Ghosts of New Orleans

First posted December 2021.

The Court of Two Sisters

The band’s easy meandering through “Tin Roof Blues” complemented the falling rain on the pavement of Rue Royale. It was Adele’s favourite kind of rain; not so light that it was annoying when it got in your face but silly to get out an umbrella for, and not so heavy that the whole Quarter held its breath waiting to see if they’d drown. She sat by an open window on the terrace, idly stirring sugar into her coffee as she stared outside at the falling rain. The dark grey clouds sat motionless in the sky over the city, and with no breeze the humid heat weighed heavy in the air.

Somewhere not too far away, she could hear another band warming up. It must’ve been later than she thought; it was hard to tell with the sky so dark, anyway. She sighed, taking a long sip of her café au lait.

“You tired, chère?”

Adele looked over her shoulder to see Reg, one of the waiters, wiping down a table behind her. He smiled at her briefly before moving on to the next table.

“No, not tired,” she said, swinging her legs around to sit sideways in the chair and face him more easily. “I was hoping it’d stop raining.”

Reg shook his head without lifting it as he continued working. “Those clouds ain’t moved since noon.”

“I know.” She tilted her head, gazing out the open door into the hall. The courtyard wasn’t visible from where she sat, but she looked in its direction all the same.

Reg picked up a folded tablecloth from the cart by the door and shook it out before laying it on a table. “I thought you liked the rain, anyway.”

“Not when it keeps us out of the courtyard.”

He chuckled. “You hate performing for me so much?”

She shot him a fondly exasperated look. “I hate being in the way of everything in the dining room.”

“Nah, you’re never in no one’s way.”

That simply wasn’t true; she saw the waiters frown as they side-stepped around the band when they had to be set up inside. There’d been more than one drink spilled on Adele while she sang, and while it was one thing to perform at a speakeasy all night, it was very much another to walk home smelling of rum. Most people didn’t care, but there was always the chance that she’d run into one who did.

It was less about not wanting to perform inside than it was about loving performing in the courtyard. She loved the way her voice bounced off the stones, she loved the night breeze blowing wisteria petals in the air, and above all, she loved the audience.

Outside, under the light of oil lamps and stars, surrounded by laughter and music and food, she watched people smile, close their eyes, and fall in love with New Orleans. It was the same look on every face: a moment when they didn’t have a problem or care in the world, when every weary line and crease disappeared to be replaced with a divine, joyful peace. People who’d lived there their whole lives were just as susceptible as tourists and newcomers. There was some magic out there in the courtyard that all came together in her song, and she never tired of watching it happen.

The clink of the silverware Reg was placing on the tables startled her out of her daydream. She glanced out the window at the stubbornly continuing rain.

“Hey, how ‘bout you do ‘Some of These Days’ for me tonight?”

Adele looked back at Reg and smiled warmly. “I’ll see what I can do, cher.”

—

It was a bright, sunny day in the Quarter, though that didn’t matter so much any more. Adele sat at a table by a window on the terrace, watching people stroll past. There were so many people, she could’ve sworn she saw hundreds every day. There were harried businesspeople, chattering into small boxes they held by their heads, and tourists in brightly-coloured clothing, gazing up in wonder at every building around them. Beneath the sounds of conversation and laughter, she could hear a band somewhere nearby, breezing through the familiar strains of “Tin Roof Blues.” Some things never changed.

Around her, the servers set the tables, chattering amongst themselves about either sports or religion — oddly, Adele could never quite tell which. When only the table at which she sat was left, Louis, her favourite of the current wave of wait staff, looked helplessly at the others.

“Will you do that one?” he asked Laura.

She laughed. “You fool. Afraid of a table?”

Louis pouted. “I’m not afraid of it,” he said. “It just...feels bad around there, that’s all.”

Laura shook her head, sighing, but set the table anyway. “You gotta get over that shit,” she said as she leaned through Adele to straighten the tablecloth.

The light in the street turned rosy pink-gold and the manager swept through the restaurant, looking over the rooms before opening.

“That’s my cue,” Adele said to no one, rising from the table and walking out to the courtyard.

There wasn’t a live band any more, but Adele wasn’t a live singer any more, either. Her stage was gone, but she stood in her usual spot, watching the tables fill in. A cool breeze was picking up in the dusky early evening, rustling the dangling wisteria in the canopy. Music played from speakers in the corners of the courtyard, and Adele hummed along to the opening vamp of “Some of These Days.”

