Wizard of the Pigeons (20 page)

Occidental Square was in bloom. Crews had worked all day stringing the lines of small white lightbulbs through the bare branches of the trees. Now they shone through the night, a spring of white blossoms in the November rain.

Wizard turned up his face to look at them, the rain streaking down his cheeks. For a few moments he was eased by the beauty. Then something rolled over inside him, and he saw only bare bulbs on electrical wires, artificial and silly among the wet black branches.

He made a stop at the arcade to use the restroom. He drank cold water from his cupped hands and stared at himself in the mirror. His face had crossed the fine line between gaunt and cadaverous. His eyes were swollen and baggy above his hollow cheeks. A twentieth-century Grim Reaper stared out at him. He did not wonder at the looks he drew as he left the arcade.

He took the pedestrian walkway that had once been a block of Occidental Avenue South. A tourist information booth sprouted up out of the bricks in front of him. But it offered no answers to any of his questions. He knew the booth had once been an elegant elevator car in some building. But the scrap of information fluttered away from his mind. He couldn't remember which old building it had come from. Suddenly, it seemed less than trivial. He trudged on to the corner of Jackson and Occidental.

Across the intersection from him stood the building that housed his life. He stared at it. Wee Bit O'Ireland's windows were brightly lit and decorated for the season. It only made the rest of it drearier. The inevitable black fire escape twined up the front of the building. Great Winds Kites had one of its creations dangling from the lowest landing of it. The rain was battering the gay and fragile thing. He nearly yielded to the impulse to run and tap on their window and remind them of its plight. The energy for such a rescue drained from him. It seemed only natural that all things bright and airy should end up sodden and battered.

Faded white lettering gave a name to his home. The Washington Shoe Manufacturing Company. It hadn't been that for years, but back in 1890, it had held the business to go with the name. The sign would still be there long after he was gone. He was a passing bit of biological noise in the city, with no real place in its petrous existence. He could no longer see the faces in the brickwork, feel the underlying life in the crouching buildings. The facts and continuity he grasped at had no connection to him, any more than the scorching moth could claim the laurels of General Electric. He had tried to become part of Seattle, to blend with the streets and buildings. He'd failed. Such a ridiculous quest. Why should he persist now in so fruitless a task? When all was said and done, what did he signify, with his listening attitude and his ridiculous ministry to the pigeons?

He crossed against the lights and turned into his alley. Framed by the blackness of buildings, the King Dome glittered at the far end of the alley chute like a sagging faery toadstool. He tried to imagine himself down there, at whatever sports event was filling it tonight, cussing about parking his car, hurrying the family along to the game. Would he carry a little banner to wave and know all the team statistics? Would he tie himself into that as he had tied himself into the city? The brightness of the lights against the darkness made his eyes water until it shimmered like an underwater scene. Would it make any difference? There weren't many wizards left in the world, Cassie had said. Now he knew why.

His alley was as empty as his soul. He crouched beneath his fire escape and sprang. With weary expertise he hauled
himself up and climbed to his fourth floor window. Crouching, he eased his window up.

A warm odour of food and hot candle wax flowed out to greet him. Wizard froze, not breathing, becoming part of the night. Then, soundless as any shadow, he eased into the room and slipped to his doorway. A yellow light spilled from his den, its source a candlestump burning on one of the pigeons' shelves. The birds had retreated from it and were eyeing it nervously. The cardboard had been propped in the window with his books. In the darkest corner where his mattress was, something sat up. Its single glowing eye bored into him.

‘You kept me waiting,' Lynda said petulantly. ‘Where have you been?' She dropped her cigarette on his floor and ground it out with her boot heel. Wizard came the rest of the way into the room, wondering if he were relieved that it was only Lynda. She caught him before he was halfway across the room, engulfing him in an embrace. She released him just as quickly, with a loud squeak.

‘You are soaking wet and as cold as a fish! And listen to that cough! Now, you get out of those wet things right now. It's a good thing I decided to meet you here. I brought us some food, and a little something that will warm you right to your toes. I wanted to get you some clothes today, but I didn't know the sizes. Now I wish I had guessed. Look at you. I mean it now, get those wet clothes off!'

