Time Dancers (4 page)

“Here! Here!” Owen Bramley said.

“Second that!” Willie added.

Geaxi and Opari made high-pitched trilling noises and clicked their tongues.

I looked at Mitch. “Do you mean Scott Joplin is…dead?”

“Yeah, Z. Mr. Joplin passed away two years ago, on the first of April.” Mitch took a sip of champagne and looked around, waving his hand toward the stage. “That’s why we’re here tonight, Z, and I plan on doin’ this every year from now on. I owe so much to the man. He taught me more than how to appreciate good music—he taught me how to appreciate
life.
He was a great man, Z.”

“Indeed he was, Mitchell,” Carolina said. “He will be missed.” She raised her own glass to join in the toast. “And I’ve still got the opera packed away, Mitchell—you know where.”

“Keep it safe, Miss C. Just keep it safe,” Mitch said with a wink. Then he was off again, to the kitchen this time, laughing and saying over his shoulder, “I got some oysters for you. Wait until you taste ’em. They’re straight from the Gulf—Apalachicola. If you need anything, these fellas in the aprons are here to get it for you. We got some other acts comin’—and the chorus line. Wait until you see that, Z,” he said to me and winked again, then pointed to the lapel of his tuxedo, the buttonhole where the white rose was pinned to my tuxedo. He turned and made his way through the crowd, shaking hands and making toasts along the way. I glanced at Opari and she nodded, acknowledging she’d seen the same thing.

To our wonder and delight, both on and off the stage, it was the dancing that most fascinated all of us, especially Geaxi and Opari. Geaxi leaned over the table and asked Opari, “Have you ever seen such freedom and rhythm of movement? When you crossed through Persia, perhaps?”

“No, no,” Opari said. “Never have I seen such passion and grace together. They are…
trebe
?”

“Skilled,” Geaxi translated.

“Yes, skilled. They are skilled and still exploring.”

Willie was absorbed by the sheer energy in the music and the dancers. “Bloody damn good, Z,” he blared across the table more than once.

Star surprised everyone by not only listening and watching, but also joining in. Several times she jumped out of her seat and ran to the dance floor, mimicking the moves and dancing alongside the black women, who clapped and shouted and helped Star learn the steps.

During a slow blues song, even Owen Bramley and Carolina made their way to the dance floor. I must say Owen stood out in the crowd like some sort of animated carrot, dancing and enjoying himself, but definitely to his own beat.

Nova was enjoying the music as well, and yet she seemed more distracted than usual, constantly staring in a kind of trance at the stage curtains hanging behind the band. At one point, I happened to catch her unconsciously grabbing for her Stone, which she was wearing under her starched shirt. I’d never seen her do anything like that before.

After two hours of continuous music and dancing, Mitch himself took the stage. He gave a short speech and tribute to Scott Joplin, then announced a break after the next tune, in honor of Mr. J., “Maple Leaf Rag.” He sat down and started playing the best ragtime piano I’d ever heard, leading the band through the whole tune. By the end of the first chorus, a line of eight showgirls, dressed in matching black tuxedos, black top hats, and black masks hiding their eyes, came dancing across the stage twirling canes and kicking up their legs. They each had a rose in their lapel. Seven of the girls wore red roses, but the last one, the girl nearest us, wore a white rose streaked with orange and red. They danced a choreographed routine with the music, all pretending to be gentlemen on the town. Mitch joined them during the last chorus and the crowd went wild with jeers, whistles, and catcalls. As the song ended, the chorus line strutted with their canes back across the stage and into the wings on our side of the room. The girl with the white rose stared directly at me just before she disappeared from view, whispering two words. Then she nodded toward the door leading backstage, not ten feet from where I sat.

I turned immediately to see if Opari was watching. She was. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what? I heard nothing but the music, then the clapping and shouting.”

“Did you see her nod toward the door?”

“Yes.”

“Well, before she did that she whispered something to me. I guess she was aware no one but me would hear it. But how would she know that?”

“Z, what did she whisper?”

“She said the ancient words of greeting, the formal ones—
‘Egibizirik bilatu.’
”

Opari fell silent for several moments. Then I noticed Nova quietly take a seat next to mine. She leaned forward, anxious to hear what we had to say. Across the table, Geaxi was talking with Carolina while still paying close attention to everything and everyone.

“What does it signify?” I asked. “That is the Meq’s most secret exchange, isn’t it?”

