Time Dancers

by Steve Cash

  “Do you think about the Remembering often, Mowsel?” I asked.

  “Often?” He opened his mouth, displaying his gap. “Constantly, Zianno. Sailor is correct. We must all be vigilant for signs. We are running out of time, and we must never be as ignorant and vulnerable as we were here again. We cannot afford it.”

  When he and Geaxi departed Bergen, I told him, “Egibizirik bilatu, Trumoi-Meq. And you, too, Geaxi. In ten years’ time,” I added.

  Geaxi said, “Five winds, young Zezen.” She threw on her black beret and adjusted the angle.

  “One direction,” I said back.

  Mowsel raised the collar of his old and tattered navy coat and he and Geaxi disappeared up the ramp and onto a ship sailing south for the Mediterranean.

  On January 3, Opari, Nova, Ray, and I said farewell to Penelope and Knut and boarded a Norwegian ship bound for Reykjavik, Halifax, and New York. It wasn’t necessary, but to be discreet we boarded separately. The crossing was cold and wet. It made no difference to me. One port at a time, I was going home again. I knew it for certain once we had passed through customs in New York. Ray said he wanted, in order, a roast beef sandwich, a root beer, a copy of The New York Times, and a shoeshine. Opari and Nova laughed, but he was serious and did all four. A kid about our size polished his boots, and Ray gave him pointers from start to finish, along with a short lecture on the various techniques of brushing and slapping the rag. Afterward, Ray tipped the boy a double eagle, leaped out of the chair, and shoved the sports page in my face. He jabbed at a picture and the caption underneath.

  “Remember him?” Ray asked.

  I recognized the big man in the picture immediately. Anybody would, though the last time I had actually seen him play was in St. Louis as a lanky pitcher with the Boston Red Sox. That day he hit a grand slam to win the ball game. His name was Babe Ruth. Now he was the most famous baseball player in America.

  “He hit sixty home runs last season, Z. Sixty!” Ray shook his head, rolled the newspaper in his hands, turned, and took an imaginary swing for the fences. “Damn,” he said. “Welcome home.”

  Early in the morning just before arriving in St. Louis, I had an unusual dream. The dream was strange throughout, though it began in a familiar place—Sportsman’s Park. I was standing on the pitching mound. The field and the grandstands were completely empty, except for Mama and Papa, who sat together with faint smiles on their faces. The odd thing was that I could see them at all. It was night and huge, bright lights attached to standards rose over the ballpark, lighting the whole field and grandstands. But lights, light standards, and night games had not yet occurred in reality. They were several years away. I didn’t have time to ponder it because, one by one, they began going out. Opari stood next to me. She wore Mama’s glove on one hand. In the other, she held Papa’s baseball with the Stone of Dreams still stitched inside. She turned and handed me the ball. The lights kept going out—right field, center field, left field. I looked to home plate. There was no hitter, no catcher, only the umpire. He took one step toward me and stopped. He removed his mask. I could see his eyes. I knew what was inside them. It is what I see when I look in the eyes of all Meq. The umpire’s eyes were Meq, but there was something not quite the same, something…more than Meq. “Throw the ball,” my papa yelled from the stands. “Throw the ball, Zianno.” I hesitated for a split second, then turned and threw the ball to the umpire. I couldn’t see him catch it, but I heard it hit his bare hand and knew he had. Then he spoke, or tried to speak. His voice was unlike any Meq I had ever known. All I could understand was the word “union.” What did it mean?

  “Union Station.”

  “What?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

  “Union Station,” Opari said. “We are in St. Louis. Wake up, my love.”

  The Meq, especially old ones, begin to notice change in the world and in the Giza, change in the way they look at life and live it, long before the Giza recognize it in themselves. Old ones also are acutely aware of populations, migrations, and population growth. For Opari, in just a few short years of the twentieth century, the Giza had changed the world dramatically and irreversibly, and they were everywhere. It was no longer the world she had known for three thousand years and never would be again. Yet, she lived in the moment completely, as do all old ones, letting each day appear and disappear equally.

  “This city looks beautiful in the fog,” Opari said. “I have always loved cities in the fog.”

