by Peter Watson
“To say what?”
“Come on, Angelo! She knows she’s a phony. She’s a goddamn hairdresser by day! She sells curses and charms and they work—or don’t work—by hit or miss, pure chance. Say we had an agreement … so that when she delivers her curse … it works. Think how much her power would increase. But we would actually be controlling her.”
Angelo regarded Silvio with astonishment. “You think that could really work? You sure she has all that power?”
Silvio pointed across the square. “There’s your answer. She fills this place every Sunday, and there are illegal meetings all over the bayous on other nights. If we control her, we have a big say over the niggers. Don’t forget she could even put a jinx on the Cataldo bars and gambling joints. All they need is a few ‘accidents’ that she had predicted.”
Angelo looked at Nino. “What you think?”
“There’s more ’n’ more nigger shop owners, music joints. It’d save a lot of manpower if they bought lucky charms from her, rather than paid protection direct to us. It would confuse the law, too.” Nino punched Silvio lightly in the shoulder. “The kid’s smart, Angie.”
He ducked as a hard right hook was returned in his direction. Silvio still hated being called a kid.
Normally, on Tuesday afternoons, after Nino had made himself scarce, Silvio opened the wine in time for Anna-Maria’s arrival and drew all the curtains. Not today. Today, he waited in the saloon, fully clothed.
He heard her footsteps as she came aboard. He followed her sounds as she went to his bedroom, opened the door, called out his name, then walked around the deck looking for him. First she went to the other side, in case he was smoking, looking out over the river. Then she went to the galley, in case he was preparing some food. Finally she approached the saloon and opened the door.
“There you are! Why are you sitting in here? And why are you still dressed? We don’t want to waste a moment.” She put down the book she had brought to read to him, but then she took in the expression on his face. “What is it, Silvio! You seem angry—Why?”
He blew cigarette smoke in her face. “You got rid of Madeleine.”
She colored. “I did not—”
“You’re blushing, you liar. Madge Leigh saw you in her club last week, changing everything: decorations, food, the lights—and the girls. You tried to disguise it, didn’t you? Hoping no one would notice. But all you wanted to do was get rid of one girl.”
“Silvio, she was a whore!”
“I liked that whore. That whore, as you call her, helped Nino and me flush out those Cataldos, helped your father regain control of these wharves, which in time will help him finance his political campaigns. That whore has done more to keep you in fine clothes and booze than you’ve ever done for yourself.”
“Silvio, I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”
“Yes, you did. Don’t play innocent with me, Anna-Maria. La Beata Vergine. We both know it’s not true, and on this boat at least, it won’t work. You’re a jealous, scheming bitch and you’ve been found out.”
“You should be flattered I’m jealous.”
“Sono bambino? You want everything your way. With you there’s no room for anyone else. What I did with Madeleine never interfered with anything I did with you—until you let it.”
“That’s not—”
“We could have gone on the way we were for months, years maybe. But you had to spoil it.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “If I can’t have Madeleine, I don’t want you either. Go fuck someone else.”
She gripped the back of a chair and swayed slightly. Then she took control of herself and straightened up. “Be careful what you say, Silvio. Don’t treat me like Nino treats his women. Remember who I am. You mustn’t speak to me like that.”
“I’ll speak to you the way I want. I liked Madeleine, and I’m going to find her.”
“You’re pathetic. She’s a quadroon whore. A nigger whore!”
“No! You’ve already forgotten what I said. She helped us. And look how you’ve repaid her. I tell you, Anna-Maria, it’s you who’s the whore.” He paused, then spat. “Puttana!”
She glared at him. Her eyes narrowed and her lips closed. He registered a look on her face that he had never seen before. A mean and dangerous look.
“I won’t take that from you,” she hissed. “Just because you can read and write now, and know one fork from another. Just because you know what to do with that thing between your legs doesn’t give you the right to speak to me like that. Don’t underestimate me, Silvio. Just because my father made you his caporegime doesn’t mean you can treat me like one of your soldati. If you want a fight I’ll give you one.” She picked up her book from the table. “And I fight like I fuck. Dirty!”
