Lone Star

by Paullina Simons

  “Are you all right?” said Hannah. “You’ve gone all white.”

  “Did you hear that?” She stumbled forward. She must be all right, because her heart was still beating. She was surprised and yet not surprised when they made it close enough to the eye of the hurricane to see Johnny Rainbow standing at the mic with his beat-up guitar, his black wavy hair out of the ponytail, shiny, messy, wild like his voice. Two black speakers were on each side of him, groaning under the strain as he belted out the last oooh, the last ahhh, carrying the lyric edge up and down, round and round, repeating and repeating.

  Chloe stood breathless.

  He was astonishing.

  And he didn’t need her slack-jawed endorsement. He was freed from human approval. There was no oblivion for him ever again among strangers because all the silver strings in all the world trembled as he sang. The Apollo was bending every backbone to his red electric will.

  Surely she had failed to hide her shock at being seduced (or poisoned?) by his glossy unhumble filament of sound. She remembered something from childhood, drummed into her memory, now almost forgotten. When that which is perfect is come, that which is in part shall be done away. That’s what she felt as she stood like a pillar. She had never heard anything like Johnny’s voice. Not in real life. Freddie Mercury at the height of his powers had a quality like his, the surplus melodic tenor, the staggering operatic range conquering every beating heart by the next lilting kiss at the riverside. It was not his gift to give to her. It was Chloe’s gift to receive from him. It was a sacrament of wine and gold. She was so high her nose nearly bled.

  Her past annoyance at him, her initial irritation, her confusion at his friendliness, her relief and regret at his being gone, all that had vaporized. Awe replaced it. A deep pink wonder like tears of warm milk. She lowered her head, staring at the cobblestones, afraid someone close to her would recognize what she was feeling. No wonder he was so cocky, so unafraid. No wonder he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Who could ever say no to him?

  “He’s got some pipes on him,” said Hannah, and an equally impressed Mason made a concurring urgh. Chloe said nothing.

  “If he’s so good,” said Blake, obviously unimpressed, “why does he need to sing on street corners? If I had a good voice, I’d be in school for it, or giving concerts for money.”

  Even as Blake spoke, locals and tourists streamed past him to throw money into Johnny’s overflowing beret, and into a wooden box, sturdy like a safety deposit, with a slit for an opening, a barrel-sized box into which clapping gawkers gladly stuffed latus and dollars and euros. Thank you, thank you, he said, continuing to sing, to smile, to bow. Chloe wanted to put all of her money into his box. It’d be like putting her paleo flood heart into it.

  “You were wrong about him, dude,” Mason said to Blake. “You thought he was having us on, but he does give tours, and he sure does sing. He’s awesome. He does everything.”

  “Everything? What else does he do?” People shushed Blake. Johnny was singing the Beatles. He heard the news today. And afterward the sky was full of diamonds. No one had time for Blake’s pronouncements.

  “Are we ever going to get going?” he said, rather roughly, after another half-hour had passed.

  Chloe couldn’t move. She was mesmerized by Johnny’s flying claim that he would love to turn her on.

  “Blake, come on,” Hannah said. “Why would we go? Just listen to him.”

  “Haven’t we heard enough? We’re going to miss our train.”

  “We’ll catch the next one, dude,” Mason said. “Let’s enjoy.”

  Like the Grumpalump, Blake stood back near an ivory umbrella while the three of them pushed forward, to the front. When Johnny saw them, he waved and smiled, and Chloe swelled, self-conscious and delighted.

  They listened to a handful more songs. “Love Is the Drug.” “I’m Only Happy When It Rains.” “Bless the Broken Road.” And Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love,” which brought down the sky and the square and the river. Chloe had never heard such applause before, for anybody. All the Latvians and Asians obviously knew and loved that song, as if they’d all grown up on Led Zeppelin. Johnny was going to give them every inch of his love, and they embraced it and clapped and hollered for him, as if he had just given it to them. It was bewildering, his extravagant voice and their reaction to his singing. Both were so out of bounds.

  Chloe would have listened to him for another two or twelve setlists. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Johnny! she wanted to yell. Who are you?

