Bandit Queen

by Jane Candia Coleman

  Could I? And could I forgive the way he had then thrown me on the bed and taken me, without tenderness or any seeming love at all?

  “I mean it, darlin’. I guess…I guess I was just jealous. I never had a wife before.”

  And no one had ever been jealous on my account. I looked long into those greenish eyes of his and saw them filled with remorse. And I forgave him. By the time we docked in New Orleans, I had almost forgotten.

  New Orleans, that lovely old city on the Delta, existed, or so it seemed to me, simply for pleasure. Although the days of Creole splendor were gone, remnants remained—the houses in the French Quarter still painted pink, yellow, blue, each with a secret, flower—scented courtyard, each protected by balconies of delicate wrought iron; the French market where anything could be bought or sold, as I would learn to my sorrow; the spicy Creole and Cajun food that I came to love; and the music, above all the music that never stopped, a mixture of all the races that inhabited the Quarter, a tapestry woven by banjos and cornets, trombones and pianos, and underneath it all the song of the river, a dark counterpoint.

  “I can take you back,” it murmured from behind the restraining levee. “Anytime I want, I can take you back.”

  I had never seen anything to equal the splendor of the St. Charles Hotel and gawked, like the adolescent I was, at the lobby with its columns and chandeliers, its marble floors and velvet settees, and at the men and women who came and went as if they were a part of the décor.

  Nervous, I clung to Frank’s arm. “It must be very expensive,” I whispered.

  He laughed. “I’m flush, darlin’. You must’ve brought me luck. Enjoy it while you can.”

  Being a gambler’s wife was a risky position, dependent on the luck of the draw, the quirk of the moment, but how could I know that? I simply assumed that we were rich and would always live this way—as honored passengers, in fine hotels, dressed in clothes that were the height of fashion, for the next day Frank took me to a dressmaker, a wizened little woman who spoke an almost unintelligible patois but whose eye was that of a true genius.

  “No pale color for you, madame,” she announced, seeing me fingering a length of delicate pink silk. “Red. Yellow like the chrysanthemums on the graves on All Saints’. And blue like the sea.”

  I didn’t like the idea of looking like a decoration on a tomb, but, to my delight, within a few days I had my red silk gown, its underskirt trimmed with bands of Cluny lace, and a walking costume of a blue so pure I was reminded not of the sea but of an iris, its petals changing color in the sun, and a day dress of golden faille with a short, tight-fitting jacket and a parasol to match.

  “Now I’ll take you to dinner at Antoine’s,” Frank said. “Wear the blue.”

  Julian Plummer was at a table near the door. He was alone, and I gave him a quick smile as we passed.

  “Shall we ask your friend to join us?” Frank asked when we were seated.

  “No!” I answered quickly. “And he’s not my friend.”

  “As you wish.” He bent over his plate of oysters with relish. “Oysters are for love,” he said, swallowing the first. “At least, that’s what they say.”

  I was pushing mine around on the plate. “Why?”

  “They make men virile and ladies passionate. I bet none of the nuns or old ladies told you that one.”

  I giggled. The idea of any women I knew discussing virility was ridiculous. “Is it true?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? Who knows how superstitions start? Eat up, and we’ll see what happens later.”

  But the sight of Plummer had stolen my appetite. I managed several, then pushed the plate across to Frank. “You eat them,” I said. “I guess…I guess I’m just too excited.”

  But by the time the next course arrived, a fish baked in heavy paper, steaming and fragrant with spices, my appetite had returned, I had forgotten Plummer, and ate with delight.

  The evening was warm and the streets of the Quarter were filled with people—tourists, locals, black and white. From somewhere came the sound of a piano, accompanied by a banjo. Laughter drifted through open doors and windows like an echo.

  “Is it always like this? So alive?” I asked, taking Frank’s arm.

  “It’s almost Mardi Gras. But, yes. This town doesn’t sleep much.”

  “Mardi Gras?”

