The Letterbox

by Layton Green

  “What’s that?”

  “Winning the lottery.”

  I chuckled. “Getting tired of being the most overeducated temp on the planet?”

  “I’m a professional linguist. Sometimes. Maybe I’ll take your class, get back to a government-subsidized lifestyle.”

  “Nice plan. A PhD in linguistics, a law degree, and then back to happy hour at The Boot and intramural soccer.”

  “I’ve accepted the fact that happiness is comprised of doing the things that give you simple pleasure. I smoke, read bad novels, drink cheap rum, watch TV, ogle women, criticize the masses, and practice my languages.”

  I could only shake my head, realizing the brilliance of his comment while failing to grasp its place in my reality.

  My thoughts drifted back to Mr. Sofistere’s shop and the letterbox. “What’s a cairn, anyway?”

  “A pile of rocks stacked to commemorate something. Could be as small as a grave marker or as big as a tower. In ancient times they were assembled for sepulchral or religious purposes.”

  “Weird that someone preserved an empty box in silver and buried it in a bog next to a grave marker,” I said.

  “Weird that Sofistere is obsessed with the thing and runs an antique shop stocked with a bunch of creepy occult artifacts.”

  “Yeah,” I murmured. “That too.”

  The next day was Saturday. When I showed up at Maison to browse through yet another what-to-do-with-my-life book, What Color Is Your Parakeet or some such, I was surprised to find Asha seated by one of the windows, this time in a red-and-black-patterned kaftan top. She noticed me and asked if I wanted to join her.

  I ordered a black coffee and took the next table over. “Not at the shop today?”

  She closed her laptop. “It’s my day off.”

  It struck me as oddly coincidental that she just happened to be at my favorite coffee shop the day after we met. That was what being an attorney for too long did to you, though: made you overly analytical and suspicious.

  Then again, it didn’t mean I was wrong.

  “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “No?” she said, seemingly unconcerned with the coincidence. She noticed the book I was carrying. “Looking for a career change?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m an attorney.”

  She met my gaze with an earnest expression. Her eyes were dark brown and enormous, almost too large for her face. “What happened?”

  I liked her response. It wasn’t the typical, Oh, you must have something better lined up. Her question was posed in a commiserative tone, implying, What’s taking you so long to leave your soul-sucking job?

  “I won’t bore you with the horror stories,” I said. “Sometime after the fifth missed Christmas, I decided it was time for a change.”

  “Almost decided.”

  “Yeah,” I said, with a chuckle. “I guess that’s right. And you? You don’t sound like a native of N’awlins.”

  As she smiled at my overdone local drawl—I was from a middle-class suburb in Cincinnati, the only child of a third-grade teacher and a professional chef who worked opposite schedules—I took a better look at her features. High cheekbones and a pointed chin accentuated a narrow face, and a silver stud accompanied the dimple in the side of her nose where the curve began. Her ears were small but came to a point at the top which, combined with her petite stature, gave her a pixie-like appearance.

  “I was born in India, lived in Zambia in my early childhood, and then did penance in Iowa. I went to college in London and moved here a few years back.”

  “That’s quite a journey. How’d you end up working for Mr. Sofistere?”

  “I studied architecture in school. After graduation, I found this job and fell in love with the city.”

  Those decisions didn’t seem to add up, but I decided not to cross-examine her on our second meeting. “It’s rare to find someone who truly enjoys what they do.”

  “I suppose I’m lucky for that.” She flashed a wan smile that hinted at layers unpeeled. It also said, That’s enough about me. “Mr. Sofistere was excited by Lou’s discovery,” she said, and I could tell by an undercurrent of energy in her voice that she was, too. “He hasn’t been able to make heads or tails of the letterbox since he acquired it.”

  “Maybe a translation will help.”

  “Why don’t you stop by and see what turns up?” she said.

  I had always been attracted to mysteries and puzzles, the stranger the better, and I was curious to see if Lou could translate the runes. Still, I paused for a beat, trying to discern if she was being polite or actually wanted me to come.

  Or maybe she had another purpose.

  “I might just do that,” I said, in a neutral voice.

  We talked through another round of coffee. Though she didn’t seem to know anyone, including the barista, my suspicions were allayed by her genuine manner and our conversation, which had a nice organic flow.

  That, and I was self-aware enough to know that my attraction chipped away at any doubt.

  “It is alive,” I said the next morning as Lou, disheveled and groggy, joined me on the porch of my shotgun house. He lived in Mid-City and used the streetcar or bus for transportation. Whenever he tied one on Uptown, he often crashed on my couch.

  As Lou smoked, I eyed the decaying cemetery brooding across the street. It melded with the neighborhood like a sinister Starbucks, accenting the architecture as much as the twisted oaks dotting the streets or the banana trees concealing the courtyards.

  “What time is it?” Lou asked.

  “Eleven.”

  “Got any pancakes?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Have another cigarette.”

  “O–” he yawned “kay.”

  “Don’t forget your appointment.”

  “I shan’t.”

  “Mind if I tag along?” I asked. “I’m curious about that translation.”

