Wizard of the Pigeons Read online

  But there was an oppression in the air today, as if that thing called Mir was lurking overhead, watching and spoiling everything. He thought of getting on a Metro bus and cruising the Ride Free area all day. He knew it well. From Jackson Street on the south to Battery Street on the north, from Sixth Avenue on the east to the waterfront. He could ride the bus all day and watch the city from the window. But it could not take him out of danger. At every stop the grayness of Mir would be hovering, waiting for the moment when he would be alone with his guard down. He had to find Cassie, with no more stupid mistakes.

  He set out on his rounds.

  Pioneer Square Historical District. Not because he expected to find her there, but because it was closest. Occidental Park was the name of this particular section of it, but no one in this part of town much cared. Wizard doubted if they even knew they were in Seattle. The “park” was a chunk of Occidental Avenue just above the King Dome area that had been closed off to all but pedestrian traffic. Now they called it a park. It was paved with rough gray bricks, gone uneven. Stubborn grass sprouted up between the gray bricks, and lichen and moss clung to their crumbling edges. The slightest amount of rain left the bricks damp and a frost turned them treacherous. There were trees, of course, sprouting from rings of bricks and looking as natural as mastodons in such a setting. In their shade, benches sprouted from the bricks like toadstools. Discarded humans and pigeons perched and loitered there.

  Cassie was not on any of the benches. Men in dark-colored coats hunched on them, their chests huffed out against the chill.

  Pigeons perched on the wrought iron rails of the benches, their feathers fluffed against the cold. The pigeons looked more competent. Brick buildings fronted the park, offering small cafes, book stores, a Western Union office, a bank, and other shops even more unlikely. Wizard’s favorite building was a four-story red brick one with tall arched doors and windows.

  Ivy climbed up the side of it. The tall glass and wrought iron doors opened into a mini-mall. One could descend a flight of steps for underground shopping after browsing the ground floor shops. The Bakery with its good hot coffee was right inside the door. There was even a gas fireplace with wooden tables near it. Inside the Arcade it was warm. Outside, the bench people were cold. And not too bright. Wizard thought, not harshly but not pityingly.

  A tall, skinny black man wearing two pairs of pants moved in aimless despair from a shaded bench to one that soaked up the thin sunlight. Wizard shook his head. Now, any fool should have known that if you must wear two pants against the cold, you should wear the shorter ones on the inside where they didn’t show. No animal would have flaunted such vulnerability.

  If only the man had attended to that detail, he could have passed for a starving grad student from the university. Didn’t he know about the gas fireplace that burned by the wooden tables just beyond those tall doors? With an old text book salvaged from the dumpster behind the used book store, and the price of a cup of coffee, that man could have passed a warm morning. But if he had to be taught that, he’d never learn it.

  Cassie had told him that, the first time they’d met. Wizard had been sitting on one of the sunnier benches here, but it hadn’t taken the chill off him. The cold had soaked him, saturated his flesh. He remembered little of himself on that day, other than how cold he was, and the terrible sadness that welled from him like water from an inexhaustible spring. He could almost see the sadness puddling out around him, filling the cobblestoned park with his melancholy. The pigeons had come to him, and he had reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled bag of stale popcorn and fed them. They clustered at his feet, looking like small gray pilgrims seeking out his wisdom. They perched on the bench beside him and walked on his body, but soiled him not. One fat gray fellow with iridescent neck feathers had stood before him and puffed himself out, to bob and coo his ritual dance to his mate, which promised that life went on, always. He had fed them, never speaking, but feeling a tiny warmth come from the feathered bodies clustered so closely about him. A strange little hope was nourished by the sight of such successful scavengers surviving.

  Suddenly, Cassie had stood before him. The pigeons had billowed up, fanning him with the cold air of their passage.

  “They know I’d eat ‘em,” she laughed, and had sat down beside him. She had been a stout lady, her feet laced up in white nurse’s shoes. Her nylon uniform was too long for current styles; her nubbly black coat didn’t reach to the hem of it. A sensible black kerchief imprisoned her steel wool hair. She had heaved the sigh of a heavy woman glad to be off her feet.

