Down In The Quarter

Reality is the rapist of the fanciful and indiscreet, a despoiler of dreamers and the dreamt. Its the morning after Fat Tuesday near the intersection of Canal and Tchoupitoulas and I am trying hard not to collapse into the Technicolor deposit I just made at my feet. Purple, green and gold never looked so wrong. I dont know how I got here. Only flashes remain like visions stained with the garishof revelry through a libation darkly glimpsed. I have lost my right shoe, my left contact lens and certainly any snippet of dignity I might have laid claim to before coming the Crescent City. Im also wearing so many plastic beads around my neck that I can barely turn my head. I find Decatur St. and know it will take me near Jackson Square. From there I can find my way back to the Royal. I arrived in town two weeks ago to gather firsthand material for a feature article Id pitched to Mel Carnally. Shes the editor-in-chief of a slick New York bimonthly dedicated to steering the tastes of the uppity, vapid and venal. My kind of people. My

Collier intention, my literary goal was to craft a series of vignettes featuring local personalities and their singular contributions to what makes New Orleans version of carnivale the ne plus ultra of bacchanalian excess. So far, I have the recorded yet unrefined ore from a beignet maker at the Caf Du Monde, the gayest float designer this side of the Castro district in San Francisco, a parttime homeless guy who makes folk art Mardi Gras costumes out of items he collects from the streets in the off season, a middle-aged transvestite considering gender reassignment who swears he played with the Harlem Globetrotters under the cognomen Cheese, a pair of street sweepers that conjure memories of Laurel & Hardy with their bowler hats and dueling brooms routine and twenty nine minutes thirty two seconds of Mac Rebennack telling me about the night he took a

bullet for a bandmate. I bribed him with a fried oyster po-boy and two Barqs from Johnnys and a line about dating his half sisters daughter. By the time Ash Wednesday was on the wane, the alcohol in my system had diffused enough for me to remain upright without assistance. The weeklong saturnalia has passed and I am not a single syllable closer to finishing a dream assignment. Weve already established what happens to dreams and their conjurers. Mel published my first short stories when I was still in grad school where she worked as the student editor for the schools literary opus. Over the years with her rise in publishing, wed become closea bit too close maybe. Certainly closer than anyone should to someone with the power to hire and fire them without provocation. She had recently been named editor-in-chief overseeing the rollout of Cond Nasts slickest rag since the resurrection of Vanity Fair. She even hired an illustrator du jour out of London to produce electronic watercolors to accompany each of the proposed vignettes. He said he couldnt start without the finished vignettes and, Gee, do you think you could snap a few pics with your cell while youre at it, mate? The nerveand just what the heck is an electronic watercolor?

Collier Mel knows when Im having trouble. She also knows how I work and to ask about it too soon is to woo half-assed results. Instead, shell ask me how Im feeling, about the weather, whos feeding the goldfish, am I getting enough fiber, everything but the work. She believes in my process and I avoid giving her any reason to think otherwise. Today is different. Ive never

gone so long without hammering out a draft so shes not alone in the worry cellar. Did I mention that Mel has a fondness for edged weapons? Samurai swordsthe whole bushido-zen-karategreen tea swilling thing and yes, she can hand me my ass on any given Sunday through Saturday. And yes, weve slept together but not in a while, okay? After a few false starts, Id left the laptops blinking cursor where I found it for the fourteenth day in a row. Instead, I had answered the call of the vile. I rented a satin harlequin suit and joined the parade. I picked that particular costume for its stealth properties and because it would fit over my street clothes. That and an abundance of pockets for the pint size libations I would need in order to wage war on my liver. So here I am, dressed like a fool pacing about half shod and half blind, gesticulating to myself like an idiot in search of a village freely tossing lamentations over my predicament at anyone who passes within earshot. Big Easy, my ass! Working my way back toward the Royal, I reach out to touch the wall occasionally, when I see a shaft of late daylight spilling from the wall ahead. As I near, I squint and in so doing, strike my head on something so hard my field of vision narrows. Son of a, I huff grabbing my head dropping to my knees. I look up at the squeaking menace and gingerly check my hair for blood. Long ago some craftsman had fashioned the outsized wooden sign into the 3D shape of a hand pointing a finger. Two feet long from fingernail to shirt cuff and generations of smog and near constant humidity have left it indistinguishable in color from the surrounding walls. The iron bracket on which it hung had swung loose on its mount leaving it at just right height for

