by Steve Cash
Ray noticed the same thing and talked to several of them whenever he got the chance. Since we were still carrying our Egyptian passports, he used that as an excuse to strike up conversations, saying he and I were brothers wishing to practice our English. Being children, we were rarely turned away. After we docked and passed through customs, Ray summed it up in a taxi on our way to Pennsylvania Station. Smoke and gas and noise surrounded us. New York seemed to have a million cars and trucks and ten times that many people, all in motion. He said, “Looks like we’re a little behind the times, Z.”
Inside the station we ate a delicious meal, bought our tickets, and boarded the first train through to St. Louis. Traveling on our train and sitting across the aisle from us was a young man in his early twenties who had a warm smile and gentle nod for anyone and everyone. In no time, Ray was in conversation with him about all the current news in America, especially baseball. The young man knew a great deal about baseball, more than most fans, and was impressed with Ray’s questions. He finally introduced himself, which explained it. His name was Jim Bottomley, better known as Sunny Jim. He was a Major League ballplayer with the St. Louis Cardinals. He had the pleasant disposition and quiet demeanor of an accountant or store clerk, but as we witnessed later, he could play. He was traveling on his own because he had been hit in the head by a pitch in the last game of a series against the New York Giants a few days earlier. He lost consciousness and was diagnosed with a concussion. The doctor wanted him kept under observation in the hospital for at least forty-eight hours. The Cardinals were scheduled to leave New York for Pittsburgh that night. Sunny Jim stayed behind in the hospital. Now he had fully recovered and was on his way to rejoin his teammates in St. Louis. This was his first complete season in the big leagues and at the end of it he would be named Rookie of the Year in the National League. At Ebbets Field the next year, he would hit twelve RBIs in one game, a record that still stands. He would also become a close and loyal friend to Ray and me and Carolina’s family.
On July 3 our train made a long stop in Akron, Ohio. It was late in the afternoon and inside the train the heat was stifling. While we waited, porters offered free lemonade outside on the platform. Sunny Jim and Ray decided to look for any bootleg cold beer that might be available for a price. Sunny Jim said all you had to do was ask the right fellow and you could find some hooch practically anywhere in America. And he didn’t think it was unusual in the least that a boy like Ray might want a beer instead of lemonade. He said he grew up on the stuff. I chose the lemonade and then went to send a telegram to Owen Bramley informing him of our arrival in St. Louis the following day.
While on my way back to the train I spotted a large poster advertising a demonstration of aeronautical skills coming to Akron later that summer. Many top pilots and barnstormers were flying, including “Tex Rankin of Walla Walla,” Marcellus Foose, and Bessie Coleman, or “Queen Bess,” the only black licensed pilot in the world. The show also featured wing walkers and parachute jumpers and their names were listed at the bottom of the bill. The last name I hadn’t seen in forty-one years. I almost laughed out loud. It said, “Also appearing by popular demand, The Great Geaxi, Spider Boy of the Pyrenees.” Not far from the air show poster was another poster advertising a “double feature” motion picture extravaganza now showing downtown at the Rialto Theater. One film was titled The Ten Commandments, starring Richard Dix. The other was The Daughter of Cleopatra, starring Pearl White and Nova Gastelu, “America’s little princess.” Maybe Willie was right, I thought. Maybe they really have gone bonkers.
The next day we were delayed repeatedly on our way through Indiana and Illinois. Finally, well after dark, we approached the Mississippi. We could see the lights of St. Louis across the river and, all along the waterfront, fireworks. At least six different celebrations were taking place at once. Sunny Jim leaned over to watch from our side of the train.
Ray said, “Looks like they’re giving me a surprise birthday party, Z.”
I looked at Ray without speaking, waiting for the punch line, but none came. “Those fireworks are birthday celebrations for America, Ray. This is the Fourth of July, remember?”
“How could I forget? Me and this old country were born on the same day, only eleven years apart.”
Ray was smiling, however he was not joking. He was simply telling the truth. “I never knew that,” I said. “I knew the year but not the day. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Well, it’s clear as a tear, ain’t it, Z? Like Sailor said, you never asked.”