  “That’s a strange gift you have,” she’d said. It was her way, to start a conversation in the middle. “Can’t say as I’ve ever seen it before. Must be based on the old loaves and fishes routine.” She had laughed softly, showing yellowed teeth. Wizard had not answered her. He remembered that about himself.

  He had known that small survival trait. Talk makes openings, and openings admit weapons. Given enough silence, anyone will go away. Unless she’s Cassie.

  “Been watching you,” she’d said, when her laugh was done.

  “These last nine days. Every day you’re here. Every day is the same bag of popcorn. Every day it holds enough to fill up these feathered pigs. But even when they’re stuffed, they don’t leave you. They know that you won’t harm them. Can’t harm them, without harming yourself. And if you know that much, you’d better know me. Because there aren’t that many of us around. You either have it, or you don’t. And if you have to be taught it, you can’t learn it.”

  Ironically, that had been what she had taught him. That he had a gift, and that gift meant survival. That was what he could not teach to others, unless they already knew it. He was of the pigeons, and they were his flock. But it was a non-transferable bond. He couldn’t teach anyone else to feed his pigeons, for he had never learned it himself. Nor would he ever know why that particular gift was the one bestowed on him. Cassie would only shrug and say, “Bound to be a reason for it, sooner or later.”

  Today there was a carelessly dressed woman standing beside a trash bin. Three winos were grouped respectfully around her.

  Wizard kept his distance as they each produced their small coins. Only then did the woman stoop, to drag out the hidden bottle from beneath the trash bin. She poured them each a measure into a much crumpled paper cup. When the last wino was drinking, and the two others were licking their lips, he approached them. They regarded him with hostile alarm. He was too well dressed to voluntarily speak to them. What did he want?

  “Seen Cassie?” he asked gently. They stared at him uncomprehendingly. “If you see Cassie, tell her I’m looking for her.”

  “If yer lookin fer a woman, whasamatter with me?” the woman demanded boldly. She gave a waggle of her body that reminded Wizard of a labrador retriever shaking off water.

  “Mononucleosis.” He wished she had not asked him. Now Truth was on him and must be told. “You got it from a wino you served last week. But if you go to a clinic now, they can help you before you spread it to all Seattle. Tell Cassie I’m looking for her.”

  Wizard walked briskly away just as one wino got up the courage to hold out his hand, palm up. He wished the woman had not asked him, but once he was asked, he had to answer.

  All powers had balancing points, and all sticks were dirty on at least one end.

  Down to First Avenue and the bus. A derelict accosted him at the bus stop. He was a heavy, jowly man dressed in a black overcoat, black slacks, and brown shoes. “I’m just trying to get something to eat. Can you help me?” The man held out a pink hand hopefully.

  “No,” Wizard answered truthfully. He could smell the Bread of Life Mission meal on the man’s breath. The man stumped off down the sidewalk, blowing like a walrus on an ice floe.

  Wizard’s bus came.

  It took him north up First and farted him out at the intersection of Pine. The wind off the water waited the sound and smell of the Pike Place Public Market to him. He strol
led toward it, savoring anticipation. He never saw it with jaded eyes. The market bore her eighty-odd years as well as any eccentric grande dame. It never showed him the same face twice. Depending on bow he approached, it was a bower of flowers, or a bouquet of fresh fish, or a tower of shining oranges. From Alaskan Way at the bottom of the Hillclimb, it was the magic castle rising up at the top of an impossible flight of stairs. He knew there were twelve buildings and seven levels, all interwoven with misleading ramps and stairs.

  He had taken care to never memorize the layout of the market; to him it was always an enchanted labyrinth of shops and vendors, a maze of produce, fish, and finery. In this part of Seattle, he chose to be forever a tourist, sampling and charmed and overwhelmed. He strode gracefully through the maze like a dancer on the kaleidoscope’s rim.

  Fish from every U.S. coast sprawled in tubs and buckets of ice, inside glass counters, and in boxes lining the walkway. Their round eyes stared at him unblinking as he hurried past.