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granting wishes from the concussion faerie. I try to recall the name of my lawyer then remember that he has stopped taking my calls. Must have been that article I wrote about lawyers having a corrosive effect on the moral compass of society. No sense of humor those guys. Thats when I notice two words painted along the outstretched finger, Madame Chantillaines. I check my watch. Damn it, what else have I lost? I check the street. Cleanup crews still tending to the detritus, the world is mulling back toward normalcy. I mean, such as can be expected in a town known for extremes. A street sweeper pushes his work toward where I am standing. I step forward, Theres at least half an hour of daylight left, right? The query registers less interest than the half-empty can of beer tossed to the ground in front of his broom. A small geyser shoots straight up in front of the workman. He barks at the affront, Look out now, cher! Bon jour, sunshine, comes a throaty reply. I look skyward to behold an overstuffed drag-queen of probable Swahili extraction. The narrowed light from the alley makes him look as if he were being scanned by a copy machine as he passes. His costume makes him look like an anorexic peacock on acid. Held aloft in thigh-high clear vinyl platform go-go boots, the dark skinned man nods. I imagine him at full blossom scraping at least ten feet with the top of his neon blue bouffant held under his arm. You all right, cher, he offers extending his hand. When I rise, he presses two fingers to his pursed lips before transmitting the impression to my cheek. He smells of stale beer, sweat and lipstick. Laissez les bon temps rouler, he says without chopping his stride. I wipe at his gift with my shoulder then retry the sweeper. Mustve been a whorehouse, huh? I ask gesturing to the sign. The workman yanks the broom back and stabbing the bristles into the pavement at his feet, leans on the handle with both hands. He glares at me with a look reserved for just such an occasion. I show him both palms and step backwardright into the sign again. Oh, mother of God..., I whimper squelching the

Collier rest of what I ache to give air. I fold over at the waist blinded by a wave of pain that rolls down my spine and legs to where it ends like someone has lit a plumbers torch to the soles of my feet. The central nervous system is funny like that. That werent never no ho-house, the sweeper says as my vision returns, She were a

doctor of sorts. And with that, returns to his work casting an aspersion over his shoulder, Damn igor-nant tourist. This is where normal people nod politely then hunt for an emergency room. Not me. Ive got work to do and I can all too well imagine the look in Mels eyes and the sound of my entrails splashing across my shoes.

The alleyway might be a shortcut. It is quiet there, as if sound itself were too fat to fit between the buildings. I start dropping strings of beads in case it turns out to be a maze. The center of the alley is a natural sluice and to walk it is to challenge all you know about the physics of remaining upright. Lucky for me Ive got the throbbing of two opposing lumps on my head to keep me focused. Ahead, the buildings appear to run together and I have to skew my upper body to continue. The walls are blackened with mildew and garnished with bright green outcroppings on the grout. A rush of air carries the smell of something fried and the faint sound of bongo drums. You have got to be kidding, I grunt conjuring a Picayune headline six months hence, Idiot Writer FoundDesiccated Remains Dragged From French Quarter Alley By Tow Line. They would do that sort of thing here. Having to turn completely sideways now, I screw up the rest of my courage [or stupidity] and place my hands along one wall while my butt buffs the other. I look up to negotiate a collapsed length of gutter and see the light is fading fast. I squeeze past an iron downspout that terminates into a stylized fish at the bottom, a length of slime dangling from its gaping maw. Im

