Transcendence t-1

by C. J. Omololu

  “Which part? The part where I lived in San Francisco over a hundred years ago? The part where I saw Alessandra dead? Or the part where I get hauled off by the police because they think I did it?”

  I had to tell her. I know that Griffon said that we have to be careful, but this is Rayne we’re talking about. And I’m not telling her about the Akhet or the Sekhem, just about Alessandra. I can’t get the image of her lying on the ground out of my head. It took me a lifetime to remember it, and now I can’t manage to forget.

  “You aren’t a murderer,” she says. “That I know for sure. You can’t be truly evil in one lifetime and then like you are now in this one.”

  “So now you’re an expert?”

  “Yes. I am. At least when it comes to this kind of thing.” Rayne opens her calculus book, but stares off into the distance. “I wonder who I was in a past life. Maybe Cleopatra. Or Amelia Earhart. That would have been cool.”

  “Not everybody is a famous somebody,” I say. “I think most of us were just ordinary people doing ordinary things.”

  “Well, somebody had to be famous in the past. Why not me?”

  I manage a weak smile. “If anyone was famous in a past life, it would be you.”

  “Thank you.” She gives a little bow. “If this all happened at some fancy house party, don’t you think there would be a lot of publicity? An Italian musician falling off the roof of a famous mansion would probably make the papers. I know they had papers back then. Do you have a clue when it was?”

  “All I’ve seen is a ferry dock and some horses and carriages,” I say, starting to feel excited. “The late eighteen hundreds, maybe? Before the earthquake anyway, because everything still looked pretty good. There probably were a lot of papers back then.” I look at her. “It might have been in one.”

  “Maybe we can look it up online,” Rayne says.

  “Not everything is online,” I say. “There’s no way anyone is going to scan hundreds of years of newspapers. But they must have old copies downtown at the big library. Anytime someone needs to find something like this in the movies they end up in the basement of a library, searching through old yellow newspapers.” I look at her, hoping she’ll come with me. “How much homework have you got?”

  “Not so much that I don’t want to go on a field trip right now.”

  We usually go to the library by my house, so the last time I was at the new one downtown was on a field trip for the big opening back in ninth grade. As we walk through the doors and into the main space, I look up at the ceiling looming several stories above us.

  “Jeez,” Rayne says. “I forgot how big this place is. It’s like one of those inside-out hotels where all of the rooms look out over the lobby.”

  I stare at the flimsy-looking railings several stories up. “I sure hope they keep the newspapers in the basement.”

  “How can I help you?” the librarian at the main desk asks as we approach. She has short, dyed black hair and a nose ring. Trust us to get the only emo librarian in town.

  “We need to see some old newspapers,” Rayne tells her.

  “How old?”

  Rayne looks at me. “Um,” I say, realizing I have no idea where to start. “Somewhere between 1870 and 1906.”

  Emo librarian raises a pierced eyebrow. “That’s a pretty big time frame.”

  “You don’t have any?” Rayne asks.

  “No, we do,” she says. “We have some in the history room on the sixth floor, and there’s microfilm in the magazine and newspaper room on the fifth. It’s just a lot to look through.” She tilts her head. “Is there a reason you didn’t want to look online?”

  “They have newspapers online?” I ask. I can’t look at Rayne because I know what she’s going to say.

  “Sure,” she says. “At the CDNC website.” She writes down the URL on a piece of scrap paper. “It’s really cool. You can search the entire database using any terms you want, and they scan every page. It’ll save you a ton of time.” She points to a row of computers along one wall. “If you have a library card, you can use the computers here.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the paper with me.

  “Not like they’re going to scan in hundreds of years of newspapers,” Rayne says, mocking me.

  “I know, I know,” I say. “Don’t push it.”

  I grab my library card out of my wallet and punch the number into a vacant computer. As soon as we get to the home page for the CDNC, I stare at the empty search box for the San Francisco Herald. I don’t have a clue where to start.

  “How about with the Pacific Coast Club?” Rayne suggests.

  I slide over. “You type it in,” I say, my right hand moving involuntarily to the splint on my left. Typing is another thing that isn’t going very well at the moment.

