Time Dancers (14 page)

We walked a few paces in silence. I was confused. “Tell me about my grandfather,” I said.

“That will take some time and make us late for our departure.”

“Then make us late, Sailor. I want to know now.”

“Of course. I understand.” Sailor stopped walking and motioned for us to sit together on a low stone wall just to our left. From there we could see the harbor and the vast blue Mediterranean beyond. “The murder happened there,” he said, pointing north across the sea, “1,739 years ago on the western coast of Italy, near a fishing village along the Gulf of Salerno. The village is where your father was born and the murder occurred on the same night as his birth, a cruel irony that was neither accident nor coincidence.

“Your grandfather and your grandmother, Itzia, before and after they crossed in the Zeharkatu, were a uniquely gifted pair. I used to visit them at least once a year, if only to hear Aitor talk for hours about how it felt, biologically and psychologically, to age. He was obsessed with the science of it. Both he and Itzia possessed keen and curious minds and both had eclectic interests that led them all across the Mediterranean, Near East, and the shores of the Black Sea. Along with being an avid fisherman, Aitor was a student of tidal pools and marine life in coastal waters. He studied every species, but after the Zeharkatu, focused his studies on the cephalopod mollusks, particularly the octopus. Itzia was an expert in the medical sciences and studied for a time under the tutelage of an odd and brilliant Giza, the Greek physician Galen. Oddly, it was Galen who gave Aitor the first bit of information that inadvertently led to his death.

“Also, you must remember, Zianno, at this time the Fleur-du-Mal was not of much concern to the Meq. We followed him from a distance, disapproving, of course, but uninvolved. Aitor had even met him on three separate occasions over the previous two hundred years. They had exchanged a few unpleasant remarks and Aitor was not impressed, being repulsed by Xanti Otso’s mind and presence. During that time, the Fleur-du-Mal was extremely active and proud of it. Assassinations were rampant and he was in demand. However, to our knowledge, he had not yet killed or tortured one of us.

“Itzia said Galen knew she was Meq and became a trusted friend. He also knew of Aitor’s fascination with marine biology, especially the octopus. Apparently, on one long night in front of the fire, Galen told Aitor about a nefarious man, an opium dealer, he had encountered on the island of Crete. The man told Galen about a strange green-eyed boy who never seemed to age. The boy kept his hair tied in the back with a green ribbon and he wore red ruby earrings. Galen did not know the Fleurdu-Mal. What he thought Aitor might be interested in was the fact that the boy was an addict, and in his opium stupor would always ask, “Where is the octopus? Where is the octopus?” Galen thought the story was hilarious. Aitor was intrigued. A year later, Aitor was traveling to Crete concerning another matter. By the evening of his second day there, he was in the streets of Iraklion and the surrounding countryside asking guarded questions and searching for the opium dealer. After a week of disappointment, he finally located the man. The poor fellow had sunk into the depths of addiction himself. He was emaciated, lost and hopeless, but he happened to be lucid on the afternoon Aitor visited him. Whatever secret Aitor learned about the Fleur-du-Mal was learned there. It could not have simply been the fact that the man exposed the Fleur-du-Mal as an addict. His drug use was legendary and only one of his minor depravities. Much later, I discovered the opium dealer had been brutally murdered and decapitated shortly after Aitor’s conversation with him. That is when I first realized the extent of the Fleur-du-Mal’s network of information and how fast he can act upon it. In Aitor’s case, however, he did not. His confrontation with Aitor was much more diabolical. He waited a full two years, until Itzia became pregnant with your father, then on the night of his birth, appeared out of the darkness unasked and unannounced on Aitor’s doorstep. Itzia told me later she was in bed with her newborn and Aitor was sitting next to her. Aitor rose to answer the knock at the door, kissed her on the cheek, and walked out of the room. She never saw him again. She said she heard a raspy voice, a boy’s voice, congratulate Aitor, then ask him something about an octopus, after which Aitor raised his voice, saying “Outside with this!” and they left. The next morning, Aitor was found near a tide pool in the same condition in which we found Giles, except Aitor’s throat had been slit and he had been scalped. A green ribbon was woven into the hair and the whole scalp had been placed over Aitor’s face. No notes, no reasons, nothing. The Fleur-du-Mal disappeared.”