  “The big celebration before Lent. They have parades and masked balls and dancing in the streets. It’s an old tradition.”

  “Will we go to a ball?” I was thinking of my red gown, and of the magnolia blossoms that were everywhere.

  He laughed. “Hardly. Those balls are for the old society. By invitation only. Not for the likes of you and me.”

  His words sank in. Standing there on the crowded banquette, I understood with finality what I had done. I had traded respectability for glitter, moved outside the pale, and was as much an outcast as Frank. For one moment I felt lonely, afraid, like the child I still was, the girl who, lured by excitement, now had only a gambling man between her and disaster.

  He was smiling at me as if he read my mind. “There’s plenty of places to dance if that’s what you want,” he said.

  “Right now I’d like to go back to the hotel.”

  He misunderstood my insecurity, and his smile flickered into passion. “I’m at your service, Missus Hart,” he said.

  Chapter Seven

  It seemed that from that evening on we ran into Julian Plummer wherever we went—to lunch at Lake Ponchartrain, in the bookstore where I had gone to find something to read on the nights Frank was gambling, and at the race track. It was there that I spoke with him again, to my sorrow.

  Frank had gone to place a bet on a horse that had caught my eye when I turned and saw Plummer standing beside me.

  He took off his hat and bowed. “Good afternoon, Missus Hart.”

  “Mister Plummer,” I said through stiff lips, terrified that Frank would come rushing back and drag me away.

  “A fine day for the races, isn’t it?” He was looking at me closely out of eyes the color of stone.

  I nodded, not wishing to prolong the conversation but curious about what he was doing in town. “Are you here on business, Mister Plummer?” I asked.

  “Partly,” he said. “I own a plantation above Natchez and get down here several times a year. But like you and your husband, I’m simply enjoying myself.”

  “At all the same places,” I said.

  “It seems so.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, watching for Frank, and Plummer caught the gesture. “Is anything the matter?” he wanted to know.

  “Nothing.”

  But he was quick. “I realize that your husband objected to our dance that night,” he said. “I hope…I hope I didn’t make any trouble for you. That wasn’t my intention.”

  Did he know? Surely not. He had watched while Frank danced me into exhaustion, but he couldn’t know about the bruises or about how, later, Frank had thrown me on the bed and taken me in an act that was more like hatred than love.

  I lowered my parasol so that it shadowed my face. “No, Mister Plummer. But I think it would be better if he didn’t see us together.”

  “I understand.” He took my hand and bowed over it. “Dancing with you was a real pleasure. Perhaps we will do it again some day.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I stepped past him then, moving in the direction Frank had gone, and soon saw him approaching.

  “Let’s go and find a good place to watch that nag you thought was so pretty,” he said, glancing over my head. “I see your friend is here.”

  “Who?” I pretended innocence.

  “You know who. Is he following us?” He gripped my arm, his fingers biting deep.

  Without success I tried to squirm loose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and heard myself, weak as a child. “Let’s go watch the race.”

  “Tell me the truth.” He bent down, his face close to mine. I could smell whiskey on his breath,
and the cigars he loved. “Has he spoken to you? Approached you? And don’t lie.”

  “I haven’t spoken to a soul!” I said, and prayed my lie wouldn’t be stamped on my forehead.

  Abruptly he let go. “I won’t put up with a wife who’s a whore,” he said. “Remember that.”

  A whore! I thought bitterly as I followed him through the crowd. Never was a woman less of a whore than I was. How could he think such a thing, let alone speak of it, and all because of an innocent waltz?

  The horse that I had picked came in last, and we lost heavily all afternoon. Frank hardly spoke on the ride back to the hotel, and he was silent at supper, too. I was nervous, trembling by the time we finished eating. I couldn’t read his face—it was the gambler’s studied blank—and I ate only a little, unable to swallow around my apprehension.

  Once in the room, he washed his face and smoothed his hair, then turned to me. “I’m going to a cock fight,” he announced. “I won’t be back until late. And I’m taking the key. That way at least I can be sure of you.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’re locking me in?”

