The Remembering (27 page)

Opari and I arrived back in Paris on May 4, 1969, to celebrate my hundredth birthday. As we stepped on board the
Giselle
, Michel handed me a piece of paper with a telephone number on it. He said to call Jack at that number—it was urgent. I called the number and was connected to Barnes Hospital in St. Louis. I asked for Jack Flowers and was transferred to a private room. Jack answered after one ring. “It’s Z,” I said. “What’s up?”

There was a long pause at the other end. Finally, Jack said, “Willie’s dead.”

“Oh, no … no.”

“Yeah,” Jack said in a whisper.

I closed my eyes and in a flash remembered nearly every moment I’d spent with Willie Croft. I missed him already. “Tell me what happened.”

I learned from Jack that Willie had gone to the airport that same morning to take his beloved de Havilland out for a short flight. At seventy-eight years old he was still a pilot and flew at least once a month. Jack said Willie taxied to the end of the runway and waited to be cleared for takeoff. A short time later he was given clearance, but he never responded. As the de Havilland idled on the runway, Willie slumped over the controls. He had suffered a massive stroke. By the time help reached him, he had fallen into a deep coma. Jack said he was taken to Barnes Hospital, where he held on for a while, then passed away less than an hour before I called.

“How is Star?” I asked.

“She’ll be all right … in time.” Jack paused and let out a long breath. “He was a good man, Z.”

“The best.”

“I figure in a week or two, we’ll take him back to Cornwall to be buried with his parents.”

“I’ll be there,” I said, “just tell me when.”

Jack and I talked for a few more minutes about Willie, then Jack said he would be in touch. I hung up the telephone with the heaviest heart I’d had in years. Sailor told me once that the Meq should celebrate every single birthday. Sometimes that is simply not possible. On May 4, 1969, there was nothing to celebrate.

On May 19 Geaxi, Sailor, and I traveled to the coast by train and took a ferry across the English Channel. Opari and Sheela and the others stayed behind in Paris and San Sebastian. Jack was to meet us in London, along with Koldo and Arrosa Txopitea. He said Willie had left Caitlin’s Ruby and a large percentage of the Daphne Croft Foundation to Koldo and his family. They would be in London to finalize the papers. Afterward, we would drive back to Cornwall for the funeral. I looked forward to seeing Koldo and Arrosa. Too many years had passed since I’d seen them last. Their twin sons, Kepa and Yaldi, were now in their early thirties. The twins were the last of the tribe of Vardules, Protectors of the Stone of Dreams, and yet I had never met them. On the crossing, I thought about what Willie had done and smiled. “Good on you, Willie!” I shouted over the water. Then I wondered if ever before there had been an independently wealthy Basque landowner in Cornwall. I laughed out loud. Koldo Txopitea had to be the first.

Arrosa was waving to us when we stepped off the train in Victoria Railway Station. She looked as beautiful as I remembered, even with silver hair and a few lines on her face, which now crisscrossed their way through the tiny scar on her left cheek. Koldo shook our hands vigorously and Jack smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile, just a welcome one. We left the station and walked to a big Jaguar sedan parked a block away. They had concluded their business earlier that morning, so we set out immediately on the long drive to Cornwall, with Jack and Koldo taking turns at the wheel.

I asked Koldo, “What would your grandfather think of this car?”

Koldo grinned. “If he were here, I would not have this car.”

Even Sailor laughed at that, having known Kepa well.

The next three days were quiet, relaxed, easygoing, and sometimes awkward, almost like Willie himself. The funeral was simple and solemn, and Star was gracious and patient, personally thanking every person who came, and there were many. The Crofts had been generous contributors to the whole community for generations. Koldo and Arrosa had become an integral part of the community years ago, and they, too, accepted condolences. The twins, Kepa and Yaldi, were not there, nor were they at Caitlin’s Ruby. I learned on the drive to Cornwall that both were professional musicians and both were currently on tour. Kepa was a classical pianist and Yaldi was a rock guitarist, and yet Koldo said they were very much alike. I looked forward to meeting them, but it would have to be another time.

