She looked at him, looked at her hand and nodded. She started gathering the money from her tip basket. Jeremy helped. He ended up carrying most of her stuff, her basket, her pedestal, and the gallon of water she had stashed under her pedestal.
Only after they started walking did she speak. “So tell me about yourself, Mr. White Knight.”
“Do you want the truth, or a fairy tale?”
“Tell me a story.”
“All right,” Jeremy dropped into a bad fake Spanish accent, “my name is Juan Ortiga Corntortilla. I come from a small country in South America you have probably never heard of: Burrodroppa. Nobody here has ever heard of it. For that matter some people there have never heard of it, but that is another story. My father was the grand leader of the country, until the communists came. They killed him and I barely escaped with my life … and the family fortune.”
“Are you planning on going back to try to take control back from the communists?”
“No. That place is a hell hole. I like it here. Besides, I’ve already spent the family fortune, so I don’t have enough money to pay for an army. So tell me about yourself.”
“Oh, you know the story ... quite some time ago there was a war in heaven, some angels got to stay, some got kicked out to a very bad place, and some just didn’t get let back in. I was one of the ones that didn’t get to go home.”
They were at Jeremy’s house. Like a lot of buildings in the French Quarter, Jeremy’s house was a townhouse that was proportioned very much like a giant shoebox: taller than it was wide, and very deep. The house was slightly unusual in that its entrance was in the middle of the first floor, instead of off to one side.
They walked up the steps. As he opened the door she said, “Juan, you were telling the truth.”
“Actually my name is Jeremy, and the real story is a lot stranger than the one I told you.”
“So what do you do for a living?”
“I don’t know.”
She laughed, “How can you not know?”
He tried to look dignified. “That is part of my long strange story. I can tell you how I am going to try to make a living, but I can’t tell you if it will work. But let’s save that for later and get your hand cleaned up now.”
He led her up the stairs to the upstairs bathroom. “After we clean this up, would you like some food?”
“I don’t think so. I know the legends ... if I let you feed me here, even as little as one pomegranate seed, I’ll have to stay here forever.”
“At least you’d be out of limbo, but I guess it is a little early for that kind of commitment. Though if I recall, one pomegranate seed would only keep you here a month. Six would keep you here half the year, and put the rest of the world into winter. Since we’re talking about it, I’m sure I have a pomegranate around here some place. But we could avoid that whole mess and just go out.”
Sarah looked at herself. “I’m covered with white greasepaint, I’m wearing an antique wedding gown, and I have a broken set of wings on my back. I don’t think I’m really dressed for it.”
Jeremy grinned. “We can take care of that.”
“Uh uh … let’s just fix my hand.”
He opened a bottle and said, “The peroxide might sting a little, and I don’t want to hurt you before I even know your name. That sounded wrong. I don’t want to hurt you at all, but it might …”
She interrupted, “Sarah. And I am a big girl; I know you won’t be trying to hurt me with the mean old peroxide. And I think you should know, what you said yesterday while you were drunk was the nicest thing anybody has said to me since I have been out there standing on a pedestal.”
He blushed, and said, “Well, let’s get on with this.”
He poured.
She screamed.
As first dates go, things were actually going pretty well.
After her hand was bandaged, Jeremy asked Sarah if she still wanted to go to dinner. She looked at herself in the mirror, and looked back at him. “Like I said before, I’m just not dressed for it.”
“Like I said before, we can take care of that. I have a shower and baby oil to take off your makeup.”
“What about the wedding dress?”
Jeremy grinned. “If you really want to take it off … I am sure I can find something to fit you.”
Sarah put her hands on her hips and gave him a suspicious look. “You have a supply of women’s clothing on hand?”
“I was a boy scout, I like to be prepared. But no, I don’t have a supply of women’s clothing on hand. I do, on the other hand, have quite a lot of, shall we say, ‘unisex and flexible’ clothing available.”
She laughed. “Sweats and T-shirts. You want to take me on a first date stripped of makeup and wearing sweats and a T-shirt.”
“That is about the size of it. And I know lots of places where we won’t be underdressed.”
“I don’t know …”
“It is after six, so I’ll make sure that I dress you in only the finest black formal sweat clothes.”
“Show them to me.”
Jeremy scrambled off to his dresser and returned with a stack of clothing. Black sweatpants, a black T-shirt, and a black fleece pullover.
She raised an eyebrow. “You want me to dress like a ninja?”
“However you dress I think I’ll still see an angel.”
“Jeremy, that has to be one of the cheesiest lines I have ever heard!” She shook her head and added, “But it worked.”
Jeremy showed her to the shower, and then sat down with a guitar in his computer room and waited for her to emerge.
It was around ten o’clock when they emerged from his house in search of food.
Keeping things casual he took her to a little gumbo shop half a block off Bourbon Street. The place had a walk-up window and a counter with stools. Sarah had jambalaya and Jeremy had crawfish etouffee, both were excellent.
