Time Dancers

and were welcomed by Geaxi. She said Nova was in the second car with the rest of Josephine’s entourage. The lights of Paris were shining all around us. Josephine told her chauffeur, “Theatre des Champs-Elysees, Etienne, s’il vous plait.” We pulled into traffic and in moments the church of Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis became a memory, but the moment inside was alive and well in the front seat, where Mitch and Mercy were only beginning a conversation that would last the rest of their lives.

After waiting in a long line of limousines on avenue Montaigne, we arrived at the gala event. When Josephine stepped out, she was more than welcomed, she was practically worshipped. Shouts of “La Perle Noir!” and “Our Fifine!” surrounded us. She rushed past, waving at everyone and throwing kisses. The presence of children in her entourage was nothing unusual. The people of Paris knew she loved animals and children and often took them with her wherever she pleased.

We were met inside by one of the managers. Josephine was currently dancing with the Folies Bergere, but I was told she had become famous at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees, where she performed her outrageous Banana Dance in La Revue Negre. The manager accompanied us to a private box reserved especially for Josephine. Whistles and scattered applause greeted her as she appeared, waved, and took her seat. It was nothing compared to the thunderous, hysterical standing ovation a few minutes later as Charles Lindbergh made his entrance. He waved from a private box on the opposite side of the hall, along with local dignitaries and a few aviators. He was taller than all of them and looked half their age and half their weight, but he was the reason they were there. He was the reason everyone was there. Even Josephine clapped and whistled, shouting his name with abandon.

Geaxi, Nova, and I took our seats behind Josephine, Pepito, and a half dozen others. Mitch and Mercy sat off to one side, completely oblivious to everyone and everything. They spoke rapidly and never stopped staring in each other’s eyes. The diva, Mary Garden, dressed as Lady Liberty, sang the Amercan national anthem and the show began.

Geaxi kept her attention focused on Lindbergh’s box throughout the first two acts, then turned to me. She winked and said, “I think I shall take a stroll, young Zezen.” She slipped on her beret and gracefully exited unnoticed into the hall behind us.

Nova enjoyed everything about the show and the performers. She wanted to know each of their names and was constantly asking Josephine about costumes, sets, jewelry, and makeup. She was fascinated with the theater and the people who lived the life of the theater. She told me she loved the “illusion of it all.” She watched every act with anticipation and joy, laughing and clapping, sometimes jumping up and down, exactly like an excited twelve- year-old girl—the best illusion in the room.

Occasionally, I glanced at Lindbergh’s box, fully expecting Geaxi to suddenly appear, but she never did. Mitch and Mercy continued falling in love, oblivious to most of the show and the people around them. At one point, I saw Mitch touch Mercy’s lips and trace the outline with his fingers. I remembered doing the same thing with Opari and for several minutes I was lost in a kind of dream, thinking only of Opari, longing for her, aching for her.

It was Geaxi who broke the reverie. “Zianno, come quickly!” I turned and she was standing directly behind me. She motioned for me to follow. “Quickly!” she repeated. I rose and left without a word to anyone.

Once we were in the hall, I asked Geaxi, “Did you get to see Lindbergh?”

“No,” she said, pulling me aside. The hallway corridor was crowded and she wanted privacy. Geaxi acted calm, though her black eyes burned bright with energy. “I just met someone,” she said. “I was, in fact, near Lindbergh’s box, observing the security, which was extensive. To devise a plan, I found a seat on a small bench against the wall of the hallway. As I was thinking, a black woman approached me directly. I remained silent and she sat down on the bench. ‘Do not be alarmed,’ she said, then smiled. I smiled back.” Geaxi paused.

“So, that’s not unusual,” I said.

“Yes, but then she asked, ‘Do you know Zianno Zezen?’ I did not answer right away. Instead, I looked in her eyes. She was aware that I was Meq and she was completely comfortable, even respectful. I examined her closer and realized she must be a shaman’s daughter. She had been deliberately scarred as a child with three raised lines on both temples.”

“Emme Ya Ambala!” I shouted.

“Yes. We spoke at length. She recounted your time together in Africa and said her grandfather’s last words contained your name. She then asked what we were doing in Paris. I trusted her intuitively and told her the truth —we were searching for a man named Rune Balle.” Geaxi’s eyes brightened again. “Without hesitation, the woman said she could help. ‘If Rune Balle is in Paris,’ she told me, ‘my husband will find him.’”

“I know him,” I said, “and she’s right, he is the perfect man to help us.”

“She is waiting. She wishes to see you, young Zezen.”

I burst out laughing.

“What is so humorous?” Geaxi asked.

I turned to run back to Josephine’s box. “Stay here,” I said, “there is someone else she needs to see.”

In less than a minute, I returned with Mitch and Mercy in tow. Geaxi seemed puzzled, but she spun in an effortless motion and led the way toward Lindbergh’s box.

We hurried through the crowd, which was an assortment of the Parisian elite dressed in jewels, gowns, and tuxedos, along with World War I aviators in full uniform, most missing an arm, or leg, or wearing an eye patch. As we got closer to Lindbergh’s box, photographers and reporters gathered and filled the hallway, all waiting and hoping to get a picture or a quote from “Lucky Lindy.” Then I saw her. Apart from the crowd, on a small bench against the wall, sat a black woman in her late thirties. Her skin was dark chocolate and her hair was cropped close to her head, like Geaxi’s. She wore a dress covered in the bright colors and designs I had first seen in Senegal. She was very attractive and very pregnant.

I tapped Geaxi on the shoulder. “You never told me she was pregnant.”

“As Sailor would surely point out, young Zezen, you never asked.”

I glanced back at Mitch. I had not yet explained where we were going or why. I had simply grabbed him and said, “Follow me.”

Captain Antoine Boutrain stood next to her. His hair was streaked with silver and his face was beginning to show the weathering from years at sea, but other than that, he looked well and healthy. Emme smiled broadly and reached for his hand as we approached. She stared up at me in silence, then we embraced for several moments. As we separated, she said, “I knew we would see each other again. I am thankful it has finally come to pass, Zianno Zezen.”

“I agree, Emme. And there is something you need to see. Mitch,” I said over my shoulder, “show this woman the picture inside your jacket.”

“What?” he asked.

“Just do it. Let her see the picture.”

Mitch gave Emme the photograph of his father and she looked at me, then studied the picture. For a full minute she said nothing, then she spoke. “I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.”

Behind me, Mitch said, “That’s Walt Whitman, man.”

Emme glanced at Mitch. “Why, yes it is.”

“I think you should meet someone,” I told her. “Someone you never knew existed.” I pulled Mitch toward me. “Mitch,” I said, “this woman is from Mali in West Africa. She is the granddaughter of a Dogon shaman and holy man. She speaks perfect American English, which she learned from her father a few years before you were born. He was a black engineer from the United States…from Ithaca, New York.”

Mitch gazed at me in disbelief as the truth came to him. “Emme?” he said, stunned.

Emme looked at Mitch, then to me with a baffled expression.

“Emme Ya Ambala,” I said, “I would like to introduce you to your half brother, Mitchell Ithaca Coates of St. Louis, Missouri.” I looked at Mitch standing with Mercy. “Mitch, my friend, this is definitely your lucky day.”

Emme glanced down at her father smiling in the photograph, then back to Mitch’s face. She smiled and Mitch smiled back. All three had the same smile. “Is he still…?”

“Alive?” Mitch asked.