Time Dancers (3 page)

Opari had not met anyone like Mitch Coates in all her long life. “There was one man, an Indian prince in Vishakhapatnam, he reminds me of in some ways,” she said, “but Mitch has, how do you say, a ‘joie de vivre’ that is all his own.”

“That is exactly how you say it,” I told her. “And I agree, except for one man you never met—Solomon J. Birnbaum.”

“Yes, Carolina has said the same.”

We were in the bedroom Owen had assigned to us, on the second floor at the far end of the hall. His own unusual bedroom and living quarters were behind the door directly across from ours. It was late Saturday morning, the first day of April. “What was the prince’s name?” I asked, curious because at that point in time, Opari seldom mentioned her incredible history or anyone in it.

“I do not recall the exact name, though I remember several seconds were required to pronounce his complete and formal name and title. I referred to him as ‘Skylark.’ He was an heir to great wealth and possessed the intellect of Pythagoras, along with a rich personality, which Pythagoras did not have.”

“You knew Pythagoras?” I asked with a smile.

“Yes, briefly, however I was in flight to the East and could not linger. I recall the prince was also a ‘Listener.’”

“A what?”

“A translated word for a member of a…
bitxi
…how do you say?—
strange
Hindu sect. They believed in organized, no, I should say symphonic ‘listening’ to the spheres for secret meanings, all of them gathering outdoors atop boulders and cliffs to the west, sitting silently for days, ‘listening’ for answers to the most mystical questions of the Veda. In Sanskrit they were known as Abisami, or simply the
‘samupa.’
They would sit grouped, facing all directions, but in such a manner as to never catch the eye of another. Skylark was a known master in this mute music and futile prayer. Their gatherings began in the season when Sirius rises in the east. Sirius, the Dog Star, the star the
‘samupa’
called ‘The Leader.’ According to Skylark, it was sacred to them. I have even heard rumors that remnants of the sect may still exist.”

“How did you meet Skylark?”

“That answer is for another time, my love. The real matter here is that Skylark became the only true Giza friend I could trust. It may have been because he had spent time with one of us—a great deal of time, enough to learn many more things about the Meq than most Giza ever know.”

“Who was the one in ‘one of us’?”

“Zeru-Meq.”

“Ah…of course.” I thought back to the brief time I’d spent with him in China—not time enough to know him well, but I knew I owed him a great deal. He had led me to Opari.

She said, “Mitch makes me laugh; he is full of contradiction and surprise, yet he is a Giza I could trust. Much like Skylark.”

Mitch had awakened us earlier that morning. Just before sunrise, he knocked softly on our door in a distinctive rhythm, then slipped inside, holding a lit candle and whispering, “I want to invite both y’all to a party, a tribute to someone down at my place. Tonight.”

It was a surprise, but not a shock. Mitch had been coming and going at all hours, beginning the day after we arrived. In a week I learned how important he was to Jack and how indispensable he was to Carolina daily, while running his various enterprises all night. Opari was used to the random nature of Mitch’s visits; still, we did wonder when, or if, he ever slept. He wore a tuxedo, which was not unusual, but what he held behind his back was. Wrapped separately in white linen handkerchiefs, he slowly brought forward two long-stemmed white roses, their petals streaked with orange and red. Each rose was about to release into full bloom.

He lifted the candle and stiffened his posture. He began reciting dramatically.
“These roses are for you, two of three, and for the rest, go seek the one who waits for thee, the one who wears the other of the three.”

His face relaxed. He winked and said, “These ain’t easy to find in April,” then leaned over the foot of the bed and presented the roses to Opari. “I want both of y’all to wear those on your person when you show up tonight. Then look for someone wearin’ a rose just like ’em. There’s a message waitin’ for you. I don’t know what it is.” He paused. “All right, man, that’s everything I was told to tell, so I did. Now, I’m real busy, Z, and I know you understand, so I’m cuttin’ out of here. I got places to go yet.” He started toward the door, then stopped and turned. “Miss Opari,” he said, “I will see you this evening.” He blew out the candle and shut the door behind him in silence. I thought I heard him talking low to someone at the end of the hall, probably Owen, then he was down the stairs and gone. Dawn was still ten minutes away.