  “Curious about the translation, or about what Asha might be wearing?”

  “Both.”

  Just after noon we stepped inside the dim interior of Antiques and Objets d’Art, the solid door closing behind us like the sealing of a tomb. We were greeted by Asha’s smile and the austere countenance of Mr. Sofistere.

  Lou reached into his backpack and brought out two worn textbooks. “Books on rune systems, including Ogham.”

  Mr. Sofistere led us to the rear of the shop, where the letterbox rested on a table beneath an oil painting of a Gothic church rising out of a swamp. Lou set his books beside the letterbox, took a long look at the runes, and began flipping pages.

  Mr. Sofistere gazed intently at Lou as he worked. I walked over to stand beside Asha.

  “Do you think he’ll be able to translate it?” she whispered.

  “If anyone can, it’s Lou. He’s a whiz with languages.”

  “I wonder what it says. My guess is a family name.”

  We waited for long minutes as Lou pored over his books, the same rare look of engagement lighting his face. I shifted and leaned closer to Asha, who had her hair pulled above her head and was wearing a pair of snazzy white slacks with a V-neck top. She did the business look well.

  “Have you heard of the new restaurant that opened a while back on Magazine?” I asked. “Sambor’s?”

  “No. Is it good?”

  “I don’t know. Want to find out?”

  Before she could respond, Mr. Sofistere walked over to us. “Asha tells me you’re an attorney. Might I ask with whom?”

  “Toureau Dagmon.”

  “A very distinguished firm. In fact, I’m a client of theirs at times.”

  That surprised me. I thought I knew all of the firm’s local clients, especially recurring ones.

  He stopped to readjust a tribal mask hanging on the wall. Gaping holes in place of facial organs lent it a ghoulish appearance. “How would you characterize your collection
?” I asked, trying to probe as judiciously as I could. “You carry a lot of pieces I haven’t seen in other antique shops.”

  When he turned, his gaze had turned piercing. “I have an interest in acquiring pieces that are believed, by those who have faith in such matters, to embody and perhaps even house the spiritual realm.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Are you implying that some of the objects possess some type of . . . mystical . . . property?”

  “I don’t claim to speak for the beliefs of others. And mysticism is often in the eye of the beholder, is it not? I like to think of my collection as an insight into the meeting of the human experience with the concept of the divine.” He flashed a disarming smile. “I’m a dealer of antiquities. Each of my pieces is a cultural and artistic treasure in its own right.”

  Lou sprang out of his seat, keeping one hand on the page and tracing the runes on the letterbox with the other. “It seems to match. And here’s another . . . .”

  He fell silent again, looking back and forth between the letterbox and his books.

  “So it’s just a matter of locating the rune in your textbook, finding the translation, and constructing the sentence?” I asked.

  Lou gave a tragic sigh. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.” He returned to the book. “Hold on, I’m almost done.”

  As we waited, Asha approached beside me and whispered, “Seven-thirty tonight? Pick me up here?”

  “Great,” I whispered back.

  After a short spell, Lou looked up again. “It’s four words, loosely translated.”

  Mr. Sofistere took a step closer. “What does it say?”

  Lou slowly closed the book. “‘The Path of God.’”

  “Loosely translated?”

  “Ogham doesn’t have prepositions. God Path would be a more literal translation.”

  Asha swallowed as her gaze rested on the letterbox. “The God Path? What does that mean?”

  “How should I know?” Lou said. “I’m a linguist, not an oracle.”

  Mr. Sofistere was also staring at the letterbox. “As I suspected, this piece has religious significance.”

  “Why would you suspect religious significance before knowing the translation?” Lou asked.

  “Most ancient objects without practical utility were used for religious purposes,” he said distractedly.

  “Ah.” Lou stood. “I suppose that’s it.”

  Mr. Sofistere seemed to snap out of a trance, and handed Lou another check. “You’ve been a tremendous help. Do you think you could locate the surviving examples of Ogham, to see if there’s any mention of this piece?”

  “Gladly.”

  Lou and I murmured our goodbyes and left Mr. Sofistere hovering over the letterbox, his eyes fixated on the inscription.

  -3-

  When I returned to Antiques and Objets d’Art that evening, Asha appeared in the doorway wearing a black cocktail dress. Her wavy hair fell just past her chin, stray bangs teasing her eyes.

  “I’m dressed okay for the place?” she asked. She had a coltish habit of holding her hands delicately in front of her body when she talked.

  “Perfectly.”

  I breathed in the balmy air as she took my arm and we strolled to the restaurant. Sambor’s was located near the corner of Prytania and Constantinople, among the grandiose houses looming above the streets like miniature colonial castles.

  After a cocktail, the hostess led us into a dark-paneled interior that looked like a parlor in a French chateau. Comfortable spacing separated the tables, while candlelight illuminated the room with a soft glow.

  “It’s so warm and cozy in here,” Asha said with a smile. “I like it.” Her smile, when she let it, consumed her face. It was her best feature and betrayed an openness to the world.

  After we ordered, I said, “So you went to college in London? I lived there my last year of university.”

  “Where?”

  “South Kensington and then Tufnell Park.”