With that, she turned on her heel and went out. He listened as the sound of her footsteps disappeared down the gangplank.
“Come in, chil’. What kin ah do fer yo’?”
Silvio sat on the stool in front of Widow Milan. He had heard fantastic tales about her house on St. Ann Street. They said it contained a twenty-foot python, mummified babies, the skull of her dead husband, and two altars, one for bad luck and one for good luck. In fact, the room was small and hot and smelled of some sort of incense. Small bags hung everywhere. These, Silvio had been forewarned, contained charms, allegedly composed of dried lizard, bat’s wings, owl’s liver, small pieces of flesh from the bodies of black people who had committed suicide. He didn’t believe a word of it.
Tonight Widow Milan had on a white turban, huge earrings, and several necklaces made of shells and beads. She wore no rings on her fingers but a bright scarlet sash at her waist. The skeleton of an alligator jaw sat on the table between them.
Silvio wasn’t frightened exactly. He certainly didn’t believe in voodoo mumbo jumbo, not at all. But the fact that so many people did believe it meant he had to tread carefully. The basis of Widow Milan’s power might be phony, but her power was real.
“Yo’ got an achin’ heart, chil’? Yo’ in love? Yo’ need a gris-gris?”
A gris-gris, Silvio knew, was a charm, good or bad, according to need.
“No, ma’am.”
“Then what yo’ wan’? Speak, chil’. Hurry now.”
“Friend of mine came to see you the other day,” Silvio said “Name of Nino. Said his girl was acting up. Throwing herself at other men. You sold him a gris-gris for a dollar, said it would work. That my friend’s woman would come back. She hasn’t.”
“Yuh gotta give these things time, chil’. Time.”
“I had another friend come here. He had a fever. His gris-gris cost a dollar-fifty. A dollar-fifty! He’s still sick.”
“What is this, young man? I don’t discuss no other folk who comes here. That’s my business. Now, yuh wan’ a gris-gris or what?”
Silvio smiled. He took out his gun. “This is my gris-gris,” he said softly.
Widow Milan stared at him.
He pointed the gun at her and cocked the hammer.
“Lordy,” she breathed.
He grinned. “If I was going to shoot—there’s nothing you could do. None of your charms or spells or trances would save you, would they?”
“Ah’d git yo’ from beyon’ the grave, though.”
Silvio put the gun down. “No, you wouldn’t. You don’t have that power, lady. You don’t have no power at all.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Be careful, chil’. Yo’ know what yo’ sayin’?”
“I sure do. But don’t worry. I’m not here to break your power. I’m here to make a deal.”
She cackled. “Ah don’ do no deals with no white boys. I don’ need to. I’m Widow Milan.”
“You haven’t heard the deal yet.” He fingered the gun again.
“The way I see it, you work as a hairdresser during the day. You listen to white folk’s tittle-tattle, catch up on the news, and back here you turn that knowledge into predictions. Lots of black people believe you because you’re dressed up in beads and shells
and surround yourself with weird things. But the truth is: You’re wrong as often as you’re right, maybe more.”
He paused, waiting for her to contradict him, but she didn’t.
He put his gun away. “Now, how about this for a deal? Next time you have someone who comes to see you and wants something bad to happen to someone, you tell me. Me and my friends will arrange for an accident. Understand? We’ll make it look natural, an argument maybe, a fire, whatever. But something bad will happen. Think about that. In no time at all, your power will be greater than ever. People will truly fear you. They will say Widow Milan can really put the gris-gris on someone. You’ll be richer than ever, famous—and feared. That’s what you like, isn’t it?” Silvio could see he was right. Her eyes were glistening. “Now, in exchange for this … backup … you occasionally have to help us.”
“How d’yo’ mean?”
“Nothing bad. One time we might ask you to tell all the nigger folk to do this rather than that. Not to unload a certain ship maybe, because it’s jinxed. Not to buy their booze in certain liquor stores, because it’s watered maybe. Not to work on certain construction sites because the ground is cursed in some way. Simple things.” He smiled at her.
