“Is that Isabelle?” I asked. If it was, she had not fared well through the years. She was made up like a clown and had dyed her hair red.
“Yes,” Usoa said. “Sad, is it not?”
“Yes, it is,” was all I could manage.
“You know, old Captain Woodget is still her escort, after a fashion. He retired from the sea and lives across Lake Pontchartrain. He visits her twice a month and spends the rest of his time in his garden. A quite beautiful one, I am told.”
I was glad to hear Captain Woodget’s name and that he was alive and well. He had helped and taught me a great deal. I let the moments pass in silence, a state in which Unai and Usoa were most comfortable. They were old ones. They had survived a very long time on will, sharp wit, and the love they shared. It was strong and carried its own presence. I couldn’t believe they had not yet crossed in the Zeharkatu. I looked them both in the eye before I said it.
“I have found Opari.”
They drew in a quick breath. Together, they whispered, “Where?”
“It is complicated, very complicated. More than you know, more than I can explain.”
“But then, that brings me back to my initial question,” Unai said. “Why are you here?”
“That also is complicated, but the answer is the Fleur-du-Mal. I will not let him kill again. It’s as simple as that.”
Unai looked at Usoa, then put his hand on my shoulder. “It will not happen here, my friend. Be certain of that. Whatever ‘business’ the Fleur-du-Mal had in St. Louis, it is concluded. We have reports he is already back in New Orleans.”
He paused a moment and Usoa continued. “Enjoy your visit to St. Louis, Zianno. Then come to New Orleans and tell us of Opari and we will discuss what to do with the Fleur-du-Mal, once and for all.”
Just then, the shoeshine boy yelled over at Unai, “One of y’all better get back over to that lady before she gets arrested!”
Isabelle was frantic and both Unai and Usoa turned to leave and rescue her. Unai said once more, “The Fleur-du-Mal is in New Orleans, Zianno. We will watch him closely. Adieu.”
They walked back to Isabelle and the porters, arrangements were made and tempers cooled, and they were gone, nodding to me ever so slightly as they walked toward the trains. I looked over at the shoeshine boy who watched it all with little expression. “What’s your name?” I yelled.
“Mitch,” he yelled back. “Mitchell Ithaca Coates. What’s yours?”
“Z,” I hollered over my shoulder. I was already on my way to Carolina’s. No detours, no waiting. I sneaked on a streetcar at Lindell Boulevard and took it west toward Forest Park. The streetcar was packed. Most of the World’s Fair was being staged in Forest Park and I overheard a passenger say a hundred thousand people a day were going to the Fair. I picked up a discarded newspaper and read the sports page, trying to stay calm. If everything Unai had told me was true, and I had no reason to doubt him, then Carolina was safe and well. I was not too late! But I had to see her in the flesh to know for myself. I wanted to hear her voice tell me it was so. In the sports section there was an article about the Cardinals, why they were doing so poorly and what they should do about it. It was well written and whoever wrote it obviously knew a lot about baseball. I looked at the byline and saw that it was written by Nick Flowers. I knew that had to be Carolina’s Nicholas.
I stared out of the window at the summer and St. Louis and the flurry of people. I tried to think about everything I felt. Nothing was left out, but it was all upside down. How can your heart be longing for one person and still be beating in anticipation of seeing another? It was a mystery, but I felt both emotions in me like a wheel turning over and over, like a source of light, as different and necessary as sunrise and sunset.
I hopped off the streetcar at De Baliviere and Lindell, near the entrance to the Fair. I walked through a throng of people, spilling out in the streets for blocks, on their way in. Every man, woman, and child was excited and thrilled to be there. This was the biggest event in St. Louis’s history and it was in full flight, an amazing spectacle even from outside the fairgrounds.
I found the neighborhood and walked down the long streets of ancient oaks and stately mansions. A half block in, the noise from the Fair was only a faint hum in the background. I passed the Eliots’s and thought about that first bicycle ride through this neighborhood. The “old money” had been sleeping soundly then. Since Carolina’s arrival, I wondered if it still was.
Finally, I came to the house I remembered. Sweat was dripping in my eyes even though there was shade from every angle. I walked up the paved driveway and paused to look around. There was nothing in particular to distinguish this house from any of the others. No lanterns, no red carpets, no invitations of any kind. There was a formal front door with a brick walkway to it, but I kept walking, under the stone archway and back to where there were two massive oak doors that were obviously the “commercial” entrance. The paved driveway that once circled back to Westminster now went straight back past the carriage house and through the adjoining property to the rear and eventually on to the street beyond. A private alley. It was simple, discreet, and made perfect sense. She had purchased the other property so that people could arrive on one street and leave by another. I thought of what Owen Bramley had said in China: “A remarkable woman, that one.”
Suddenly I heard a chorus of female laughter cut through the heavy silence. And even that was cut through by a high-pitched squeal that could only have come from a small child, either being tortured or having so much fun she could barely stand it. It was not coming from the Fair. It was coming from the far side of the carriage house. I followed the sound and came to a wall of forsythia, wisteria, and honeysuckle. The bushes were old and had grown together, standing ten to twelve feet high and forming a circle thirty feet across, with a small opening facing the carriage house.
I walked through the opening. Inside, in the private clearing made by the surrounding tangle of bushes, was a scene as absurd as it was beautiful. There was Li in a tuxedo, but barefoot with his trousers rolled up to the knees, and holding a huge barrel over his head while staring stone-faced into some unknown point in space. Around him in a circle were five women and a little girl; two wore jersey-knit bathing suits and bathing caps, and the other four were naked, including Carolina and the little girl. There was a hose attached to the bottom of the barrel and as Li held the barrel high and steady, gravity allowed Carolina to wave the hose and spray the women as they danced, leaped, shrieked, and laughed. It was unique. It looked like Buddha in formal dress, standing in the middle of the Garden of Delights.
I stood and watched for a few moments unnoticed, then Carolina saw me and dropped the hose. She started walking toward me. She was so beautiful, magical, and completely oblivious of her nakedness. One of the other women quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped her in it as she was walking. The rest stopped and stared. The little girl was the last to notice and she squealed, “Mommy?”
Carolina knelt down in front of me and spoke over her shoulder. “Come here, honey. I want you to meet someone.” She looked into my eyes and I looked into hers. “My God, Z,” she said, “you came back, you really came back.” She put her arms around me and we held each other as tight as two people can without hurting each other. Her towel slipped loose and fell to the ground, but she didn’t bother to pick it up. The little girl ran over and leaped on Carolina’s back, giggling. “You’re naked, Mommy,” she said.
Carolina eased her hold on me and casually picked up the towel, swung the little girl around to her lap and covered them both in one wrap, giggling herself. She made sure the girl was looking at me and then said, “Star, I want you to meet. Uncle Z.”