After they ate, they headed toward the river, passing through Jackson Square, dominated at that time of night by fortune tellers, and across Decatur. By the time they could see the river they were holding hands, and Jeremy couldn’t remember who had initiated it. He didn’t really care.
They stood on the Moonwalk watching the river and talking. Jeremy said, “So, tell me about yourself.”
“Do you want the truth, or a story?”
“Surprise me.”
“All right … My name is Sarah, but before we get serious, you should know I’m a vampire. I am over two hundred years old.”
Jeremy did a good job of putting a frown over his grin. “But I’ve seen you in daylight.”
Sarah poked her nose up and gave an exasperated sigh. “That isn’t greasepaint I wear, it’s zinc sunblock. It keeps me from burning in the light.”
“In that case, I think it is only fair to warn you that my great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side was named Von Hellsinger.”
“So vampire hunting is in your blood?”
“Well, as much as I am enjoying hunting you, no. The Hellsingers were the tailors to the great vampires.”
“Well, looking at the way you dressed me, I’d say the skill must have skipped a generation.”
“How can you expect miracles when you haven’t even shown up for a fitting?”
“We vampires are very demanding.”
“You know most people wouldn’t admit they were high-maintenance blood-suckers on a first date. I have to admire your honesty.”
She hit him. It was a nice soft thump on his chest.
“Do you always solve your problems with violence?”
“Only when I’m being nice.”
They laughed. And giggled. And generally had a great time, telling each other fantastic stories about their lives. He was a fighter pilot. She was a Palestinian refugee. He was a ninja master. She was a bra
in surgeon. For every tall tale they told, they would let slip a truth or two about their lives. He was a guitarist. She was a theatre major. He even told her about his family curse. Somehow, they knew which were the tales and which were the truths.
Friday February 7th
10:00 a.m.
Jeremy woke up at about ten in the morning. He sat up, picked up the Martin acoustic guitar he kept next to the bed, where some people would keep a nightstand, and started working his way through scales. He started on the open E string and worked his way up and down the neck in E major, then did the same with F major. After he had worked his way through all the major keys, he repeated the process with all the minor keys, followed by a couple of variations on the blues scale, and then decided that today felt like a Phrygian day, and worked that mode all over the neck. There wasn’t a lot of modern music in the Phrygian mode, though he pulled it out now and then for a solo.
Gently setting the guitar back into the cradle of the stand, Jeremy stumbled toward the bathroom. His fingers were now awake, but his legs were going to take a while to catch up. When he looked in the mirror, he was surprised to see himself grinning.
It was close to eleven by the time he got breakfast at Café Beignet. He had chosen Café Beignet, on Royal Street, because it was a good excuse to walk past Sarah’s corner. She was not yet set up for the day, but just walking through the space made him grin. He wasn’t surprised she wasn’t out yet, they had stayed up late talking. It had been almost three when he had finally put her in a cab to take her to her place. It had been a wonderful evening.
After breakfast, it was time to get down to business. It wasn’t far to Jackson Square, but he found himself dawdling, listening to all the street musicians on Royal Street. Some were very good, some weren’t. One man was ‘playing’ one of those cheap toy guitars that had no strings and just played a recording of the same riff over and over. Amazingly, he was still getting tips. Sarah still wasn’t set up. Once in Jackson Square he continued to dawdle, and while looking at one painter’s particularly colorful works, he realized he was stalling. He had never approached anyone about a business venture before, and he was nervous.
He made himself approach the same psychic who had given him the reading only a couple of days before.
He stood in front of the table and said, “Hello, my name is Jeremy. You did a reading for me and I’d like to offer you a chance to make some money.”
The psychic smiled. “You have my attention.”
Jeremy sat down. “I am going to be offering a service, not entirely unlike what you do, but also rather different. One way to describe it would be to call it a self-directed psychic experience. I could describe it to you, but it would probably be better if you experienced it for yourself.”
“And where do I fit in?”
“What I will be doing will be fairly expensive, and because I am looking for a very select type of client, I would prefer to rely on word of mouth to advertise. What I am offering you is a referral fee. Twenty dollars for every person you refer to me.”
The fortune teller frowned. “I am not interested in being any part of a scam.”
Jeremy shook his head. “Oh, this isn’t a scam. I have no plans on taking any more money from my clients than the fee I will tell them about up front. I will offer no guarantees. The only thing I’m offering is an environment in which an interesting phenomenon can take place. One of the reasons I want to rely on referrals is I would prefer to keep my clients limited to people who are actually likely to experience the phenomenon.”
“And what phenomenon is that?”
“Depending on your viewpoint, it is either a freeform séance, or a mirror in which you can hear the echoes of your subconscious.”
“Freeform séances sound a tad dangerous.”
“I don’t think you’ll think so after you have seen what I am talking about. Why don’t you come over to my place, and I’ll guide you through what I have in mind?”
The fortune teller looked around. It was still early, and few tourists have their fortunes told before lunch. “How long will it take?”