She stared back at him. For a moment she seemed to mumble, in a language he didn’t recognize. Was she putting a spell on him? He reached for his gun again. “I’m not scared of you, Widow Milan. All your gris-gris ain’t worth one bullet.”
She stopped her mumbling, and sighed. “Who is yo’, young man? Yo’ the devil?”
He looked at her, as if he were considering the idea. Then he started to chuckle. “Yes, ma’am, indeed. That’s exactly who I am.”
They were both laughing now. “You can tell folks that tonight you had a visit from the devil hisself.” He pocketed his gun and stood up. Looking down, he suddenly stopped laughing. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Father Ignazio Serravalle took the baby in his arms. The infant gurgled a few low squeals but fortunately did not object further. The abbot stepped closer to the font near the rear of the nave. As usual the plain simplicity in the Church of the Madonna dell’Olio was working its magic on the people assembled. They stood quietly, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
The abbot made the infant safe in his arms, looked up, and beamed at the people around him. To an extent, on this occasion at least, his smile was false. By rights, the gathering for this baptism ought to have been bigger. But a cholera outbreak on the island had limited travel. There had been many deaths already. People were frightened.
Only two dozen relatives and friends of Annunziata and Gino had turned up, including one or two Priolas from Palermo, who, after the baptism, would no doubt give him news of America.
“Will the parents stand here, please?” Father Ignazio pointed to a space by the font. “And the godparents here. Thank you. The rest of you can just gather ’round.” He ran through the service quickly because the infant was becoming more skittish.
The abbot had been delighted when Annunziata had given birth to a baby boy and had immediately agreed to perform the baptism. He had heard rumors that her marriage to Gino was not turning out especially well, but the birth of the child seemed to contradict that. He had been surprised to find that the boy’s names were to be Antonino Sylvano, but there was nothing he could do. Surely she was not still carrying a torch for Sylvano Randazzo? He had been gone two years now. The abbot could only hope the birth of the young Antonino Sylvano would come to replace the other Sylvano in Annunziata’s affections. She certainly appeared to dote on the child.
After the service there was wine and salami and goat’s cheese back at the bivio. The abbot immediately sought out Ruggiero Priola, who had come all the way from Palermo especially for the ceremony. “You bring news, I hope,” Father Ignazio began.
“I do,” said Ruggiero, “though I fear it is not all good. Nino and Sylvano are now with Angelo, my cousin. They have changed their names, are settled, and are safe. Nino is sending money back—through us—though only Don Bastiano knows this. Angelo says that Silvio has the gift.” Ruggiero tapped his temple. “He has brains, that boy. He sent a letter to Annunziata.” He grinned. “But we intercepted it.” Then his features darkened. “But in Palermo we also know that the Rome government is beginning to stir. They have sent a list to America. More than a hundred names. Many of our friends are on it. So are Nino’s and Silvio’s. We are planning to alert them.”
The abbot nodded. “And tell me,” he said. “The cholera. How is it?”
“Bad. More than seventy people in Palermo have died. And it’s spreading. There have been cases in Bagheria and Alcamo.”
“Don’t tell people here,” replied the abbot. “A christening should be a joyful occasion. We don’t want to spoil the happiness of Gino and Annunziata.”
Patrick Donovan swayed slightly as he made his way along Royal Street. He had drunk too much tonight. The oysters at the Red Lantern were always good, but he shouldn’t have had the extra half dozen or the wine that went with them. Still, what harm could half a dozen oysters do? It was his birthday, for Christ’s sake.
Not that it was still his birthday, strictly speaking. Midnight had come and gone more than an hour ago. He stumbled as he missed yet another loose plank in the sidewalk. Careful.