  He nodded, then came and took my face in his hands and kissed me, his tongue possessing my mouth as if he were leaving a brand. “Yes, darlin’,” he said when he drew away. “I’m keeping you safe.”

  He went out, and I heard the key turn in the lock. Safe, I thought bitterly and with a hint of panic. Safe from what? Then I lay down on the bed and cried myself to sleep.

  In the morning, over breakfast, Frank was silent, almost morose, and I did nothing to lighten his mood. A pall lay over me that refused to lift, and I drank my coffee and ate a powdered beignet without speaking. I was lost in my own misery when Frank finally spoke.

  “Where’s the money you brought?”

  I was startled and spilled some coffee onto the white tablecloth. “What money?”

  “From home. And don’t tell me you didn’t.”

  “Oh,” I said, remembering with a kind of shame how I’d taken my mother’s house hold money from the drawer in the kitchen and then rifled her purse for more. “It’s in my valise.”

  “Get it. And then start packing.”

  “Packing,” I repeated, knowing I was at his mercy and hating it. Being a wife was worse than being a daughter, I thought. Your husband dictated, and you obeyed without question.

  “You didn’t think we could afford to stay here forever, did you?” he asked with a sneer. “I lost damn’ near everything yesterday and last night. Now we’re moving, so start packing.”

  “Where are we going?” At least, he could tell me that. At least, I’d have the security of a destination.

  “A boarding house on Royal Street. It’s the best I could find, so don’t start complaining.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  He looked at me for the first time that morning, and his expression softened. “That’s how it is when you’re married to a gambling man, darlin’. Better get used to it. My luck’ll change again.”

  I pushed back my chair and stood. “I hope so,” I said, and left to pack. There really wasn’t anything else to do.

  Chapter Eight

  Once the boarding house in the Quarter had been a mansion. Now it was crumbling into disrepair, its yellow paint splotched with water stains and fallen chunks of plaster, the green shutters sagging, the parquet floors scarred by boarders who had no knowledge or use for an earlier elegance.

  Once Lily Rousseau had been a belle. Now she was a crone with hair dyed black and cheeks painted crimson, a specter who clutched at the past as she struggled to hold onto the house that contained only echoes.

  Lily knew what Frank was as soon as she laid eyes on him. What she couldn’t seem to grasp was the fact that we were actually married.

  “You could do better,” she told me over tea in the shaded courtyard where I often sat to escape the heat. She sipped from her cup that held mostly brandy. Lily, I had discovered, was a drunk.

  I said: “But I love Frank.”

  “Love!” she snapped. “Love! What do you know about it? You’re a baby. I could tell you plenty about love, but you wouldn’t believe me. No…you wouldn’t.” She wagged a bony finger as I tried to protest. “But he’s no good, that man of yours. I guess you know that.”

  I defended him as I thought I should, in spite of his cruelties that were becoming more and more frequent.

  “He’s my husband. I won’t let you say these things.”

  She put down her cup with an unsteady hand. “Child,” she said, “when you’re as old as I am, you can say anything you damn’ well please. Remember that. I’ve seen it all. Men, women, passion, the plague, war, death. I’m a walking history book.”

  When I stood up to leave, having no wish to continue the conversation, she reached out and caught my arm. “Don’t go off in a huff And don’t let that man run roughshod over you. That’s all I meant, and it’s good advice.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “Then your mother’s a smart lady,” came the response. “I’ll bet she doesn’t care for that husband of yours any more than my mother liked the man I chose.” Again she waggled a finger at me. “Oh yes, I was young once, and pretty, too, and this town was paradise, not like now. And I married a man I thought I loved. I wouldn’t listen. I was headstrong and sure of myself. And that man was a gambler. He’d bet on anything, and I couldn’t stop him.” She closed her eyes, and I thought she’d gone to sleep, but a second later she opened them again and stared at me.

