by Payne, Jenna
“Now aren’t you just a picture,” he had said as he stood just behind her, taking in her appearance in the mirror. Violet thought that he was going to take her—to use her misconduct as an excuse to lay hands on her and make her his own for the night—but instead, he offered her a job.
Since then she had starred in a few notable films, and become a regular at the cocktail parties of the rich and bohemian. She made fast friends with the artists that came to New York—a rotating cast of surrealists and cubists and every type of artist under the sun stayed at her park-side apartment. She loved the excitement of Midtown, the grime and naughtiness of Downtown, and the perfect beauty of Central Park, but the time had come for a break from the constant chaos of the Big Apple. New York City was like a martini. Delicious down to the last drop the first hundred times, but bitter and sickening after the 101th glass. Violet had reached the bottom of her glass, and she was ready for something else. She was ready for the smoky sweetness of bourbon—for dark spiced rum and cocktails that were slow to mix and easy to drink. She needed a slower pace and a sliver of solitude.
Violet rose gracefully and retreated to the house to mix herself another mint julep. It was quiet and dark. A soft breeze blew through the front windows and dispelled the humidity of the day. Only the sounds of ice tinkling cheerfully against her glass and the soft click of her heels on the wood floor could be heard as she made her way through to the garden. Just as she stepped out of the house into the ring of golden light cast by her oil lamp, she heard a loud SPLASH. She froze in place. The night had fallen velvety and inky black over the cityscape, and it was difficult to see beyond the edge of the porch. She stood completely still, her cocktail glass sweating in her hand. The sound of continuous splashing told her that whoever, or whatever it was, was still there, flailing about in her swimming pool.
“Hello?” she ventured, carefully setting her cocktail on the table, and reaching fearlessly for the lamp. A moment later, however, there was the sound of a body emerging from water, and the slapping of wet bare feet on the flagstones of the garden. She waited tensely as they came closer, her heart beating hard against her ribs.
“Why hello there,” came a low and laughing voice from the shadows. Into the ring of light stepped a young man wearing nothing but a sleeveless union suit of white silk. Water was still streaming from his slender yet muscular arms and legs. His undergarment was soaking and almost completely translucent. It clung to his body. Violet was at once amused and excited to note that she could take in every detail of his physique, even the rather impressive outline between his legs. After this brief appraisal, she fixed her blue eyes determinedly on his face. He was staggeringly handsome, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His dark hair was slicked back. He was clean-shaven, and looked to be about twenty-five years old.
Violet sat down in her wicker chair, and sipped her cocktail with an air of casual hospitality. “And what brings you to my back yard, Mr. …?”
The man rested his foot casually on the bottom step of the porch and ran a pale hand through his sodden hair. “Anri, that’s spelled like ‘Henry’, mind…Lucas Henry.” he began, wringing out the legs of his underwear without much concern for the fact that he was basically naked in front of a woman he had never met. “Well, Miss, I was just strolling through the neighborhood, and thought I’d show some appreciation for your beautiful swimming hole, here.” He had a funny, lilting accent. It reminded her of Paris, the way his words curled under each other, like delicate flowers floating on top of a deep Southern drawl.
Violet nodded and crossed her legs, finding it somewhat difficult to keep her eyes pinned to his face as he man-handled his garment. She noticed the faint lines of curious scars on his neck and arms. “And you thought I wouldn’t mind?” she inquired, wondering how far this man would take the conversation without an apology.
“I didn’t believe anyone was home, although I can’t say I’m disappointed,” he gave her an appreciative nod. This was indeed the home of a beautiful lady. There was something about her that most Southern girls just didn’t seem to have. A cold edge under a soft exterior. It was alluring. That, and the smoothness of her white skin, and her long, slender legs. He could imagine tearing off her stockings with his teeth and devouring her whole. His stomach growled, and he licked his lips as he felt a small rush of heat in his belly. He climbed the steps and drew even with her.
“May I join you for a drink, Miss…?” He sat before she consented, as if they were old friends, rather than a lady and an intruder.
