The Letterbox

by Layton Green

  Halfway down the street, Asha stopped and turned. “What was that?” she asked.

  “What was what?”

  “I thought I heard something. It sounded like footsteps.”

  I turned to look down the desolate street, silent except for the faint shouts coming from Bourbon.

  “It’s too quiet here,” she said. “I know it’s the Quarter, but let’s get back to the crowds. We can take Bourbon to Canal.”

  “Sure.”

  We walked to the next intersection and turned left, taking a street that would intersect with Bourbon. As we turned the corner, we both stopped. This time I had heard it. Footsteps accompanied by a scraping sound, as if one heel was dragging along the pavement, coming from the street we had just left.

  A street I had just canvassed with my eyes and knew was empty.

  “It’s probably a stray dog,” I said as we hurried away. The Quarter was relatively secure, but New Orleans is never the safest of cities, especially at night.

  “Let’s just get to Bourbon.”

  We could see lights at the end of the street. The dragging sound stopped for a moment, and then picked up again, faster. I could have glanced behind me, but something compelled me not to, an irrational fear of the unknown. We held hands and rushed forward, just short of a run.

  Heart thumping inside my chest, we reached the end of the street, the chaos of Bourbon drowning everything behind us. We stumbled into the press of the crowd and stopped to catch our breath, only then turning to look.

  The street stood silent and empty, the only sign of movement the night breeze against my cheek.

  -4-

  After a lingering kiss outside Asha’s apartment building on St. Charles, she said she had an early morning, but would like to see me again.

  On my way home, my mind lingered half on the softness of her lips and half on the scraping footsteps in the French Quarter. As unnerved as I had been, there were lots of weird occurrences in New Orleans, and by the time I got home I had consigned the memory to the graveyard of the city’s quirks.

  The next morning, after a pot of chicory coffee, I took the streetcar downtown to resume sorting through the crush of contracts, addendums, briefs, motions, discovery requests, and other documents that comprised my life as a corporate litigator. The day flew by, and before I left I decided to inquire about Lucius Sofistere.

  I knew exactly who to ask. The adjoining office belonged to Prentice Meyer, a junior partner in project development and finance. Prentice put together deals around the world to build everything from office towers to power plants.

  I stepped into his office overlooking the sweep of the Mississippi, and Prentice swiveled in his chair. His stick-like, pallid limbs poked out of the bespoke suit and huge Rolex like they were just visiting, rather than inhabiting. Prentice wore more dollars to work every day than most people drive to work in.

  “Señor Aidan, what a pleasant surprise! I’ve missed your sunny but aloof disposition lately.”

  “I’ve got a ton going on.”

  “Do you?” He crossed his legs and said, as if I hadn’t even spoken, “I’ve had a depressing day. I’ve got a new case, a favor for a partner involving faulty construction of his brother’s house. How pedestrian can you get?”

  I rolled my eyes, but he wasn’t paying attention. Prentice was once assigned to work on a pro bono landlord-tenant dispute, and rather than go to magistrate court for a day and mingle with the masses, he had paid his own client the disputed two thousand dollars.

  “My last case involved turnkey construction of a world-class hotel by a Hong Kong financier.” He sniffed. “Residential contracts probably have consumer protection laws to deal with, or some nonsense.”

  “At least you still have your penthouse and hordes of young associates who worship you.”

  “The rest of our associates are sheep. They don’t have your spirit, Aidy. Or your blue eyes.”

  Prentice had been unabashedly hitting on me—and making me laugh—since the day I started. He was a brilliant lawyer, and his ridiculous, over-the-top commentary possessed an honesty that I appreciated. Most people at the firm would tell you what you wanted to hear and then stab you in the back. Prentice said whatever he wanted and then stabbed you in the chest.

  He also made it a point to know everything about everyone at the firm. “Have you ever heard of Lucius Sofistere?” I said.

  Prentice looked at me oddly. “Where’d you hear that name?”

  “Just came across it.”

  “He’s been a client of the firm for some time. I don’t know much about him, except he’s dripping in class and style, and deals only with Marcus Arnoult.”

  Marcus Arnoult was a crafty trust and estates lawyer whose practice consisted of handling the estates of wealthy clients. The joke was that Marcus could hide a stack of gold ingots in a piggy bank.