Collier down to my last string of beads and I let them swing on my finger for a second before letting them drop. Around the next corner I am relieved as I shimmy the last few feet to an open portal. I sit on what was the threshold of a loading bay. I pat myself all over hoping for a bottle that heretofore escaped discovery. The queer fact that a building has been placed within a foot of a

loading door is not lost on me. Cities grow of their own accord with scant regard for whats come before. Such is the strain of empire. The shadow of a hooded figure rises up the wall. I shield my eyes. Towering above me, I presume is Mme. Chantillaine. Bienvenu monsieur, you come on in when youre ready, but leave that nasty costume. Est-ce que tu comprends? The Creole inflection, a regional affectation as distinctive and sweet as the cane syrup. You can wash up here, cher. She points to an iron washbasin beside the loading door. It has a pump handle not a spigot. Merci, merci beaucoup, madam. They tell me youre sort of a docteur, I ask as I remove the costume to clean myself up. She nods politely and strides into her shop draped in a beet red silk kaftan that billows as she goes. She is barefoot. The shop is small but flush with candlelight. Effigies and small statuary are everywhere. The walls are lumpy with generations of paint over old plaster. There are no windows. Shelves along one wall are lined with corked or glass lidded jars. Each one collared by a small verdigris chain and hang tag scribed with the description of the contents. Reading them, I imagine Merlin or Morgan le Fay harvesting the shadows of some primeval forest. The names themselves conjure whimsy and fright alike; Angelica, Lucky Hand, John the Conqueror, Mandrake and of courseDragons Blood. Sprigs and fronds hang drying from heavy rafters. It appears that there is no ceiling. If so, the day is gone, replaced by a yawning deep purple twilight dotted with stars. I look for a projector set somewhere along the perimeter of

Collier the room. There is none. As a matter of fact, there is no evidence of modernity anywhere. The cooing of doves fixes my attention on one of the rafters. They peer down from a nest bobbing their heads. A shooting star streaks across the heavens beyond. Whoa I hope that wasnt a chunk of space station, I say. The quip goes nowhere. From behind an old oak and glass top display case, Mme. Chantillaine awaits. I try to lighten the moment again by asking if she has ever thought of franchising. She abides the question in silence, again. As I approach, she slips back the hood of her garment. Her head is shaved clean and her complexion, like Belgian chocolate. She taps the display beneath her hand and I bend over for a closer look. I have to squint my unaided eye. It is stocked with talismans, lodestones, amulets and such that are easily found at any flea market or New Age boutique. Looking up, I am taken in by her gaze. Now theres some jewels, I say. Her eyes are big and sparkle like fired beacons set atop high round escarpments that rise up from the corners of a slight but perfect smile. I mean, did I just forget that I must look like

seven miles of bad road around a paper mill and by now smelling just as sweet? She gives no hint of it if I do. The place itself is a cacophony of scents both bold and subtle. Good thing. She retrieves a tray covered in black velvet from beneath the others and on it sits a row of four colored bags; deep red, green, yellow and gray. Each one no bigger than a pecan and trussed with a single silk cord. I lean down again. Okay, so Before I can finish, I notice another. Like a chameleon lounging on a limb, it blends with the fabric of the tray. Do not touch, cher. They are for the owners touch alone, she warns. I nod my understanding as she places it before me. This is what you have come for, cher.

Collier Confused, I shake my head at her words. Okay, Ill bite, but first, I have to know someth She stops my words with a finger then points to a door opposite the way Id entered. I whisper, Thank you, madame. You have come for the mojo hand, cher. Mojo? I frown and add like a fool, Isnt that a kind of sauce? Spared any incredulity, the Mme. explains the thaumaturgical origin of mojothat it is

the live rootstock of folklore and magic from darkest Africa. Slaves had introduced it to the West in the late seventeenth century. The hand, as the little bags are called, are sacred amulets or minkisi attributable to the Yoruba and Bakongo tribal regions of central Africa. Keeping my ignorance to myself now, she continues with the significance of each color and its purpose. Red for acts of love, green for prosperity, gray for self-defensepsychic self-defense, then yellow for luck and success. Placing the tray back into the case, she avoids describing the fifth onea black one. That one is not for you, cher. She tries to steer my curiosity. Folding my arms, I stand fast. We share an awkward moment of silence before she gives in, if resentfully so. The black mojo, cher it is for protection and She looks down at the tiny black bag. Then closing her eyes, she answers in a tone that can best be described as distant thunder. Cursing, cher. The black mojo is for cursing. Just now, silence is the best I can do. In a blink, she smiles again and plucks the red one from the tray. Cher, I make this one special for you tonight. Hey, how do you know Im not already a ladies man? Then where is she, cher? I didnt have an answer.