I was stunned and sickened and speechless for several moments. Finally, I asked, “Was Zeru-Meq informed of the murder?”

“Yes.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He wept,” Sailor said in a flat monotone. “He wept and then wandered into the Caucasus without a word.”

“Zeru-Meq told me in China he thought the Fleur-du-Mal was only a ‘sad, dangerous pilgrim.’”

“Yes, and Zeru-Meq likes to think of himself as seeking a higher truth, when in fact he lives a lie. He could help to end this madness and he knows it. He is aware of something about the Fleur-du-Mal that we are not, likely the truth concerning the deaths of his parents. While she was living, Zeru-Meq had always been protective of his sister, Hilargi, the Fleur-du-Mal’s mother. The father I never knew. Perhaps, Zeru-Meq bears a secret guilt. It is possible. After Aitor, it is not important. Guilt was not acceptable as an excuse for his silence. He can stop this insanity and he has not, he does not.” Sailor paused, then sighed. “Still, I suppose we must try again.”

I let Sailor’s words and images sink in permanently. Below us, the blue Mediterranean spread out in all directions. “Let’s go to Cairo,” I said.

Sailor unconsciously twirled the blue star sapphire on his forefinger, then stood up. “Yes,” he said, “Cairo it is.”

There were fair winds every day and clear skies every night on our sail south and east. I watched the stars for hours at a time, pacing the ship. I could not get the image of Aitor out of my mind and had trouble sleeping. As we approached Egypt, the summer heat became intense and oppressive, and on the night before we made landfall, I awoke after a long, strange dream. I had dreamed I was observing a card game from a distance. We were in a loud, smoke-filled saloon in the Far East, somewhere near the sea. The time was in the past, though it felt like the present. There were several men sitting around a large, round table littered with whiskey bottles, glasses, lit cigars in ashtrays, poker chips, and money. One man was shoving all his chips and gold coins across the table to another man, whom I knew quite well. He looked up and turned his head in my direction. “Welcome, Zianno,” he said. He winked once and added, “Yahweh has been good to me.” The other man raised his head and looked at Solomon, then at me. He seemed older than he does now, but I was certain the man was Captain B.

I awoke suddenly. I was dripping with sweat. I reached for a towel and silently made my way on deck to dry off and get some air. Only two men were on watch—Captain B, who was at the wheel, and his first mate, a man who went by the nickname Pic. Pic was getting ready to go below and whispered a last remark to Captain B. I don’t think he saw me, but even if he had, he would not have suspected I could hear him. He spoke French. Translated, he said, “If you want my opinion, I would listen to her, Antoine. She is your wife!” Then he saluted casually and disappeared belowdecks.

The night sky sparkled with stars. I walked up to Captain B, wiping the sweat from my head and arms.

“Can you not sleep, monsieur?” he asked.

I glanced at the sky. “Not tonight, Captain.” I leaned over the railing to catch the sea spray on my face. The cold felt good, but the salty spray stung my eyes. I wiped them clear and found myself staring down at the painted name on the side of our schooner—
Emme.
I thought back to the only Emme I had ever known. I wondered where she was and how she was. I turned and looked toward Africa, which was just over the horizon. She had saved my life and spent almost a decade of her own trying to help me find Star. I owed her a great deal, as well as her grandfather, PoPo.

Captain B saw me staring at the name. “Is something wrong, monsieur?”

“No, no, Captain. I was just thinking of someone I once knew, a girl named Emme. She was special in many, many ways.”

“
Oui,
she is.”

I turned and looked at him, wondering what he meant. He was smiling. “She has a keen mind,” he said, “but her heart wanders.”

My mouth dropped and I was stunned. “That can only be one person, Captain. A man named PoPo told me the same thing about her.”

“And me, monsieur. I knew him well. It was I who wrote the letter informing her that he was dying.”

“Knew?”

“
Oui.
He passed on not long after she returned.”

I remembered the day she read that letter. We were deep in the Sahara in a desolate crossroads called In Salah. It was where we said good-bye. “You mean your ship is named after Emme Ya Ambala?”