‘Sshh!' he cautioned her frantically. ‘The stores downstairs are still open. They start staying open later this time of year. Don't talk loudly and don't thump around like that. Take your boots off.'

‘Oh, baloney! They're two floors below us. And if they're open for business, they'll be playing music and listening to customers. You worry too much. Now, are you going to take off those wet things or do you want me to take them off for you?'

She must have taken the line from a movie. He stared at her. She stood hip-shot, her fists lightly resting on her thighs. He wondered what actress she was imitating. Her tone was maternal, her stance sexually threatening. He shivered in his wet clothing.

‘I'll take them off myself,' he said slowly. She would have taken any other reply as a challenge or invitation. With grave dignity he turned his back on her and slowly began to unbutton his shirt with chilled fingers.

‘Aaw, rats!' Mock salacious disappointment was in her exclamation. ‘Well, if you won't let me help, I'll just get us something to eat over here. Let me know if you decide you want help.'

He listened to her dragging things about. He glanced over his shoulder to see her turning his food box on its side for a table. Like a little girl playing house. He went back to staring at the walls. He pulled his soaked t-shirt off over his head. His wet hair draggled on the back of his neck, chilling him. She was still chattering at him, her voice not lowered at all. Her boots clumped with every step.

‘Quiet,' he warned softly.

She mis-heard him. ‘I said, did you hear about that murder down near the ferry dock?'

He stopped moving, his fingers clinging to the waistband of his pants. ‘Knife,' he said dully.

‘Yeah, that one. You heard, huh? But they don't put it all in the papers. A real mess. Only seventeen, they say. Some little girl playing hooker. Well, you can't say she didn't ask for it. Do you have any salt?'

‘No!' He suddenly hated her, her callous, shallow attitude. A woman had died this day. Died of a knife because he hadn't been able to summon the magic to prevent it.

Behind him, she went right on making domestic noises, rustling through his possessions with a calm assumption of domain. Why don't I get angry? he wondered. Why don't I turn and yell at her to leave, to get out of my life and leave me alone? Because I am tired and sick, he excused himself. From the back corner of his mind came the voice of the girl on the bus. ‘Because it's easier to let her do as she wishes, easier to let her take command and responsibility. You coward!'

‘Because I am tired of being alone!' He defended himself aloud. He had inadvertently injected the words into one of Lynda's rare silences.

‘Me, too, baby. Well, we aren't alone anymore, are we? Here, put on your robe and come eat.'

He hadn't realized how close she was. The warm dark cloth cascaded over his head and down his shoulders. He found himself shrugging into it, protesting as she tugged the collar down over his head, ‘I don't have a robe.'

‘Then what's this?' she asked him indulgently.

Wizard looked down. The shimmering dark cloth fell to his bare feet. Stars and crescent moons shone in the dim room, sparkled in the light of the candle on the food crate. His wizardly robe draped his chilled body. He froze, waiting. It warmed him. That was all. He smoothed his hands down the front of it, waiting for some tingle of power. Nothing. He squeezed his stinging eyes shut. Where had his mind been, and for how long? What had he really expected of a discarded Hallowe'en costume? He felt Lynda draping his shoulders with the cloak. He raised his hands to tie the silver tassels at his throat. He did not want her to step in front of him and see his face. His mind fumbled back through his life. He had been in this den for,
well, he had seen the stores below him extend their hours for Christmas shoppers twice. And before that? There had been another den. The location was hazy in his mind now, but he remembered the smell of boiling cabbage and rice wafting up from a restaurant below. And before that? His sleeping roll tucked up under an overpass or bridge; he recalled vividly the rumble of the night traffic and the stretch-flash of passing headlights. Years as lost and wasted as fresh rain falling on oily city streets.

His life struggled to join hands with itself. He plucked up two reference points. This was 1983, fast approaching 1984. He had turned twenty in 1969, on his first tour in Nam. Thirty-five years old, he guessed. He hadn't thought of his age in a long time, hadn't related his personal span to the days and weeks flowing past him. Half of the three-score and ten due him were gone. Half.