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Mm-hmm. Now sit right there and we will change all that tonight, cher. Now, like I say before, after I pass this hand to you, it is for no one else. Not even your lover. No one, lest it be spoiled. From now on I sit quietly on a stool and get comfortable next to the small countertop while Mme. Chantillaine gathers ingredients from around the room. The heady ethers ease the soreness in my head as she spins a tale about her ancestors coming to America in the 1600s. How her family gained their freedom forty-two years before Abe Lincoln was born. How theyd prospered and become merchantmen and landed gentry in their own right. And how it was all due to the power of mojo. Kings and queens, sinners and saints, all manner of men and women have sought this power. Now and then she pauses to bless an ingredient in an unfamiliar tongue. Some she grinds to powder in a mortar and pestle made of iron. The dull ring and sharp clang are interspersed precisely like the notes of some atonal minuet. Still other ingredients are added whole and all in the tiniest amounts in order to fit them into the minuscule bag. The rhythm to her work and words is in keeping with this city like no othera world away yet so near. Where shadows dance between flicker and flame. Even the distant sound of the bongos fits here. I realize her people have been in America much longer than my own ancestors diaspora. Why did your people come here? she asks. Comfortably aroused by the question, I shinnied up my own family tree to shake some sense from the boughs of my familys past. I recounted how when I was five, my great grandmother had told me how her family had escaped the continued privation of their homeland just shy of her tenth birthday. Theyd left behind the sad gaunt faces of their kinsman and their ancestral home of county Kildare on the Emerald Isle. Cold and starving, theyd huddled together on the steerage deck of the ship that spirited them across the Atlantic through bone

Collier freezing November squalls toward a new world and a new life with nothing but hope in their pockets.

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Near the mid point in the crossing great grandmas younger brother, Donnie, had taken ill and it developed into pneumonia. She had held him close on the cot they shared to keep him warm. He was so cold but he never complained. Not once. It wasnt great uncle Donnies way. They lay on the cot sharing what each of them imagined about their new home in Americaa land like no other. Later that evening great grandma awoke to find her brother standing before her smiling andglowing. She reached for him and he just floated away like the curls of smoke from her fathers pipe. It was then she realized she was still holding him and he had stopped breathing. She wanted to cry but didnt when she noticed that even in death, he was still smiling. She believed that her little brother wanted her to know that it was more than okay to go on, to find and live in that land like no other. She never forgot his smile. My great grandmas father, determined to bury his only son in the soil of America, hid his body for three days. Till some brazen petty officer wrested my great uncle Donnies shrouded body away him and losing his balance, dropped him overboard where great grandma said it bobbed on the waves like so much flotsam. A moment later, her father tried to throw the petty officer overboard. And would have but not for being subdued by three of his countrymen. The officer lost his rank. My great-great grandfather lost his only son, great grandma lost her little brother but not before receiving his blessing. Into the harbor of New York they came, four minus one, past the Statue of Liberty beneath her benign gaze and upheld lamp. Onto the ships tender they huddled against the stinging salt spray as it ferried them to the cold gray cattle gates of Ellis Island. Great grandma had described her fathers trembling handsanxious as he tied each of them one to another with

Collier a length of discarded twine that he had scavenged from the leavings of some wealthy childs birthday party. I remembered my great grandmothers eyes as she spokethe fear in them. She

