The man looks up as I step into the room. I can make out little about him beyond his vague shape, but it is plainly not Charles. “Ah, Naomi,” he says, standing, “I’ve been waiting for you.” His voice is friendly, warm and welcoming, like the place around him. “Please, come and sit with me.”
He is a stranger to me, but somehow I have the impression that we have met before. Unsure, I glance back toward the door and the rain outside. “This is no day to be wandering about,” the man says. “Let’s wait out the weather together. I’ve ordered us some food.”
The mention of food decides me soundly in his favor, as I realize I am famished. My boots leave sopping footprints as I cross to the table. “Here, let me take your coat,” says the man, moving swiftly to my back. He pulls out the chair opposite his even as he lifts the slicker from my shoulders. The table has two places set, each with a gleaming white plate and an arcane array of knives and forks. Next to the utensils aligned along the man’s side is a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. They seem very familiar somehow, such that I am sure I’ve encountered their like before, though where I cannot say. I am still contemplating them when the man takes his place in front of me and sets the spectacles on his nose and I get my first good look at him.
He is tall in stature, and slim, dressed immaculately in a suit of delicate cut and subtly complementary patterns. His cuffs are fastened with studs rather than buttons, and he wears a glossy necktie done up in a fine little bow. He has a long face with clever features, a good fit for his build, and though he is plainly not a young man, his skin has the smooth luster of a walnut. He wears his thick hair long but slicked back. It is white at the front but deepens to gray along the ridge of his head. The overall effect is of something at once complex and effortless. I do not think I have ever met such a dapper person. The only feature I cannot quite discern is his eyes because the light has caught his spectacles in such a way as to turn the lenses a blank and glaring white.
“Horrible out there, isn’t it?” the bespectacled man comments. We are seated near a window, rainwater running vigorously down the glass. Through the blurry rivulets, I catch sight of gray streets, figures leaning into the wind as they rush past. “You must be chilled to the bone. We shall have to warm you up immediately. How do you feel about lobster bisque?”
My feelings regarding lobster bisque are indeterminate because I do not know what lobster bisque is. I have eaten lobsters before, abominable creatures resembling gigantic cockroaches my coda will sometimes pull from the ocean in baskets baited with scraps of garbage. The meat is tasty enough, but hardly worth the work of prying it from their unpleasant tails and claws, at least not when there is fish or venison to be had more easily. I do not care to guess what part of the lobster the bisque might be, but as it turns out, bisque is a kind of soup, creamy and warm, in which the lobster plays hardly any part. My appraisal is favorable overall; I end up cleaning the bowl with my fingers.
“No need to rush,” says the bespectacled man. He has been served bisque of his own but has not so much as lifted his spoon. Instead, he watches me, smiling, from behind his inscrutable blank lenses. “There’s plenty more coming.”
The next course is something called a “burrito.” It consists of a full meal of rice and beans and seasoned meat and innumerable other additions cleverly rolled into a patty of thin, soft bread, so that the whole thing can be eaten by hand, and each bite brings forth the full flavorful symphony. This burrito is served with strips of potato, similar in conception to what Mama or Rae or I will sometimes fry up over the fire, but so different in effect as to seem an altogether separate variety of food. Lastly, there is ice cream and chocolate cake, which by my reckoning ought to be renamed ambrosia of the gods.
“Did you enjoy your meal?” the bespectacled man asks when the last bite of cake is gone. “The menu here is not usually so . . . inventive.”
The question is quite unnecessary, as I am presently engaged in licking the plate, but I answer nonetheless. “Yes, thank you.” I set the plate down, and a man in a white jacket arrives to take it away. I had not noticed him before, but I realize he must have come and gone throughout the meal, bringing out food and afterward clearing what leftovers remained. I study the man in the white jacket as he removes the bespectacled man’s uneaten cake and drooping ice cream, but no matter how I angle my head, I cannot get a clear view of his face.