  The four of us were in a taxi on Lindell Boulevard, headed for Carolina’s house. Patches of snow from a recent snowfall covered rooftops, sidewalks, tree limbs, and in the early morning light, buildings and people seemed ghostlike as we passed. Traffic was sparse because of the hour, but I could tell St. Louis had grown and thrived in our absence. And Opari was right—it was beautiful in the fog.

  Ray tipped the driver and we walked up the long drive and under the stone arch to the kitchen entrance of Carolina’s big house. We hadn’t telephoned or sent word ahead that we were on the way, so I expected to surprise someone. I knocked lightly on the door, but there was no response. I heard noises inside and turned the doorknob. It was open.

  Star stood at the kitchen counter. She was in her late twenties and looked to be the exact replica of Carolina at her age—strawberry blond hair pulled back, loose strands hanging in her face, blue-gray eyes flecked with gold, and freckles across her cheeks and nose. She wore a long robe and slippers and was furiously scrambling eggs in a large bowl. Behind her, Caine was standing at the stove frying bacon. He was almost ten years old with dark hair and piercing dark eyes. He had already grown to my height and was beginning to resemble his father, Jisil al-Sadi. Star smiled wide when she saw me and dropped her whisk in the bowl when she saw Nova. Years earlier, they had become friends as close as sisters and both ran to embrace the other. Caine didn’t know quite what to do. He seemed startled and mumbled, “Hey, Z.”

  I laughed and said, “Hey, Caine.”

  “Where is everybody?” Ray asked.

  “Grandma and Owen and Jack went to Cuba.”

  “What?” I asked.

  Star explained. “They went to visit Ciela, Z. Mama said she missed her and worried about her. Owen suggested they go down for the winter and pay her a visit. They’ve been gone since Christmas. I’m glad you’re here, Z.” Star gave Nova another hug and said, “I’m glad all of you are here. Caine and I were getting lonely.”

  “When are they coming back?” I asked.

  “Not until sometime in the spring. In her last letter, Mama said they haven’t decided. She said she and Ciela were busy with ‘a project,’ whatever that means.”

  “Spend the winter in Cuba…” Ray said. “Sounds nice, don’t it, Z?”

  For Nova, Ray, Opari, and me, it had already been a long winter and there was more to come. The idea did sound good and I knew what Ray was really saying—“Let’s go down there now.” But Star meant it when she said she and Caine were lonely. I could see it in her eyes. “Maybe next year, Ray,” I said. “Let’s have some breakfast.” He winked back, understanding. I looked at Star. “Have you got enough for us?”

  “Always, Z, always,” Star said.

  For the next three months, we lived slow and quiet lives. Opari and I settled into our old room on the second floor and Ray and Nova moved into Owen Bramley’s room across the hall. Two weeks before they left for Cuba, Star said Owen had moved in with Carolina in her carriage house above the “Honeycircle.” Carolina told Star she was “simply too old for the comedy of pretense.” Owen Bramley had always said Carolina was remarkable. I knew, as did everyone else, his true feelings ran much deeper, and for that reason the news came as no surprise. Knowing Carolina’s fierce sense of independence, it probably took her this long to admit she felt the same. Owen Bramley had been her ally for years—now he was her partner. It was good news.

  Opari and I spent many hours with Star and Caine. Star still possessed her natural exuberance and joy, but she had matured and
become more introspective. Though she was completely at home in St. Louis, she experienced the times in which she lived from a slight distance. Star admitted missing Willie Croft and talked about him often. She said she also had been dreaming of Jisil, explaining that the dreams began the night after she and Carolina had taken Caine horseback riding for the first time. Caine was a natural and instinctive rider and took to it instantly. It was in his blood. All of his family were expert horsemen and had been for centuries. And for the first time Caine asked about his father. Star had no answer and that night the dreams began, including images of Jisil, his murdering brother, Mulai, and the Fleur-du-Mal.

  “Are we in danger again, Z…from the evil one?”

  “I wish I could say no, Star, but I can’t. You must always be vigilant for Caine. We all must.”