  “He lost everything,” she resumed. “All but this house, which was mine and my family’s. I kept it. Yes, I did. And I’ll keep it till I die, you can count on it.”

  “And your husband?” I asked, curious.

  “He shot himself.” She shook with what seemed to be silent laughter. “Couldn’t stand the disgrace he’d brought on, I suppose. I made it look like an accident, so he’d at least have a proper funeral. Nobody dared say anything. Except me. I said…good riddance. That’s what happens when you pick the wrong man. In the end you’re glad to be rid of him.”

  She shut her eyes again and leaned back in her chair. Under the wrinkles and the rouge I could see the fine bones of a face that had once been beautiful, been young and grasping at life, and I was frightened, seeing myself in old age, alone and filled with regrets.

  I got up and walked slowly through the neglected courtyard, through ferns and tea olive, jasmine and roses, through air so moist, so perfumed, I felt slightly dizzy. The city had that effect, I thought. It surrounded you with promises, so many you couldn’t choose. And in the end, it abandoned you, left you wondering what you’d done or not done, and perhaps not caring.

  It was a city of pleasure and gambling—a paradise or a hell, depending on luck. And Frank was in his element, betting wildly on the horses, the cocks, the prize fights that were illegal but that drew huge crowds of eager onlookers. I knew about them because he told me. What I didn’t know was how much money he was losing.

  I listened to him and tried to understand his excitement. And failed. Cock fighting was men’s business—animals killing each other in a flurry of blood and feathers. What did that slaughter have to do with me, with us?

  That afternoon he came in and woke me by going through the closet, snatching my gowns from their hangers.

  “What’s happening?” I sat up, dazed and blinking.

  “These go to the market. I need the money.” He answered without feeling, as if I and my wonderful clothes meant nothing.

  “My gowns!” I reached out for the red silk.

  And then he slapped me, knocking me against the wooden headboard so that I saw fragments of light like splintered glass.

  “Shut up!”

  “But, Frank…” No other words came.

  “I told you, shut up!” He hit me again, and I curled up under the bedclothes, tears running into my mouth.

  “Don’t!” I gasped. “Don’t! Please!”

  “Then stop whining.” H
e looked at me as if I was nothing. “I need the money. And Christ knows you’re no help.”

  “How can I help?” I whispered, frightened, wanting back what I’d had only days before.

  “By keeping out of my way.” He piled the gowns over his arm.

  “My clothes. What’ll I wear?”

  “I don’t give a damn what you wear. How does that please you? I bought these, and now I’m selling them. Got that?”

  I shook my head slowly because of the pain. “I don’t understand,” I said, fighting for a grip on something that made sense, that I could hold in my hands and know to be real.

  “Little spoiled bitch,” he said, and then was gone, slamming the door behind him.

  What had I done? I wrapped my arms around myself and wept until, worn out, lulled by pain and the heavy fragrance that stole up from the courtyard, I fell asleep.

  By morning Frank hadn’t returned, and I crept down the stairs to the kitchen, feeling guilty, as if I were to blame for the purple bruises on my face, as if I deserved the marks of Cain.

  Otilia, the mulatto woman who cooked and cleaned for Lily, took one look and held out her arms.

  “Lord, baby,” she exclaimed. “Who done such a thing?”

  She was a comfort, a large, soft bosom like I’d never known, and I laid my head on her breast and said nothing.

  “There,” she said, stroking my hair. “There. Men’s a trial. We all know it. And we can’t do without them, try as we might.”

  She pushed me away and looked at the damage. “Coffee,” she said softly. “Then you sit here while I see what I kin do.”

  I sipped the strong, sugary brew she gave me, too exhausted to do anything else. In a short while she was back, humming under her breath.

  “You take this,” she said, handing me a small, red silk bag tied with faded gold ribbon. “Maybe it’ll work for you.”

  I examined the little pouch that weighed nearly nothing. “What is it?”

  “Gris-gris. Made for you. Don’t tell nobody, and not that man of yours.”