“It means the message comes from an old one, a truly old one. Only an old one would know of this. My guess could be but one—Mowsel. The greeting was used in the Time of Ice when the element of ‘time’ was involved and complete trust was required. A Giza was always used to deliver the message. By telling the messenger to utter our oldest exchange of greeting and farewell, the sender is ensuring the truth of the message and the messenger. The ritual is called the
‘beharrezko,’
the necessity. It is necessary because in this exchange there is no written document. The message
is
the messenger.”

“I saw something, I…felt something,” Nova said suddenly. There was fear in her voice. “I felt something coming from the stage…from the girl. I don’t know what it is.”

I glanced at Opari. She shrugged her shoulders and nodded toward the stage door the girl had indicated. I looked around the room. No one seemed to be paying much attention to us. I rose out of my chair and walked to the door and slipped inside.

The girl was standing alone on the top step of a small stairwell. She’d taken off her mask and was leaning against the brick wall. Above and behind her, a single red light burned over the backstage exit to the street. I couldn’t see her face completely, but she seemed to be in her early twenties with distinctive dark eyes and straight dark hair, cut at the shoulder. There was a small scar high on her left cheek. She was pretty, and she was Basque, I was sure of it. Between long, slender fingers, she held the white rose. I could see the veins standing out on the back of her hand. I took a few steps toward the stairwell and stopped in front of her.

“You were looking for me?” I asked.

“Yes, señor. I apologize for this drama and mystery. Mowsel said it was a necessity.”

That proved Opari was right. It was Trumoi-Meq. “What is your name?” I asked.

“I apologize again, señor.” For the first time, she turned and looked behind her. There were a few dimly lit dressing rooms in the distance. I could hear conversation inside one of them, but no one was visible. She turned back and continued. Her accent was slight and she spoke clearly. “My name is Arrosa Arginzoniz and I was sent by Mowsel to give you a message and a warning. There are three who are in danger, three of you. One is the one who wears the star sapphire on his forefinger. Mowsel said you would know who this is.”

“I do. Go on.”

But before she could I heard someone slip through the door behind me. It was Opari. She saw the girl and the rose, then walked over and took my hand in hers.

“You are Opari, no?” the girl asked.

“Yes,” Opari answered and glanced at me.

“Mowsel has told me your name. My name is Arrosa Arginzoniz. I am the last of the tribe of Caristies, protectors of the Stone of Silence.” She paused.

“Unai,” Opari whispered. “That was Unai’s Stone. Now it is carried by Nova Gaztelu.”

“Yes,” the girl said.

I turned to Opari. “Arrosa was telling me she has a message and a warning from Mowsel. She says three of us are in danger. One you know well, as did your sister.”

“Ah, yes,” Opari said, knowing I meant Sailor.

“Who are the other two?” I asked Arrosa.

“Unai and Usoa,” she answered without hesitation.

I stared up at her for a full three seconds, then eased closer so I could see her eyes.

“You know them well, don’t you, Arrosa?”

“Yes, señor. They are also my godparents. My father was Aita. He…” Suddenly she let out a long sigh and the white rose dropped to the floor.

“This sounds complicated,” I said, “and you look tired.” I glanced at Opari and she understood. “Would you be able to leave this dance troupe now, Arrosa? And I really mean now. Can you gather your things and go with us? Stay with us while you tell us everything? Also, there is someone who needs to meet you and you her. I think she has already sensed your presence anyway. Can you come with us?”

She took a deep breath and seemed to be relieved of a great burden. “Thank you, señor. I will welcome the rest and I have much to say, much to ask.” She peeked behind her. “Give me one minute,” she said.

She was back and carrying a single suitcase in less than a minute, more like thirty seconds. She smiled down at both of us. “Thank you again. It is my honor.”

“And ours,” Opari said.

We turned to leave, and from somewhere in the semidarkness, I heard Mitch’s voice and a girl’s voice coming toward the backstage exit. “Go ahead,” I told Opari. “I’ll catch up. I want to thank Mitch for the evening.” Opari agreed, saying she would tell Owen of the change in plans. I turned back to wait for Mitch.

Mitch’s voice was calm, yet he seemed to be almost scolding the girl, not like an employee or dancer, but like a daughter. The girl was whining and begging him to let her stay. The two of them finally got to the stage door and stood under the red light.

“You can’t be hidin’ in here anymore. I told you a hundred times already,” Mitch said as he started to open the door. I was only twelve feet away, but neither he nor the girl had seen me yet.

“But how else will I learn? I got to learn the steps,” the girl complained.

“Not yet, you don’t. And not in my place.” Mitch opened the door. “You got to go. I mean now, right now.”