Even for Mitchell Ithaca Coates, that was a strange and theatrical visit, which Opari thought was also charming. After she stared at the roses for a moment, she asked, “What do you think of these…and the speech…and the instructions?”

I picked up one of the beautiful and delicate roses. “I don’t understand it, but there’s only one way to get the answer.”

It was clear why Opari trusted Mitch just as she trusted Skylark. I felt the same. He might surprise you, but he will never betray you. Whatever Mitch was asking us to do, I would be there and follow instructions. We were safe from the “unexpected,” which I’d promised to try to avoid.

By midmorning the temperature climbed into the sixties and the sky was a bright light blue, dotted with a few ragged puffs of clouds. The breeze blew warm out of the south and I had baseball fever. I knew I had to play catch with someone, at the very least. Baseball fever appears in the late winter or early spring and is only contracted by lovers and players of the game. Playing catch will usually scratch the itch.

I found Mama’s glove and rubbed it down with oil. I wiped my fingers clean, then shoved my hand inside and pounded the pocket with my other hand. The glove was broken in well and felt perfect. Opari watched me in silence, dumbfounded. Finally, she chose to ignore me altogether and asked, “Why have we not been called to breakfast? Are we late?”

I stopped pounding and thought about it. “You’re right. We must be late.” I glanced at the clock on the small table next to our bed. The time read at least an hour later than it should have. Almost on cue, the alarm bell sounded and Opari jumped back, shrieking something in a strange language. Opari was completely unfamiliar with alarm clocks. I knew we had never set the alarm, so I knew someone else had staged this, but I had no idea who or why until we hurried downstairs to find everyone already gathered in the big kitchen. Breakfast was well under way.

Each face turned to watch us enter. Each wore a blank expression, except for Carolina, who rolled her eyes, and Jack, who was barely able to contain himself from laughing, but managed to ask, “Hey, where have you been, Z?”

Opari began to apologize and try to explain the mysteries of the alarm clock.

“Hey, Z, your shoe’s untied!” Jack interrupted.

I looked down. Jack finally burst out laughing. “April Fool’s! April Fool’s!” he shouted.

I realized immediately who was responsible for the alarm. “That one is older than I am,” I said. But he knew he’d got me, and I knew it, too. “Let’s play some catch, Jack. What do you say?”

“I can’t until later, Z,” he said. “But I’d love to then.”

I was disappointed almost as much as a real kid. Still, later was better than not at all. “Deal,” I said.

“Deal,” Jack answered.

Carolina was well aware of baseball fever and understood why I needed to play catch. “Why don’t you have Jack show you his magazines and newspapers,” she said, “so you can catch up. Jack saves everything.”

And that’s what I did. After breakfast and for the next several hours I was oblivious to everyone else. I sat in the long living room and read about the state of the game, the new players, the new teams, trades, rumors, and anything to do with the Cardinals, who had finished dead last in 1918, I was to find out, with a won-loss record of 51–78. In the American League the Browns had not fared much better. I found out good old Ty Cobb was still playing and tearing it up on the base paths. Branch Rickey, a man who seemed to have a lot of new ideas about everything, had been named the new manager of the Cardinals in January, replacing Jack Hendricks. I read all the articles, every statistic, every team roster, every opinion and prediction from every sportswriter in St. Louis. Opening Day for the season was April 23 and I couldn’t wait. There is nothing like a real professional baseball game. Whether the outcome is a pitching duel, a slugfest, or something in between, you will disappear into the experience for however long the game lasts. It is physical chess. Carolina and Owen Bramley had box seats and season tickets, so I was looking forward to seeing as many games as possible.

Late in the afternoon with the sun low in the sky, and in a fresh breeze and freckled light, Jack and I finally played catch. Mama’s glove made a familiar pop when Jack threw a hard strike. We tossed the ball back and forth, mostly in silence, until we were having trouble seeing the ball. That’s when every kid wishes the sun would never set. Our arms were dog tired, and yet, only Jack and I knew how good it felt. We walked into the house talking nonstop about the art of pitching and the relevance of baseball to anything good. The itch had been scratched.

Opari, Geaxi, Nova, Star and the baby Caine, Willie, Carolina, everyone else in the house, even Ciela, spent the late afternoon in Forest Park helping Owen Bramley fly his Chinese kites. They each returned in high spirits, and along with Jack and me, we ate every morsel of food that Ciela had prepared earlier in the day. The whole meal was waiting for us, some in the oven and some in the icebox. It was delicious.