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shuddered at the chill in the memory of that New York November day. A chill made colder still by their treatment at the hands of the attendants on Ellis Island. The chill in the empty eyes of the one who deftly cut the twine between her and her mother, sending her one way and her parents another. The desperate screaming that ensued, the reaching and the flood of tears. She was torn away and shunted into an infirmary where she suffered the poking and prodding of ungentle hands and the scurrilous shouts for quiet. Quiet against the cries of other children pried away from their families. There were so many. Like so much flotsam. Finally reunited, her family soon settled into tenement life in Hells Kitchen and the ensuing struggle to become American. I remembered reaching up to touch the tears that had traced my great grandmas face and how the touch of my young hand startled her. It was if Id yanked her back from some precipice, back to now, back to safety. There now, cher. Mme. Chantillaine reaches up from her work and gently wipes my cheek. These tears, they are the same as yours and my people shed for coming to this place so long ago. We are their legacy, cher. The hope in those pockets made flesh. I wipe at my eyes as she turns her back to me, stretches and bends low to reach beneath another counter. She cuts a fine figure as the silken material envelopes her form. Rising, she catches my stare and smiles knowingly. I swallow the embarrassmenthard. She holds up a dust encrusted bottle, the kind with a glass stopper. She peels the wax seal from around the stopper with her thumbnail and decants a bit of the oily content onto her fingers before massaging the hand.

Collier There! She says and moves from around the table toward me. She hums. The sound flowing from her on breath as sweet and strange as it is comforting. The bongos stop when she closes her eyes. She steps close as she drapes the mojo hand around my neck. Im afraid of her knuckling the knots on my head and I say so, Careful, please, I Instead, I can feel the warmth and gentleness in her touch and the musky scent of the

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strange elixir on her fingers. Tucking the hand into my shirt next to my chest, she opens her eyes. Her hand lingers a moment on the cleft of my chest as she renders a final admonition. Never let no one know about nor see this mojo, and sure as hell dont let nobody else touch it. You hear me, cher? I nod and reach for her hand. She exhales slowly as she turns her palm toward mine. Our fingers entwine. In that moment, our eyes share the same space and time while the world runs down the walls and pools at our feet. I reach to touch her face, trembling. Mme. Chantillaine pulls away. Leaving my hand suspended and empty. Instead, I touch the hand for the first time where it hangs against me inside my shirt. It is warm to the touch. Shoo-wee, I made that one strong, cher, she blurts fanning herself as she retakes her place behind the work table. I think so. For an instant there I thought we were going to uh ya know. I feel like a fish dangling on a line. I fumble for another word or phrase or something to end with. Heck, I use words for a living. I can do this. Without looking up from the table she urges me to go. I havent known this woman but for a couple of hours yet I want her. I want to look once more into those bright beacons for permission to be with her. But she will not oblige. Go on now, cher. She urges. Not another word passes between us as I leave through the door opposite the way I came.

Collier I step into the broad hallway of an old but well kept building. As unremarkable as it is beige,

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there are no signs or markings by the door, and no evidence of her, her work or the room without windows on the other side. Like stepping off an elevator onto the wrong floor and realizing it too late, she and her little shop have disappeared. Even the scents have dissipated. I stand there thinking it all a dream until I reach for the hand and find it where it had been placed. I stand there alone massaging the hand through my shirt. I turn back to the door, and notice a lazy L of tarnished brass hanging on the door. A quarter circle scrape gives witness to the action the metal letter has performed in the past. Righting it, it becomes something else. Seven, is that what you are? Released, it quickly slips back into the way I found ita letter L of tarnished brass. There are no numbers or letters on any of the other doors on the hallway. I push the item up trying in vain to balance it at the top of the scrape. The scraping noise it makes surely will bring her to the door and maybejust maybe. I leaned my cheek against the cool surface of the door to listen for any sound or sign of movement beyond. Nothing, not even the bongos. I imagine Mme. Chantillaine standing behind her worktable still silent, still unmoving and still beautiful. Without opening her eyes, she reaches and lights a stick of incense. She breathes past full rubine lips to turn the flame into a fragrant ember. The smoke rises in little curls and wisps of blue white past the glow of her flesh wafting upward past the rafters and the cooing doves toward the firmament and the stars to join the ethers. Let me see you just once more, I whisper through the door. I can feel her there on the other side in her world waiting with her eyes still closed, waiting for me to go and put the hand to workto go and find love in my world. I turn away and head toward a door at the end of the hallway. Its nighttime in the Quarter. Pushing the door open, a gust of unexpected warmth wrapped around me like the arms of an old lover. The scent of beeswax candles rejoined my nostrils; I close my eyes and try to embrace it sweeping my arms up like a child wishing to be

