, most lately featured in the film
The Sting.
The last of the true amusement piers—pre-Disneyland Disneylands with roller coasters, skyway jaunts over the ocean, and simulated trips to Mars—was Pacific Ocean Park, which closed in the late sixties.
The city of Venice was incorporated into Los Angeles in 1925, partly as a result of financial damage sustained in the Pickering/Lick Pier fire. On Windward Avenue one can still see remaining fragments of the original columned arcades, but the St. Mark’s Hotel is a vacant lot. Small bungalows surrounded by eucalyptus and banana plants face onto streets that were once canals. A few canals remain, south of Venice Boulevard, which the City of Los Angeles recently gave a long-overdue refurbishing as nesting places for waterfowl.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1994 by Barbara Hambly
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-1689-7
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