I started to laugh and changed my mind. “Happy Birthday, Ray.”
Sunny Jim slapped Ray on the shoulder and said, “You got a great imagination, kid.”
With fireworks still exploding in the distance, we said our farewells to Sunny Jim on the steps of Union Station. He invited us to a ball game, adding that he might be able to wrangle us a job as batboys for a game or two, if we were interested. Ray told him we’d be there and promised to wear his red beret through the rest of the season in honor of the Cardinals.
Our original intention was to walk the entire distance from downtown to Carolina’s, just for old times’ sake. Ray said it was too damn hot for that. I agreed and we caught a taxi instead. Ray grinned out the open window almost all the way. The Jazz Age was everywhere. He stared at the cars, people, clothes, and the frantic pace of life, the action. He turned to me and said, “I think I’m gonna enjoy this catchin’ up, Z.”
Gradually, the traffic thinned and we pulled into the lush and quiet privacy of Carolina’s neighborhood. I had the driver let us out on the street in front of her house, which was dimly lit. He glanced once at the big stone mansion and told us what we owed him, looking us both up and down. “You two live here, do you?”
“You bet,” Ray said. He twirled his beret on his finger, then gave the man a double eagle, which was ten times our fare. “Thank you for the ride, sir,” Ray said politely. “And please keep the change.” The driver started to laugh, then sped away. Ray turned and looked up the long driveway toward the house. “Let’s go see some folks, what do you say, Z?”
Overhead through a canopy of oaks and elms, only a few stars were visible. There was no sound, except for occasional bursts of fireworks in the distance. A single light came from the first floor and another flickering light shone behind a window on the second. We walked under the stone arch and found the entrance leading to the kitchen. The door was open. We slipped through in silence and saw a figure with his back to us, sitting at the far end of the long kitchen table. He was a black man wearing a formal white shirt. The collar was unbuttoned and his sleeves were rolled up. He was eating a large piece of peach pie and humming a tune I had never heard, a beautiful slow ballad, which he seemed to be improvising.
After several moments, I interrupted. “Mitch?”
He turned as if he had been expecting us. “Hey, Z, man! I’ve been waitin’ for you. Everybody already left to catch the fireworks display in Forest Park.” He paused and wiped his mouth. “What kept you?”
“Trains,” I said.
“Well, you look good. You, too, Ray. Good to have you back, both of you.”
“You gonna eat that whole pie by yourself, Mitch?” Ray asked.
Mitch laughed. “No, man, I wouldn’t do that. Get over here and have a piece. It’s the best peach pie you ever had.”
“So, you’re all alone?” I asked.
“Well, no, not exactly,” he said and hesitated.
“What do…”
I was about to ask what he meant, but it wasn’t necessary. I heard small footsteps coming down the stairs from the second floor. Then I heard the voice that only I am able to hear—the silent touch, the Whisper, the Isilikutu. “Beloved,” the voice said, “welcome home.”
“Z, you all right, man?” Mitch asked.
I blinked and turned around in time to see her walk into the kitchen. I stared into her dark eyes coming out of the darkness, coming toward me. “Opari,” I whispered,
knowing only she would hear. I took a step to meet her. I could smell her skin. I could see her lips. “Come to me,” I said.
Ray and Mitch must have been eating and talking behind us, but I never heard them. For several minutes Opari and I embraced and held each other without speaking. I kissed her eyelids and nose and lips. She wore a long cotton tunic, Berber in design, and I could feel the warmth of her body underneath. The Stone hung from her neck and I swung it aside to bring her closer. I tasted tiny beads of sweat on her forehead and neck. “I missed you more than I ever thought I would or could,” I told her.
“And I you.”
“I have so much to tell you.”
“Tell me now.”
“Now?”
She wanted to know everything I’d done, everywhere I’d been. I only wanted to sit and look at her, so I spoke in a low voice and watched her listen. I talked and rambled on. I was unaware of what I was really saying until Opari’s eyes opened wide and she put her finger to my lips to stop.
