at Carolina and she seemed worn-out; inside and out, she was beaten down. Almost in unison, we all turned to look at the boy sitting next to Solomon.
“Carolina, Ray, this is. ”
“Call me Sailor,” he said, saying it as easily as if he’d said it a hundred thousand times.
“We go downtown. We stay at the Statler Hotel,” Solomon said. “We have many, many things to talk about.”
Just then, Carolina jumped in her seat and turned sideways, craning her neck out of the window. “The piano!” she screamed.
Solomon and I leaned over and pulled her back in and he caressed her face with the palm of his hand. He spoke softly to her. “Don’t worry, my child. I will have Li take care of it.” He looked over at me suddenly with a puzzled expression. “By the way, Z, where is your mama’s baseball glove? Do you still have it?”
Ray reached behind his back and pulled it out, saying, “I figured you might not want to leave it.”
Sailor leaned forward; he looked at the glove and then at me. “Would you mind if I held that?”
“No. No, I wouldn’t mind at all.”
He took the glove and studied it all the way downtown. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the stitching and smiling, almost as if he were touching Mama’s own hands.
Passing Freund Bros. Bread Company, Solomon lamented the loss and the unavailability of his favorite German rye bread. No one else spoke. We stared out at the aftermath of the tornado and drove on. North of Soulard, there was little storm damage and we pulled up to the hotel in the middle of the everyday traffic and frenzy of downtown St. Louis.
Footmen and bellboys rushed the carriage. The Chinese man, Li, jumped down and barked orders to all of them in badly broken English.
“What is Li’s full name?” I asked Solomon.
Grimacing, he said, “He calls himself Li Wen-ch’eng because he thinks he is great White Lotus rebel reincarnated. His real name is Po, but he won’t answer to it. I tell you, Z, he is more stubborn than Otto, only he save my life, so now I think I try to save his.”
“Solomon, you have much to explain.”
“I know, I know. Zis is true for all of us. Now, follow me!”
We were led through the large and well-appointed lobby of the Statler Hotel. Solomon and Li conferred with the concierge about the transfer of all his luggage from Union Station, where he had left not only his luggage but his private railroad car as well. He was boisterous and generous with everyone and even though most of the patrons and passersby stared openly at our strange little troupe, the staff and management’s curiosity was kept to a minimum by Solomon’s deep pockets.
He had us booked into a suite on the top floor. Each of us had our own room and they all opened onto a central parlor filled with fine furniture, paintings, mirrors, electric lamps, and a huge walnut table in the center. The floor was polished hardwood and covered with Persian rugs. I told Solomon I had a few things left in a room on “the hill” and he said, “Unless they are important, leave them. I will make sure everyone has what they need. Now we all rest and clean up. Tonight, we have big meal in zis room and tell our tales.”
Carolina welcomed the chance to rest and bathe, but before she left the room, Solomon asked her for all her sizes from hats to shoes and sent them on to the concierge with instructions to go to Barr’s and “buy properly.”
Ray went straight to his room, tipping his bowler hat to the rest of us. I waited until Solomon retired to his room, then walked over to where Sailor was examining one of the electric lamps.
“I am still amazed at this magic,” he said, holding his fingers close to the light, expecting to be burned.
“Mr. Edison wouldn’t call it magic; he’d say it was electricity.”
“Ah, but I would wager that if you asked Mr. Edison where he discovered this electricity and he was honest, he would say it was like magic — someone showed it to him and he found it for himself.”
“Like you found me?”
“Exactly.”
I watched him in the light. His ghost eye shone like the Milky Way with a black hole in the middle. He was calm. He waited for me to speak. Finally, I said, “I want to find the Fleur-du-Mal.”
“Yes, I know. Is it because he killed the Giza, the sister of Carolina?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish to kill him when you find him?”
“Yes, I mean, I think I do, I don’t know, I’ve never felt these feelings.”
He took a step toward me, searching my eyes, then turned and walked to the door of his room. I spoke to his back.
“You said you had an offer to make — an offer concerning my feelings toward the Fleur-du-Mal. What was it?”
He ignored my question, opening his door and speaking over his shoulder. “Your father had more reason than that to kill the Fleur-du-Mal and he let it go, he gave it up.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He walked the rest of the way into his room and turned to face me with his hand on the doorknob. I could see his ring reflecting colors in the lamplight.
“Which why?” he said. “Why did he want to kill him or why did he let it go?”
“Both,” I said. My tongue felt thick in my mouth and I couldn’t swallow.
“The Fleur-du-Mal murdered your grandfather,” Sailor said, “and your father wanted revenge for three hundred and sixty years.”
Without thinking, I touched the Stones around my neck. Sailor saw me and nodded slightly. “You are Egizahar Meq,” he said, “you are the Stone of Dreams.”
I drew in a long breath. “Why did he let it go?”
He shut the door, but behind the door I heard him say, “To have you.”
I stood in silence staring at the door. Minutes passed, then I turned and walked to one of the large windows looking downtown. The sun was setting in the west and I watched the black smoke from the hundreds of factory smokestacks and chimneys swirl up in the fading light. It was blowing east, over the river, and it took me with it. Somewhere — east, back, behind, before, I don’t know, but somewhere, and while everyone was resting, I had the first of my Walking Dreams.
I walked across the Persian carpets and down to the lobby. I walked out of the lobby and onto the street toward something or someone, I wasn’t sure, but I seemed to know where I was going, and as I walked, I was a canal, a stream, a passage, and the people, wagons, horses, trolley cars, and bicycles on either side were oblivious to me.
I walked to Union Station and stood under the Whispering Arch. I heard something flapping and looked up to see a bird, a finch, trapped up near the ceiling with no exit and no perch. I thought I heard a voice whispering. I watched the people passing. They didn’t see me. I looked up again and the bird was gone. The voice was louder, but still whispering; moaning. It said, “Beloved, hear me!” Over and over, for several minutes I heard the voice, then it faded like an echo in a canyon and disappeared into the steady hum of a busy train station.
I was awake. I walked back in the twilight to the hotel and up to my room. I lay on my bed and waited for dinner. The waiting felt natural.
I heard Li’s voice first, then Solomon’s, telling waiters and busboys where and how to set the places. I quickly washed and walked into the central parlor where a royal feast was being carried in and presented on the big walnut table. There were two silver candelabras holding a dozen candles each, surrounded by oysters on the half shell, shrimp, roast pheasant, prime rib, fresh peas, corn, squash, and a mountain of mashed potatoes. Solomon had arranged our place settings evenly around the table.
Everyone was in the room, but I only saw Carolina. She was radiant in a dark blue, almost black, velvet dress and a single strand of pearls around her neck. She wore long velvet gloves, which I’d never seen on her
