Lone Star (24 page)

A throaty hurrah was his reply.

“This is my third tour,” he yelled.

Hannah asked where he got the boat from.

“Oh, I know a guy.” He grinned. “I'm singing in Livu Square after this. Will you come?”

From behind, Blake was pulling on the hem of Chloe's sundress. “Say no, say no, say no.”

“Stop pulling on me.”

Johnny turned toward his group and resumed his narration. The canal was quiet, and Chloe could easily make out his low tenor, his perfect diction. “Riga is one of the wettest capitals in the world,” she heard him saying. “It rains or snows in Riga nearly half of all the days of the year. Drought is one of the few climate conditions that Latvians do not experience. So enjoy this rare dry and sunny day, ladies and gentlemen. Please note the white wagtail singing on the elm branch over there. The wagtail is the national bird of Latvia and one of the most striking birds in the world. Plus it sings beautifully.” Johnny smiled, turning to the embankment. Chloe could almost swear his beaming smile was for her. “Not as beautifully as me, but still quite beautifully.”

“Oh, so he sings, too?” said Blake. “Is there anything this wonderchild doesn't do? Doesn't make enough scratch for a place to stay, but oh, sings and gives tours and charters boats.”

“Maybe today is his first day at work,” Hannah said.

“What was he doing before that?”

“Why don't you ask him?”

“No, thank you.” Blake pitched his voice half an octave up. “The conifer and birch forest covers most of Latvia,” he intoned in imitation. “The rest is low-lying plains. Makes farming difficult because of the drainage problems, but not impossible. Riga has nearly a million people, almost half the population of Latvia, and blah, and blah, and look at how smart I am.”

“Stop it,” Hannah said. “Let's hail a cab and go see a castle. Johnny said there were castles all over Latvia, right, Chloe?”

“Oh, well, if Johnny said,” said Blake. “Though there is actually a castle on the outskirts of town that once belonged to Prince Krapotkin. Built in the thirteenth century. Would you like to go there, my lady?”

“Stop teasing, I'm serious.”

“Me too.”

“No, you're not, you're eating a sausage sandwich.”

“That's just to absorb the Balsam in my gut.”

“So let's take a train ride to a castle,” Hannah said. “Chloe, yes?” Hannah's languorous bones looked reclothed in new linens.

“No, I want to stay right here and not move until it gets dark,” Mason said, lying on his back, looking up at the clear sky. “I want to see this canal with all the city lights reflecting off the water. I want to see the night light show of a big city. Why does it have to get dark so damn late? I've never seen a big city at night. And then I want to step inside an evening cathedral.”

“Mase, Hannah, stop the circus, you two,” Chloe said. “Up, both of you. No castles, no city. Varda is waiting for us. It's our last night. She's making a special dinner.”

“What, raw ox tongue?” said Mason. “You know, Homer Simpson says there are some things that are not meant to be eaten.”

Chloe pinched him. “Varda asked me this morning if Johnny would be coming back.”

“And you said of course not, right?” Blake said. “We're never going to see him again is what you told her, correct?”

“Something like that.”

“But we've never seen a castle.” A pale complaint from Hannah. Chloe stared down the river after the vanishing boat.

“Pumpkin,” Blake said, “this is the beginning of our trip. There are lots of castles in Spain. We'll see them all. Eye on the prize, baby. Barcelona has human castles,” he went on. “They're called castells. The people stand on top of one another, sometimes five people tall, and build a castle. We can't leave Barcelona without seeing the castellers do their magic.”

“But I want a real castle, Blakie.”

“How about I take you to the Castle of Cardona, a medieval fortress in Catalonia, would you like that?” He nuzzled her. “So much to look forward to.”

After awhile, they found a bin for their trash and began a slow amble out of Riga. They looped one last time through the Old City before heading to the train station. Chloe could barely
move her legs. She was wiped out after Gregor and the Black Balsam. She could have fallen asleep on the grass embankment and dreamed of the wooden launches bright with sunlight and wild with wagtails.

Nearing Livu Square, they heard the amplified strands of an acoustic guitar, playing a hyped-up, jazzed-up, rock-out version of a half-familiar pop song. The voice accompanying the music slowed Chloe down, unsyncopated her step. She stumbled over the cobblestones.

She had heard many buskers around Riga, with harmonicas, guitars, and banjos, with castanets in their hands and beer in their throats. This wasn't that. This was something else. Hannah and Mason heard it, too. Blake's eyes didn't leave his Frommer's guide.

“What a voice,” Hannah said, her eyes widening. “Let's go check it out.”

“Sounds like a concert,” Blake said, glancing up. “There were many in Jurmala yesterday. Listen to the sound. There's an amp, speakers. Sounds semipro. It won't be free. It's not in our budget. Besides, like Chloe said, we have to catch a train back.”

They talked as they walked, pushing past Rockabilly House. Inside Livu Square, all tinged with pink and yellow Teutonic buildings and olive and white spires enclosing brick patios and cafés and cream umbrellas, a vast crowd had gathered in the center on a patch of green near a lonesome pine. Ignoring Blake's protests, they snaked their way through the tourists toward the music and the voice. The singer was warbling something familiar, but in a new arrangement. It took Chloe another half verse and the beginning of a chorus to recognize the tune as “Fell in Love with a Boy” by Joss Stone. Except he sang fell in love with a girl. His heart was still beating. He was just looking for something new. Oh, that's what it is, Chloe had just enough time to think,
before the voice
demanded
she kiss him by the canal even though he knew that love was fleeting—and then the voice climbed an octave or three and soared above the pine and over the spires and the art-deco buildings. It lifted and flew across three bridges and to the sea. That's how strong the voice was, how long it held its note, how far it scaled the limits of humanity. The tone was sunny, a wave of satin, but it brought with it intoxication, impatience, torment. Chloe stopped moving. Rather, she couldn't take one more step.

“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 Johnny's 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, “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 set lists. 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 Auto-tune 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.”