  Rayne looks at all of the links that come up on the site. “Everything here is after 1910. Didn’t you say it was called something else back then? The door guy said it that day. The Something Mansion?”

  “Right. It was.” I search my memory, but as hard as I try I can’t remember the name. I do the alphabet thing, picturing every letter in my head to see if that jars anything loose. When I get to S, I know I’ve got it. “The Sutter Mansion,” I say.

  “Here we go,” Rayne says, as she clicks the links. Scans of old newspaper pages fill the screen. “Holy crap, there was some crazy stuff going on in San Francisco back then. Look at this one: ‘Banker’s Boy Returned for $5,000 Reward.’” She glances down the article. “They spelled clue ‘clew.’ Here’s one where an army corporal was hanged. A rustler was shot out in Stockton, and there was a high-binder murder in Chinatown.”

  “Focus, Rayne,” I say. I put my right hand on the mouse, moving the cursor to a tiny article that’s highlighted. “Look at this! From July 20, 1895: ‘Sutter Mansion Tragedy Trial.’” I read in a whisper. “ ‘The jury in the case of Lucio Barone, on trial for the attempted murder of Clarissa Catalani and second-degree murder of Alessandra Barone last New Year’s Eve, today returned a verdict of guilty on both counts.’”

  “Oh my God!” Rayne says. “Is that it? Isn’t Clarissa you? Who was Lucio Barone?”

  I sit stunned in my seat. “Her father. Alessandra’s.” I think back to the chaotic scene on the rooftop where Signore Barone is pointing to me as the cops surround me. “I didn’t do it. It was him all along. And he told the police that it was me.” My heart races as I turn this information over in my head, and relief floods my body. “If Griffon’s right, then Veronique must think it was me. That I was the one who killed her. But it wasn’t. And now I can prove it.”

  “What’s that about attempted murder?” Rayne says, reading the article over again. “It must mean that her dad tried to kill you too.”

  That stops me short. “I have no idea. I don’t remember anything about that. All I know is that I was up on the roof looking down at Alessandra’s body.”

  “Well, if there was a trial, there’s got to be more information in here. Somewhere between January and July of that year.” She reaches over and types something else in the search box.

  “Who was Paolo Sartori?” she asks, looking back at me as the results come up.

  “Paolo was Alessandra’s boyfriend,” I say. “I don’t think I knew his last name.”

  “Well, apparently he didn’t take her death well,” she says. She tilts the screen so I can see the article.

  January 7, 1895

  SUTTER MANSION TRAGEDY CONTINUES—SARTORI KILLS SELF WHILE DESPONDENT

  Paolo Sartori, a member of the Young Masters Orchestra involved in the Sutter Mansion Tragedy, committed suicide at 11:20 last night by shooting himself in the head with a small pistol. He died soon after firing the shot. Despondency is suspected as the cause of Sartori’s self-destruction. After returning to the Black Swan Hotel last night, instead of going to his room, Sartori sat at the foot of the stairs, unfastened his coat and vest, placed the muzzle above his right eye, and pulled the trigger. Sartori was a native of Italy
, 18 years of age. He was remaining in the City pending the outcome of the investigation into the death of a young woman at the Sutter Mansion some days past.

  “Did you know him too?” Rayne asks as I finish reading.

  “Yes,” I say quietly. It feels like I just lost them both. I remember the handsome boy with the black hair and the kind eyes. “He was so in love that he couldn’t live without her.”

  Eighteen

  Mom pokes her head into the living room. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says. “Veronique and Giacomo are due in about an hour.” If keeping your enemies close means inviting them to dinner on a Saturday night, then we’re all safe. Mom wants to thank Veronique for saving my life, and what better way to do it than with a giant pan of lasagna?

  “Okay,” I say, looking up from the book that I’ve been pretending to study. I haven’t seen Veronique since the day of the accident—until my arm heals, not only cello practice, but all lessons are off. I have the pages from the newspaper printed and stuck in my desk drawer so that when the time comes, I can prove that I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s right there, in black and white.