Lynda giggled. He turned slowly to face her and she gave a high scream of laughter. His face didn't change, so she slapped him lightly on the cheek. ‘Old sourpuss. Well, you got to admit you look funny. I should have guessed from the hat. Well, never mind. At least it's warm and dry and comfy. Even if we did miss Hallowe'en. Oh, baby!' She pushed into him suddenly, her face diving for his, her lips writhing against his mouth. Her sturdy arms enfolded him and trapped him against her body. She nuzzled his neck and then jerked back her face to look at him. ‘You look just like a sad little kid. Cold and wet and living in this hole. But we are going to change all that. Look, I got to thinking today. There's plenty of room at my place. It doesn't look like you have that much stuff. Tomorrow, after work, I bet I could come up here and have you packed in half an hour. Hell, from the look of it, we could leave most of it
here and not take a loss. You could stay with me, get rid of that cough, get your head straight, and then you could look for work. Or sign up for unemployment or welfare or something. Honey, I look at you and I can see you weren't made for this kind of life. You're the steady, reliable type. I don't know why or how you came to this and I won't be nosy and ask. But I think it's time you got out of it. Back to reality. Now come and eat.'

‘You never give me a chance to talk.' It was coming more easily. More and more often, the words came out of his mouth as soon as he thought of them.

Lynda was not impressed. ‘What's to say? Who in his right mind would choose to stay here when he could move in with me? Now come and eat, baby, before it gets cold.'

He trailed after her to the makeshift table, the wizard robes wafting around his ankles. He stopped at his wardrobe box to pull a pair of socks on over his bare feet. He was warmer, but still shivering.

The food was in styroform trays on the table, still sealed. White styroform cups with lids squatted next to them. There were white paper napkins and thick plastic utensils. He could never remember when he had ever dined so formally within his own den.

‘Hope you like oriental food,' she announced and snapped open his dinner. He looked down at finely sliced vegetables swimming in a clear sauce, at slices of meat artfully arranged and cubes of tofu. Lynda was opening a little square paper bucket of rice. She scooped a double mound of it onto the lid of his container. There was a tiny cup of mustard and another of shoyu. The hot rice steamed. Lynda pried the lid off his cup for him. ‘Green
tea,' she informed him. ‘I always have it with this kind of food. Puts me in the right mood.'

The tea was still scalding hot. Wizard sipped at his noisily and then attacked the food. The heat of it alone was comforting to his abused body. The skilfully blended textures and flavours nearly went unnoticed in his drive to fill his belly with something solid and nourishing. Lynda silently replenished his mound of rice from the container. When his cup was empty and the food nearly gone, she produced a short, stout bottle with a flourish. ‘Plum wine!' Her eyebrows leaped at him. She poured, and as the liquid filled his cup, the bouquet of it saluted his nostrils. Memories of hot orchard summers drifted back to him. When her cup was filled, they drank together.

He took his in a series of tiny sips, letting each moment of taste flow and ebb over his tongue. When his shivering finally ceased, he sighed and let the tensions go out of his shoulders and back. ‘It's good, isn't it?' she asked, breaking into his reverie. He nodded slowly and felt his own smile break free. She returned it, and began to busily stack up the disposable dishes and flatware. Wizard let her. She left the bottle of wine on the table at his elbow. He refilled his cup. He slowly sipped wine and stared into the candle flame. It was a long, still flame, steady and unflickered by the wind. The dazzling of its light reminded him of sunlight on the bright surface of a mirror pond. If you looked at it one way, it could dazzle your eyes and blind you. But if you tilted your head and half closed your eyes, you could see your reflection in the black water. Like a darker self looking up, mocking. And the more you looked, the less it looked like you. Until, finally, if you stared at it long enough, it didn't look like
you at all, or anyone else. ‘Well, he don't look like no wizard to me!'

Rasputin did a slow gyrating turn in his dance to his own unheard music. Wizard stared at him in awe. Cassie had dragged him up here, making him walk for blocks past the border of the Ride Free area. They stood now on a sidewalk in the midst of the Seattle Center. Grassy hillocks and imposing buildings were everywhere, along with ducks and fountains and the Pacific Science Center and the terminal of the monorail. He was dazzled and confused by it all, and especially by the lofty spire of the Space Needle. Cassie had told him all about the World's Fair days here in 1962 as she had hurried him along. He had been bored at first by her recital of facts and numbers but soon had become engrossed in the bits of city history she spewed out so casually. Yet she had not brought him here to view the Space Needle or the Fun Forest Amusement Park or even the ducks. She had brought him here to present him to Rasputin.