“What did you say, my love? Did you say it may have been Zuriaa who murdered Unai and Usoa?”
I hesitated. “Yes…according to the Fleur-du-Mal. I don’t know why, Opari, but I believe him. I think he is telling the truth.”
Opari stood motionless, staring away, remembering something. “Yes,” she said finally. “This is so and I should have seen it—the missing blue diamond in Usoa’s ear—the Fleur-du-Mal might have stolen the ear but never the gem. Also, the Fleur-du-Mal would never lie about an assassination. He thinks it to be unprofessional, no?”
“So he says,” I answered.
“I was afraid of this.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of this knowledge, Zianno.”
I watched her carefully. Every feature on her face seemed to change slightly and her dark eyes filled with a calm and compassion I had first seen in the eyes of Geaxi, a look of innocence drowned in experience that is only found in the eyes of an old one. “Ray wants to ask you some questions,” I said. “About Zuriaa.”
“And I need to speak with Ray, but first, my love, there is something I must tell you.”
Just then Carolina burst through the side door and into the kitchen, followed by Ciela, Jack, Owen Bramley, a teenager I assumed was Biscuit, and a boy with dark, wavy hair about five years old—Caine. They were loud and laughing and in high spirits from watching the fireworks in Forest Park. Carolina saw Ray and me immediately and told everyone to hush. They stopped laughing long enough for her to say, “You two are late.” Before I could respond, Jack, who was now almost six feet tall and beginning to look exactly like Nicholas, said, “Yeah, Z, you’re late by about three and a half years.” Everyone began laughing again, and for the rest of the night and throughout the summer of 1923, we did nothing but laugh, celebrate, and “catch up.” Ray and I caught up with the times and we all caught up with each other. Only one day from early July to early October was filled with anything but joy and good news for everyone. It was the day after our arrival and the day Ray learned a hard truth about his sister from Opari. It was not what he wanted to hear and the decision had been mine whether he heard it at all.
The first moment we were alone, Opari told me what she knew concerning Zuriaa. Afterward, she asked if this knowledge was knowledge Ray would want to learn. She had held it back from me because she assumed the problem had been resolved. That was before she heard the Fleur-du-Mal denied murdering Unai and Usoa. Now she realized the problem had never been resolved, but had evolved and resurfaced. “Tell Ray everything you told me,” I said without hesitation.
The day after our homecoming there was a doubleheader at Sportsman’s Park. Carolina still had box seats, so a few of us, including Ray, decided to go see the Cardinals play the Phillies. The box was located in a perfect spot, about ten rows up, just above the Cardinal dugout. It was a hot, humid day with overcast skies and little breeze. The Cardinals’ uniforms now had numbers on the back, something they’d never had before. Sunny Jim Bottomley wore number 5 and as soon as I got his attention, I waved to him. He motioned me down to the dugout and asked if I might want to be batboy for the day since their regular boy was sick. I said, “Are you kiddin’? Yeah, sure! Do I get to wear a uniform?”
“Well, sure, kid. We’ll fix you up,” Sunny Jim said.
A kid was exactly what I felt like. It had been a long time since I was glad to look twelve years old.
During the third inning of the first game, with the Cardinals at bat, I saw Ray and Opari talking face-to-face. Neither paid attention to the game. Opari talked and Ray listened. By the third strike of the third out, he had heard everything. His expression was blank and distant, as if he had suddenly returned from a place he had never been before. Without looking at anyone, Ray stood and turned to leave. In a few seconds he was only a blur in the crowd.
It had been a century since Ray lost touch with Zuriaa in New Orleans. She was his younger sister, barely into the Wait at the time. What Ray heard was this: Zuriaa, his sister, is a murderer. She has murdered many times in many places. She has murdered men, women, and children. She has murdered for money, revenge, and worst of all—pleasure. She was trained and taught the craft of killing by the Fleur-du-Mal until she betrayed him. She has tried to trap and kill Opari through intrigue and stealth on several occasions and failed. She is sick, lost, totally insane, and consumed with hate. The killing of Unai and Usoa means she is once again in the middle of her madness. She is psychotic and dangerous, particularly for those who wear the Stone.