  Griffon glances up from his book and smiles at me. I feel a little bit guilty about not letting him in on all of my research, but I want to talk to Veronique first—to prove to him that I really can take care of myself, that I’m smart enough to figure things out on my own. He’s sprawled in the small chair by the fireplace, and all afternoon I’ve wanted to climb in there with him, but under Mom’s watchful eye we’ve stayed on opposite sides of the coffee table.

  “I’ve got a pan in the oven,” she says. “Can you check on it in about ten minutes?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “If you need to take it out, have Griffon help you,” she says, looking pointedly at the big black splint that covers most of my left arm. “It’s too heavy to lift with one hand.”

  “Got it,” I say, inwardly begging her to leave the room already.

  The minute I hear her door shut, I bounce off the couch and walk over to him, taking the book out of his hands.

  “Um, I’m reading that,” he says, but the grin on his face says something different.

  “Things Fall Apart,” I say, reading the jacket. “That’s a shame.”

  “He’s a great Nigerian novelist,” he says. “Don’t mock.”

  I lower myself onto the arm of the chair and lean toward Griffon, dropping the book onto the floor. “I would never mock great literature,” I say. “Plus, you’re not really reading it. All you’re doing is flipping pages every few seconds.”

  “That’s how I read,” he says. He lowers his eyebrows like he’s hurt.

  “Seriously?” I lean over and look at the book. The print is tiny. “Nobody can read that fast.”

  Griffon shrugs his shoulders but doesn’t say anything, just touches my hand and laces my fingers carefully through his.

  I pull my hand away, wincing a little with the pain the sudden movement causes. “Okay, smart boy,” I say. I walk over to Mom’s packed bookcase and run my finger over some of the titles. “Have you read this one?” I hold up Death in Venice.

  Griffon nods. “Yep.”

  I put it back and look at another title. “How about The Great Gatsby?”

  He laughs. “Everyone’s read that.”

  I scowl and turn back to the bookcase. “‘In the Penal Colony,’ by Kafka?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Look, Cole, for a lot of the years I’ve been alive there wasn’t much else to do for fun but read.”

  “I’ll find something.” I grab a thick, black book. “How about Poe?”

  “Depends,” he says. “Which story?”

  I open up to the middle of the book. ‘The Spectacles.’

  “Ding! You win. I haven’t read that one.”

  I look at him closely and can sense that he’s telling the truth. “Great.” I open the book wider to the second page of the story. “I’m going to give you ten seconds to look at this page, and then you have to tell me what’s on it.” I don’t know why I’m pushing it—maybe I still want evidence. I want being Akhet to be something I can see and touch, something physical and knowable. Provable.

  He reaches for my hand again. “Are you sure you want to start this now?”

  “What? Are you scared you can’t do it?”

  He tilts his head in my direction. “Fine. Ten seconds.”

  I flip the book around so he can see it and count ten Mississippis in my head before turning it back toward me. “Okay. What’s on this page?”

  Griffon groans. “I really hate doing stuff like this. Come on, Cole, I’m not some circus act. Let’s just forget about it.”

  I smile at him. “So you can’t do it. I knew it.” Putting a chessboard back together is one thing, but I’ve caught him with the speed-reading.

  He sighs. “Fourth paragraph, page 863. ‘The magic of a lovely form in woman—the necromancy of female gracefulness—was always a power which I had found it impossible to resist, but here was grace personified, incarnate, the beau ideal of my wildest and most enthusiastic visions.’ Griffon glances up at me. “Is that enough? ’Cause I can do the whole page, but it’s probably going to get boring.”

  I stare at the words on the page, printed exactly as he’d said them, right there in black and white. Proof. It’s what I’m after, but it gives me a shiver up my neck so violent I can’t help but shake my head to try to get rid of it. “No. You don’t have to finish.”

  “Well then, I guess you’re going to have to trust me on the rest.” He reaches up and pulls me into his lap, our teeth bumping as I laugh in the middle of the kiss. He’s amazing, and here he is with me. Griffon brushes the hair away from my face and kisses me harder, pulling me into him so tightly it takes my breath away.