And Rasputin doubted him. Wizard did not doubt Rasputin. He was as impressive as the Space Needle. He was close to seven feet tall, and as black and shiny as anthracite coal. Not content with his natural stature, he had increased it by dusting his afro and painting his nails with glitter. Dangling earrings swung heavily from his earlobe. He wore a sleeveless shirt in the sweat of July, and his arms were wound with snakes of silver and eels of copper. His pants were raggedly cut-off Levi's, and little chains of bells decked his ankles. His huge feet were bare and he danced. He danced always, every second. Even when he stood still to talk to Cassie, some tiny movement of wrist or ankle or neck or finger kept the
dance intact, one continuous flow of motion. Wizard marvelled.

‘Nope. Don't look like no wizard, don't act like no wizard, don't even smell like no wizard.' Rasputin made the litany a part of his dance.

‘There's wizardry and wizardry,' snapped Cassie. ‘A fountain doesn't look like a still pool, but they're both water.'

‘And I am the fountain!' laughed Rasputin in a voice as deep as the sea, but brown. ‘Leaping and splashing and flashing. You gonna tell me that you're the still pool, shining back a reflection, soft and green and slimy on the bottom. You gonna tell me that? Are you a wizard, man?'

Rasputin's eyes were not brown. They were black, blacker than his skin, and they crackled. Wizard flinched from their spark. ‘I'm not sure yet,' he said softly. ‘Cassie says I am. I don't much feel like it. I'm not looking for power.'

‘Aho!' Rasputin leaped and whirled. ‘Not looking for power. Then you are starting at the right place, man. ‘Cause the magic doesn't give power, it takes it. And it can't make you strong, but it can find your strength. Can find your weaknesses, too. Sounds doubtful, Cassie, but maybe you got one this time. Let me see his hands.'

Wizard held out his hands, palms up, to Rasputin. Rasputin slipped his large pinky-black palms under Wizard's hands, moving them slowly and carefully as he studied them. Wizard's hands became a part of Rasputin's dance as he manipulated him. Slowly his own hands became strangers to him under Rasputin's scrutiny. They looked like pale fish. His fingers were long and thin, but the joints were large, like knots in skinny twigs. Odd little scars on the backs of his hands were like little landmarks
in strange terrain. Suddenly Rasputin's hands flashed from under Wizard's to slap his palms with a loud clap.

‘He's got the hands, man. The man's got the hands. Got the power in his hands, and in his eyes he got the Nam.' He had danced a shuffle-footed, hip-wriggling dance all around Wizard during his chant. But at the last line he stopped and stood still as his black eyes waltzed right into Wizard's soul. ‘And in his eyes he got the Nam, man,' he whispered. Wizard stood steady. The afternoon was hot and still around them, the blue sky cupping them under its sweaty palm, holding in the secrets Rasputin whispered.

‘Know why there ain't been so many wizards, lately? Know why? I got a theory, brother. Got myself an idea about that. Back in the Middle Ages, them Dark Ages, they got plagues and battles and poverty and tyrants as far as the eye can see. Know what else they got? Wizards. That's what makes us, man. Gotta take a man with nothing else left; then you can make a wizard out of the leftovers. That what you got to have to make a wizard. They got the Black Death, and we got the Nam. But one part of my theory I don't got done yet. Maybe we're all wizards, see, but you got to have a Nam to wake it up. Like a catalyst, see. And maybe we all came back wizards, but only a few of us crazy enough to know it. Or maybe only a few of us can be wizards, but it don't develop without a Nam. Like steel. We got hard on the fire, and wizardry is the cutting edge we put on ourselves. Other guys melt, other guys don't even feel the flames. Not us. We feel the flames and we hurt until we're hard. And we come back and we cool down, and then – wizards! What you think, Wizard?'