  The vendors in the low stalls begged him to taste a slice of orange, a piece of kiwi fruit, a bit of crisp apple. He did, and smiled and thanked them, but did not buy today. At a bakery, he helped himself to a sample of flaky croissant. Every little bit helped him, and the market lined up to feed and entertain him. He admired vintage comic books, magicians’ accessories, a hat from the ‘forties, stationery block printed this morning, and fresh ground spices in fat apothecary jars. in their own sweet wandering, the halls and tunnels of the market surprised him by spilling him out on a landing on the Hillclimb.

  Euripides was already at work. Wizard approached respectfully. The small dark man had opened his fiddle case on the sidewalk before him and was playing merrily. Several landings below, a clarinet was competing with but not matching him.

  Euripides skipped and hopped his bow from one tune to the next. Wizard felt proud to have seen him and Known his gift without Cassie pointing him out. As Euripides fiddled, bright quarters would bounce off the worn blue lining of his instrument case. He had a knack for playing the tune that was running through your head even before you saw him. It was a subtle gift. Keep your quarter in your pocket, and the same tune might run through your head for weeks at a time. To those who walked by with no music in their souls, he gave a note or two, kindly.

  He was not a pure scavenger, but Wizard still admired him.

  Each man had his own calling, Cassie would say, yes, and every woman, too.

  Wizard waited politely for Euripides to pause between tunes.

  He watched the passing folk, those who tossed a quarter and those who didn’t. A little girl in Seattle Blues jeans and a Kliban cat sweatshirt was coming down the steps. Her mother was walking behind her, a rather annoyed look on her face, for the child was going very slowly. A second glance showed the mother’s face to be more anxious than angry, irritated by some unseen threat. The girl was thin, and her dark skin seemed to be darkest in the wrong places. Euripides played for her.

  The girl gave two skips and stopped to listen.

  She drew closer and closer to the fiddler, paying no attention to the mother who warned, “Sarah! Come on now, or I’ll leave you.” Her ears belonged to the fiddler as his bow danced through the Arkansas Traveler. Closer still she came, bobbing like a little bird to the music. When Euripides made his final flourish, she did not hesitate. From her pants pocket she tugged a crumpled one-dollar bill. Hastily she smoothed it, and stooped to place it in the fiddler’s case. Euripides had put the bow to his fiddle again but, at the sight of the green paper, he paused.

  “That’s a lot of money to give a beggar,” he said. His voice was not like his fiddle. It sawed and creaked.

  “I liked your music,” she said simply.

  He played a few errant notes thoughtfully and gave a glance at the mother, whose face was not approving. “Well, I don’t think I can take it. Not that much money.”

  “But I liked your music that much,” the girl insisted.

  “And I like you.” Euripides looked at her deeply. “Tell you what. I gave you a tune, and you gave me a dollar. Let me give you one more thing. A wish.”

  She laughed. “I’m too big for that. Wishes aren’t real.”

  Euripides was serious. “This one is. One of the very few real ones left in the world. And I’m giving it to you. One wish. For you alone to have and make. So you must promise me to use it wisely. Don’t wish it today, for a ball of green yarn or a blue rose. Don’t even wish it tomorrow. Because you must think it through carefully, and not be like all the foolish folk in the old tales. Think of all the consequences of the wish. And when you’re sure you know what to wish for, wait three more days. Just to be positive. Will you promise me that?”

  The girl’s face had changed as he spoke. From the laughing face of a little girl who is just a tiny bit annoyed to be mistaken for such a baby, her expression had changed to one of doubt, and then wonder. Euripides’s earnestness had taken its effect.

  By the time he finished, there was belief and awe in her face. The crumpled dollar bill seemed a paltry thing indeed compared to what she had been given.

  “He’s given me a wish. Mommy,” she exclaimed excitedly as she turned to her mother.

  “So I heard.” Mommy was not completely sold on the wish idea, but she did not look as annoyed as she had a few moments ago.

