by Steve Cash
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 before, and she was smiling, which I hadn’t seen her do in a long time. She saw me and walked over, not smiling now and pinching at my clothes as if they were filthy rags. Then, in her most aristocratic voice, she said, “You simply must learn to dress for dinner, Z. What will the waiters think?” She maintained her stern look for a few moments more, then broke into a full, robust Carolina laugh, a laughter whose return I welcomed.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
“Why, thank you, sir.”
“Solomon has good taste. I never knew—”
“Then you should have paid attention,” S
olomon burst in. “You would have known, Z, I have best taste in all things beautiful, especially women.” He took her arm in his and led her to the table. “Now we eat,” he announced to all of us and one of the waiters held a chair out for Carolina. Another waiter uncorked a bottle of champagne and filled her glass, then moved over to fill Solomon’s. “Champagne for everyone, young man!” Solomon barked at the waiter.
“The children too, sir?” he asked, glancing at Sailor, Ray, and me.
“Yes, I believe so,” Solomon said with a smile. “I think everyone is old enough.” After the waiters had filled our glasses, they were shooed out of the room by Solomon. We were alone in the room, except for Li, who sat in the corner as still as granite. I caught Solomon’s attention and nodded toward Li. Solomon waved his arm, dismissing any concern. “He won’t eat with me,” he said. “The damn man thinks I am beneath him.” Then, rising from his chair, he motioned for everyone to stand and toast.
Ray stood up first, glass in hand, and I noticed that he had actually removed his bowler hat. I don’t think Ray had ever sat down to such a meal.
Sailor seemed calm and comfortable at the gathering and rose up slowly. I could tell he had done this many times, whether at a campfire or the courts of kings.
Carolina and I stood up together and it was to her that Solomon turned and began his toast.
“Zis is first and last time I say zis. Here is to Mrs. Bennings; a woman I loved, but from too great a distance; a woman of good manners and taste and a woman I wished to see once more, but was denied by fate and the whims of Yahweh. May she rest in peace.”
Everyone drank from their glass and Solomon continued. “And here is to Georgia, the sister of Carolina I never met, but in knowing Carolina, I know her presence too. May she rest in peace. I give them both grand funeral, I promise.” He gave a solemn nod to Carolina and everyone lifted their glass to drink.
“Wait,” I said, “I want to add a toast—a toast to you, old friend, for coming back and for helping all of us.”
“Hear! Hear!” everyone said and we all leaned across the table to touch glasses.
Solomon looked at Sailor, Ray, and me one by one, then he said, “You are the children the old rabbis spoke of, the ‘Children of the Mountains,’ the children of Yahweh, and one of Yahweh’s greatest mysteries. It is my honor to help.”
I looked at Sailor who silently toasted Solomon himself. I looked at Carolina who had tears in her eyes and she made me think of Georgia, which made me think of the Fleur-du-Mal and I had a sudden flush of anger, but I pushed it out. I looked at Ray, who was grinning and clearly enjoying himself. I was sure he had never been treated like this by anyone, Giza or Meq. And I looked at Solomon, white-haired and bearded, full of gladness, sadness, and pride. I knew this was the time to ask him.
“Well, Solomon, are you going to tell us?”
“Tell you what, Z?”
“Oh, not much, just where you went, how you got rich, and why you ended up back here with Sailor, who I couldn’t find a trace of in twelve years at sea. That’s all.”
He laughed out loud. “Let’s eat zis wonderful meal and I will tell you while we eat. It is simple, really.” He picked up an oyster and let it slide out of the shell and down his throat, gulped an entire glass of champagne, and began to tell his story.
“I left St. Louis to become rich man. How? Where? I didn’t know, but I told myself, ‘Solomon, you will not come back same as you are leaving!’ Zis much, I knew, but first I was to meet a man in St. Joseph named James. You knew about that, Z.”
“Yes,” I interrupted. “Did you get our telegram?”
“What telegram?”
“The one we sent, actually Mrs. Bennings sent, warning you about the big storm.”
He looked puzzled. He pulled on one of his earlobes. “No, no,” he said slowly, “I never receive telegram, but I was delayed in Booneville two weeks because of that damn storm. I lost Otto and Greta because of that damn storm. I hated that damn storm, but I finally get to St. Joseph and things have changed. The man I was to meet is no longer. He had been killed, shot in the back by someone he knew.”
“Who was the man?” I asked.
“Jesse James.”
Carolina lurched forward in her chair, staring at Solomon. “The Jesse James?”
“Yes, yes, he was good man; outlaw and robber, but he was always good man to me.”
“How did you meet him?” Carolina was fascinated, leaning forward with her elbows on the table.