  “You,” he says, “are driving me crazy.”

  I toss my head and look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Good,” I say, and lean in to kiss him again.

  Griffon pulls away and watches the doorway. “Not good,” he says. “Not with your mother in the next room.”

  “Relax,” I say, trying to refocus his energy. “She can’t hear anything.”

  “Wrong thing to say,” he says, making a growling noise and nuzzling the back of my neck until I squeal.

  “Okay, okay, I give up,” I say. I twist in the chair to try to minimize the tingling sensation that’s running through my body. “I’m totally ticklish.”

  “Ooh, duly noted,” he says. “And filed for later.” He picks me up around the waist and sets me back on the arm of the chair. “Much later.”

  He nods to the cello cases that are propped up in the corner of the room. They’re just out of my range of vision, but are a large presence in the room anyway. They’re a little dusty by now from being neglected for over a week. “Have you tried to play?”

  I shake my head. “No.” It seems like every time I pass this room, my eyes go automatically to the cellos. I don’t want to admit that I’m afraid of what will happen. It’s always been so easy. My fingers have always found the notes without my even having to think about it. The fear of not being able to play has taken over the idea that my gift is nothing but a lie. Part of me just doesn’t want to know.

  Griffon walks over to the cello case and holds it out to me. “Then would you show me?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “How to play cello?”

  He shrugs. “Sure. You promised to give me lessons back when we first met.”

  I walk over to the cello, almost afraid to touch it. Griffon lifts it out of the case and balances it gently against his shoulder. “Like this?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s right.” I pick up the bow. “This goes in your right hand. Think of the bow as the breath of the cello. It’s what draws the music out. Hold it like this.” I show him the right way to hold a bow and hand it over. “Don’t put your finger on any of the strings yet. Just let the bow glide over them.”

  Griffon has a light but firm touch, and only
makes a few screeching noises when he gets too close to the bridge. “Show me a note.”

  I reach over and put his left hand in the correct position and his finger on the G string. “Now hold that down and use the bow to make the note.” The bow bounces a little bit, but his fingering is strong. “See? That’s an A.”

  “Great. Now only twenty-five more letters to go,” he says, smiling.

  “Ha-ha.”

  Griffon holds the cello away from his body. “You want to try?”

  I stand looking at it, afraid to find out the answer to the question that has been hovering over everything for the past eight days. Because I took it almost everywhere and spent so many hours playing, the cello has always felt like a part of me, but lately it seems like a parasitic twin that’s been removed. I’m not sure if either one of us can survive on our own.

  “It’s just us,” he says quietly. “Not even your mom will hear it.” He turns the cello in my direction, and I let it settle against me. The weight of the instrument against my body is so familiar, I haven’t realized how much I missed it until now. I’ve always loved the curve of the wood and the delicate flashes of bronze in the sheen of the finish, and they seem even more beautiful to me now. I feel guilty for making it stay tucked away for so long.

  I pick up the bow and hold it in my right hand, feeling like it’s an extension of my fingers, of my thoughts, even. But my left arm begins to throb, and the tingling in my fingers feels more insistent. The splint covers the spidery black stitches, making that hand useless, and no amount of wanting or trying is going to change that right now. “It’s too soon,” I say, handing the bow back to Griffon. I shake my head, trying to push back the tears that are rising in my throat. “I can’t.”

  Griffon reaches over and pulls the cello out of my hand, leaning over to kiss me gently. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so quickly,” he says. “It’s not going anywhere. It’ll be here when you’re ready.”

  One lone tear courses down my cheek, and I angrily brush it away.

  As he sets the cello back down in its case, Griffon’s eyes flick to the doorway. I turn to see Mom pretending to walk into the room for the first time, although the shine in her eyes tells me that she’s probably been standing there long enough. “I, um, was just coming in to tell you that the oven timer is going off.” She hesitates, keeping her eyes deliberately off the big black case. She straightens her shoulders and regains her composure as she turns to walk back down the hallway. “I’ll take care of it, though. You just keep studying.”