Feast of All Saints

by Anne Rice

  “Marcel, do you remember that first night, when I came home from Paris, and we talked in Madame Lelaud’s…I told you, you knew more of the difference between the physical and the spiritual than most men know in a lifetime. I know, I know, the wound’s too raw now, the disappointment is too appalling, but you must listen to me…”

  “You’ve been drunk for two days, you are a bad boy, my boy, drink that soup now, hmmmmmmm? Your friends will be coming again, looking for you.” I’m not here!

  A girl lay on the steps at the top near the rafters, peering at him again through the rude splintery banisters, the sun skittering along the perfect shape of her bare calf. She made the words, “come up” with her lips. He lifted the bottle to his mouth, aware with a shudder he had been with her already, it was perfect this enticing brutality of women for hire, you need not care anything for them, they did not expect it, his own cruelty had surprised him, but it had not surprised her. The door opened, the light exploded, she vanished. This had been going on forever, he saw the flame appear at the tip of his cheroot before he had succeeded in lighting the match.…“must understand that it is Monsieur Ferronaire’s wish that you apply yourself without reservation to this apprenticeship with the view to being entirely self-sufficient within two years.” I always knew it, he was lying, lying all the time, those dead blue eyes, that wad of bills, the silver money clip, and now this, the coward, while he’s in the country, “…to make it plain that he will not support you in this endeavor unless you assure your mother that you wish to learn the undertaker’s trade.” That back room, those chemicals, Antoine with his sleeves rolled above the elbows, arm around the dead man, tipping him forward, other hand squeezing the fluid from the rag. “…the disappointment is simply too raw now, you cannot think, and you mustn’t think, you must give yourself time, do you remember the words from St. Augustine, I gave them to you, ‘God triumphs on the ruin of our plans,’ ” our plans, our plans…“Drunk for two days, mon fils, your friends will be…drink it.” Coward, bloody, rotten coward, send the boy in style, the Ecole Normale, of course, why not, excellent, of course, send the boy in style. “You are going to be sick, mon fils, eat, eat.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, did you know that?”

  “You are drunk, my blue-eyed bébé, and I am always beautiful on Sunday mornings. But your friends, they are going to be looking for you, and the schoolteacher, you promised him…”

  “…drink it off, then, drown it for a while, then come to your senses, this is not the end of the world, ‘God triumphs, triumphs…’ ” DO YOU BELIEVE THAT? “Listen to me, Marcel, I know what this means to you, all right, that silver spoon, it’s gone, you’ve got to work now, and you know it’s as if you were my flesh and blood, your sister and Richard, but there is nothing dishonorable, there has never been anything dishonorable in trade.” I knew it, always knew it, I would never get out of here! Illusions, don’t you understand, all the accoutrements of family but no family, all the accoutrements of a gentleman but not a gentleman, all the accoutrements of wealth but no wealth…“too raw right now, don’t expect resignation, God triumphs…” “as if you were one of the family already.” “…entirely self-sufficient in two years.”

  “That’s right you go home now, mon bébé, your Maman will be pleased, hmmm, kiss me.” “Not without a flask for this pocket and this pocket.” Laughter. “Of course, bébé, put that money away before someone sees you, all those bills.” “Why, Madame, I’m a rich man!” “Marcel, I should like very much to correspond with you from Paris, I’ll be staying in the Rue L’Estrapade, the Pension Menard, you must write to me, let me write it down for you, ‘Augustin Dumanoir, Pension…’ ” “Too raw right now, this disappointment but when you come out of this, go on get drunk, when you come out of this, you will understand that nothing, really, is changed.” ARE YOU MAD TO SAY THAT TO ME, NOTHING HAS CHANGED! That bleary-eyed lying son-of-a-bitch, eh bien, send the boy in style.

  Madame Lelaud put the flasks into his pockets, patting his chest, “You go on home now, mon bébé, before your friends come…”

  “Do you love me?”

  “I adore you, mon bébé…” She turned his shoulders, facing him toward the street, away from that girl near the rafters, that handsome Negro with the pool cue, bowing again as the balls crashed behind him, never, thank you, I do not gamble, “Be careful with that clip of money, mon bébé, get off the waterfront.” “You are beautiful!”