As he departs, I see the room is full of people. Every table is occupied, crowded with well-turned-out men and women, all engaged in quiet but animated conversation. Along the tall counter, more figures sit sipping from oddly shaped glasses while a man in gartered shirtsleeves pours from the multicolored bottles. Though I cannot recall seeing these people before, I have the impression that they have been here all along. And no matter where I look, I cannot make out a single pair of eyes. Those who do not have their backs to me are always arranged so that some object happens to cover their faces: a shoulder, a glass of wine, the buds of flowers leaning from a vase. The music that was playing when I arrived is still audible beneath the low chatter, and I see that it comes from a machine set in one corner of the room, a wooden box with a large horn attached to project the sound, which carries an odd, swaying tune, unusual but not unpleasant, and a scratchy quality I had not heard until now.
“I’m very glad,” the bespectacled man says. “I tried to order things you would like.”
“Why didn’t you eat anything?” I ask, turning back to him.
“I wasn’t hungry,” he replies kindly. “Now, I was hoping you would do me a small favor.”
Inclined as I am to repay this man for his generosity, I have learned never to agree to a favor before I know what will be asked of me. I try without success to look past the gleam of his spectacles. “What do you want me to do?” I ask.
He reaches beneath the table and produces a rectangular wooden case, which he sets before me, flicking the latches open as he does. Inside is a fiddle, a lovely piece of work. Like the man and his spectacles, there is something familiar about this instrument. “Where did you get this?” I say, running a hand along one wooden curve.
The bespectacled man does not answer. Instead, he says, “I would very much like to hear you play, Naomi. Would you do that for me?”
The request is neither onerous nor unreasonable. I think I would have been happy to play even if this man had not just treated me to the finest meal of my life. I lift the fiddle from its case and discover it warm to the touch. Its weight and balance remind me of holding a living thing, at once heavier and lighter than it appears. As I set the fiddle to my arm, a smile spreads across the bespectacled man’s face. He makes a sign to someone I cannot see, and the swaying music ceases with a loud scratch. The silence that follows is warm, inviting.
I take up the bow and draw one long note across the strings.
For a moment, I see the rushing ocean, waves flashing in the sunlight.
The bespectacled man is watching me, his mouth drawn into a delighted smile, cheeks crinkling around the edges of his horn frames. “That was wonderful, Naomi,” he says. “Please, again.”
I can think of no reason why I should not oblige him. Indeed, though I had hesitated, fearful of overstepping myself, I am eager to continue playing. Again, I bring down the bow, drawing out a second note, lower and richer than the first. With it comes a blast of open air, spinning sky: a high, bright sun.
“Splendid, splendid,” the bespectacled man says, clapping his hands once. “Don’t stop now. Go on, play whatever you like.”
But I have lowered the fiddle, unsure of myself. Something here is not right. “What is happening?” I ask him. “Who are you? What is this place?”
An image has risen from the back of my mind, a blurry tableau of faces. They are people I do not quite know, wishing me luck on an errand I do not quite recall. And then the bespectacled man speaks, and the picture fades.
“This is a
restaurant, Naomi,” he answers soothingly. “You know that. And I am your host. You and I have just shared a lovely meal, and now you are delighting me with your wonderful music. You do like to play, don’t you?”
“I do,” I admit.
“Then please, play on.”
It is all the invitation I require. My song is slow at first, but quickly gathers pace. It seems the fiddle itself is urging me on, all other thoughts gone in the joy of the music. Again I see the sky, now streaked in wispy clouds, and water below, rushing waves reflecting the sun in a glittering tumble. There is something else, too, a shadow behind the glare and sparkle. At first I think it must be somewhere beneath the ocean’s surface, a sea monster traveling at fantastic speed, but there is no swell in the water as such a leviathan would raise. I strain for a closer look, and the waves part, as though pressed aside by some immense force. Mirrored in the ocean’s surface I see the silhouette of something large and swift moving with liquid sleekness. Its shape changes from one moment to the next, and like drifting clouds, it now and then takes on familiar forms: a bird in flight, a running cat, a woman’s body tucked into a dive, a bullet.