Carolina had stayed in St. Louis, saying the trip would be too long and difficult. However, she did send a short letter, which Star handed to me as soon as I arrived. In the letter she said it was past time I came home, if not for good, at least for a visit. She reminded me that she was approaching three digits in age. With typical Carolina good humor, the letter ended, “A girl can only wait so long.” I folded the letter carefully and slipped it in my back pocket. I felt guilty because I wanted to go, and probably should go, but I knew I couldn’t. Not now, not yet. I owed it to the others to solve the mystery of the spheres. They would never say it aloud or display it in any obvious manner, yet each and every Meq, including Opari, believed that I was the only one who could truly do it. I had to return to East Germany and the spheres. The awkward moments came when Star asked when I would be coming back to St. Louis. I had to tell her I didn’t know, but I couldn’t tell her why. Star leaned over and whispered in my ear. “ZeeZee,” she said, using a name she hadn’t called me since she was three years old. “Mama needs to see you. I don’t know how much time we have left with her. She’s strong now, but …”

Star was now sixty-eight years old herself. I knew she was telling the truth. “I’ll be there soon, Star,” I said, then added, “I promise,” hoping that I was telling the truth.

Jack and Star left Caitlin’s Ruby for home on the morning of May 25. I made the same promise to Jack as I’d made to Star, and we said our farewells. Before we left the next day, Geaxi, Sailor, and I took a long walk along one of the six paths that Caitlin had cleared centuries earlier. It made no difference which path we chose because they all led to the same place. It was a wild and desolate, nearly barren hill on the western corner of the property, an ancient station from a distant past known as Lullyon Coit or, as Geaxi called it, “the slabs.” It was here in 1918 that Sailor took down the huge stone structures that had stood upright for millennia. In a fit of bitter rage, which he never fully explained, and using only his mind and his “ability” of telekinesis, he shook the tons of granite and the ground beneath them until the sacred stones collapsed and fell like dominoes in just a few seconds.

Now several rugged wildflowers poked their way up between and around the giant, scattered “slabs.” The wind was down, and Geaxi spread a blanket across one of the stones. I brought cheese and bread and a basket of fresh strawberries. Sailor brought a bottle of wine and three tin cups, perfect for a picnic on a bright and clear day in Cornwall. Four miles away, along the horizon to the south and west, the open sea was visible, which was rare at Caitlin’s Ruby.

Sailor uncorked the wine and filled our cups. He stood and looked as far to the west as he could, to where the sky and sea became one. “We have time, Zianno,” he said. “Or should I say we still have
enough
time?”

“Enough time?”

“Yes. Do not pressure yourself in your study of the spheres. We have forty-eight years to answer their riddles, forty-eight years before the Remembering is upon us.”

“You’re probably right.” I was facing west, the same as Sailor, then for some reason turned and faced north, looking out and over the windswept, empty landscape. Geaxi was facing the same way. She held her beret in one hand and seemed transfixed on an invisible point in the distance. For a moment or two I watched Geaxi watching nothing. “The answer we seek, Sailor, is not in
time
. The answer we seek is … somewhere else.”

We returned to Paris by air from London, with Koldo acting as our grandfather and purchasing our tickets, then seeing us onto the plane.

“Perhaps Kepa or Yaldi will be performing in Paris one day,” he said. “If so, you should pay them a visit. They will know who you are.”

I told him I would do just that if the opportunity arose and I thanked him for his generous hospitality. Koldo reminded me he was Aita of the tribe of Vardules and it was unnecessary to thank him. We embraced and he said, “Our grandfathers would be pleased, no?”

I turned to board the plane. “Yes, they would, Koldo, and so would their grandfathers and their grandfathers’ grandfathers.” Then we both smiled and I waved good-bye.

• • •

Later that summer the American astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. Practically the whole world stopped to watch. Inside the milk barn, I barely noticed. I was back in my routine of studying the spheres. It was Nova’s turn in the rotation of Meq “guests” and I was optimistic. Nova carried the Stone of Silence, and I had always felt that if any of us who carried the Stones were going to have a sudden breakthrough, it would be the one who carried the Stone of Silence, not the Stone of Dreams. Nova had also been prone to “visions” in the past. Perhaps she would “see” a breakthrough. But, once again, nothing happened. Nova sat for hours with the spheres, hours without moving or speaking … listening, waiting … listening. She did this for weeks and months, staying at the farm longer than ever before. Seasons came and went, and so did the other Meq, one by one, studying the spheres in vain. The Fleur-du-Mal tended his bees and we drank their honey with our tea. Two of the Mannheims died and Opari and I attended the funerals. We got back to Paris less and less. I even became somewhat fluent in German, though Geaxi labeled my accent “deplorable and pathetically American.”