  “Wow, dude,” Mason said, after Johnny had finished. Most of the groupies had finally cleared out, though not before loitering around Johnny and his equipment, pointing, touching, asking all kinds of technical questions in broken English, almost as if they too were trying to understand what had just happened. If they could only learn what kind of condenser microphone he used, perhaps with autotune built in and some midichlorians, then it would all make perfect sense. Oh, it’s a Bluebird mic. That’s the best there is. There you go. It’s all about dollars and cents. You spend thousands of dollars on a mic, you too can sing. Afterward they smiled in satisfaction. That’s what they wanted to hear.

  Answering their questions, he was patient and gracious, like a benevolent king. Yes, the Gibson Hummingbird is mic’d too, separately. Otherwise it would be drowned out by the vocals. Because everything was drowned out by the vocals: Riga, river, life. Yes, it has its own amp. Yes, there is a generator, because sometimes it’s difficult to find an electrical outlet in the middle of squares, and the cables aren’t long enough. Yes, he has been singing since he was little. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. No, I don’t have a phone. No, I don’t live in Riga. No, I’m only here until tomorrow. No, I’m not from Texas. Yes, of course I’ll look you up next time I come. Yes, give me your number.

  Finally it was their turn to be groupies. Johnny shook Mason’s hand. He tipped his head to a suddenly shy Hannah, tipped it a little longer to a mute Chloe. He was sweating, exotic, hyper.

  “Yeah,” he said, tying back his wet unruly hair. “Helps to make the daily nut, no question.” He pried open the wooden box. It was full of bills.

  “How much do you think is in there?” Hannah asked.

  Casually glancing inside, Johnny felt around the paper money. “Probably four hundred latu. Maybe more.”

  “You just made eight hundred dollars?” Hannah gasped.

  Johnny nodded, still panting. “Today was a pretty good day. Did you tip Gregor? Just kidding. That Germanic bore never gets any extra. I tell you what, though, they don’t come out like this in the rain. I can’t make any money when it rains and the streets are empty.”

  He wiped his face and neck on a towel. “I’m soaked, excuse me.” He pulled off his wet T-shirt, grabbed another black tee from his duffel. He was skinny like a string, but a string that did forty push-ups in two minutes, and fifty sit-ups, and ran two miles in fifteen minutes with his mic, his bag and his guitar. He was a steel string. He wasn’t tanned, but his skin looked as if in another time, another place it could tan well. On his heart he had a blue tattoo of the star of Texas. Chloe didn’t want to ogle. But she did. He had other tattoos. He had large geometric designs on the insides of both forearms, all the way into the crook of his elbows. They all pretended to look the other way to give him the illusion of privacy. Though as Chloe had thought: there was no more oblivion for this boy.

  “Where did you learn to sing like that?” That was her asking him a question. She had finally found a tinny voice.

  “My mother sang. My father sang.”

  “Professionally?”

  “My mother, yes. For a time. Until she ruined her voice. She wanted me to be a singer like her. Though this is probably not what she had in mind.” Johnny was bent over his cables. She couldn’t see his face.

  “Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. “And your dad?”

  “He didn’t ruin his voice. But he did stop singing when he stopped playing guitar.”
>
  She stayed back, watching him wrap his audio cords around his hand and elbow, waiting for another syllable to fall from his mouth.

  He offered her a tidbit of his life. “My grandfather once told me that his uncle had a voice like mine. That was a century ago. Apparently the man could sing like Enrico Caruso.”

  “Enrico who?”

  “Never mind. Drove all the girls wild.”

  “Who did?” muttered Chloe. “Caruso?” She blushed and hoped no one noticed.

  Johnny stacked up the amps, speakers, the generator, and all his wires. Broke down his equipment in less than twenty minutes, like a pro. The mic stand was aluminum and retractable. He dropped the stand and both mics into his duffel. Mason asked about the other equipment.

  “The Bluebirds are mine. But the rest I borrow from a guy I know. Fabius. I gave him a percentage of the receipts.”

  “What about when you’re in Vilnius or somewhere and Fabius isn’t around?”

  Johnny shrugged. “Usually I can find someone who’ll rent me the gear for a few hours. There’s music in every city. But if not, then it’s just me and the guitar. I pop the Bluebird on a stand and sing into it as if it’s plugged in.”

