"These are the things M'sieu Dutuille sent to her, on the occasion of her contract being signed.” Rather impatiently, Casmalia cleared the small stack of books from the corner of the bureau, and spread out upon it a much costlier parure of rubies. “Of course completely unsuitable for her to wear as yet—perhaps ever, if you ask my opinion. She's so fair they're not her color at all."
It was a subtle brag. Like the white, upon whose power they depended, most libres saw greater beauty in pale complexions and silky hair than in the reminders of a slave-born past. “I suppose she'll have to wear them to please him,” Casmalia continued airily. “When the time comes, I'll suggest she have them reset."
"I think they're pretty,” ventured Lucie, and her mother sniffed.
"Vulgar. But as you can see, Ben, she certainly did not abscond. Not and leave all this behind. I don't see her pearls here—there was a pearl-and-aquamarine set that her grandmother gave her, God rest her soul: far too showy for morning. I can't imagine she'd have worn it..."
"She did,” provided Lucie. “And I think it was beautiful."
"Nonsense. It was incorrect to wear in the daytime—what on earth can she have been thinking? And no one is interested in what little girls think."
"And I'll bet you have jewels just as beautiful, Lucie,” said January, who had carefully taken everything out of Marie-Zulieka's jewel box and gently probed with his fingers every corner of its satin lining. “Would you show them to me, before I go?"
They were, as he'd guessed, just as carefully chosen to be suitable for a girl of nine: a single pearl on a fine gold chain, coral beads, a gold cross to wear on Sundays ... “And what's this?” With great care he lifted the tiny, brittle bundle no bigger than the joint of his little finger, wrapped in pink paper, though quite properly he didn't open it.
One didn't, with such things. Not without permission.
"That's my gris-gris.” Lucie took the bundle, unwrapped it to show the tiny dried foot of a bird, a sparrow or a wren by its size. “It brings me good luck. Zozo has one, too."
"And does Zozo keep hers in her jewel box?"
Lucie nodded.
He refilled and closed the box, and replaced on the corner of the bureau the books Casmalia had tossed aside: Böckh on ancient Greece and Lamarck on animals, a Spanish edition of Don Quixote, and a text on the stars that had been much talked of in Paris when he was there a few years ago. Inside the cover of each was marked A. Vouziers, 12 Rue de la Petit Monaie—that address was crossed out, along with two others he recognized as being in the same maze of ancient streets behind the Louvre in Paris, and then—53 Rue Marigny.
He said, “Then we can be sure it will bring Zozo good luck as well."
* * * *
"I consulted with my sister,” said January that evening to Hannibal Sefton, at a break during the dancing in the Théâtre d'Orleans while the guests made serious inroads on the buffet and the musicians sorted through their music and flexed the cramp from their hands. Needless to say, the sister January referred to was not the lovely Dominique but Olympe, his full-blood sister who'd run off with the voodoos at the age of sixteen. “She says she didn't sell Zozo Rochier anything to make Marie-Therese Pellicot sick, but the symptoms sound like hellebore of some kind. My aunties back on the plantation would give the children something of the kind when we got worms. I hope Agnes didn't force Marie-Therese out of bed to come to the ball."
His eyes strayed across the dance floor that had been raised over the backs of the seats in the pit to the wide double doors that led through to the lobby. From the lobby a discreet passageway connected to the building next-door—the Salle d'Orleans—where a ball was going on for the ladies of the free colored demimonde, the plaçees and their daughters.
M'sieu Davis, who owned both buildings, was careful to stagger the intermissions so that the husbands and brothers of the respectable ladies attending the ball at the Théâtre could sneak back in good time to have a cup of punch with their wives, after dancing with their mistresses next-door.
"Surely she wouldn't.” Hannibal set his violin on top of January's piano, unobtrusively collected two champagne glasses from the tray of a passing waiter, and led the way to the lobby. It wouldn't do for the musicians to be seen drinking the same champagne as the guests. “Even Agnes..."
"Agnes Pellicot is living on investments that have gone down in value and has three daughters besides Marie-Therese to bring out."