“
Oui,
she is the same girl. Only her name is longer now, monsieur, by one name. Mine.”

“Emme is your wife?”

“Oui.”
He paused, then went on. “I see we both have this secret from the other, though this thing does not surprise me. Emme is the one who taught me of your existence. She told me you have great abilities, monsieur. Because of Emme, when Mowsel approached me three years ago, I surprised him by recognizing him as, well, what he was…what you are. Now, I do this work when he needs me and Emme protests my absence.”

“Where is she?”

“Paris. We live in Paris, also Marseille and Corsica. My work makes it necessary to live many places. Emme wants me in Paris to live all the time, but this is still difficult for me. Do you understand this problem, monsieur?”

“Oui,”
I said. “I think it might be universal, Captain.”

“I was waiting for the certain moment to tell you of my
petit
secret, monsieur. I hope I have not become untrustworthy. I never intended a deception.”

“No, Captain, I do not feel deceived. I feel enlightened. I am more than happy to discover that Emme is alive and well. And please, call me Z. Now tell me, how long have you known her, and where and how did you meet?”

“This answer is complicated…Z.”

“Believe me, Captain, I am familiar with complications.”

Glancing up at the sails every so often, Captain B began to tell me a brief history of his life. Born out of wedlock on the island of Martinique to a French sea captain and his mistress, a woman named Isabelle, he was raised in various ports until being removed from his mother’s care by his father because she had become addicted to absinthe. After that, he never saw her again. He was schooled in naval academies in France, then posted in Dakar and Saint-Louis, Senegal, where he met a young black student named Emme Ya Ambala.

They had a relationship for over a year, even discussing marriage, then for a reason Captain B did not explain, had a falling out and she left him on Christmas Day. That was the very same day she delivered the premature baby and rescued me. Many years later, in the middle of the Sahara, Emme said she had reconsidered her decision about leaving a man she only referred to as A.B. Suddenly, I remembered Pic’s whisper to Captain B. “Antoine,” he had called him. Captain B’s name was Antoine Boutrain. Then the full meaning of my dream came to me. The coincidence was astounding. Captain B was the son of Captain Antoine Boutrain, the man in my dream, the man who had lost a small fortune to Solomon and given him the contacts Solomon needed to start his own fortune. His mother was the same woman Captain Woodget had loved and watched over for years.

I let Captain B finish talking and said nothing for several moments. The
Emme
sliced through the dark water smooth as a blade and a faint glow began to appear over the horizon to the east. In a few more hours we would part ways with Captain B and his crew, but it would not be the last time we would see each other or share a secret.

“I knew your mother,” I said.

“No! Is this possible?”

“Yes. I didn’t know her well, but she was a good person, Captain. There was a night when she gave me hot tea, warm blankets, and shelter during the middle of a hurricane. That was in Louisiana. An old friend of mine loved her well there. He took care of her and gave her a fine funeral when she died.”

Captain B glanced up to check the wind in the sails, then scanned the horizon slowly. Minutes later, he said, “
Merci,
monsieur. Thank you, Z. I have always wondered this.”

Sailor, Ray, and I left Captain B and the
Emme
behind in the harbor of the old port of Alexandria, the city founded and built by the Greeks and the capital city of Cleopatra. Once a jewel of the Mediterranean, it was no longer. Alexandria needed both restoration and modernization. People and traffic kept it busy and crowded, but to me it seemed slightly abandoned and neglected.

We were using visas Sailor had obtained while in Malta, making the three of us cousins and all Egyptian nationals whose parents lived on Maltese soil. Sailor spoke Arabic fluently and we passed into the country within minutes, legally, in a manner of speaking. We picked up some local clothing and light caftans, then walked to the train station and took the first available connection to Cairo. After a short time on board amid the heat and dust and sweat, we looked and felt as Egyptian as any other children in Egypt. By sunset, we were in the lobby of a small hotel Sailor knew well. The air was stifling. We were sipping tea and waiting for a man named Rais Hussein, who supposedly had information concerning the Octopus. He was late. We ordered
mulukhis
and
kofta
and sipped more tea. He never appeared. It had been a long day, but it was only the first of a thousand to come just like it, each seeming to end in some form of frustration or empty promise.