The Remembering

by a Giza, any Giza, for an old one like Trumoi-Meq was a difficult decision. For thousands of years old ones had only survived by never allowing such things to happen. Mowsel’s grin faded, and even though he was blind he looked directly at us, one by one. In his mind, he knew exactly where we were standing. Then his grin began to return. He laughed suddenly and found Geaxi, winding his arm inside of hers. He looked in Cardinal’s direction. “Hail, Hadrian!” Mowsel said and laughed again. “Why not, Doctor, why not?”

“Excellent,” Cardinal said, picking up his newspaper and turning to go. “I will see you then.”

After he left, we walked single file past the desk clerk and his assistant. They never looked up from their domino game. A blue haze of tobacco smoke surrounded them. To no one in particular, Geaxi said, “I think I like this ‘Cardinal.’ ”

We entered the garden at the rear of the hotel by walking through an arched, bronze gate. Across the top, the gate was inscribed with a curious quotation—Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who will keep the keepers themselves? The space itself was open-aired and hidden from surrounding streets by an eight-foot wall on three sides. Tulips of every color, lilies, and crocuses encircled a small stone fountain and five stone benches. Opari and Nova sat on one bench, Sheela on another, and Ray stood by the fountain, twirling his old red beret on his forefinger. Zeru-Meq was the first to enter the garden, followed by Geaxi, Mowsel, and Sailor. For some reason, I hesitated and hung back, watching everyone as they greeted each other. I felt odd, separated, as if I was suddenly suspended in a dream. I looked up. The sky was a clear and brilliant blue. I could hear the drone of traffic beyond the walls, but it seemed miles away. Excluding the Fleur-du-Mal, I realized that all Meq, all of us who were still known to exist on earth, were gathered together in this one tiny garden in Istanbul. Without warning, I shuddered inside. I felt cold and lonely. Even with our powers, we were so few, so vulnerable. We were the last ones, I thought, the last of our kind … the last. Then I felt her fingers sliding gently between the fingers of my right hand. I blinked twice and looked into the beautiful black eyes of Opari. “This way, my love.” She led me over to a place next to her on one of the stone benches. We sat down and she kissed the palms of my hands. She looked at me and smiled. So young, so old.

“First,” I heard Sailor say from somewhere near the fountain, “we must discuss the Remembering. Then we must discuss our enemies.”

Our meeting lasted three hours. It was serious in tone, almost solemn, and felt like a tribal council in the truest sense. From Nova, the youngest, to Susheela the Ninth, the oldest, everyone spoke, all with equal voice and import. Sailor began the “discussion,” then deferred to Mowsel, who spoke at length, reiterating in great detail everything the Meq knew and did not know about the Gogorati, the Remembering. He recited a litany of names, places, ancient translations, insights, dreams, and mystical, elliptical riddles with multiple solutions. He spoke eloquently, often using old Meq phrases for emphasis. Because of the absolute truth and passion in his words, his blindness and the gap of his missing tooth were irrelevant. Trumoi-Meq had always been the historian and the recorder. He was the conscience of the Meq. He ended with one of his own poems. It was a short and strange poem, but its meaning was clear. “Tie a knot in the air and pull tight. How does that feel? Ah, precious truth.” None of us, not even Mowsel, knew what to expect at the Remembering.

Sailor suggested that all pursuit of the “little wolf” be suspended. The “little wolf” was one of the Fleur-du- Mal’s many nicknames. Everyone nodded in agreement. Zeru-Meq added, “Hear! Hear!” Sailor said our one objective must be to find the stone sphere we had seen in the photograph. “The writing on the sphere may be our last, best chance to discover a sign, instructions, directions, anything that might lead us to the exact location of the Egongela, the Living Room. Otherwise,” he said, pausing and glancing at me, “we shall have to guess.” He turned to Geaxi. “In your letter to Zianno, you said the prize was in Sochi, no? I assume you refer to the sphere.”

“Yes,” Geaxi answered. “According to a source we know well, someone who has seen it with his own eyes, the sphere is in a dacha once owned by the Minister of Culture under Stalin.”

“Who is the source?” Sailor asked.