They traversed the passageway to the upstairs lobby of the Salle, and emerging, January scanned the room for Dominique: cautiously, because a black musician who was perceived as “uppity"—that is, attending a ball designed for white men in some capacity other than that of a servant—was just as liable to be thrashed on this side of the passageway as on the other. Music still flowed like a sparkling river through the archways that led from the ballroom, and with it the swish of skirts, the brisk pat of slippers on the waxed floor, the laughter of the ladies, and the rumble of men's talk. Impossible to tell whether his sister would be able to gracefully slip from her protector—or whether she'd remember to do so. In ten minutes he'd have to be back....
A moment later, however, Dominique appeared in the archway, a fantasia of green and bronze, calling back over her shoulder, “Darling, if I don't get some air I'll be obliged to faint in your arms and that would simply destroy the flowers you gave me—"
January took his untouched champagne glass, picked a waiter's silver tray from a corner of the buffet in the lobby, and carried the glass to her with the respectful air of one who knows his place. “Would madame care for champagne?"
"How precious of you, p'tit! What I'd really like is about a quart of arsenic to give to Eulalia Figes—such a witch! She said my dress—"
"Were you able to find out about Nicholas Saverne?” January had learned years ago that if one truly needed specific information, ruthlessly interrupting Dominique's digressions upon her friends and acquaintances was the only way to get it.
"Oh, a perfect chevalier, dearest. He speaks French like a Parisian, he sends to Paris for his boots—he really does, p'tit, Nathalie Grillot's mother checked—Bourdet makes his coats, the best in town, but it's all show. Maman Grillot and Agnes Pellicot both looked into his finances when he seemed to be showing an interest in Nathalie and in Marie-Therese, and learned that he's always borrowing from somewhere or other to invest in lands that he turns around and mortgages to invest in steamboat shares, but at the bottom he's not worth the horseshoes on a dead horse. And he owes money to God and all His saints—to every shirtmaker and tobacconist and hat maker in town. But men are impressed—bankers and investors, I mean, and tavern keepers, who're the ones who control votes. Henri's mama"—Henri was Dominique's protector, son of the truly formidable Widow Viellard—"says Nicholas Saverne tries even harder to impress the Americans, and that he's spoken of running for Congress."
"He may well succeed,” remarked Hannibal, returning from a trip to the unguarded buffet, a bottle of champagne in hand. As a white man—albeit an outcast—he ran less of a risk for helping himself. “Americans seem to be impressed by the show of wealth and aren't as careful about checking on a man as Mama Grillot and Agnes Pellicot."
"Handsome?” January asked.
Dominique shrugged coquettishly. “If you like all your goods in the shop window."
"Does Marie-Zulieka love him?"
The young woman's eyes lost their surface brightness as her delicate brows tugged together; from playful bubbliness, her expression shifted, thoughtful and a little sad. “I don't think Zozo really loves anyone ... except Lucie, of course, and that frightful old tutor of hers, M'sieu Vouziers. One would think when a girl's finished with her governess's lessons she'd be glad to toss her books into the river—heaven knows I was. But when has any man stopped courting a pretty girl just because she tells him she isn't interested? He always thinks he can make her interested. And if that girl's about to be pushed into an arrangement with the likes of Jules Dutuille—"<
br />
"What's wrong with Jules Dutuille?"
"He drinks,” responded Dominique promptly. “Oh, all men drink, of course—I think they'd go insane if they couldn't..."
"I certainly would,” put in Hannibal.
"Well, all you do when you drink is recite poetry nobody understands, and then fall asleep, cher." Dominique reached over to pat Hannibal's thin cheek. “You're very sweet about it. You don't say cruel things, or destroy one's letters from one's family, or kill one's pets.... My maid's sweetheart's cousin is a maid in Dutuille's household, you see, and anyway everyone knows about Dutuille."
"I don't."