  “I know he owns a successful antiques store,” Prentice continued, “but he must have other interests. And in this town, you know what that means.”

  Prentice meant organized crime. I agreed with his earlier assessment, since Mr. Sofistere struck me as someone who came from money. I wasn’t buying the organized crime angle, however. He was too refined and didn’t fit the profile.

  Then again, you never knew.

  “Be careful with whom you consort, Aidy. Lucius Sofistere might just turn you into a proper man of the world. No more doing lines of coke off the backs of young stevedores in your Range Rover.”

  “That’s what you do, Prentice.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot.”

  “But thanks for the advice.”

  “Don’t mention it. If you find out what else Sofistere has his sticky fingers into, be sure to let me know.”

  “Of course,” I murmured.

  -5-

  The next Saturday, Asha and I met for coffee and then spent the day at the New Orleans Museum of Art. In each room we chose a favorite painting in secret, then tried to guess which painting the other had chosen. What I didn’t tell her was that she gravitated towards one of two extremes: the most colorful painting in the room, or the one with the most soulful representation of angels.

  After the museum, we had dinner at Jacquemo’s, caught a brass band at the Maple Leaf, then went back to her place and watched the sun rise.

  The last few weeks of summer passed much the same way. Conversation came easy and we loved to do the same things, whether sneaking into a midnight ghost tour, trying new restaurants, or just exploring the city.

  While we spent long hours in each other’s embrace, we had yet to consummate the relationship. My desire at times threatened to overwhelm me, but the drug of mental connection was a new and exotic one, and one that I was savoring.

  Yet I was also aware—and wary—of the times at dinner when she seemed to mentally check out, or when things got heated late at night and she would suddenly push me away and, with a detached look, claim exhaustion, only to call first thing in the morning to ask about my dreams.

  Of course, this only made her more desirable. Both sexes have a sixth sense for reticence and pursue it relentlessly.

  The question was, did her moments of distraction concern me, or something else?

  A week later, Asha invited me to dinner at her apartment, a one-bedroom on St. Charles. New Orleans was a beautiful and mysterious place, but even Uptown had plenty of crime. I gave her props for living alone.

  Her building was very New Orleans: in need of a paint job, but oozing charm and architectural details. Asha answered the door in a dark brown, floral-print dress that blended nicely with her skin, and then led me to the combination living and dining room. Her furniture consisted of a knee-high wooden table, a floor strewn with colorfully embroidered pillows, candles of all shapes and sizes, a pair of oversize Klimt prints in glass frames, and a bookshelf full of Sufi poetry and travel guides and New Age literature.

  I inhaled the aroma of freshly ground spices wafting from the kitchen. After dr
opping off a couple of tasty appetizers, she delivered the entrée, a coconut shrimp curry.

  “I’m impressed,” I said.

  She sat with her legs tucked under her, both feet pointing to one side. “I have a proposition for you, and wanted to butter you up.”

  “I’m not quite ready for marriage.”

  She threaded her arm through mine, then leaned in close. “You don’t think I’m marriage material?”

  “Of course not. You can’t support me.”

  “Gigolo.”

  “Tease.”

  She took a sip of chardonnay. “How would you like to go with me to Croatia?”

  “Excuse me?” I said. “What’s in Croatia?”

  Her eyes were bright and playful, and she squeezed my arm. “Mr. Sofistere’s hit a dead end with the letterbox and decided to send it to an expert in Dubrovnik.”

  The curry was delicious. “Dubrovnik’s supposed to be beautiful,” I said, “a medieval city right on the Adriatic. But why does he want us to take it?”

  “He’s busy and doesn’t need to be there for the examination. He asked me if I would mind going, and suggested I take Lou in case more translation was needed. I told him I’d feel more comfortable if you went as well. So,” she said a little guiltily, “I need to ask Lou also.”

  I took a long swig of beer. “That sounds like an expensive bit of research.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not an issue. You’ll see what I mean when you see his house—he wants us to swing by before we go. Plus, if the letterbox turns out to be a unique cultural piece, as Mr. Sofistere suspects, then it’ll pay for our trip many times over.”