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born up by a beloved. I turn slowly there in hallway hugging the moment. The world is spinning and I begin to sway. I dream Mme. Chantillaines eyes opening, a smile crossing her lips, a gentle nod and a whisper, Go on, cher. Go on now. I feel the rhythmic flow of warmth over my chest. I am somehow back in my room at the Royal. The window is open and a cool February breeze raises goose bumps on her back. I open my eyes to find her snuggled against me. She moans and I pull the covers up over us. Her eyes are closed and that is as it should be. I awake at 5:00 a.m. in order to make the 7:10 out of Union Station. She is gone and so is the hand. I search my room for the latter but come up empty. I feel my scalp for the remnants of two knots. They are much smaller yet still quite tender. Somehow this reassures me. I had indeed hit my head. Maybe I was mugged. Maybe it was all a dream. I smell the bed linens and can find no trace of her. I hurry through a shower and shave then throw my things into my valise before heading out. Even so, I search the room once more, hoping, wishing, wanting to find the hand. Nothing. As a rosy sun climbs into an opal sky above Lake Pontchartrain, the Crescent gently rocks as it bears me homeward. The sun warms my face as I stare out across the mirrored surface. We will pass each other during the trip home, the sun heading west and I heading northeast. The sun warms the air above the water of the lake raising a mist like a gossamer veil. Through it, I can see the world stretches farther than I once believed and I pour that notion along with my recorded notes into my laptop. During a break, I was thinking about the Mme. and reached into my shirt with my fingers to touch where the hand had been. An attendant saw me do this and asked if I had heartburn. No I mean, yes. I suppose you could say that. Can I get you something; a seltzer or antacid maybe, she asked sincerely.

Collier No thanks, I think Ill keep it just a bit longer. My answer piqued her interest and she

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sat sideways in the empty seat across from me. Sandy is her name, Sandy from Norfolk. She put her hand on my arm. That kind of heartburn, huh? Yes it sure is. Ive got a few minutes if youd like to talk about it. And um Ive got a few more if youre free for dinner? Thanks for the offer, but I think Im going to have to work through this one myself. Sure thing, if you change your mind, I dont get off till Washington. I nod my thanks and she goes back to work spreading hospitality to the other riders. I smell my fingertips and catch the faintest reminder of the hand the musky aromaand I whisper, Thank you, Madame. I know I am home when I see ita flat sallow disk hanging against a cold gray sheet. I sigh in resolution as much as reliefthe job is done. In the Penn Station gift shop, I discover a display of scented candles and bought them all in open defiance of the grayness. With them, the shadows can come and dance on my walls. I deliver the manuscript to Mel later that morning fifteen minutes before deadline. Straightaway she reads the first page and then leaning back in her chair, sighs and looks up at me with a scowl that melts into a broad grin. You had me scared shitless dont do it again. I nod an apology. The katana stays in the cupboard. Instead, she invites me to dinner that evening where she offers me a spot on the masthead as the editor-at-large. It takes all of that evening and a couple of bottles of merlot to make up my mind. I feel like a union man considering an offer to join management so I decline the job at first in order to preclude any conflicts of interest. Then Mel states that by taking the job, sleeping with her would no longer look like she was slumming. Her reasoning has always been flawless.

Collier Since then I often conjure the memories of the sight, scent and music of that deep Southern port town set below sea-level on one of last bends in the Big Muddy. A singular

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metropolis. A city that stands in startling contrast to the other great gathering places of humanity. An oft proved calamitous example of early French civil engineering. A town that suffers sinner and saint alike with equal alacrity. A place where you can find your mojo and get it workin. In my apartment, I touch where the hand should hang and light a few candles to remember her. I say remember to distinguish from imagine. You can never really remember something youve only imaginedyou can only re-imagine it. To remember is to rejoin something that happened. I know what happened to me down thereI met someone beyond my own flaccid conjuringa cynosure to the mysteries of my own heart. And I wonder if she still plies her trade in that little room so hard to reach? Does she still frighten and seduce all those who venture down that narrowing alley to a room without windowsand no limits. A room where doves coo in the rafters beneath the sheltering firmament. A room where shadows dance. A room with a commanding view of the universe.