Bernie tried to sing, but she couldn’t find her way to the pitch or the rhythm. All I could make out from her tuneless chanting were the words “savage” and “cruel.”
The pianist suddenly brought the tempo down. The music shifted from an Afro-pop beat to a heavy three-two meter. After a few measures, I made out what sounded like the lament from Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas. I began to sing, “‘Remember me, remember me, but forget my fate—’” Bernie cut me off. “No, no, that’s not how it goes: it’s ‘Remember me, and announce my fate.’”
“Sorry,” I said meekly. “I was singing Purcell’s version. Who wrote the one you know?”
“Lydia Zamir. First she was an ordinary musician, but then she started writing songs about women, you know, like for #MeToo. She was in love with this man, and they traveled around to different rallies, and then they were shot and killed at one of these horrible mass murders. Some crétin with too many guns opened fire on them.”
Bernie glared at me, as though demanding that I deal with the problem of idiots with too many guns. When I didn’t say anything, she said, “It’s very strange to hear Zamir’s music like this, under a railway track in Chicago.”
I walked slowly toward the shrouded figure—I assumed it was a woman, because the body was so slight, but I couldn’t tell. I got close enough to see that the instrument was a miniature upright, the pint-size keyboard about eighteen inches from the ground. The red plastic case was chipped and scuffed. When I squatted, hoping to ask about the music, the figure scuttled toward the back of the viaduct, clutching the piano.
Bernie’s fingers went to her mouth. “Oh, no—she’s scared. I wanted to ask how she knows this music. Maybe she was a friend of Zamir’s—that would be totally amazing!”
She moved cautiously, as if she were approaching a squirrel in a forest, but the woman howled, turning her back to us.
A cyclist stopped next to us. “This isn’t a zoo where you can stare at the animals. This is a woman who is entitled to her privacy.”
“But she is out here, in public,” Bernie objected. “I am not treating her like a specimen, but she knows an important song. Why cannot I ask her how she knows it?”
“Because she doesn’t want to talk to you. Surely her body language makes that clear.” The cyclist positioned herself between the woman and Bernie and me.
“You know her?” I asked. “She seems very vulnerable here. Shouldn’t we try to get her help—a doctor, a bed?”
The cyclist curled her lip. “Are you a mobile social worker? She doesn’t want to be in an institution.”
“Are you a mobile psychic?” I asked. “You channel this person’s thoughts and wishes to the larger world?”
Her nostrils flared. “You may think you’re being funny, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. People who know her, know to leave her alone. The fact that you want to bother her means you don’t know her.”
“What’s going on here, Judith?” A man had appeared from the lake side of the viaduct, a dog trotting at his heels. The man was wearing khaki shorts and a T-shirt with a faded sunflower outlined on it. When he stopped to talk to the cyclist, the dog sat, staring up at me with wide sad eyes.
“These are two busybodies.” Judith jerked her head at Bernie and me. “Well-meaning, perhaps, but not respectful.”
“We are not busybodies,” Bernie cried. “We are respecting the piano player, but this Judith, she thinks it is her job to keep all the world from knowing about this music. And as for you, I know you from the meeting just now, when you were attacking Leo. Maybe it is time you yourself minded your own business!”
“Yes,” I said. “Didn’t the police escort you from the SLICK meeting an hour or so ago?”
He smacked a fist into his palm. The dog watched him, hackles stiff. “Don’t tell me you’re one of Mona Borsa’s stooges. What she do, hire you to follow me—”
“You’re not important enough for me to follow. You’re barely important enough to talk to,” I snapped. “There’s a talented musician living here in squalor and your buddy Judith has appointed herself spokeswoman. I want to ask if she wants medical attention—”
“And me, I am wanting to know how she learned the song ‘Savage,’” Bernie interrupted.
“And neither of you has any right to disturb her. We look after her!” Coop cried.
“You’re doing a heck of a job,” I said. “For starters, she needs food, clothes, a bath, and a proper bed. She also deserves access to a proper piano: only a real artist could get sound like that from a dinky plastic job.”
“And that’s your business because of what? You’re some music talent scout?” Coop jeered.
Judith said, “The city seems to be filled with social workers who think they know what’s best for people without asking them. Whenever anyone forces this woman into a shelter or a hospital, she runs away.”
“Does she have a name?” I asked.
“If she does, that’s none of your business. All you need to know is that she’s allergic to most people, especially to strangers. She lets Coop bring her food, she trusts Bear. Sometimes she trusts me, as well. You can set your mind at rest and go help people who want your assistance.”
Presumably Bear was the dog.
“We are not social workers,” Bernie bristled. “Me, I am a hockey player and a soccer coach and Vic, she is a detective. If the police—”
“Detective?” Coop shouted. “Then Mona Borsa did cross a big red line! She knew the police couldn’t arrest me for speaking up in the meeting, so she hired you to be a provocateur—”
“Enough!” I cried. “You can ask me any question about who I am and what I’m doing here, but don’t jump down my throat without facts. I’m not that inexperienced kid you attacked in the SLICK meeting, so back off.”
Bear, the dog, was looking from Coop to me, not sure whether he needed to intervene. He got to his feet and stood between us. I took a few steps back.
“You weren’t arrested?” Bernie said to Coop. “Why not?”
“First Amendment,” I said tersely. “He only spoke, even if he was yelling: he didn’t touch anyone.”
“At least you’re a cop who knows the law, but what the fuck were you doing at that meeting, if Mona Borsa didn’t hire you to bird-dog me?”
“Guess what? My world doesn’t revolve around you. But your anger is disturbing the one person you claim to be protecting.”
Although some passersby were keeping well clear of us, we were attracting a crowd. Whether it was Coop’s and my argument, or the people staring at her, the pianist had backed as far into the wall as she could, clutching her piano and whimpering.
“Yes, and she knows important music,” Bernie said. “Which is the only reason I want to talk to her.”
“Don’t.” The woman Judith had been silent while Coop and I were arguing, but she turned now to Bernie. “She’s been badly wounded and she can’t tell the difference between a stranger who wants to support her and a stranger who wants to hurt her.”