Then we all retired to our rooms to change into the tuxedos Mitch had sent over that afternoon. Each was tailored and made to fit all of us who were Meq, but since I was the only male among us, I couldn’t figure why he’d sent them.

I knew he was sending his two Packard touring cars to pick us up and he had closed his club to the general public. It was to be a private party and there was no reason not to trust his judgment. We had been posing as refugees and relatives of Nova and Eder, but still, to see a group of twelve-year-old children, dressed in tuxedos, possibly sipping champagne or drinking beer, late at night in the roughest part of town, well, I had to wonder if that was wise.

Geaxi said she wanted to experience the culture and music of Mitch’s world, so she thought it would be worth it. Also, she had no problem with the tuxedo. Nor did Opari, which surprised me until I remembered that they both had donned “boys’” clothing many times in many places for many reasons. Both were anxious to wear the tuxedos and Nova thought it was not only a good idea, but said she might start dressing that way in the future.

Once she was dressed, Opari added red lipstick to her lips, a red silk bow tie, and the white rose from Mitch in her lapel. The effect was stunning. She was a child-woman of uncommon beauty and presence. I understood in an instant why centuries of princes and kings, even the Empress Dowager of China, found her irresistible.

Star left Caine with Ciela and Willie helped her, along with the rest of us, into the touring cars. It was well after dark and once we’d gone a few blocks east, the trip downtown was busy and filled with the sound and lights of automobiles.

Mitch’s nightclub was just off Market, near all the neighborhoods of his youth, yet I also remember never knowing exactly where he lived in those days. The entrance was a simple glass door with “Mitch’s Café” painted in an arc across the glass. It was a narrow entrance, squeezed between two other businesses, a pawnshop and a barbershop, both of which Mitch also owned. The café was for real—a few tables in the front, then a counter with stools where you could order chili, barbecue sandwiches, and beer. But if you were led, as we were, around the counter and down a long, high-ceilinged hall, you would enter a room the size of a warehouse, which is exactly what it had been. The room was now transformed into a nightclub, complete with a large stage at one end, two full bars along opposite walls, tables with white linen tablecloths, and a spacious semicircular dance floor in front of the stage. Factory lights muted with green filters hung from a forty-foot gabled ceiling, and two dozen waiters in long aprons stood at the ready throughout. The music coming from the stage was the best I’d heard in years, going back to what Ray and I listened to in New Orleans. But this music had something else, a swing and syncopation I’d never heard before. People were dancing new steps and there was a raw and raucous joy everywhere in the room.

Mitch greeted us from behind the bar as soon as we emerged from the long hall. Even in his tuxedo, he leaped easily over the bar while waving to us, then motioned us toward a corner section of the big room where several tables had been pulled together to become one large table-in-the-round, covered with a banquet-sized white tablecloth. Champagne and bottles of beer sat in iced buckets placed around the table. At least six waiters stood in line, ready to act as our personal staff. Mitch made it to the table and escorted Carolina to her chair, making sure she was seated first.

“Why, thank you, Mitchell,” Carolina said, sitting down and pushing up on the long formal gloves she wore on her hands and forearms. The gloves were a dark green, the same color as her dress and shoes. She was beautiful, elegant, and graceful, still commanding stares from strangers. It was hard to imagine the skinny, stringy-haired kid she had been when I first saw her, standing with her sister outside Sportsman’s Park. She was now a woman completely comfortable in her own life and her own skin.

“It’s my pleasure, Miss C.,” Mitch said. “I want you at the head of the table. After all, you’re the reason I’m able to do this.”

“Nonsense,” Carolina said. “And don’t be modest, Mitchell. You have done what you’ve done on your own. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, yes you did. You’re the one who talked to Mr. Joplin in the first place. You know what that meant to me? It meant just about everything, that’s what it meant. Everything in this world started for me right then, Miss C., and I want to say thank you, thank you for everything.” Mitch signaled one of the waiters, who brought a tray of glasses filled with champagne. Each glass was served and everyone but Carolina held a glass in the air. Mitch shouted, “To Miss C. and Mr. J.! May one live on and the other not be forgotten.”