“Miller. But you ought to call me Violet,” she replied, wondering why she had relinquished her name so quickly.
“Violet, Violet, Violet,” he murmured. “And as pretty as la fleur.”
So he was French, Violet thought to herself. She hesitated for a moment, and then in spite of her better judgement, she went and fetched a silver tray with bourbon, mint, and sugar cubes, a box of cigarettes, and a glass, all arranged neatly in silver dishes. When she returned, the intruder, this Lucas Henry, had regained his decency. He was wearing grey linen trousers and a white collared shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and the buttons barely clasped. A cigarette dangled from his long fingers. His underclothes hung over one of the porch railings. She supposed this meant he must have changed when she departed, and that he had been momentarily nude in her garden. She was sorry to have missed it.
“So tell me then, Miss Violet, what brings a New York City girl like yourself down to the bad side of New Orleans?” the man asked as she set the tray down in the center of the table. He was looking at her with interest. Violet wondered if he knew who she was. She was certainly popular in the city circuit, but down South?
“Well I just needed a little break from the chaos, I suppose… It can become so terribly boring.” She reached for a cigarette and he leaned across the table to light it for her. As the flame danced between them, she saw that his eyes were an unusually deep coal grey with flecks of silver. The fire was reflected in them, making him look suddenly feral and dangerous. He winked, and she withdrew with a laugh, exhaling smoke into the cool evening air.
“I was in New York once,” he said thoughtfully, rising to his feet and fixing himself a bourbon on the rocks with his cigarette clasped in the corner of his mouth as he spoke. “I had a painting in a salon—some idiot’s apartment on 14th Street.” He sat down and sipped his drink, looking across the table at her. She was smoking, regarding him with guarded interested. He let his eyes linger on her pale cheek, the curl of her dark hair right at the edge of her jaw. Her neck was graceful and enticing. He would have to earn her trust.
“So you’re an artist?” she asked, sipping her drink. She was relaxed now. The shock of a stranger appearing in her new backyard had worn off, and she had begun to enjoy the presence of this mysterious and very handsome man. She watched his hands as he poured his drink. They were elegant, but rough with callouses. She could see scars on his forearms; lines and puncture wounds that reminded her of dog bites.
“Sometimes,” he replied with a wink. “It’s hard to be only one thing down here. But you, you’re an artist.”
Violet laughed, “Oh no, darling, I just get to spend a lot of time around them. But wouldn’t you know it, the New York crowd can be a terrible bore. They’re only interested in nudes and the new paintbrush.”
“And you’re trying something different?”
“Well, we’ll see, I only just arrived a few hours ago,” she said, pausing for a moment. The garden was full of the sound of crickets. Lightning bugs pulsed lazily in the rose bushes. “But I am enchanted.”
“Enchanté,” he murmured, “Well good. Perhaps you’ll join me for a few adventures while you’re here?”
“But of course,” she replied. “And I’d be thrilled to see some of your work.”
“And you’ll model for me?” Lucas replied cheekily. It would be marvelous to paint the woman who was the muse for so many legendary artists.
Violet simply laughed in res
ponse and downed the rest of her drink. “I’m turning in,” she said, rising to her feet and gliding towards the doors. “Goodnight, Mr. Henry.”
“Goodnight, Miss Violet.”
And she closed the door behind her, leaving the man alone on her back porch. He could find his way out the way he found his way in.
Violet retired to her bedroom. She stripped down without care, sliding underneath the cool white covers. The day's exertions and the journey behind her pulled the gauzy veil of sleep over her, and she drifted into dreams without a second thought about Lucas Henry. That night, however, her dreams were filled with strange visions of men with deathly pale skin, curled around her body. There was a flash of a spark, and a bright white flame. A symbol drawn with red brick dust. Deep crimson curtains enveloped her body. Pale hands gripped her wrists. Someone was kissing her, and then the kiss turned into a bite, and her vision was flooded with red.