  “That’s quite a change in fortune,” she said. “Isn’t Tufnell a bit rough?”

  “Rougher than South Kensington. After graduation I stayed on and bartended, which included claiming a couch in Tufnell Park.” I took a piece of bread. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What do you want to tell me?”

  She gave a half-smile, and I said, “Do you like New Orleans? What brought you here?”

  “A lot of things about the city make me happy. The beautiful buildings, the levee, the slow way the locals talk, the little white hats the servers wear at Café du Monde.” She fingered the stem of her wine glass. “So why don’t you like being an attorney?”

  I took a moment to respond, letting her know that I knew she was avoiding questions about her past. “How much time do you have?” I said. “But you know, I never blamed the job, I blame myself for being in the wrong place.”

  “Most people don’t like to admit that. They want something to blame.”

  “There were also those two dirty words: student loans.”

  Her eyes moved to a group of socialites at the bar, some of them arched backwards with forced laughter, others swirling drinks and roaming the bar with raptor eyes. “At some point you have to be true to who you are. No matter the cost.”

  “I agree,” I murmured. “But first you have to figure it out.”

  We ordered dessert and more wine, discussing our shared loves of Russian literature, ethnic eats, and the city’s abundance of atmospheric coffee shops.

  We also discovered a mutual interest in the supernatural, though mine was limited to my bookshelf and my Netflix subscription. She confided that she read her horoscope daily, the Chinese and Indian versions as well as the Western, and was intrigued by psychics, magic, palm readers, tarot players, and anything else that hinted at a paranormal signature. Her eyes got a faraway cast during our discussion of such matters, her voice possessing an intensity which reminded me of the look on Mr. Sofistere’s face when he was staring at the letterbox.

  When we finally looked up, the restaurant had emptied except for the staff. “We should let them close,” I said.

  “Let’s. I need to walk off some of this meal.”

  We took the streetcar to the French Quarter, then made the trek to the Marigny. I led her into a jazz club. The place was dark and smoky, not too loud. A pretty, throaty girl maneuvered through Nina Simone.

  “Warm and cozy again,” Asha said. “You’re doing well tonight.”

  “This place is one of my favorites.”

  Her eyes lingered on the musicians. “Jazz can be so lonely and sad.”

  “But it’s a celebration of life through those things.”

  “What’s to celebrate about that?”

  “The bittersweetness of it all.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like jazz,” she said. “I just think it’s sad. Do you consider yourself a sad person?”

  I thought it an odd question, and she asked it like it was perfectly normal. As if wondering if I were part of the club.

  “I wouldn’t have before. I don’t know anymore. In the last few years . . . maybe.”

  A smile played at her lips. “You’re a little young for a mid-life crisis. Or maybe attorneys have them early?”

  “I was just so busy I never stepped back to consider the big picture.”

  “That big picture’s a killer.” Her grin widened, and she looped an arm through mine. “Don’t be sad tonight, ok?”

  I leaned back and drew her close. “How could I be?”

  “I don’t know,” she said lightly.

  We fell into a comfortable silence, and I grew conscious of a tingling running down the arm she was holding.

  “Did Mr. Sofistere say anything about the letterbox after we left?” I asked, wondering if Lou was going to have any more income this month. I also had to admit that the bold claim on the inscription—the God Path—had stuck in my mind.

  “He
disappeared into the back room for the rest of the day,” she said.

  “What do you think the runes mean?”

  “Who knows? Some ancient religious mumbo-jumbo, I suppose.”

  “You don’t believe in God?” I asked, surprised.

  “I don’t know that, either.” Her eyes left the room again, like when we were discussing the occult. “It’s as if my mind wants to believe, but my heart or my soul or whatever you want to call it can’t feel it.”

  “I know what you mean,” I murmured, though I hadn’t meant for the conversation to turn so weighty. “But you’re superstitious, and with all the horoscopes and zodiacs—I just assumed you believed in God.”

  “I think I like those things because they’re harmless, a bit of blind faith I can have without investing too much.”

  She hesitated, and there was something distant in her eyes, a separation not just between me and her, but between her and the world. “I really want to believe in something,” she said quietly.

  “Who doesn’t?” I said.

  We let the jazz caress us, and the room contracted. She entwined her fingers into mine.

  “I believe in life,” she said.

  I gave her a quizzical look.

  “I believe in this bar we’re in, in the music that’s playing, in this city. I can touch and see these things, and they make me happy. So I believe in them.”

  “It’s good logic.”

  “I’m not talking about logic. I’m talking about feeling.” She looked away, then turned back and smiled. “Let’s dance for a while.”

  We stood next to our table in the corner, holding each other as we swayed to the reality of the music and each other. Our mouths lingered side by side, and I felt the hotness of her breath.

  When our lips finally met, soft and sly, I supposed I believed in life, too.

  We left the club and trekked towards the streetcar along the quiet fringes of the Quarter. New Orleans has a nocturnal energy, a preternatural life after darkness sets in. She took my arm as we walked in silence, turning down a side street that led to Canal. The iron gates of the contiguous homes and shops created a tunnel-like effect.