“A man I did not recognize initially. He is older now and his face and arms are badly scarred. I am sure you remember Giles Xuereb of Malta.”

Sailor and I looked at each other in disbelief. Long ago, we both had assumed the Fleur-du-Mal had killed Giles Xuereb in revenge for lying to him, even while being tortured and carved one slice at a time. “I am glad to hear he is still alive,” Sailor said. “He is the last of his line.”

“Where is Sochi?” Nova asked.

“Sochi,” Zeru-Meq said, “is a mere five or six hundred miles to the east, straight across the Black Sea.”

“Is the dacha occupied?” Opari asked.

“At the moment, yes,” Geaxi said, removing her beret.

“Sounds like all we need is a little ‘breaking and entering,’ ” Ray said. “And that’s right up my alley.”

“Ray is correct,” Sailor added. “Occupation should not present a problem.”

“Normally, no. This time, yes … a slight one.” Geaxi slipped her beret back on her head and adjusted it to the proper angle. She looked Sailor in the eye. “The current owner and occupant of the dacha, at least for the next month, is Nikita Khrushchev, the Premier of the Soviet Union.”

A few moments passed. Sailor never changed expression, nor did Geaxi. “I suppose you have something in mind,” he said, “for this ‘slight’ problem?”

“Yes, I do.” Geaxi rose off the bench and began walking slowly toward me. “We are fortunate. However, we have only two days to prepare.”

“We?” Sailor asked. “Geaxi, do you mean all of us?”

“No,” she said, stopping about six feet from me. “We will likely have one chance to see the sphere, and it will be brief. I will need someone to help me make sense of what I see, and help me remember it.” She took another step toward me. “Possibly even read it.”

Everyone turned to look at me. Opari smiled. Ray was still twirling his beret on his finger. He winked. I didn’t have to say I would do it; everybody knew I would do it. I looked at Geaxi. “I’m in, but tell me, why two days? What is happening in two days?”

“Nikita Khrushchev’s birthday. A party is scheduled, along with entertainment. Through the generosity of Giles Xuereb, you and I, young Zezen, will be performing.”

“Performing as what?” I asked.

Geaxi grabbed her beret, did a perfect standing back flip with a half twist, then spun in a gentle, graceful pirouette until she was facing me again. She flashed a smile and said, “Acrobats.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by Ray howling with laughter. Opari had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. Then Geaxi explained by recounting what had happened to Giles since we last saw him.

In 1923, after months of healing and rehabilitation, Giles Xuereb was released from the hospital on Malta. Though horribly scarred on his face, arms, chest, and back, his one thought and concern was the Fleur-du-Mal. He knew the Fleur-du-Mal would come back to kill him as soon as he realized Giles had lied to him. He knew he must leave Malta and disappear, quickly and completely. There was only one place where this might be possible. It would also be the safest.

Giorgi Zhordania was a name Giles had known most of his life. His father had told him as a boy that if Giles ever needed safe haven and protection, there was one man who would always provide it. The man and Giles’s father were once the only survivors of a passenger ship that went down in a Mediterranean storm. Six days and nights they were alone together in the cold sea. They shared their life stories and each promised, should they survive their ordeal, to always welcome and offer sanctuary to the other and his family, no matter what, forever. It was a pact that Giles’s father said was as true and sacred as any a man can make. Now Giles would find out for himself.

After an arduous journey to Sochi, Russia, he traveled into the Caucasus Mountains and found his way to the tiny town of Zuratumi. He asked and was given directions to a rambling old house and courtyard a few blocks away. As he approached, he heard shouts coming from behind the walls of the courtyard. The long gate was swung wide open. He walked inside. The first thing he saw was a boy in red tights flying through the air, turning three somersaults and landing squarely on the shoulders of a slightly older boy, who was standing on the shoulders of two other boys beneath him. Surrounding them in a loose circle, several more boys and five or six girls, some in their teens, shouted their approval. An older man, probably in his seventies, sat off to one side in a straight-backed chair. He was leaning forward on a cane and speaking softly in an ancient Romany dialect. “Again,” he said, “you must do it again, Giorgi … again and again … until you do not doubt. I detected doubt. There must be no doubt and no