When she awoke the next day, she had no memory of her dreams. The morning sun shone cheerfully through the curtains. Caroline bustled into the room, carrying a breakfast tray laden with coffee, toast, and a hard-boiled egg.
“Well Miss Violet, how was your first night in New Orleans?” she asked as she set the tray down across Violet’s lap before helping her adjust her pillows into a more comfortable position.
“It was lovely, thank you,” Violet replied, looking down at her breakfast with hunger. She thought about mentioning her uninvited guest, but decided against it. She had rather enjoyed the shock of it, and she didn’t want Caroline to mention the property’s vulnerability to Mr. Astor, for fear that she might not catch a thrill like that again.
“If you need a car later, just say the word,” the maid said distractedly. “I’ll be downstairs.” And she was gone.
Violet arose just before noon and dressed herself in a gauzy sky blue number with a white cloche hat to match. She wanted to explore every corner of New Orleans. She looked out over the street from her bedroom window. The sun hung huge and hot between cotton candy clouds. The street below was filled with men and women walking hither and thither between automobiles and horse-drawn carriages. There were shops and two story houses lining the street. Some were in disrepair, and some, like the one she was staying in, were beautifully preserved relics of the Victorian era, with ornate cast-iron porches laden with fresh flowers and curling vines. The neighborhood evoked a feeling not unlike the bohemian enclaves she had lived in in Europe and New York City, but there was something utterly unfamiliar about it. The air smelled different. It was close and hot. The people who walked down the thoroughfare seemed to have come from every corner of the globe. She couldn’t wait to explore the famous French Quarter where she was residing, or walk along the levees. She hoped that she would be able to see the countryside around the city. Mr. Astor had eluded to glorious antebellum ruins, and staggeringly beautiful plantation homes. But today was for the city, and so Violet slipped on a pair of red shoes and tripped down the stairs to the front door.
She stepped out into Bourbon Street. The sun beat down on the city, and steam rose from the cobblestone streets, only to be swept away by a cool breeze from the east. She looked down and saw that even in the early afternoon the brothels, restaurants, and barely hidden speakeasies were open for business, with men and women clustered under awnings smoking cigarettes and fanning themselves. As she walked she saw that between these radical establishments, elegant houses were mixed with tenements and small groceries, laundries, and the usual businesses. Laundry was flung over cast iron railings. A man was pissing in an alleyway. Through an open window, she caught snatches of Jazz. It was marvelous. The colors were more vibrant here. The smells of Cajun spices and sweet flowers and slum-dwellers combined to create an utterly unique perfume. When a green streetcar trundled past her, she was delighted to see that it was the Desire Line that ran though her new neighborhood.
As Violet observed her surroundings, her surroundings surveyed her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. It was rare that a lady wandered the streets so elegantly dressed by herself, and yet Violet presented herself with such confidence that would-be cat-callers could only stare. A green grocer stopped stocking asparagus, wiping his hands on his striped apron and curling his mustache as he watched Violet walk by. Women outside of the brothels stared at her with a mixture of admiration and jealousy. A laundry girl ran past her, doubled back, ran towards her, and stopped just short of where she stood.
“I recognize you from the pictures!” she said excitedly, rooting in her hand bag and looking up at Violet with a shining face. “Will you give me your autograph?”
Violet smiled, “Of course, darling,” she replied, fishing out a pen from her own pocketbook and signing the scrap of paper that the girl handed up to her. Being recognized in the South was like being recognized in a foreign country. She had to allow herself these small vanities. As she walked on, she was struck by every difference. New Orleans was a small town compared to the concrete and brick grandeur of New York City, but those grey megaliths couldn’t hold a candle to the vivacity of the New Orleans streets.