She started to leave, then spun around and leaned back into the light. That’s when she and I made eye contact. She was just a kid, maybe thirteen or slightly older, and she smiled at me—a genuine, ear-to-ear grin that radiated mischief and joy. I smiled back. Mitch noticed me and gently pushed her out the door.

Without ever mentioning the girl, he walked over and asked how everything went and I told him the “white rose” was coming home with us for a few days. He then asked how I liked the club, the sound of the band, and the tribute. I told him it was a great and glorious evening and all of us appreciated his generosity. I waited for him to volunteer some information about what I had just seen, then realized he was not going to offer any, but I was too curious.

“Who was the girl, Mitch?”

“Aw, just some girl from around here. She won’t stay out of my club, and I can’t allow it, Z.”

“What’s her name?”

“I call her ‘Tumpy,’” Mitch said, “but her name is Josephine.” He went on to tell me she was a good kid who had probably seen too much too soon and wanted out of her home and out of St. Louis. He was trying to help her, but she was anxious and he was worried she wouldn’t wait.

Fifteen minutes later we were in the Packards and on our way to Carolina’s. I was riding in the same car with Carolina and Arrosa. Carolina had readily accepted and welcomed Arrosa into her home, and she was in deep discussion with her about the new music the band had been playing. What did she think of the improvisations? What was it called, or did it even have a name? Arrosa answered with a word I had never heard before. She called it “jazz.”

Nova rode in the other car on purpose. She had acted nervous when Opari and I introduced the girl to everyone at the table, then I watched her consciously wait for Arrosa to step into our Packard before she scurried to the other one. I asked Geaxi to ride with her and explain to her what Sailor had explained to me years earlier when he introduced me to my Basque protectors and my Aita, Kepa Txopitea. “You come to them,” he said, “they do not come to you.” Nova seemed a little more like herself once we got to Carolina’s, but something was still bothering her. However, it had been a long day and night and I decided to talk to her about it another time.

The size and opulence of the big house astounded Arrosa. As Owen and Carolina showed her upstairs to her room, she was genuinely humbled and thanked Carolina profusely, saying she might sleep forever in such a comfortable place. Carolina said she certainly hoped that didn’t happen because Ciela would have a hearty St. Louis breakfast ready and waiting for everyone in the morning.

A short while later, Opari and I were also turning out the lights. Opari whispered, “The first day of April in America is a beautiful day, no?”

I laughed and agreed, but as I lay back on the pillow, over and over in my head, I kept hearing Jack’s voice saying, “Hey, Z, your shoe’s untied…your shoe’s untied.”

At breakfast we mostly made small talk. Everyone who was living in the house was present except Nova. Several times during the meal Arrosa complimented Ciela, at one point saying, “I have only tasted flavors like this in the small Cuban neighborhoods of New York.” Ciela laughed and kept the food coming.
“Sí, sí,”
she said,
“es verdad, es verdad.”
After breakfast I found Nova and asked if we could talk somewhere. She said she wanted to talk to me, too, and we strolled out to the “Honeycircle,” where the crocuses were still wet with dew. We walked over to Baju’s sundial and within minutes I knew I’d been wrong about why Nova had acted nervous around Arrosa. Nova had
seen
something the moment Arrosa stepped onstage at Mitch’s. She said when she looked at the white rose Arrosa was wearing, her real vision blurred and another reality, another vision, took its place. In this alternate vision Nova saw Arrosa’s throat being cut. The knife was flashing in bright sunlight, making it difficult for her to clearly see the one with the knife, but she could make out three things: the attacker was Meq, he had green eyes, and he wore two red ruby earrings. There were other images in the vision that came into focus and blurred again, including a gold mask and eyes that never close, a bleeding rose, and torches moving through airless darkness. Nova said she snapped out of it only after Arrosa left the stage. She asked me what it might mean and before I could even respond, I felt the old prickly feeling of the net descending. I didn’t know what the other images meant, but there was just one who could be the one with the knife—the Fleur-du-Mal. But what would he be doing attacking a young Basque girl, who meant nothing to him, in a vision of someone who has never seen him and probably never heard of him? I knew he was unpredictable, but it made no sense whatsoever. Also, I had to respect Nova’s “ability,” and yet I wondered if she could sometimes get it wrong, like Ray. Nova’s “ability” was the most baffling to me of all the varieties we possess. Even she seemed bewildered by it. Was she able to see real events to come, or did she see symbols of events; feelings and projections of her own fears and demons? And time was never part of the vision. For all I knew, each vision could be in some sort of dreamtime that has nothing to do with real events. However, if the Fleur-du-Mal was even remotely connected, I could not afford to ignore any “vision.”