There is a second reflection, too, high above. I look up into the blue sky and spot a dark shape crossing the sun, and behind it another, like the shadow of a shadow. All around me, water sprays into the air with the force of my passing, drops glinting in the clear light. The two shadows know I am here. They alter their course, diving toward me.
“Naomi!”
It is a voice I know, and hearing it trips up my song in a jumble of notes. The bespectacled man appears just as upset as I am at the interruption, though no one else nearby has noticed. Casting about for the source of the disturbance, I see a boy standing just inside the restaurant’s entrance. He is dressed in a very odd costume: an overlarge shirt and bill-brimmed cap, each emblazoned with some bizarre design. He is not only calling to me but already on his way to my table. Fortunately, a doorman in a black jacket has spotted him and steps in to discourage the boy’s advance.
“Naomi!” he calls again, jumping and waving for my attention. “It’s me, Jax!”
Again I have the feeling that there is something peculiar about this place. For half a second, this Jax appears to me as two people: the one in a long shirt and cap, and another in a dark uniform. The second Jax seems about to speak to me, but then he vanishes. “I think I have met that boy somewhere,” I say to the bespectacled man. “Can we invite him over?”
“Most certainly not!” the bespectacled man says, with a laugh of amused indignation. “You must be mistaking him for someone else. The boy could not possibly be an acquaintance of yours. Look at him—he’s a filthy street urchin!”
And truly, the boy Jax does seem immoderately grubby. Now that I have a moment to inspect him more closely, it is plain he is fresh out of some gutter or other declivity. He is in desperate need of a bath, and the outlandish smock he wears in place of a shirt is deplorably soiled, his hat ragged and sweat-stained. I, meanwhile, have on a fine blue dress and white blouse, and my fingernails are clean. I do not know how these details escaped me before, for it is obvious this boy has no business in decent company. Yet he remains vocal in his bid for my attention. Other guests have begun to glance in his direction, frowning with distaste at this rude interruption to their supper.
It is embarrassing to be included in the noisy scene Jax has made, and I am relieved when the doorman finally takes hold of him and, with a firm hand, leads him out of the restaurant. But I am sorry, too, once he is gone. Perhaps it is the imploring look in his brown eyes or how wretched he seemed as the doorman hauled him away. A patter of raindrops against a nearby window reminds me of the biting weather, and I feel guilty knowing Jax has been cast out into it.
The bespectacled man takes note of my distress. “I’ll speak to the maître d’,” he says with an indulgent sigh. “The boy will be given something to eat and a warm place out of the rain. But I do hope you can agree we could not allow him to stay. Before one may enter civilized society, one must be prepared to behave in a civilized manner. You understand, don’t you, Naomi?”
I believe I do. Jax was disturbing the order of this place. “Yes. I think so.”
My companion smiles, spectacles aflash with candlelight. “Wonderful. And with that settled, do you imagine we could continue our little concert?”
I had been waiting for just such an invitation. The renewed sound of my fiddle pleases the bespectacled man immensely, and as the notes gather, one of his hands rises into the air, tracing a gentle motion in time to my music. “What are you doing?” I ask, pausing midtune.
His hand goes still, his posture shifting, like someone awakened from a dream. His rapturous expression shifts to a small, embarrassed grin. “I seem to have become a bit carried away,” he says. “Your music was so enchanting. Did I disturb you?”
“No.” In fact, I cannot remember ever having played so well. Each of his gestures seemed to add precision and flourish to my music, as if we were somehow playing together. “I am only curious.”
“An old habit of mine,” he says, his smile taking on a more bashful tint. “I was a conductor once, the leader of a symphony. Your playing took me back to another time, I’m afraid. I hope you can excuse a foolish old man his eccentricities.”
“No excuse is necessary. It was only something I had not seen before.” Though even as I say it, I wonder if this is true. Have I seen someone else “conduct” in that way? Was it something Papa used to do? “May I play again?”
“I would like nothing more,” replies the Maestro.