Late in 1973 the Fleur-du-Mal casually mentioned that Valery had passed away at his villa on Lake Como in northern Italy. I had always been curious about the true nature of the relationship between them, so I asked. The Fleur-du-Mal took his time before answering. He sipped his cognac and swallowed slowly. “There was no mystery,
mon petit
. Valery helped me and I helped him. Let us say he was … my Jack Flowers.”

To counter the constant frustration and failure, I always had Opari. Never once did she allow me to doubt or despair. We became closer than ever, and many times, usually in the spring and often late at night, we went for long walks among the fields overlooking the Elbe. We talked about anything and everything, including the Remembering and the Zeharkatu. The only two Meq I had known who had “crossed” in the Zeharkatu were Unai and Usoa. Unfortunately, I never got to talk with them about the ritual. Opari and Susheela the Ninth, the oldest among us, possessed only the vaguest idea of what “crossing” actually meant or how it was accomplished. This was experiential knowledge. We would have to learn for ourselves, if and when the time came.

On April 15, 1974, Ray Ytuarte arrived at the farm for his turn in the rotation. He was in a black Mercedes limousine and Hans Mannheim was with him, but Ray was driving. He could barely see over the wheel and he was laughing like crazy all the way until he came to a stop.

Ray hopped out with a big smile and his beret in his hand. I said, “When did you start driving?”

“Just as soon as we crossed into East Berlin,” he said, laughing again. “Happy New Year, Z. It’s been a while. Good to see you,” he said, winding up and throwing me an invisible baseball, which I pretended to catch.

“Good to see you, too, Ray.”

Even the Fleur-du-Mal enjoyed Ray’s visits, although Ray always insulted him whenever he got the chance. That night, the Mannheims served a wonderful meal, which was arranged in Ray’s honor. After we finished and Ray had eaten everything on his plate with great gusto, the Fleur-du-Mal asked Ray if the meal had been satisfactory. Ray smiled and wiped his mouth carefully, almost daintily with his napkin, and said, “A bit salty … a bit salty.” The Fleur-du-Mal laughed and poured more wine into Ray’s glass.

Later, when Ray and I were alone, he told me he had a message from Jack.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Jack said, and these are his exact words, ‘Tell Z if he’s ever coming back, he should come back now.’ ”

“Is it Carolina?”

Ray’s expression turned serious. “He didn’t say, Z.”

This time, I didn’t hesitate and Opari agreed with my decision. The next morning Hans Mannheim drove me into East Berlin, then through a checkpoint into West Berlin, where he booked a flight for me to New York with a connecting flight to St. Louis. I took my seat on the plane, closed my eyes, and thought about Carolina the entire trip.

As we approached St. Louis, it was just after sunrise, and the Gateway Arch, which had only been constructed six years earlier, stood tall on the West Bank of the Mississippi. It gleamed and sparkled in the sunshine. This was the first time I’d seen the monument and it was magnificent.

After landing, instead of calling Jack, I took a taxi to Carolina’s house. I wanted to surprise her, but it didn’t work. I walked in the kitchen door and she and Star were sitting at the big table in the center of the room, drinking coffee. She looked smaller and much older. Her freckled white skin was wrinkled and blotched, and the veins in her thin hands crisscrossed and stood out like a map of blue creeks and streams. Still, her eyes were as bright and clear as ever. The tiny gold flecks danced in the light. Carolina was one hundred and four years old.

She looked up at me without a trace of surprise, as if she’d been expecting me. “You’re late,” she said.

I wanted to laugh. “It’s complicated,” I replied with a slight smile.

“You always say that.”

I walked over and kissed her on both cheeks and did the same to Star. “What’s for breakfast?”

Finally, Carolina smiled and reached out for my hand. Star laughed and said, “Anything you want, Z … as always.”

Jack joined us for breakfast, dressed in his pajamas and a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. He gave me a quick wink when he entered the room, and mouthed the words “Thanks for coming.” Even though Jack was sixty-eight years old, Carolina made him remove his cap at the kitchen table. Some things never changed. He told me he was writing a book about “Dizzy” Dean and his brother Paul “Daffy” Dean, the fantastic pitchers and personalities for the Cardinals of the 1930s. He said the book was going to be titled
Me an’ Paul
, after the famous bragging quote by “Dizzy” that “me an’ Paul are gonna win forty-five games in one year”—and they did.