Louis weaved through the tables, carrying drinks on a large tray. He smiled as he placed them on the table. He looked like Reg, Adele thought — all of her favourites did, if she was honest about it. In all her years watching over the Court of Two Sisters from this vantage point, she’d seen so much change, and so little. The drinks were legal now, but their frequency was unchanged. Reg left, as did Étienne, and Maurice. Someday Louis would follow, but there’d be another she liked. The band — same instruments, different players — played inside more often, but when there wasn’t live music, there was the recorded one. As long as she had backup of some kind, Adele wasn’t picky about what form it took. And every night, she watched people sitting at those tables, closing their eyes, enjoying their drinks, tapping their feet to the music, and falling in love with New Orleans.

“Some of these days,” she sang to the recorded band, “You’re gonna miss me, honey…”

Lafitte's Tavern

André gasped in the cool night air as he stumbled out the tavern door. The stifling heat inside wasn’t helped by the rum or the press of bodies around him. As the door swung shut behind him, he could still hear the riotous celebrations inside, now pleasantly muffled. He could tell he was getting old, now that raucous frivolity held no allure for him. The brigantine he and his crew had taken earlier was certainly a great win, but the effort it had taken to secure the ship and its cargo had left him, and apparently him alone, aching and exhausted.

He rubbed the sweat off his face and straightened up, ignoring the cracking sounds in his back as he rose. The tiny lights of fireflies flashed in the trees as he walked down the cobblestone road, humming gruffly as the breeze blew his matted hair off his face. Their gentle glow lent an air of magic to the oddly quiet night. As the tavern’s noise faded behind him, he realised he didn’t see anyone else walking the backstreet. He wondered how late it was.

Ahead, a bright light spilled from a narrow side street into the road he traversed. André paused, puzzling as he squinted at the light. It seemed brighter than daylight, but was that just because it was otherwise so dark? He didn’t know of any candles or gas lamps that could manage a light so bright. It couldn’t be a fire; the light was steady, unwavering, and silent.

Curiously, he turned the corner. The side street was unremarkable, simply an alley between two houses. But, he could not see beyond the light at the other end of it. It burned perfect white, not orange or golden like a lamp. He took a cautious step forward, his arm outstretched in front of him.

As he neared the wall of light, he heard a faint buzzing noise coming from somewhere beyond, like a bee hovering behind the barrier. He turned around once more, just to see if anyone else had appeared, to assure him he was seeing this, or to explain it to him. The street remained deserted. He gulped, and reached his shaking fingers toward the light.

André gasped in the cool night air as he stumbled out the tavern door. He blinked. Turning around, he saw the door swing shut behind him and heard the muffled cheers and laughter ringing together inside.

Standing with his feet firmly planted in place, he leaned forward as far as he could without taking a step. The side street he’d gone down before wasn’t visible from where he stood. He put a hand to his forehead. It was warm and sticky with sweat. He wasn’t sure if he hoped it was a fever.

Once again, he walked down the backstreet. He saw no one but the fireflies, heard nothing once the tavern’s noise faded. A lump formed in his throat as light spilled into the street from the same alley as before.

This time, when he turned into the alley, there was a young man there in an unfamiliar dark grey uniform. ‘Young man’ was generous, André corrected himself as he glanced over the too-big uniform and the rifle clumsily slung to his back. This was no more than a boy, really. Or maybe that was his own old age talking. They all seemed like boys in comparison.

The boy’s eyes were fixed on a balcony overhead; he seemed to take no notice of the blinding wall of light behind him. André took a step forward, and the boy turned to face him.

“What’s up there?” André asked.

The boy’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped in surprise as he took a step back. Turning on his heel, he made for the end of the street.

“Wait!” André yelled after him. The boy seemed to run directly into the wall of light, and André followed him.

André gasped in the cool night air as he stumbled out the tavern door. He whirled around in confusion. The door swung shut, the voices inside laughed and sang. He pulled at the door handle, wondering if going back inside would solve whatever this was, but the door wouldn’t budge. With a sigh, he dragged his weary feet back down the street.

He stopped every few paces, more to prove he could than anything else. Fireflies flashed in the trees and the breeze gently ruffled his hair. When he reached the alley, he tried to keep going down the cobblestones, but suddenly found he could not. He picked up his legs and could not make them continue down the street. The only move he seemed capable of making was toward the light at the end of the alley.

