NINETY-EIGHT
That night, Anna Z went back to our rooftop. And I followed. She stood for me there clothed in a shimmering cloud. Her body, pale as alien sky-gleam, shone through the haze of Django’s robe, the one he’d worn for the last song. Her wild hair framed her face like a black halo. She stood there with her arms out, her hands upraised, as though she could catch the moonlight like drops of rain.
The night sky was huge, and the city too, bigger than it had ever been before. The city glimmered all around us, ten thousand lights, ten thousand fragments of crushed jewels catching the light of the moon. Everything had changed since we’d been away. Only one day and the city seemed to have spread, stretched, grown brighter and more alive. Of course, it wasn’t the city that had mutated overnight. It was me—my eyes and ears and tongue—that had changed. The meal we ate, down in the east kitchen with Maria-Claire, was stronger and better than any I’d ever had. The nerves of my skin seemed to feel what they couldn’t before: a glittering knife edge, the sleekness of a crimson silk shirt I put on after taking a long bath, the smooth warmth of the rooftop’s tarred surface. Even the night air tasted different: a clean, pure blackness.
What happened that night on the rooftop was impossible, but I don’t care anymore what can be true and what can’t. All I care about now is what I saw and heard and felt. The bells of St. Florian’s were ringing, and I heard Django’s music in the tolling. The whole band echoed in the far-off midnight bell-peal: gamba and baryton and drums. Mostly though, it was Django’s voice crying out, sleek and bright as mercury, from the top of the cathedral tower.
Meet me in the strange
and you’ll never be alone.
The first word I ever heard Anna Z say was “impossible.” I’d been crouching alone in darkness. I’d been hiding, listening in on Sabina’s séance, and I’d heard the word but didn’t know who was talking. “Impossible” is what people say when their minds are too small to hold a huge idea or a bizarre dream or something they know is true but it makes them feel crazy.
I felt crazy now, and bizarre and huge. But it was the good kind of crazy. Confused too. Of course I was mixed-up, crazy with joy—like I was asleep and waking at the same time—seeing Anna Z that way before me.
A slow storm—that’s the best way I can describe it. Not special effects slo-mo like in a movie, but a storm happening outside of time. Maybe gravity was different that night. Or maybe gravity doesn’t even touch light and sound and time. I don’t have the science to explain it, and even if I did, I’d probably just stick with what Anna Z and I called it later. The slow storm. Power and glory, for sure. Huge, wondrous streaks of light across the sky. The sound of the cathedral bells turned into liquid metal spirit-spears. And passing through us, both of us. Falling without gravity, moving through our bodies and leaving behind the secret forever feel.
The storm fell and I swear on the Virgin Mary Shelley we rose. I don’t mean that we went zooming into the sky. But there was definitely levitation going on. We rose and the sky opened, welcoming us. Anna Z spun round in Django’s robe. I watched, and though my body stayed put, my mind was spinning too, in luminous spirals. We were truly specters that night, our bodies turning into heaven-gleam and the tolling of the uppermost bells. We rose, together, blurring into each other, filling each other, and filling the sky above.
NINETY-NINE
Two weeks later, Django was on the cover of Creedo. The picture showed him on stage at the Prinz Lorenz arena. Though I’d been there, the camera caught something in Django that I hadn’t seen. Maybe it was just the distance, the angle, the colors. Maybe they’d messed with the picture for the cover. But Django looked almost see-through. The shot was from the very end of the show, with him in that weird robe that Anna Z brought back with her. I suppose it was just the shimmery material of the robe, and not his actual body that gave that transparent feel. Either way, holding the mag in my hands and staring at the cover, I wondered what else I hadn’t seen at the show.
The robe was gone. I’d seen Anna Z in it the night of the slow storm. The robe, the gleams of light, her body, and nothing else. The next day she’d hidden it away somewhere in the Angelus, telling me that it was for later. When Django came back on his next world tour, then I’d see it, I’d see her in it again.
The cover story was by T.V. Geist, and I read it out loud to Anna Z as soon as I got it back to my room. We lay on the bed together, not really touching but close enough to feel each other’s body heat. Or astral vibes, alpha waves, solar soul rays: whatever you want to call it.
Anna Z had her eyes closed. She liked it when I read to her. The day after we got back from the show, I found some books she remembered from when she was younger. The Outermost Stars, The Phantom Phace of Phaethon, The Girl-Queen of Mars. She said it made her feel safe, like a little kid, when I read to her. I asked her if I should try to imitate T.V. Geist’s voice. She told me, “It doesn’t matter. Just read it the way it feels right to you.” His words, my voice.
ONE HUNDRED
“How many times can Django Conn reinvent himself? How many fingers you got, honey? How many toes? Fan-girls say he’s sexy as a midnight tomcat, but I’m here to tell you that he’s got way more than nine sweet, secret lives. Maybe reincarnation is a better word for what this gilt-edged glam guru has managed again.
“He died last night, sort of, and came back to life, sort-of-kind-of. If you’re a true believer in the Django-jingo, if you’re reading these words, which I guess you must be, then you already know about the so-called Righteous Riot at the Prinz Lorenz. I was there, and I survived. I’ve seen real post-show pandemonium, and this was more like a movie-mogul’s idea of a riot than the genuine thing. Still, people got pretty riled, and the Polizei came down with their iron-heeled boots. Hard and heavy.
“So what? So this: Django kind of died while the riot was supposedly going on. A brand new song, a blast of x-rays, a goodbye, and he died. I was backstage. I saw him vanish—poof!—like a Ghost From the Coast. There was a girl, I think, with him (glasses, crazy black hair, you out there?) and she vanished with him. Maybe she’s the new Lady Conn. Or maybe she’s just part of the con-game too (he did change his name to Conn for a reason, folks). I don’t know. All I’ve got to work with is this brain and this tongue. So here’s my big thinks and my big words. Here’s the prediction: Django Conn is a transformer and the high-voltage mutation power is zapping through him. He will indeed come back, but you may not recognize him.
“After he died and came back again, I got about thirty-three and a third seconds with the Mighty Conn, and here’s what he told me about what was coming next. Zip. Nada. Nix. A big fat absolute nothing. I don’t think he was trying to be cute with the Geist-meister, but he just wouldn’t talk. Maybe it was another new mysterioso move. But he wouldn’t tell me one single thing about the new direction in which his musico-maniacal mind was motorvating.
“Still, it’s got to be going somewhere. There was some serious energy-discharge at the Prinz Lorenz. The kind of fuel he was burning at the last show has put him straight into the stratosphere. So keep your eyes to the skies, girls and guys. It won’t be long before you see a glow up there in the nighttime heavens, and it’ll get brighter and hotter, and you’ll hear a faraway wailing. And what goes up, as we all well know, must come down.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An avid musician, Leander Watts has played and sung for decades in a wide variety of bands. His interests range from garage rock to skronky jazz, from baroque organ to Appalachian gospel. The first rock concert he attended was David Bowie on the Diamond Dogs tour in 1974. He teaches writing and literature at the State University of New York at Geneseo (his alma mater). Leander Watts is the author of Stonecutter, Wild Ride to Heaven, Ten Thousand Charms, and Beautiful City of the Dead.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Ch
apter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred
About the Author
Meet Me in the Strange Page 14