  Carolina, Owen, and Jack returned on the eve of the first home game of the year for the Cardinals. They were completely surprised to see us, and Carolina insisted we all go to the game the next day to celebrate. She said they had been watching baseball all winter in Cuba. Oliver “Biscuit” Bookbinder had begun his career in the Cuban League and Carolina and Ciela attended several games in several towns. All the ballparks were rough. Carolina longed for Major League baseball and Sportsman’s Park. She was nearly sixty years old now and finally beginning to show her age. Lines around her eyes and mouth had deepened, but her beauty remained and she seemed extraordinarily healthy. Even though she was fair-skinned and freckled, she had a suntan. Owen and Jack were equally tan and robust. I remarked on it and asked what they’d been doing to radiate such health. Carolina answered with one word that was unfamiliar to me. “Snorkeling,” she said. Jack had discovered the recreation through a friend and Carolina fell in love with it. They all did. After she explained what it entailed, I understood her fascination and told her I’d like to try it. I asked about Ciela and Carolina said together they had opened a home for underage girls, whom they quietly rescued from the brothels of Havana, where absolutely anything or anybody, including children, could be bought and used for pleasure. Carolina said Ciela was determined to make the refuge a permanent home and Owen Bramley had given her the money to ensure she could do it without financial burden.

  Owen Bramley was a few years older than Carolina and also just beginning to show his years. He still wore his wire-rimmed glasses, which he would often wipe clean on his white shirt. Owen rarely wore any other color of shirt than white. And he continued to construct his Chinese kites for Caine, teaching him how to make them fly in Forest Park.

  “My God, Z,” Owen said. “What have you been doing?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it later, Owen. It may take a while.”

  “It always does, Z. Are you all right? Is everyone healthy?”

  “Everyone is fine.”

  “Of course, of course.” He paused and wiped his glasses. “My God, it’s good to see you. It’s damn good to see all of you, isn’t it, Carolina?”

  “Yes, it is, Owen,” Carolina said, looking at me eye to eye. “It always is.”

  I don’t know whether it was because of the return of spring, or baseball, or simply being together, but within two days, Carolina’s house had transformed into a busy, bustling home again, full of voices and stories and every kind of activity. It felt like it always had, except that Caine was now the only child among us, at least the only real child.

  The Cardinals had a pennant-winning season that year. Opari and I went to nearly every home game during the summer, taking turns occasionally with the others because there were only so many seats in Carolina’s box. All the players knew Carolina and many stopped by to say something before each game. Some even made a ritual out of it. Just for luck, they each made sure Carolina blessed their bat. It must have worked. By the end of the season, every player in the lineup was doing it, and the manager, Bill McKechnie, never forgot to tip his cap to Carolina just before the first pitch. The Cardinals set an attendance record and won ninety-five games, finishing ahead of the New York Giants by two games, but then losing the World Series to the mighty Yankees in four straight. Our longtime friend, Sunny Jim Bottomley, had a fantastic year. He batted .325 and led the league in home runs and RBIs. Jack followed the season closely and wrote about it in the Post-Dispatch. His writing was passionate, accurate, and insightful. He always touched on something beyond the facts. Jack wrote about the human inside the uniform, mentioning nuances and aspects of the game missed by other reporters. Jack was twenty-two years old and now resembled his father, Nicholas, more than ever. Carolina was proud of him, and rightly so. I liked him a lot. He had become a realist and a dreamer, an absolutely necessary combination for a reporter who writes beyond the facts.

  Caine adored his uncle Jack, though he never called him by that name. They were twelve years apart in age and yet they acted as brothers, or more aptly a young father and son. Jack had taught Caine how to care for Mama’s glove, how to choose the best oil and rub it in softly with the proper technique. Caine had another glove he used for playing catch, but he always kept Mama’s glove oiled and well protected. And after losing an entire childhood together, Jack and Star had been allowed to be a real brother and sister and became close friends.

  The next year was the end of the decade and the Cardinals’ season went down with it. By July they were essentially out of contention. In the fall, there were two events that occurred a month apart and both would affect and impact America and the world for the rest of the century. One of them affected things instantly, the other was not as obvious and took a while. In October, the Stock Market crashed on what was called Black Tuesday, and in November, Ray, Caine, and I went to the movies. We saw Mickey Mouse for the first time in Steamboat Willie.