  “One more thing!” Euripides’s rusty voice stopped them as they turned away. He focused himself on the child. “A wish takes belief and heart. You have to believe you’ll get your wish. That means being prepared for it, and working to help it grow. The wish is like a seed. I can give you a seed and tell you there’s a tree inside it. But it won’t come out unless you believe it, too, and believe it enough to plant it and water it and keep weeds and bugs away. So care for your wish.”

  “I will,” she promised, eyes shining.

  “Sarah,” her mother prodded gently.

  They left. Wizard moved closer to Euripides. “What was it?” he asked softly.

  “Leukemia,” he sighed. “I just hopes she remembers the wish. They don’t know, yet. And when the chemo-therapy has taken away all your pretty curls, it’s hard to remember a ragged old fiddler in Pike Place Market.”

  “Maybe you should have given it to her mother, to hold for her.”

  “Naw. She wouldn’t… couldn’t believe in it. She would have thrown it away, or forgotten it.” He cleared his throat huskily. “You know. Wizard, that was the last one I had, too. God only knows when I’ll be given more. I hate to think it might be wasted.”

  “She’ll remember it.” Wizard said comfortingly. “Kids remember the oddest things.”

  “Do you Know that?” Euripides demanded of him, eyeing Wizard keenly. “Or are you just talking?”

  Wizard couldn’t meet his eyes. “Just talking, this time. The Knowings are like your wishes, fiddler. When you’ve got a wish to give away, you feel it. And when I Know, I just know it. But not this time. I do hope it, though.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Hey, seen Cassie?”

  The fiddler grinned. “Not today. Three, four days back, she was here. She was the Gypsy girl, in a flaming skirt that wouldn’t stay down, and a white blouse that clung to her shoulders like mist. She started to dance, and I couldn’t stop playing. Played tunes I didn’t even know. My fingers are still sore. I had so much silver in my case, the coins were bouncing off each other and ringing with the music. Some old dude in a black suit and whiskers even joined in the dance, ‘til his granddaughter hauled him away wheezing. And when Cassie was all done, she wouldn’t take a dime. Let me buy her some potatoes and carrots, and a red rose to carry in one hand as she walked down the street, but that was all. That Cassie!”

  Wizard grinned. “Sorry I missed it. But if you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”

  “Will do. By the bye, my friend, the garbage truck broke down. It didn’t get to the end of its rounds, and the replacement truck missed a dumpster. That green one, with ‘not all men are rap
ists’ spraypainted on it. You know the one. Some good stuff, from the look of it. Everyone cleaned out their Halloween stock.”

  “Thanks.”

  The clacking of feet coming down the steps sounded. Euripides lifted his bow and set it dancing to the same rhythm.

  Wizard merged back into the flow of people and disappeared.

  At the top of the Hillclimb, he stopped to survey his domain.

  The steps spilled down the open hillside amidst plantings and landings. In the summer, some landings had little white and yellow tables with people laughing and eating. But the chill wind off Elliott Bay had blown away such diners today. A shame, thought Wizard. The wind was juggling seagulls for an empty grandstand. Past the gray chute of Highway 99, there were the piers of the Aquarium and Waterfront Park. The waterfront Streetcar clanged past, elegant in green and gold. Wizard had ridden it once, for the extravagant sum of sixty cents. We had stayed on for the full ninety minutes allowed, touching the shining woodwork and gleaming brass, smelling the past in the vintage 1927 genuine Australian trolley car. They were a recent import to Seattle, but already he loved them as much as he loved Sylvester and the pigeons and the market itself.

  At the bottom of the Pike Street stairs, he sauntered along past parked cars to the dumpster. Even from a distance, he could see it wouldn’t yield much. Two men with green plastic trash sacks were working it for aluminium cans. He slowed his pace to allow them to finish. It was painful to watch their pitiful efforts. They had the basic idea of scavenging, but could not surrender their belief in money. There were too many steps to their survival. Find the cans, crush the cans, haul the cans, sell the cans, and go buy a cup of coffee. They wouldn’t have too much luck; the dumpster looked as if it had already been worked several times that morning. Ironically, there would be more in there for a pure scavenger than for a can hunter.