"That's because you're serious and hardworking and have no time for idle chatter in the cafés.” She flashed him a dazzling smile, which sobered again at the recollection of things she had heard. “He never lets his wife see her family—they live up in St. Francisville—nor his son's wife; they go in terror of his rages. He's tried three or four times to come to an arrangement with a mistress, but Babette Figes begged her mother not to conclude the contract with him, and so did Cresside Morisset. Only Zozo couldn't refuse him, you see, because her father was in business with him. So yes, she could have run off with Nicholas, only I don't think she did."
"Why not?” asked January, curious, though it was a conclusion he'd already arrived at.
Dominique shrugged again. “Because if she had, she'd have taken her jewels, silly! That appalling ruby parure is worth over a thousand dollars! With his debts, he'd never have let her pass up that chance. On the other hand..."
She hesitated, and January finished softly, “On the other hand, Nicholas might have thought himself justified under the circumstances in slipping poison into Marie-Therese's coffee himself, and kidnapping Zozo, guessing she'd go without a fuss."
The young woman nodded. “I think that's what her mama fears."
"And if she didn't take her jewels,” he continued, “which are worth a thousand dollars, there's no telling when Nicholas might decide that once Marie-Zulieka has run off to Mobile with him, she herself is worth fifteen hundred dollars."
Dominique's eyes widened. The thought had clearly never crossed her mind. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “No, p'tit, he wouldn't..."
"Don't underestimate what a white man would or wouldn't do when there's money involved, and a woman not of his own race,” said January quietly. “One more thing, and then we have to get back to the ballroom. Is Nicholas Saverne here tonight?"
Dominique silently shook her head.
* * * *
"I don't understand,” said Hannibal, some hours later when next the Théâtre musicians had a break. “Your sister and her friends are free women, aren't they? If Jules Dutuille is such a blackguard—and I must say in the defense of us devotees of Dionysus that a man needn't be a drunkard to treat women like cattle—Marie-Zulieka can say no. Her mother might put up a fuss—God knows my aunts did when a cousin of mine refused to marry a chinless viscount who would have paid off my uncle's gambling debts—yet there's no way she or anyone can force her compliance."
January was silent for a few moments, reflecting on the width of the gulf that even after several years’ residence still separated the shabby Irish fiddler from the world of New Orleans. Even Dominique, raised in the free colored demimonde, was separated from the world of her brother and her older sister Olympe, who remembered what it was to be slaves. The narrow brick corridor to which they'd retreated—it led to the kitchen quarters of the Salle d'Orleans—was at least warm. From it, he and Hannibal could look across the rear courtyard to the lighted windows both of the Salle and, beyond, to those of the Théâtre where the well-bred French and Spanish Creole ladies were still pretending their vanished husbands and brothers were “out having a smoke” or “down in the gambling rooms.” Another world.
Another universe.
"Your cousin is white,” he said at last. “And presumably lives in a land where law applies to everyone. Maybe the law isn't always just, and maybe it's not enforced equally, but it is recognized to apply. You have to understand that nothing that concerns the free colored here in New Orleans is legally clear, or as it seems to be. Rules change with a few degrees difference in the color of a woman's skin. They shift from one hour to the next, from one house to the next. It's all the custom of the country, and nothing that concerns us—slaves, or ex-slaves, or the children or grandchildren of ex-slaves—is official or truly legal or truly illegal.
"Casmalia Rochier and her children are legally free. But since she isn't legally married to Louis Rochier, he can make things far more difficult for her and her family than your uncle could ever make things for your aunt. It isn't simply a matter of Uncle Freddy going to the sponging house. Rochier has it in his power to end the education of the boys, possibly to sell Casmalia's servants—the yardman and the cook. If he's angry enough to cast Casmalia off, it would be disaster for the family. Free or not, there was no question of the girl not agreeing to become the mistress of anyone her father ordered her to. And no one who matters to him—none of his white relatives or acquaintances—will think or say a thing about it."
The fiddler opened his mouth to say something—probably along the lines of, Would a man do that to his own children?—and closed it. The lights of the Salle's kitchen, where the other three musicians joked and laughed with the cook and waiters who served both Salle and Théâtre, reflected in the dark of his eyes. Reflected the recollection, January guessed, of the number of Englishmen and Americans and Irishmen and Frenchmen they'd both known in their lives who were capable of doing exactly those things to even their legitimate families, let alone their mistresses and bastards.
