The Remembering

could get. He told me he would miss Sailor infinitely more than he ever would Zuriaa. He said her insanity had spiraled out of control while in Japan. And during our last game, he even recited a poem, which he claimed was a Provencal Meq song from pre-Roman times. The song went like this:

Not age nor death
not war nor wealth
shall ever be enough
for me to be reconciled
with what lives safe inside
and yet is wild
what is and was
and yet still is — the child.

As soon as I was checkmated, I said, “I’m finished. I’m hungry and I need some rest.”

To my surprise, the Fleur-du-Mal agreed. “Yes, you are right, Zezen. We need food and we need rest. The Japanese will be surrendering within days. They must, they now have no choice, and I … we … must be ready to leave. Nagasaki and Japan itself, pour moi, will no longer serve as, shall we say, a port in the storm.” He paused, then stood and faced the far end of the cavernous room. “Koki!” he said loudly and firmly.

Before Koki arrived, I asked, “What is an ‘idiot savant?’ ”

“Ah, yes,” he said, and looked down at the chessboard. “But perhaps, Zezen, you should see for yourself. Please stay where you are.”

Koki walked toward us mumbling. I think he was saying, “Hello, yes” over and over, as if he were rehearsing the lines. He had a funny little gait, sort of side to side. He reminded me of a Japanese Charlie Chaplin. His glasses sat on the end of his nose and they were nearly fogged over. He was carrying a fresh pot of tea on a bamboo tray and the spout was directly under his chin, sending steam up to his glasses. He took extra care setting the tray down, then wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand and nudged his glasses back in place. He could barely see, but he picked up the pot and leaned over to refill my cup.

“I’ll do that, Koki. Thank you, anyway,” I said, taking the pot from him carefully.

“Koki,” the Fleur-du-Mal said with a grin, “would you like to play chess now?”

Koki nodded his head without expression. He was rocking gently back and forth. “Yes, hello,” he said. A new trickle ran from his nose and he wiped it again with his hand.

The Fleur-du-Mal reached into his kimono and withdrew a blue, embroidered handkerchief, which he handed to Koki. “Sit here,” he said, giving Koki his seat in front of the jade pieces. “M. Zezen will be your opponent.” Koki sat down and stared at the board. He glanced at me once and I smiled. He smiled back, exposing his stained teeth. “Your move, Zezen,” the Fleur-du-Mal said, “and play as fast as you are able — Koki only plays at one speed.”

I was puzzled, but I made the common opening, P to Q4. That was the last move I made with any comfort or assurance. Koki played so well and so fast, I never knew what hit me. I could barely keep up. He had me checkmated easily in no time at all.

“Play again,” the Fleur-du-Mal said, “and try harder.”

We played again and it was worse. Koki had my king trapped in five moves. He was brilliant. I’d never seen the combination of moves and strategy he used, and he played with lightning speed. “I give up,” I said. “You are an amazing, wonderful player, Koki. I can’t beat you.”

Koki smiled. “Yes, hello,” he said softly, then he said it again.

“Koki can destroy a grandmaster in the same fashion,” the Fleur-du-Mal said. “I have seen him do it on several occasions. I cannot beat him. I never have. He is the best chess player I have ever played and I have played around the world for two millennia.” The Fleur-du-Mal was standing between Koki and Goya’s skull on the wall, probably to keep him from being distracted. “Naohiro Nishi, my Koki,” he said, “has a very rare and curious madness. I have never seen it in the Meq; however, I have seen it appear in the Giza for centuries in various forms. I believe the current term for it among the Giza is ‘autism.’ It is a generalized and convenient term, just as they are using the absurd word ‘schizophrenia’ for a thousand different, beautiful, and unusual states of mind. They have little imagination and they have learned less about madness. Nevertheless, Koki is incapable of living in open society on his own. His uncanny ability to play chess better than anyone in the world has no meaning or significance to him. Koki merely likes to play, but no more than he likes to smoke cigarettes. They are equally important activities and routines.” The Fleur-du-Mal paused. He watched Koki trying to wipe his nose with the handkerchief. Using his hand had proved more efficient. “Come, Zezen. Follow me and we shall eat, although I apologize in advance for the lack of variety. The war has made it somewhat difficult to serve proper fare.” He waited for me to stand, then headed for the other end of the room and a long dining table barely visible in the shadows. “Koki! Bring the fish soup from the kitchen, with steamed rice and those tiny eels we had yesterday.” Halfway across the room, the Fleur-du-Mal smiled at me. His teeth were dazzling white. “You will love the eels,” he said.