As he stood before the light, he noticed the alley was different. Daylight shone overhead, though the alley itself was still cast in shadow. Baskets of flowers attached to the balcony railings above trailed ivy that waved in the breeze. Music sounded from around the corner, beyond the wall of light blocking the other end of the narrow street. People walked out of the light and toward him. Most of them seemed not to notice him at all, though one little girl in red gingham dropped her mother’s hand, frowning as she stared up at André.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” she replied.

“Keep up,” her mother said from around the corner, and she ran to catch up, keeping her eyes locked on André until she disappeared from sight.

André tried to follow her, but when he turned the corner, he found the backstreet once again dark and deserted. He could not see the tavern from this far down, and couldn’t make his legs go any further in any direction other than back toward the alley anyway.

He stood before the light, listening to the sound of music he did not recognise. The smell of sugar and flowers danced on the breeze that blew from behind the wall of light. He took a deep breath, and walked into the light once more.

André gasped in the cool night air as he stumbled out the tavern door.

The Dauphine

Rose taps each finger on the railing in succession, the strike of each nail making a dull thud against the wood. With each deliberate placement, she hears an echo in the building’s hollow bones: a heavy footstep, a bottle slammed on a table, the smack of flesh against a wall. Nightmares used to be the province of the dark, seared away by the bright sunlight of the morning. Now, neither day nor night brings relief.

She rips off her long strands of pearls, relishing the snap of the thread and the cacophony of the beads falling to the wooden floor. Closing her eyes, she stretches her bare neck up and tilts her head back. For a moment, she is free, and then the pearls reappear, wrapping themselves tight around her neck. They feel like fingers closing around her throat, and though she has not breathed in decades, she feels her windpipe crush beneath them. She rips off the pearls again.

No one dances any more, not in Rose’s room. They don’t open the windows to let in the sweet magnolia-scented breeze or the jazz always in the air from somewhere down the street. Rose supposes she can’t blame them too much, now someone has blocked the view with a brick wall, but the heat trapped in the room must be awful for those who can still feel it. She rattles at the locked handles and when the guests complain, management tells them it’s a draft down that narrow alley between them and the brick wall.

She can forget, when she dances. She used to throw open those windows and swing her hips to the music outside as the sun went down. The other girls would come in and use her big mirror to put on their faces, all of them squashed together in a giggly mass of limbs. That was where the happiness was: all of them together, laughing and sharing makeup, dancing to good music. While Rose was dancing, she didn’t think about what came after.

Now, she’s alone in a silent room with nothing but bad memories. She taps her fingers on the ugly little desk they replaced her beautiful vanity with and listens to the endless repetition of her past, replaying around her as if there were reels stored in the walls. Thud: the door slamming behind him. Shatter: her face hitting the mirror. Snap: the pearls pulled too tight. She wishes they’d open the damn windows.

No one brings any joy into her room to distract her. Harried and tired parents drag screaming children out to have experiences for the sake of having experiences, rather than enjoyment. Women in boxy grey suits touch up their lipstick joylessly in the bathroom mirror on their way out the door. Rose can’t remember the last smile she saw.

Every man who comes through the door has his face. She watches their eyes on the women with them and shrieks in unheard warnings. The air she no longer breathes turns to fire in her throat. She gasps and cannot fill her lungs, blinks and sees nothing but darkness.

Smack: the back of her head hitting the wall. Rip: her clawed fingers pulling down the curtains. Rattle: pearls hitting the floor.

No moonlight shines through the window, blocked by the brick wall outside. Rose doesn’t need the light, though. She learned to see in the dark long ago.

She rips off the pearls and wraps her fingers around his throat, squeezing as the pearls come back and tighten around her neck. He wakes in a panic and she laughs, wheezing. Again and again she grasps at revenge.

He calls the front desk; at this point, whenever they put someone in Rose’s room, someone sits up all night by the phone, waiting for the call. The porter wonders why they bother putting anyone in that room any more, but the manager is determined to prove that there’s one person who can make it through the night there, as if one success story will erase every previous failure. Above his pay grade, the porter thinks with a shrug, as he moves the guests’ luggage into a new room.

Rose watches them leave. She hits a wall a few steps from the door to her room, unable to press herself any further. Her scowl soon fades, and she leans against the railing, smiling to herself. He always comes back, and she’s got nothing but time to try again.