“That is another story, but I will tell you I met him after Civil War in a card game in Kansas, where I, uh, how should I say . . . advised him. He went his way, I went mine; that is life, but we stayed in touch, occasionally. Then, in that spring of 1882, I get letter from him saying he wishes me to transfer something for him to California, where he will start a new life. He has made ‘a deal,’ he says. I get to St. Joseph on April 19 and check into the World Hotel, where we were to meet. There is big hoopla and craziness going on, so I ask the desk clerk what zis is about. He thinks I am crazy and tells me Jesse James was killed April third and zis is the day they are auctioning off all his things just down the street. Then, he gives me letter, unmarked, that was left for me some time ago.
“I go to my room and the door is unlocked. I walk in and there is already another man staying there. He is a funny-looking man with long, wavy hair and wearing clothes even I could not have tailored. We introduce ourselves; his name is Oscar Wilde and he says he is there to watch the auction from the window. He says, ‘Americans love their heroes and they usually love them criminal.’ I tell him yes, but zis auction, zis is bad business. I take my leave, saying there must be a mix-up about the rooms and wish him well.”
“The Oscar Wilde?” Carolina burst in.
“Yes,” Solomon said and continued. “I get a new room and sit down to read the letter that was left for me. It was from Jesse and dated April first. He said he couldn’t chance a meeting with me in public, but he had made a deal, through a lawyer named Hardwicke, with Governor Crittenden and the Pinkerton Detective Agency that they would let him and his brother Frank alone if they would change their names, give up crime, and simply disappear for good. However, they couldn’t take anything with them, except their immediate family and personal belongings. They especially couldn’t take any ill-gotten gains with them and that is where I came in. I was to take the keys that were taped inside the letter, go to the bank in Liberty, Missouri, and open several safety-deposit boxes using the name Solomon Barnes. Then, I was to go to San Francisco with the contents and wait for him to contact me through the Union Pacific Railroad.
“Well, I cannot believe what I am reading. I walk to the window and look down on zis ugly auction taking place, insulting my dead friend. I say to myself, ‘Do zis, Solomon! Why not? Yahweh smiles!’ The whole situation was backward, upside down. It made me think of the old proverb, ‘War makes thieves and peace hangs them.’
“The rest was simple. I check out of hotel, go to Liberty and collect $163,575 in gold and cash, catch train in Kansas City for San Francisco, and when I get there, I book passage to Hong Kong on the first steamer leaving.
“Once in Hong Kong, I ask around, find out what’s what and who’s who. I meet a French sea captain, Antoine Boutrain, who loses a great deal of money to me in a game of chance. In lieu of payment, he wishes to give me business tip, the ‘deal of a lifetime’ he says.”
The name was familiar to me somehow, then I remembered—Isabelle—Unai and Usoa. I glanced briefly at Sailor and he returned my glance with an enigmatic expression. Solomon continued.
“He says to go south to Shanghai and he will give me proper introduction to Sheng Hsuan-huai who will welcome my investment in the China Steamship Navigation Company. In two years’ time, he says, I will be rich man; he was right, except it took five. In one year, I make my money back; in two, I double it; in five, I am a millionaire. I always said the big money would be on the water, eh, Z?”
; “Yes, you did, Solomon, you did indeed. But how did you meet Li? And when did you meet Sailor?”
“Ah, first things first,” he said and stopped to refill everyone’s champagne glass. He turned and looked at Li, sitting like a human stone in the corner. Solomon lifted his glass in a silent toast to him. “A few years ago,” he went on, “things began to change in Shanghai for me and for all foreign investors. China wanted in on all the action. Most investors sold out and moved on; I stayed, maybe a little too long. A comprador there, Cheng Kuan-ying, who was a liaison between the mandarins and the foreign investors, wanted me out—poof!—for good. I knew zis, but ignored it.
“Li was working as a laborer on the docks and quays of the Whangpoo River. I did not know him personally, but I knew others like him; workers who were also members of some damn crazy sect who thought they were White Lotus rebels reincarnated. They were violently opposed to the ‘Old Buddha,’ the Empress Dowager Tz’u-hsi, and all her mandarins and their compradors.
“One night, I am walking from ship to office and Cheng sends four men to take me out. Li, who was there by chance, he told me later, sees them pull out knives and clubs and steps in. Like lightning, he cracks all four of their skulls in seconds. I thank the man, try to pay him reward, but he won’t accept; he has some crazy fool belief that once you save a man’s life you are responsible for his safety until he dies; and if you don’t do zis, you will succumb to a nine-headed, soul-swallowing dragon. He is a crazy man, but as you can see, still to zis day, is concerned for my safety, even though, I am sure, he would love to see me croak and die so he can get on with his life.”
Solomon raised his glass to Li once more in silence. I looked around the table and most of the food was eaten. Ray had one leg slung over the arm of his chair and a toothpick in his mouth; he looked fat and happy. Sailor sat back in his chair holding his champagne glass on his knee. The ring on his forefinger danced in the candlelight. Carolina sat enraptured with Solomon and his life and had barely touched her meal.
“So, you and Li left Shanghai then?” I asked.