Ray left St. Louis the next day. He said he wanted to visit the Ozarks, see the Buffalo River, and check out the gambling in Hot Springs a little farther south. I knew his real reason was to be alone. At first, I was surprised how hard Opari’s words hit him. Then I realized it was typical of Ray to keep those kinds of feelings deep within himself. Still, there seemed to be more to it. While he was gone, Opari told me everything she knew about Zuriaa and her obsessions. At one point, she asked if I knew of anything traumatic that had happened to Zuriaa as a child, a real child. I told her I knew next to nothing about Zuriaa and Ray’s early life. I did remember that Ray had said their mother was murdered, but he never shared all the details.
A week later, Ray returned from the Ozarks. He was in better spirits and wanted to talk about Zuriaa openly. The three of us took a long stroll through Carolina’s “Honeycircle” and Ray wasted no time in telling us how he felt. He wanted to know if Opari thought Zuriaa could change. The healer in Opari assured Ray there was always a chance Zuriaa could be helped, but it was a small chance. Then Opari asked Ray if he would mind telling her about the murder of their mother. If he would rather not, Opari said she understood and it would not be mentioned again. Ray didn’t mind and went through what the police had told him about it. He said it occurred the same year in which Zuriaa turned twelve. Opari asked where Zuriaa was when the murder took place. Ray said Zuriaa was there, in the hotel room. She was found hiding behind a curtain, but she had witnessed the whole thing. On her face there were drops of blood, blood that had spewed out from her mother as the man held her head back and slit her throat.
Opari made a trilling sound with her tongue and teeth, then said, “Iturri!”
“What does that mean?” Ray asked.
“‘Origin,’ ‘first,’ ‘beginning.’ This could be the origin of the break in her mind, a place of infinite pain the Fleur-du-Mal could easily exploit.” She paused and looked at me. “Remember, the Fleur-du-Mal also witnessed his mother being murdered.” Opari unconsciously pressed her hand against her chest where the Stone hung inside her tunic. “It is clear now. The murder of Unai and Usoa was a message from Zuriaa delivered to us, especially to me. She is in America. She knows where we live…and whom we love. And she may be under the illusion that she is now the Fleur-du-Mal.”
“Yeah,” Ray said, “that may be true, but what if we find her first?”
“That will be difficult,” Opari answered. “The Fleur-du-Mal tau
ght her well, Ray. In China, she was known by several names. The ‘Pearl’ was most common, but another was the ‘Shadow and the Sword.’ She has never lived anywhere permanently. She is everywhere and nowhere.”
“Like you for a few millennia?” I asked.
Opari raised one eyebrow, then smiled. Her black eyes flashed between Ray and me. “Yes, like me,” she said.
For three days beginning on October 4, 1923, a spectacular air show was staged in St. Louis. It was a combination of trade show, swap meet, county fair, military parade, and the largest aeronautical demonstration that had ever been held anywhere in the world. There were 725,000 people watching all events on the last day. The events included an air race, the Pulitzer Trophy Race, a parachute spot landing contest, stunts of flying at Lambert Field and elsewhere, even under the Eads and Municipal bridges, and wing walking. The Great Geaxi, “Spider Boy of the Pyrenees,” was one of the featured wing walkers. We had not heard from her all summer because she had been on tour with a dozen different air shows across the United States and Canada. The show in St. Louis was being heavily promoted. On one poster there was a group portrait of six wing walkers, one of whom was Geaxi. The other five had her hoisted on their shoulders. Her left hand held her beret skyward. She wore her leather leggings and boots. The others were smiling but she was not. Her hair was cut shorter than most men or boys and she now wore a false pencil-thin mustache on her upper lip. A long white scarf was wrapped around her neck and goggles were pushed up on her forehead. Her chin jutted out in false pride and her right hand was tucked inside the front of her shirt. She stared straight at the camera. She resembled a very young and thin Spanish Napoleon. Even Carolina had to laugh when she saw the poster.