She came to a park that she recognized instantly as Jackson Square by the statue at its heart: Andrew Jackson posed on a rearing horse. As Violet explored the little avenues of the park, she marveled at the lush flowers and elegant date palms that filled her vision. There were nannies pushing babies in carriages, and towards the east side of the park she could make out a market that had formed beneath the long fronds of the trees there. It was hot, and she gravitated naturally towards the shady scene. As she approached, she was inundated by smoke and spice. A man with a sooty face was crouched over a small stove, cooking meat over glowing coals. She moved on, looking with interest at the exotic fruits and spices on offer. She settled for a glass of “soursop” juice—it was pale white and tasted of citrus and something else she couldn’t quite identify. It cooled her palate and filled her with a wonderful energy. The next woman sat on the ground with a white cloth laid before her, adorned with all manner of mysterious objects. Amulets and tiny dolls and bottles of colored dust sat in small piles on the cloth. This must be the voodoo that she had heard so much about from Mr. Astor. She hesitated there. The woman, who was dressed in traditional African clothing, looked up at her with milky eyes.
“Well my dear, what brings you here from the Big Apple?” she intoned. “Looking for some protection?”
Violet was stunned. She felt a shiver of fear tickle the back of her neck. How could this woman have known where she had come from? She searched her blind eyes for some indication that she could see her, but the woman just stared upwards, unseeing.
“Or perhaps you’d like a little something to help you bring that young man back into your garden,” the woman continued, gathering up a small bag and a bottle of powder and offering them up to Violet in the palms of her rough hands.
Violet looked down at the objects with curiosity, although she still felt a prickle of fear. It was probably best not to get involved with this sort of thing, she decided.
“No thank you,” she said politely, and continued walking along the line of vendors. She had been tempted for the sake of curiosity, just as she had been enticed upon occasion to see a psychic in New York, but somehow this voodoo magic seemed more potent than the gypsy stuff.
She walked to the edge of the park, and then continued through the streets until she reached the banks of the Mississippi River. Its vastness confounded her. The current ran deep and fast here. The river was filled with boats. Some were as glamorous as a New York City hotel with beautiful white trim and gilded lettering declaring names such as Delta Queen and Lady Luck. There were sooty barges packed with cargo, waiting to take their place at the industrial docks down the way. And in between there were small fishing boats and other rivercraft, with men in high boots and broad-brimmed hats bending over their nets. The river swirled and slithered along the banks, glittering like sapphire under the broad blue sky and moving like a thick serpent through the city and t
he surrounding bayous.
Of course New York had the Hudson and the East River, but the Mississippi was somehow much more alive. She stood on the low levee, the wind pressing her skirt against her long legs, and threatening to snatch her hat from her head.
“Well hello young lady,” a heavily accented voice came from her left. Violet turned to see an old black man carrying a fishing pole and a basket. He settled down at the edge of the levee beside her and set about baiting a hook.
“Hello,” she replied. “What are you going to catch?”
“Whatever the good lord sees fit to give me,” the man replied, adjusting his pork-pie hat and throwing his line into the water with a practiced flick of the wrist. It fell in a slow and graceful arc and landed about twenty feet away before being pulled downriver by the current. “But probably catfish.”
Violet sat down beside him. The sun had sunk a little lower in the sky, and the heat was bearable with the breeze from the river. She sat with the stranger in silence, watching the water lap at the edge of the levee. A minnow appeared, fluttering like a silver butterfly near the surface, and then from below it came the form of a ghostly pale catfish, who swallowed the minnow whole, and then disappeared into the depths of the water.
“Circle of life,” the old man said to no one in particular.
Violet returned to Bourbon Street as the sun was setting. Although exhausted from the day’s exploration, she was not ready to return to the Astor house. She was thirsty, and so she slipped into one of the conspicuous speakeasies that lined the street. It was empty. She sat at the bar and pulled out a silver cigarette case and a long and elegant holder, which she extended. The bartender, a dark young man with his white shirtsleeves rolled up, lit her cigarette without a word. She ordered a Southside cocktail, and was delighted when he placed the glass before her replete with chips of ice, a fresh sprig of mint, and a juicy slice of lime. It was just the sort of refreshment she required to ease the heat of the day once and for all.