He stepped into the road. It was muddy, but he felt safer. He reached the end of the block and turned in to Orleans Street. He stopped, bewildered. A crowd of people blocked the roadway. But it was past one o’clock! New Orleans was a late town but not this late—
All of a sudden he saw—beyond the crowd and above their heads—some sparks flying upward. At almost the same time his eyes focused on the smoke, darker than the night, and his nostrils took in the tang of burning. Something was on fire!
Already, he was running. He slithered in the mud, but he didn’t care now. He reached the outskirts of the crowd and pushed past several people. The crowd grew denser and he was forced to elbow his way forward. He had to see where the fire was.
He lifted a child out of the way, despite the protests of its mother. Then, all of a sudden, he could see. He could see flames. He could hear crackling as wood was consumed, as glass broke. The smell of the fire filled his nostrils and smoke began to smart his eyes. But he felt a sense of relief. It wasn’t his shop on fire.
It was a shoe shop about three doors away, an old-fashioned cobbler’s owned by a German. Donovan’s woozy head had cleared immediately at the first whiff of danger and he refocused now on his German neighbor, whom he could see standing in the road, obviously grief-stricken.
Donovan went up to him. “Hans? I’m sorry—I really am. What happened? Was it electrical?” The newfangled electrical light in New Orleans was always causing problems.
“This wasn’t electrical,” hissed the German. “Someone started this fire, deliberately.”
“What! How do you know?”
“Those dagos told me there’d be trouble if I didn’t pay them protection.”
Donovan stared at him. “But … you can’t be certain it was them.”
Even as he said this Donovan realized how stupid he sounded. He looked along the street to his own shop, three doors away. He was next.
“I’m looking for a girl named Madeleine. Tall, dark, well built. A quadroon. Does she work here?”
Silvio’s English was improving all the time, but on this occasion at least, it didn’t help. The woman behind the bar shook her head. “Nevah ’eard of ’er.”
There were countless bars and brothels in the French Quarter, most of them on CustomHouse, Burgundy, and Bourbon streets. Silvio’s task was made slightly easier by the fact that Madeleine was a quadroon. Not all houses accepted girls of color, so there was no need for him to waste time in all-white houses.
He had been looking for three days with no luck. He glanced at his watch: it was nearly ten and he was hungry. He would try one more whorehouse and call it a night. Madge Leigh’s was only a block from where he was now a
nd he was due to meet Nino there at ten-thirty. He should make it easily.
The next place was Carrie Freemantle’s, reputed to be part owned by Harrison Parker, the man Priola was sponsoring as mayor. Silvio knew that in his political campaigns, Parker had promised to clean up the French Quarter, but he doubted if those grandiose plans would come to anything. It was just an empty claim designed to land a few votes from the Southern Methodists and Baptists who lived in the suburbs.
Silvio mounted the steps of Carrie’s and pushed at the door. The bar had a nautical theme, with fishermen’s nets and stuffed fish festooning the walls. Behind the bar was a huge glass tank with live lobsters and crayfish.
He ordered a bourbon, leaning against the bar for a moment. It was usually easy to tell who the madam was in any house. She was invariably older, had obviously once been stunning looking, and now wore a colorful dress that enhanced her bosom, holding out the prospect that, for favored customers, the madam might oblige.
In Carrie’s, Silvio had no problem locating her. She was a striking redhead, probably fifty, and wearing a vivid green dress that exposed her neck, shoulders, and the upper third of her breasts. She was flirting with various men and playfully hitting them with a fan.
For perhaps ten minutes Silvio watched as she worked the room. But she had noticed him, too, and the fact that he was watching her. She suddenly crossed the room and walked straight up to him. “You should learn to keep your eyes to yourself. You make me feel naked.”
“In your case that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
She smiled, flattered despite herself. “You’re new here. I would have noticed someone as handsome as you. Who do you want? Young, old, black, white, one, or two?”
“Let me buy you a drink first. It’s better not to hurry these things.”
She acknowledged his politeness, then nodded to the barman. He would know what to bring.
When the drink arrived, they toasted one another.
“I like redheads,” he said. “Green suits you.”
Again she smiled. “Not so fast. I don’t even know your name, and I decide who I sleep with.”