“My customers will get an hour, and you would be welcome to stay that long, but you can probably get a feel for it in just a few minutes.”
“Twenty dollars per referral? How much are you planning on charging?”
“One hundred dollars an hour.”
The fortune teller blinked. “Is it worth it?”
“I’ll let you tell me.”
The psychic asked the palmist at the next table to watch his stuff and followed Jeremy. As they were leaving the square he asked, “I’m the first person you have talked to, aren’t I?”
“Is that the result of psychic skill, or is it that obvious?”
“Let’s just say that in the future, when you approach someone with a business offer, or at least one that is legal, it is customary to at least know their name. For reference, my name is Robert Smith. And yes, it is my real given name.”
Jeremy apologized, and they spent the rest of the walk to his house making small talk. It was only a few blocks.
Stepping through the front door, Jeremy began pointing out artifacts, trying to stay as close to the spiel he had cooked up for paying clients as possible. “This is my museum of fakery. It is far from comprehensive, but everything here is a tool that someone has used to deceive someone in a paranormal situation.” Jeremy picked up an odd device, a small hammer mounted on an arm with a string hanging from it. He said, “For example, this device was used by a turn of the century medium to make rapping sounds from a table while the medium’s hands were being held.” He held the gizmo under the table and asked, “Are you there Uncle Albert? Tap once for yes, or twice for no.” With his other hand Jeremy pulled the string, making the hammer strike the underside of the table twice. “Well, I guess Uncle Albert isn’t in …
“Everything here has been used to defraud people, but what I am going to show you is real. I make no guarantees that you will have an experience, but if you do, whatever you experience, I have no control over.”
Robert walked down the length of the table, looking at the artifacts. He paused in front of the trick mirror. Robert was the right height, so everything lined up and as he looked in the mirror his face dissolved into the devil’s. He laughed and said, “Cool toy.”
Jeremy motioned for Robert to step into the study and sit down. Jeremy took a seat behind the desk. “Just about everybody these days has heard of chaos theory, that a butterfly flapping its wings in Asia can be the start of a series of events that leads to a hurricane here.” Robert nodded.
Jeremy continued, “The reason I mention it is that big things are started by small things, and things that may seem random have causes we can’t see. Just think about the forces that have guided you here today. In your case I know something of them. You are here because you told my fortune a couple of days ago, right before I had the idea to start this enterprise. But I can honestly say that if a good looking blonde hadn’t caught my eye, I probably wouldn’t have been looking in the direction of your table in the park, and I probably would never have noticed you, or had the whim to sit down, and a whole lot of things might never have happened, and you likely would not be here now.
“What I am getting at is that the universe is subtle. Tiny things influence big things.”
Robert said, “For want of a nail a shoe was lost, for want of a shoe a horse was lost, for want of a horse a battle was lost, for want of a battle a war was lost …”
Jeremy said, “Exactly,” then he picked up the colorful paper skull and handed it to Robert.
“Hold the skull to your ear, what do you hear?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You don’t even hear a roar, like the ocean? Like listening to a seashell?”
Robert nodded. “Well, yes, but that’s nothing.”
“No, that is s
omething ... that is the random movement of air molecules. But is anything in this world truly random?
“What I am going to give you is a chance to find order in chaos. Down the hall is a garden, I call it a Whisper Garden. In it you may find it quite easy to find answers to your questions. The only sound there is running water, but you will likely hear voices – order out of randomness. I offer no guarantees, but it is fairly common. I have heard them myself. There is no outside source for the voices, only the random movement of sound.
“The garden is a special place. To be honest, I don’t know why. I don’t know if it is because of the shape of the garden, or because of the location, or if there are just spirits that come where they are welcome. I just don’t know, but I do know that the garden is quite conducive to the voices. All you have to do is wander about until you find a place that feels right to you, and sit, or stand and open yourself to the experience. Would you like to go in?”
Robert nodded. Jeremy stood and opened the door to the garden, “I’ll wait here. When you are done, just come back through this door.”
Jeremy hopped into the living room and grabbed his favorite Les Paul guitar. He sat behind the desk and started idly soloing. He liked the thin sound of an un-amplified electric, and would occasionally mix a track of the strings – miked and un-amplified when he was recording for the band. That was one of the luxuries of being a musician in the early twenty-first century: his home studio was more advanced than any professional studio from thirty years before. The Beatles recorded Sgt. Pepper’s on two four-track recorders, but with his home computer, Jeremy had basically as many tracks as he wanted.
It only took about ten minutes before Robert came back in. “How did you do that?”
“What?”
“Know my mother’s maiden name.”
“I don’t. I’ve been sitting here playing guitar.”
“So how does it work?”
“How does your Tarot deck work?”
“You want the truth?”
“If we are going to have a business relationship I think that would be good.”
“The questioner guides the experience. I give answers that could apply to just about anyone, and if the questioner seems to get excited about something I run with it.”
The Whisper Garden Page 4