But even as I raise my bow to continue, there is a jarring thud at my window: Jax has appeared on the street outside, his face pressed to the glass. Somehow, he has become even filthier, as if his first act upon leaving this restaurant was to locate a pile of dung and roll in it. When he sees me gaping at him, he begins to pound with his palm, calling out in a voice that seems muffled to me but must be atrociously loud to be heard through the glass. I watch his lips form my name, and anger rises in me. The rain has become a cold slush, but I am not sorry for Jax anymore. He is nothing but a nuisance.
“Ignore him, Naomi,” the Maestro says serenely. “Someone will be along to deal with him soon. Play on.”
And sure enough, once my song begins again, two men arrive to confront Jax. They are tall, burly, and uniformed in crisp blue suits, badges of authority gleaming over their breast pockets. I feel confident they can take Jax someplace away from this weather, but more importantly, away from me. Jax, for his part, is fast losing enthusiasm for the task of rapping at my window. The sleet has turned to snow and begun gathering in wet piles on his shoulders and cap. When one of the men, tall helmet pulled low over his eyes, calls for Jax’s attention, Jax drops his arms and turns away, ready to concede.
But just as the uniformed men are about to lead him away, someone else appears by Jax’s side. The newcomer is neither hostile nor imposing, but he cuts an elegant figure in his black hat and long, fur-trimmed coat. He carries a slim, silver-tipped cane in one hand; the other he lays in a firm but friendly fashion on Jax’s shoulder. Instantly, the men in uniform become deferential and eager to please. I cannot quite hear what is said, but it seems this man is explaining that Jax means no harm and is indeed a fine and upstanding young man.
To my astonishment, he is not far from the mark: Though I have not seen it happen, Jax appears to have undergone a good scrubbing, and his tattered outfit has been exchanged for a clean set of tan trousers and a trim blue jacket. He still wears his ridiculous cap, though that, too, has been washed, and no one now objects to it. Indeed, the two uniformed men are fully satisfied with whatever tale they have been fed and presently proceed about their rounds, leaving Jax still outside my window. The man in the fur-trimmed coat tips his hat. Somehow, the falling snow does not seem to touch him.
Jax’s eyes have come back to rest on
me, though his new friend continues watching the uniformed men as they walk away. When they have disappeared from view, he bends to the street and clears the gathered snow from a patch of cobbled sidewalk. With the utmost ease and nonchalance, he pries up one of the paving stones and hefts it, as though testing its weight, then, with a casual sweep of his arm, hurls it through my window.
The glass shatters, as does a small, flower-filled vase on my table as the stone rolls over the place settings and onto the restaurant floor. The weather gusts in through the broken window, and suddenly I am surrounded by a riot of wind and snow. The Maestro leaps to his feet, a roar of outrage on his lips, but the man in the coat has already stepped into the restaurant by way of the shattered opening, daintily navigating the shards of glass with the aid of his cane.
“Howdy, Naomi,” he says, using the cane to tip back his hat, flashing a jaunty grin and laughing eyes. “It’s me, your old buddy Charles. This has been an adventure to be sure, but I think we’ve had enough for today. What do you say to putting down that violin?”
“It is a fiddle,” I answer, wind howling around me.
“The fiddle, then. How about you give it to me?”
“Don’t listen to him!” shouts the Maestro, his voice barely audible over the storm. Excepting myself, Jax, the Maestro, and this Charles, the restaurant is empty now and seems like it has been abandoned for years. Snow covers the floor and piles in banks against the walls; long daggers of ice hang from the ceiling. But I do not intend to give in, no matter the weather. I raise bow and fiddle to begin a new song, but before I can produce a single note, Charles lunges forward, seizing my fiddle by its slender neck.
I start back, angry and affronted, only to find I am no longer in my restaurant. The Maestro is gone. There is dirt beneath my feet, and Charles is beside me, holding my wrist. In place of the elegant coat and hat I remember, he has on a black military uniform. We are in the midst of some torn-up wilderness, sundered ground and broken trees all around.
Ninth City Burning Page 20