Through the window and to no one and nothing, I asked, “But where? Where is the Remembering?”
The snow was silent. I felt a presence approaching from behind. “Z? Are you all right?” It was Owen Bramley. He had his glasses off and was walking toward me, cleaning them with a handkerchief.
I blinked twice. “What? Oh, yeah, sure,” I said. “I was…thinking out loud.”
“You were speaking to someone, asking questions.”
“Was I? Well, it’s nothing.” I turned and stared again at the white world outside. “There’s no one there.”
Owen made no comment. A few moments passed while we both looked through the glass. “I appreciate your vigilance, Z. We all do. I want you to know there was nothing you could have done differently at the air show. You were there for our protection, for Caine and Carolina, and I want you to know I am trying to do the same for your people. We need your protection from a madman and a madwoman, but soon you and your people will need protection from us.”
“Us?” I asked. “Who is ‘us’?”
“The United States of America, the world, mankind…they’re not ready yet, Z. They’re not ready for you. Solomon was right. They will eat you alive for possession of your secrets.”
I let several seconds pass. Outside, a large clump of snow suddenly broke free from the roof and fell, exploding into the snow below. The collision never made a sound.
“We know,” I said, looking back at Owen. “We have always known.”
Music is the most mystical of all elements of consciousness. According to Sailor, the Meq once used singing as their only form of communication. Painters often feel as if they are playing an instrument rather than painting, and when a painting works, it never feels like work, it feels like playing music. Families know this and use it. If a son is in danger, or a daughter missing, it can become a voice, a bridge, and a silent smile between them. Few things can do this. Music is one.
The winter slipped by quickly. With fireplaces blazing at both ends of Carolina’s living room, music became our passion. On the radio, on the phonograph, in concerts and in clubs such as Mitch’s Chauffer’s Club, the “Jazz Age” was healthy and active in St. Louis, and we talked of little else. Many brilliant musicians passed through and touched our lives. At Carolina’s request, Mitch always invited his favorite players to her house for a good home-cooked meal and a few relaxed hours away from the road life. Each of their talents and personalities were unique, but their hearty enjoyment and appreciation for Ciela’s cooking was universal.
One man I remember well was a young black guitar player from Memphis named Furry Lewis. He told wonderful stories, mostly about characters he knew from the streets, and he had a droll, sly sense of humor. Late one night in the kitchen, I became his mark and unwitting straight man. We were eating pulled pork sandwiches with coleslaw and black beans with rice. “You got to come down to Memphis and see me, kid,” he said, then wiped his mouth carefully, slowly, stretching the pause, never meeting my eyes. Finally, I said, “Well, sure, Mr. Lewis, I’d love to. Where do you live?” He looked at me and smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, kid, you can’t miss it. It’s the first little red house painted green.”
In the spring of 1924, we welcomed back baseball and our long, slow walks in Forest Park, then farther to the south along Hawthorne and Longfellow Streets, and all through the cultured, diverse beauty of Shaw’s Garden. Except for an enigmatic postcard from Geaxi, we heard little from Europe or anywhere else. The adage “no news is good news” became our maxim and comfort. Geaxi’s note on the postcard was written in Basque and transitional Meq. Translated, it read:
NOVA WITH ME—VISIONS AND VOICES DAILY—R.
AND O. OFF TO FIND THE PEARL—I MAY HAVE FOUND
SOMETHING BIGGER—EGIBIZIRIK BILATU—G.
I knew the Pearl referred to Zuriaa, and the news about Nova was worrisome, but not unexpected. However, the “something bigger” was a mystery. Sailor sent no word, nor did Ray or Opari, which was not unusual, but still caused a few unsettling dreams.
Solomon Jack Flowers turned eighteen in April and made the startling announcement he was not attending college in the fall. Instead, he was going directly to work as a staff writer for The Sporting News. He had already published a few articles under his current pseudonym, Solomon Jack. He said the name made him sound wise. Carolina stifled a laugh, rolled her eyes, and simply wished him well.
The Cardinals had another so-so season, but Sunny Jim had a good year along with arguably the best right-handed hitter of all time, Rogers Hornsby, the Cardinals shortstop. He hit .424 that year, an amazing batting average. He was a difficult man, however; blunt, brutally honest, and gray eyes cold as stone. “The Rajah,” he was called. Sunny Jim had another name for him—“Jolly Rogers”—because Hornsby had smiled twice all season, on and off the field.
Late in the year we got to watch what became Nova Gastelu’s final screen performance. The film was Erich von Stroheim’s Greed. In the original, unedited version, Nova plays a waif and street urchin in a dozen scenes and is completely convincing. She truly is an actress. Unfortunately, no one will ever know. Owen Bramley, through various contacts and transfers of favors and money, had arranged for all of us to see a private screening of the original version in St. Louis. We entered the theater at ten in the morning and exited just in time for dinner, eight hours and fifty reels later. The film the public saw was only twenty percent that length. The rest was cut and disappeared from Hollywood forever, and so did Nova. After hearing about Zuriaa, she became convinced by Geaxi to end her life as a Giza “movie star.”
In January of 1925, on the night of the twenty-third, I experienced a Walking Dream unlike any I had ever dreamed before. In total darkness, I rose from my bed and discovered dozens of tiny handprints glowing on the door of my bedroom. I walked toward them and the door swung open by itself. No one was there, but I saw more handprints on the walls of the hall outside. I followed them to the stairs and down to the first floor and through the living room. Eventually, they led to the small room where Georgia’s old upright piano still stood. The handprints covered the piano, glowing white, yellow, orange, and red. A large book lay open where the sheet music usually sat. The handprints were bright enough to illuminate the text. It was The Odyssey by Homer. Odysseus was on his return home to take vengeance on the suitors of Penelope. It was at the failing of the old moon and the coming of the new. My eyes focused on one line. It read, “The sun vanished out of heaven and an evil gloom had covered all things about the hour of the midday meal, during the celebration of new moon.” I closed the book and instantly the handprints disappeared. At that moment, I became aware of where I was and rubbed my eyes, which were watering. When I reopened them, the book had also disappeared.