  Mitch Coates never did come back from Paris. The freedom and complete lack of discrimination he felt was much stronger than his love for baseball. However, it is my guess his love for Mercy Whitney was the true reason. He kept in touch with postcards and occasional long letters, mostly about nightlife in Paris and the continuing troubles and adventures of Josephine Baker. He said he and Mercy had become as close as family with Antoine, Emme, and my goddaughter, Antoinette. In a letter dated January 1, 1930, Mitch gave Owen Bramley instructions to liquidate all his business interests in St. Louis, including his stake in the St. Louis Stars, keeping only his home, which he asked Carolina to look after until he returned.

  News from Sailor and Zeru-Meq was nonexistent, but Mowsel sent word that he and Geaxi were on their way to pay an extended visit to Malta, Geaxi’s jaioterri, or place of birth. The Cardinals won it all that year and again the next, beating the Athletics both times in the World Series. During this period, Ray, Nova, Opari, and I never left St. Louis or stayed anywhere but Carolina’s home. The city changed and grew around us, yet our lives were insulated—insulated but not invisible. Staying unnoticed, unknown, and most important unremembered has always been essential to our survival. We were becoming careless. I was made aware of it twice in October. On the seventh, after Wild Bill Hallahan pitched the Cardinals to victory in Philadelphia, Opari, Caine, and I went for a long walk in Forest Park. Caine was growing up quickly. He was already several inches taller than Opari and me. As we walked our usual path, we passed an older couple we had seen for years along the same route. Having seen Caine come of age and rise to our height and beyond while we remained unchanged had frightened them. They no longer were glad to see us and turned away as we approached. We were not normal, not at all like other children and they could sense it. They didn’t know what we were, but they knew what we were not. We had been recognized and remembered.

  “It may be wise to leave this city, my love,” Opari whispered.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  Three days later, on the tenth, the lefty Wild Bill Hallahan beat the Athletics again to win the World Series for the Cardinals. Ray and I witnessed the whole game from Carolina’s box seats. Two boxes down from ours, the commissioner of Major League baseball, Kenesaw Mountain Landis, sat with
various dignitaries and celebrities, as well as several local St. Louis politicians. His bony face and snow white hair stood out among the others. When he wasn’t talking to someone, he observed the game and the players with piercing concentration. After the game and the celebrations on the field, he and the other men turned to leave. We were still in our seats as he passed by. He glanced at me, then stopped abruptly when he saw Ray and stared down at him like a hawk. His eyes narrowed and his thin lips tightened. Then the commissioner of baseball spoke to Ray. “I never forget a face,” he said. “I have seen you before, son, and either my mind is playing tricks on me, or else I want to know who you are.”

  Ray looked him in the eye. “I don’t believe we ever met, Judge.”

  “Perhaps not, but I have seen you before, son. Cincinnati it was, I am certain.” He paused and leaned over slightly, so that only Ray could hear him clearly. “That was over thirty years ago, which is impossible.”

  Ray waited a heartbeat, then winked at him. “Damn, Judge,” Ray said, “you got a hellava memory.”

  The others began urging the commissioner forward. “I want to know who you are, son. Do you hear me?” But he never had a chance to find out. The press and photographers were shouting to him and the other men pulled him on, then Kenesaw Mountain Landis disappeared into the crowd.

  Ray turned to me. “It’s about time we got lost, Z.”

  The encounters with the older couple and the commissioner were unlikely, rare, and probably harmless, but I agreed with Ray, it was time to get lost for a while.

  Ray and Nova left for New Orleans a week later. Ray said he wanted to see his “old stompin’ grounds.” Nova was all for the adventure and they both looked forward to spending more time with each other. Opari and I couldn’t decide where to go. Our decision was made in an instant on the afternoon of Carolina’s annual Thanksgiving Day feast, which she calls only a “fancy lunch.” As the garlic and rosemary mashed potatoes were being passed around the table, a telegram arrived from Ciela in Cuba. In it she said Biscuit Bookbinder had been selected to start as shortstop for the Cuban All-Star game in November. Before we finished the meal, arrangements had been made and within three days, Opari and I were on our way to Havana, accompanied by Owen Bramley and Carolina, who couldn’t wait to teach us how to “snorkel.”