Via Dolorosa(85)

“Because it shouldn’t be there.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t matter, Nick,” Roger said again, just as calm as the first time. “None of it matters. You’ll leave tomorrow and the mural will be fixed.”

“I don’t get it,” Nick said.

“All right,” was all Roger would say.

Once they reached the shore, Roger silently pulled the oars into the boat and stepped out into the water. Without speaking, he walked around the front of the boat and assisted Nick in getting out. His bare feet touched the water and he was immediately chilled throughout his entire body. His arm, once again destroyed, was held close to his chest; he could feel his pulse beating just beneath the ruined surface.

“Thank you,” Nick said.

“All right,” said Roger. Like epaulettes, cicadas had lighted on his shoulders, the front of his shirt, in his hair, the sides of his face. He did not seem to notice.

“I hope you find her,” he said, turning toward the hotel.

“I will,” said Roger. “Eventually.”

Inside, the muffled hum of calypso music permeated the darkened hotel corridors, traversing the hallways like water through the ranks of a sinking submarine. Shaking the rain from him, brushing away the cicadas that clung to his own clothing, Nick listened to the music and felt like closing his eyes and never opening them again. However, he felt his bare feet carry him down the hall toward a set of closed banquet doors. The Riviera Room.

How low can you go? he thought.

Reaching out, taking one of the handles, he popped the door open and felt the heat from the room accost him, along with the colorful strike of music. He peered into the room and saw men and women alike, oddly similar in appearance (almost freakishly so), dancing in a conga-line beneath a limbo stick. The room was bright, warm, comfortable…but Nick was aware of a pang of aloofness within him, certain that he was out of place and did not belong here with these lively, dancing, singing partygoers. He watched a beautiful woman bend and twist, bend and twist, and wondered if she had been the beautiful woman who had cried then laughed the night his wife, Emma, had won the red parrot.

Emma.

Emma was gone.

He closed the door and turned away, walking in wet clothes and bare feet down the empty hallway. He recalled the handgun and pressed his good hand to the waistband of his pants. But the gun was not there. He had lost it somewhere on the beach, or somewhere in the ocean.

As he walked, he could hear the calypso music fading behind him, dying away, replaced only by the vague hum of another sound—a scale, a drone, a bleat. A saxophone.

Above his head was the mural. He could make out the shifting shapes of cicadas still moving across its surface. In the half-light, there was too much left to his imagination: the faces of the soldiers, now in his mind, were too real. So was the anguish and agony on those faces. The steaming, grease-smelling tanks. The wedges of soldiers collected just beyond the first roll of dunes, marred with the treads of heavy tanks. And a girl, in the far right corner of the mural, jarringly out of place in the midst of this battlefield. A young girl—a child—in a blue and white checkered sundress. And he recognized her three times: first, as the girl standing behind him in the photograph taken by Isabella in this very hallway; second, as the girl who had been standing outside that day on the other side of the pools, when the burka-clad woman had stepped around the side of the hotel (and what is real?); and finally, and most shockingly, as the little girl in the photograph kept in Roger’s wallet.

It was possible that he had seen Roger’s photograph and had subconsciously added the girl’s likeness to the mural. Likewise, in his hallucinations, his brain had once again summoned that photograph and had made him imagine he saw the girl standing on the other side of the pools that day outside the hotel. Sure, those things were possible.

Anything, he knew, was possible.

He continued down the hall, still hearing the fading calypso music, and still hearing those deeper, more melodic sounds coming from somewhere, somewhere…

Backtracking down the hallway, he paused outside a second set of closed banquet doors. The Bodega Room. Listening, he was certain of what he was hearing…

Opened the doors…

Goat-Man Claxton stood by himself, coaxing deep, soothing notes from his saxophone. The room was dark, wood-paneled, dimly-lighted, and all the high windows had the shades pulled. A silver beam of moonlight worked its way in past one of the shades, and the beam spotlighted the young jazzman. Nick stood by the door, not moving, hardly breathing. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest. It was almost beautiful—angelic, even—to see Claxton in such a way. And Claxton played in the only fashion befitting him: eyes closed, horn held loosely, lovingly, away from his body, his back arched as if someone were running an invisible feather down its sleek, black length. The tune was unrecognizable…but Nick recognized both freeness and longing in the melody, and something about it rendered upon him an immediate and profound melancholy. Notes, birthed by rite of simple passion, created out of thought, out of nothing, rose and expanded like hot air, dipping and raining down all around the room and all around their beautiful creator, filling the empty, wood-paneled chamber with an ambiance unmatched by anything Nick had ever heard before in his life.

Then the sound died all around them.

“That was beautiful,” Nick heard himself say.