  He was standing in the street. A man lay dead, look, that man’s dead, but she was just smiling in the doorway, her hands on her hips, those gold loops shivering, “You never mind him, mon bébé…” “But he’s dead, look he’s dead.” “They’ll come for him, mon bébé…” She ran her hand along the stubble of his chin, he’d seen it already in the mirror behind the bar, that golden fuzz. “My blue-eyed bébé. Get off the waterfront.” He put one foot in front of the other, the flasks clanking heavily in his pockets, the street vanishing beneath his feet, faster, faster, heels clicking loudly on the flagstones, crowds flooding out of the Cathedral, in and around the Place d’Armes, absolutely do not wish to encounter Rudolphe or Madame Suzette. It was amazing the speed with which he had crossed the square, the sky flashing in the Rue Chartres, waves of laughter from the Sunday morning confectioners. That bleary-eyed coward, letting that simpering Jacquemine do it, calling Rudolphe and Christophe to do it, all those years, those little dinners, the bills peeling off that bundle, “If he can break his promise to me, Michie, he can break it to you, Michie, you think you’re so special, don’t you, Michie, you think ’cause his blood’s running in your veins.” YOU ARE MY FATHER, YOU LIED TO ME!

  He turned into the shadowy alcove of the shut-up pharmacy and tipped the bottle upward, his throat burning for this perfect stream. Don’t take the steamboat, that will make you think, walk, walk, walk. You can’t get there on the steamboat, simply walk, as if nothing can stop you, nothing can stop you, walk. “If he can lie to me, Michie, he can lie to you…set me free, promised, your sister, Michie, yes, your sister, me!”

  Liar. Same streets, same houses, same faces, I will not, I will not…it’s unthinkable, this hellhole, I refuse…I will never!

  And here it was already the Rue Canal with the bells from Christ Church and a sea of lumbering carriages, streamers from those broad-brimmed bonnets fluttering in the wind. I will not live out my life in New Orleans, I will not die in New Orleans, this will not happen. “That you yourself have chosen the undertaker’s trade, two years, two years entirely self-sufficient, there has never been anything dishonorable in trade.”

  Now everybody was speaking English, it’s quite impossible to walk there, but what if you just put one foot in front of the other, no, don’t take the car uptown, just walk, walk. Walk as if nothing can stop you.

  “Now, you listen to me, Marcel, he brought you up in the planter’s tradition, you’ve never gotten those hands of yours wet except to wash them, well that’s over now, and you’d best face it, there is nothing dishonorable…” I will not do it, I refuse to do it, tell him I refuse the apprenticeship. “You’re not thinking.” “Leave him alone, Rudolphe, it’s too raw, it’s too deep a wound.” I REFUSE!

  You knew it was not going to happen, didn’t you? You knew in those months before Christophe ever came home, you were never getting out of here, it was just something to believe to keep you going, to make youth tolerable, to make life possible, Rue l’Estrapade, the Pension Menard, Ecole Normale, Quartier Latin, Théâtre Athenée, Musée de Louvre. Don’t cut back to the river now, this is the Irish Channel, and they’ll kill you, that cesspool, those filthy immigrants, no, stay in the Nyades Road, walk, walk, as if nothing can stop you.

  He stopped in the shade of an oak, tipped the bottle again, one full flask left in the right pocket, one full flask left in the left, the Carrollton car chugging by on the shimmering track, steam against the blazing sky, the clang of church bells. I am walking to the Parish of St. Jacques.

  To understa
nd this properly, one has to have lived with him, seen him day after day in those soft slippers, that blue robe, pipe smoke layered over the dining room, that wad of bills. “Ti Marcel, my little scholar…” “He took my Maman to bed, Michie, same as he took yours!” One has to have seen him marching up that garden path, the cape flaring to the rustling leaves, that horse chomping in the Rue Ste. Anne, those presents, those parcels, peeling off those bills, send the boy in style, style, style, style!

  What is it, noon? Take out that splendid pocket watch with the small curling inscription from Hamlet and read it, don’t even bother to smooth your vest, it fits too perfectly, noon, and this is the old city of Lafayette already, you are making good time.

  Somewhere before he reached the city of Carrollton at the bend of the river, he threw the first bottle away, seeing it shatter on a rock, this was country now, the swamp encroaching, those little kitchen gardens, a cow with an immense eye and delicate lashes peering at him from the high grass behind a broken fence. Over and over the cars passed on the tracks, and now he was passing those frothy verandas and ladies with pink parasols, this is the country now, you are moving through the Parish of Jefferson toward the Parish of St. Jacques.