  The three of them, except for Blake, kept whirling around Johnny in little circles.

  “So what are you up to next?” Mason asked.

  “Not much. Drink a little beer. Smoke a little. Eat maybe. Hang. Chill. What about you guys?”

  “We’re heading back to Varda’s. It’s our last night.”

  “Yeah, mine too.”

  Hannah joined in. “Where are you headed next?”

  “Poland.”

  “Us too!” She sounded like his cheer squad.

  “That’s right. I remember.” He smiled at Chloe. “You’re still set on Treblinka?”

  “Of course,” she said. “You?”

  “Well, having been there before, I’m not set on Treblinka. But I did get roped into a private tour of all six death camps for a group of eager beaver professional tourists.”

  “How’d they find you? Do you advertise?”

  “Advertise? No. My uncle knows them.”

  Mason exchanged meaningful glances with Chloe, with Hannah. No one glanced at sulking Blake.

  “How long does a tour like that take?”

  Johnny shrugged. “A few days. We start in Warsaw, make our way south to Krakow. Maybe eight days for all six, including travel.”

  That’s too long, Chloe thought bitterly.

  Johnny smiled as if he could read her mind. She really really hoped he couldn’t. “I can’t remember, are you seeing only Treblinka? Or did your grandmother make you promise to see them all? Because you could come with me on my tour if you wanted. There’s definitely room.”

  “We’re seeing just the one,” Blake cut in. “Maybe Auschwitz, too, if we have time, but we’re not sure yet. So we definitely don’t need a tour of all six. And Auschwitz has its own guides. Thanks anyway. Come on, guys—train.”

  Mason lifted his hand to stop his brother. Hannah lifted her hand to stop her boyfriend. Only Chloe stayed motionless.

  “Blake, hang on, dude,” Mason said. “We were just saying how we don’t know how to get to Treblinka.”

  “A tour guide in Gdansk will tell us,” Blake said.

  Johnny scrunched up his face in disapproval. “Why are you going to Gdansk? It’s all the way north and really far from Treblinka. You should come with me. It’ll be easier for you.” Johnny raised his hand but not his voice. “Wait, Blake, wait. Hear me out. You don’t have to come with me for all six. Just come for the one day I go to Treblinka.”

  Hannah nearly jumped in place. “That’s a really good idea!”

  “It really is, bro.”

  Chloe pressed her lips together to keep quiet.

  Blake shook his head. “No. We’re going to Gdansk. We already decided.”

  “You’re adding days to your trip.” Johnny’s tone was unfazed. “It’s going to take a long time to get to Warsaw as it is. And then you’ve got quite a way out of Poland to Spain. I wouldn’t be wasting my time on Gdansk if I were you.”

  “Bro, he’s right,” Mason said. “We want to make sure we have as long as possible in Barcelona.”

  “Though I will repeat,” said Johnny, “a week in Barcelona in August is plenty.”

  Blake stiffened as if he wanted to punch him.

  It was time for Chloe to speak up. “Blake,” she said softly. “We shouldn’t go to Gdansk if we don’t have to.”

  “We made our plans, Chloe,” Blake said.

  “Listen, dudes and dudettes,” Johnny said. “It’s no skin off my nose either way. I am simply offering. I’m hiring a charter bus from a guy I know in Warsaw.” He bowed slightly. “What can I say, I know a lot of guys. The bus sits ten plus the driver. Five of them, plus me, plus four of you. It’s ideal. And it’ll save you the trouble of getting to Treblinka by train, and that’s trouble, believe me. I’m just trying to help. Do whatever you want, of course. You don’t have to pay for the tour or anything. I still owe you one.” He smiled. “Though another dinner at Varda’s would be delightful. I’ll bring the drink and dessert this time—I’m flush.” He shook his wooden box. All the equipment black and heavy was stacked into a Fisher Price red wagon with a beige plastic handle.

  Chloe stood, hoping and praying someone else would leap up and invite him to go with them to Varda’s, so she wouldn’t have to. Quick, her insides kept yelling, quick, before he changes his mind. Hannah and Mason made excited eyes at Blake, who glared back in rank resentment. “Johnny, we need a minute.”