Some white men of January's acquaintance loved and cared for their “Rampart Street families,” their “alligator eggs,” as tenderly as they did their white wives and white children.
Some didn't.
The difference was that for the libres, there was neither legal, nor social, recourse.
No wonder women like his mother, and Agnes Pellicot, and Bernadette Métoyer, made damn sure the money was in the bank and in their own names.
In time, Hannibal asked, “Do you think Nicholas Saverne kidnapped this girl?"
January shook his head. “He might have, but I doubt it."
"Then where is she?"
A clamor of voices from the kitchen broke his thought. Uncle Bichet, who played the bull fiddle, called out, “Gotta get back to the ballroom, boys, ‘fore old Davis has an apoplexy and fires the lot of us."
January extended a hand down to help Hannibal to his feet. “I think I know; by noon tomorrow I'll be sure."
* * * *
Though Nicholas Saverne wasn't at either the respectable Théâtre ball that night or the quadroon festivities next-door, Louis Rochier attended both. January observed him on those occasions when he was in the Théâtre with his wife and daughters, a square pink-faced man with an incongruous cupid-bow mouth. Most of the time, however, Rochier spent in the Salle d'Orleans with his mistress Casmalia, with his son and the other men of the New Orleans business community who likewise either had mistresses or simply liked to flirt with lively ladies.
After the whites went home—and French Creoles were notorious for the lateness of their dancing—January and the other musicians drifted down the passageway and sat in with their colleagues in the Salle's little orchestra until nearly four, when the quadroon ladies and their patrons finally, as they said, “broke the circle” and headed home. Rochier had sent his white family home in the carriage; January saw the tension as the man spoke with Casmalia, and guessed that the banker had demanded where his daughter was, and had been fobbed off with a lie.
It was still pitch-black, and thickly foggy, when January returned home. Dim clamor still drifted from the wharves along the levee, and the gambling rooms of Rue Royale, but as he walked along the Rue Burgundy the stillness was eerie, thick with the molasses reek of burnt sugar from the plantations along the Bayou Road, and the cold-stifled stench of the g
utters. At his mother's house, Bella the cook was already starting the kitchen fires. She sniffed in disdain—like her mistress, Bella had little use for musicians—but gave him a cup of coffee and bread and butter before he went upstairs to his garçonnière to change clothes. She didn't even come to the glowing kitchen door when he came down again a few minutes later and crossed to the passway beside the house that led back to the street.
The house itself was silent and dark.
Walking downriver along Rue Burgundy, January had almost reached Rue Esplanade when he realized he was being followed. In the fog it would be a waste of time to glance behind him, even when he passed the intersections where the city's iron lanterns hung on chains across the streets. To stop and look back would let his pursuer know that he'd been detected, though January was almost certain who it was. He turned down Rue Ursulines, and then along Rue Dauphine, and still his own footfalls on the wet brick banquettes were echoed by the muted drip-drip of following boot heels. Lantern light up ahead outlined the dark shape of a man washing down the banquette ahead of him: Country Ned, that would be, he guessed, Mâitre Passebon the perfumier's yardman.
As he came even with the old man January called out a greeting in the sloppy Gombo French of the cane fields, the half-African patois that the tutors his mother's patron had hired for him in childhood had never quite been able to beat from his memory. “Got a buckra hound-doggin'—you be a mama partridge for a dollar?” he said. “No ewu—” He used one of the several African words for danger, and the tribal scars on Country Ned's face twisted their patterns with his grin.
"Shit, Ben, ewu just fluff up my feathers.” He took the proffered dollar, passed his broom to January, and walked off down the street without breaking the rhythm of January's steps. January himself continued to scrape the broom on the bricks, and swept himself back into the moist dark of the carriageway from Passebon's courtyard as the pursuer solidified out of the fog.
EQMM, November 2006 Page 2