  It seemed the steady motion of his feet obliterated thoughts, all those voices had become music, and what was cutting and ugly had melted slowly into a rasp and then a hum, one foot placed in front of the other, the soles of the boots getting thinner, he knew perfectly well that were he to stop, there would be pain, the shells were actually cutting through these boots, this expensive leather, and a white dust adhered to the edges of these trousers. “…some measure of responsibility with regard to your means, Monsieur Ferronaire has been quite generous, means suited to an apprentice in the undertaking trade, perhaps Lermontant can be some guide, you understand, of course, to date Monsieur Ferronaire has been, well, shall we say, very generous, but as of now, some measure of practicality with regard to your means, apprenticeship, proper attire of course, but these bills outstanding, some measure of reduced means…”

  And with each carriage rolling, crunching in the white shells, the dust rose, a wagon with people staring, an old black man gesturing, no, thank you, I prefer to walk. I wonder if this is an impossibility, all the way to St. Jacques, I suspect it might be considered so, but not for me. He uncapped the second bottle, drinking without having to stop, he should have thought of this before, and why not mount the levee, go ahead, feel that chill wind coming off the river, cutting this drench of sun. He started up through the grass, a swarm of insects rising, and with a careless hand slapped at his face, at the sudden sting on the back of his hand. Another drink, and there it lay, the Mississippi, that immense sluggish gray current, and riding downstream with all the speed of the current, a lofty, beautiful steamboat, twin stacks belching into the clouds. The breeze was cold, positively cold, imagine that. But it was perfect now, the way that everything was outside of him, the stones cutting through his boots, the thin layer of sweat beneath his shirt, that itching stubble on his face, this chilling wind. I have always been terrified of those trees falling like that right into the river, the current eating at the land, carrying off something that immense and so solid, a tree that inland could lift the brick banquette right over its roots, but it does not frighten me now.

  A white man stopped him.

  He saw the horse coming a long way off along the river road below and ahead and then the horse took a path to the top of the levee, and Marcel stopped, waiting, as the horse bore down on him, again it was so distant, those pounding hooves, and looking at the man, it was as though he had heard the request without the words.

  He’d never shown those papers to anyone, did he have them, he always carried them. His hand slid mechanically into his breast pocket while his eyes stared out over the river, at a great mass of logs and dead vine borne downstream like a perfect raft. The man’s voice was surly, something not to be borne, and in an instant, he knew it without even looking up, the man couldn’t read. “Born in New Orleans, Monsieur, of free parents, Baptismal certificate, St. Louis Cathedral, no, Monsieur, business, Monsieur, in the Parish of St. Jacques.”

  “You’re walking to the Parish of St. Jacques!” The horse lurched and danced, the papers shoved down into his face. It was like snatching for the brass ring to get a hold of them, runaway niggers with free papers. He cleared his throat, eyes raised cautiously, decorously, yes, that is a better word, decorously, this man cannot possibly hurt me, he has nothing to do with me. “On the Ferronaire plantation, Monsieur, business.” Those papers of yours better not be fake. But you can’t read them, can you, you swaggering fool. No, Monsieur, in the Rue Ste. Anne, all my life, at the corner of the Rue Dauphine. Merci, Monsieur, Bonjour!

  I told you he couldn’t hurt you, he has nothing to do with you, and without looking back, go ahead, lift the bottle to your lips, he’s gone anyway. This breeze is positively cold. A bell clanged somewhere, and round the bend it came, another of those magnificent steamboats, with faint music floating over the water, carried past his ears on that chill wind. It seemed they were waving from the decks, to him? He looked down across the river road, the white columns of a distant house peeping through the trees, an open carriage passing soundlessly below and out of this wind, a woman waving, her skirts made of some soft green. Don’t look at the house, don’t look at the carriage, look at the river and keep moving, your feet are on fire.

  It was what time now, three o’clock? You see, it means absolutely nothing. He drank the rest of the second bottle and threw it out so it disappeared into the gray water. And men riding along the mud beach below gave him a friendly wave. He stopped, stunned at this gesture, and slowly, limply, he lifted his arm. His boots were white with dust, and the leather was breaking open. Don’t think about it, walk.