I’m not sure how a day like August 9, 1945, is supposed to end. For me, it finally ended on a single bed in a small room with stone walls and no windows, my “apartment,” according to the Fleur-du-Mal. Lying in the dark with my eyes wide open, I tried imagining that in St. Louis the day had ended quietly, just another sultry night among many others in a long summer, perfect for a slow walk in Forest Park or a baseball game at Sportsman’s Park. I wondered how the Cardinals were doing in the pennant race, and I wondered about Jack and Star and Caine and Willie, and especially Carolina. I thought about her age and suddenly realized she was now seventy-five years old. Impossible, I thought. I wondered about Opari over and over, then thought of Ray and Nova, Geaxi and Mowsel, Zeru-Meq, everyone and anyone … anyone but Sailor. I could not think of Sailor without seeing the white flash again, and the horrific cloud that followed and filled the sky. I knew if anyone had survived in Nagasaki, for them, August 9 would never end. I let my mind go. My thoughts formed and dissolved at random, reeling and rebounding through time, people, and places. Eventually, I drifted off and fell into a dream. It was a dream of immense power, and as puzzling as a lone footprint on a deserted island, which is exactly where it began.

I stood barefoot in the sand. I didn’t feel the sun on my back, but I knew it was behind me. I turned to face the sea and saw two dolphins rising out of the blue water in a graceful arc and falling back with barely a splash. A fat, yellow sun sat low on the horizon; however, I had no sense of sunrise or sunset. I held Papa’s baseball in one hand and wore Mama’s glove on the other. I knew the Stone of Dreams was still intact and stitched inside the baseball, and Mama’s glove looked exactly the same as it had in 1881, yet I felt no sense of paradox. In fact, I felt no sense of anything. I was myself then and I was myself now, but not quite; I was not living, or I was reliving — no, no … I was about to live. I was certain of it. I looked down and focused on a single child’s footprint in the sand. It was nearly my size, only slightly wider with fatter toes. I was perplexed. The imprint was made too far from where the beach met the underbrush for there not to be another. How did it get there, and why only one? How was it possible? I looked down at Papa’s baseball in my hand and something or someone compelled me to look up the slope of the beach toward the dense green tangle of jungle and the jagged peaks and cliffs above and beyond. Suddenly I knew what I was supposed to do. My purpose was to deliver the Stone of Dreams to someone who was waiting for me. Without thinking I shouted, “Opari!” A second later the sky began to darken. I looked back toward the sea just in time to catch the low-contrast bands of light and dark racing across the water. In front of the sun, the moon was gliding silently and gracefully into place. It was the Bitxileiho—the Strange Window. I turned and ran up the slope, and as I ran I also realized this was the end of the Itxaron. The Wait was over and there would be a “crossing” like no other, but for whom? I kept running and running. Then came totality and utter darkness. “Opari,” I whispered, and woke up. The dream, in reality, probably lasted only a few seconds, but I spent the rest of the night lying on my single bed, motionless and staring up at nothing.

The next day began with two sharp knocks on my door, followed by a small voice, “Rice, mister.” I sat up and lit the candle next to my bed, then slipped on my shoes and walked the short distance over to the door. It wasn’t locked because there was no lock. The only doors with locks were the “front” door and the one leading off