  “Take all the time you need, dude. I’ll go get myself another beer. Anyone want one? It’s on me. Oh, and I’ll grab some dessert from Rigensis for Varda.”

  “The line was over an hour at the bakery,” Blake said.

  “Don’t worry.” Johnny winked. “I know a guy. Be back in ten. Can you watch my stuff?”

  He left them with his red wagon, his duffel and his box of money. The only thing he took with him was the guitar. They were left alone in the becalmed Livu Square. It was nearing seven. The sun was still high in the sky, the air was warm, redolent with spilled hops and pickled cabbage and wild purple.

  Everything was the same. Nothing was the same. Chloe couldn’t look at Mason, couldn’t look at Blake, couldn’t look at Hannah.

  “Have you lost your minds?” was the first thing out of Blake’s mouth.

  “Blake, come on, man,” Mason said. “It’ll help us. We don’t know where to go, you have to admit that. And he does. Look, we were headed to Gdansk. That’s proof right there that we need a tour guide.”

  “Like herpes we need him.”

  “Blakie,” said Hannah, “it’s just for a few days. If we don’t like it, we can always bug out.”

  “I don’t like it now.”

  “Bro … come on.”

  “Blakie … come on.”

  Chloe said nothing. She didn’t have to.

  It was one Blake against three swooning teenagers with puppy-dog eyes over Johnny’s marmalade skies. Everyone knew Blake stood no chance, even Blake. He spat before he walked away to be by himself, while they waited for Johnny to come back with the beers and the boxes of pastries, and then ran to tell him the good news, the great news. We can go with you, we will go with you.

  Blake may have been immune to Johnny’s magic, but no one else was. His voice was what made Chloe trust him completely. It was an offering from God, gold rain thrown from blue heights, it was like grace. It was impossible to overstate the effect that his singing had had on her. What was the matter with Blake that he couldn’t warm to the boy-man who chanted sobs of poetry like the Gregorian monks at the resurrection? It was quite a feat on Johnny’s part, to make Blake come out looking like the bad guy. But, truly, it was as if they all had stepped inside the Cathedral of Notre Dame during Pentecost high mass, witnessed astral greatness, and Blake was the only one left unmoved.

  They
raised their beers to each other. Blake refused his, so Johnny drank it. They perched on the stone wall by the Guildhall, quenched their thirst and chatted agreeably, Mason and Johnny like old friends, Hannah and Chloe sitting shoulder to shoulder, admiring. Blake was the fifth wheel, surly and ungracious.

  “Hannah, go make your boyfriend feel better,” Chloe whispered.

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “How? Use your feminine wiles. Tell him something warm, something he wants to hear.”

  “He’s being ridiculous and childish. I’m not going to kowtow to that. That’s enabling his immaturity. Not going to happen. You go make him feel better if it’s so important to you.”

  Blake

  “So what’s your plan for getting to Warsaw, dude?” Johnny asked me, as if we were friends.

  “I don’t know. What’s your plan for getting to Warsaw?”

  “Mine is to take the 7 a.m. bus to Vilnius, and then a train out of Vilnius to Warsaw. What about you?”

  “We’re not taking any buses, so …”

  “Oh, so you’ve looked at the train schedule?”

  Through clamped teeth: “Of course I’ve looked at the train schedule.”

  Johnny smirked. From his olive drab Mary Poppins bag he produced a thick worn book, ripped up and faded. European Rail and Bus Timetable, August 2004.

  “I hope this is where you check your train times.”

  “No, we have the Travelers’ Railway Map of Europe.” It was easier to read, but I didn’t want to tell him that.

  “Pig nonsense.” He leafed through my book dramatically, for humor, I assume, though I was not in the least humored. “There is no direct train from Riga to Gdansk. Or Riga to Warsaw. So what do you want to do?”

  That couldn’t be right!

  “What would you do, Johnny?” asked Hannah.

  I didn’t even give my girlfriend a scolding glance. “There’s got to be a train,” I said. “There simply has to be.”

  “It’s ludicrous, I know. But that’s the way it is. As the crow flies, Warsaw is only five hundred miles from here and yet there’s no direct train.”