  But when a cart stopped on the road beneath him, and an old Negro gestured again, not the same one as before, impossible, and the black woman beside gazed up at him, mute, waiting, he walked slowly down the embankment, those heavy careless drunken steps, quite impossible for him to fall over anything at this point, very likely he might have taken wing. “St. Jacques.”

  “Get in then, young man” came that heavy American voice, those yellowed eyes studying him, appraising him, “this ain’t no fine carriage, but I reckon it’s a damn sight better than walking clear to St. Jacques, where you headed in St. Jacques, young man, you just sit in the back.” There was time for a murmured answer over his shoulder, before it began to rattle, and rock, the wheels lurching violently over the rough road which disappeared behind him, mile after mile after mile. He became skilled at lifting the bottle, tensing his lips so the glass could not possibly hurt his teeth, wondering if this old black man wanted a drink, perhaps not with his wife there, in her best Sunday black, her basket covered up there with a white cloth.

  Iron fences, wrought iron gates, white columns flashing beyond the trees, the road winding so there was never a vista, the sun teeming on his head, his feet swaying above the dust that rose around him as the wagon jogged on. Hour after hour, don’t look at anything around you, don’t lose courage, a lone vendeuse on the road, her basket teetering, that lovely motion to the spine, long-necked, arms dangling, somber, unreadable black face as she passed and receded and became a speck on the white shells and was gone round the bend.

  In all the years he had heard the word Bontemps he had never pictured the house in his mind.

  How explain this to anyone, how even the most casual questions about it offended, much better to pretend it was no concern of his. A very rich plantation, yes, Augustin Dumanoir had said once, and he had not wanted to discuss it, he lived in the Rue Ste. Anne, what had that to do with him?

  And even when Tante Josette remarked on having seen it from the deck of the steamboat coming downriver from Sans Souci, he had turned his head. “When a man’s that comfortable in the Rue Ste. Anne,” Louisa laughed, “you can be sure he’s not so comfortable at Bontemps.”

  So no
w as he jumped off the cart, all that rattling and dust finally at an end, and saw his hand shove the dollar bill toward that bowed and grateful old black man, his wife’s eye a slit in her puffy face, he turned for the first time, even in imagination, toward those immense iron gates.

  Don’t stop because it’s so beautiful, don’t stop because those oaks are dripping moss along that perfect avenue, and you can see those magnificent white columns, this is a temple, a citadel, don’t stop, he jerked the bottle out, his back to it, the cart creaking and clattering out of sight, and drank again, deeper, deeper, feeling the whiskey go down into his bowels.

  Whether it was the largest house he had passed in this endless pilgrimage he could not have said, he was too blind, and moved even now in a trance. It was merely the largest house he had ever seen. And something flickered down that long vista, there was a swish and flash of color between two rounded rising columns, things stirred, people stirred on those verandas hooked to those Grecian columns, the sun a splinter in some elaborate glass. Don’t stop, don’t even move toward that immense and open central gate, that path inviting you to the tiny tabernacle door. He moved slowly, steadily, feet blistered and in pain that did not touch him, toward the side alleyway, rutted by hooves and carts, and once passing through that side gate, drew closer and closer to the house.

  There was music from somewhere, the sharp rise and fall of a Sunday fiddler? And fragrances rising, mingling with the river breeze. A soft triangle of color shifted on the upper veranda, then flashed from one column to another and a faint tiny figure showed itself at the rail.

  Don’t think, don’t plan it, don’t think, don’t lose your nerve. Did you think he was the only one who inhabited this palace, that he would be all alone somewhere inside with his pipe and his slippers and those decanters of bourbon, sherry, kegs of beer? Living like some rooting pig in deteriorating rooms? Leon, Elizabeth, Aglae, names came back to him, nothing to do with me, I have but one purpose that guides me, one foot before the other, the path carrying him quite far afield of the house itself, roses rising between this path and the house itself, and some soft cluster of figures up there, perhaps with batting fans, and small talk, and drinks tinkling with expensive liqueurs. Smoke rose from chimneys beyond it, a thick squat building emerged through the branches of the oaks, the rising banks of roses, and beyond that a man was coming toward him just as he drew nearer and nearer to the side of that house only those Corinthian capitols in all their detailed splendor visible now above these trellises, he could see it was the mill that brick building, and some squat old-fashioned bungalow was there, with its slender columnettes and beyond that some little town of roofs and chimneys, the man drew closer and closer, a black face, a familiar dark coat, Sunday best. The man was running, the man was afraid.