  “Is it safe to carry this thing around?”

  “Hand deliveries are common practice in the antique world; he doesn’t want it lost or jostled by some transport company.” She peered up at me. “So can you take a week and come? I think a little change of scenery would be good for you.”

  I leaned back and palmed my beer, looking her in the eye and saying nothing. It was all very peculiar. “What’s the date?”

  “We’d be leaving next Friday.”

  I looked away. “Oh.”

  “Bad week?”

  “There’s no way I can get free that quickly.”

  “How much notice would you need?”

  “A trip like that? A month or two, at least.”

  We sat in silence for a minute, and when she started eating again, all I could think about was how much I wanted to drop everything and go with her. Have an adventure and see something new.

  The next day, I had never felt more trapped by my job, more dispirited about the rest of my life. The workday seemed to last an entire year and I couldn’t sleep that night. The thought of going to Croatia tugged at me so strongly that it became a physical companion, an itch I couldn’t scratch.

  I asked for a two-week leave of absence, and the firm refused my request. I lessened it to a week, and they still wouldn’t budge.

  So I quit my job.

  Later that evening, I met Lou at Maison and told him about my resignation.

  “You’re joking.”

  I couldn’t stop grinning. My lips had been stretched wide, my head buzzing with newfound freedom, since I’d walked out of the managing partner’s office.

  “You’re not joking,” Lou said. “I can’t believe it. You actually have a pair. So what’s the plan?”

  I told him about Asha’s offer. His eyebrows lifted even higher. “And long term?” he asked.

  “Ask me when we get back. You’re coming, right?”

  “Are you serious? Getting paid to travel is right in line with my career plans.”

  Asha was thrilled, both for me and the trip. She told Mr. Sofistere right away. The next day he invited all three of us to his house for an evening cocktail. He owned a monstrous stone mansion in the Garden District, the landscaped grounds enclosed by an imposing wrought-iron fence.

  A middle-aged butler with sallow skin and pendulous eyelids answered our knock. He gestured with an open palm for us to follow, and Lou and I exchanged a glance. Firsthand experience with true wealth can be unsettling.

  The house lacked natural light, and I peered at the original paintings hanging in the foyer. Wide hallways branched out from the immense balustraded staircase, and the foyer continued teasingly behind it. It was the kind of house you wanted to walk through and explore.

  A house that kept secrets.

  A grandfather clock dominated the sitting room, accompanied by four antique chairs gathered around a claw-footed wooden table. After Mr. Sofistere entered, dressed impeccably in a gray pinstriped suit, the butler served a Cabernet Franc and a Sancerre.

  “Thanks for inviting us,” I said to Mr. Sofistere. “Your house is stunning.”

  He tipped his head in acknowledgment and made no mention of my career change. “I wanted to ensure your preparations have gone smoothly,” he said. “Asha, I just sent an email with Dr. Fleniken’s address.”

  “What’s his field?” Lou asked.

  “He has joint degrees from Harvard in biblical archaeology and religious history. His specialty is locating, retrieving, and categorizing religious objects, and he’s known for seeking out and acquiring pieces no one else can or will. After your translation and given the lack of information on the letterbox, I thought he should take a look.” He hesitated, his lips parting in a mysterious half-smile. “Although he’s respected and well known in certain circles, Dr. Fleniken is a bit unconventional. He—well, you’ll see.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to have him come here?” Lou said.

  “He prefers not to,” Mr. Sofistere said, offering nothing further.

  Lou shrugged. “The Ogham translations I gave you didn’t help?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” Lou said. “How did you connect the larger symbol on the letterbox with the one on James Perrott’s calling card?”

  “A colleague I consulted in London was familiar with Perrott and the history of letterboxing. He made the connection and confirmed it was the same marking.”

  “Did anyone ever ask Perrott why he left his card under that cairn?” I said.

  “Perrott claimed he wanted to see if anyone would ever find the bottle, and that the marking was his personal signature.” Mr. Sofistere’s eyes, dark and thoughtful, met Asha’s before he continued. “That same colleague of mine uncovered a curious article in the archives of the British Museum. The article was published in 1856 by the local paper in Chagstead, the town closest to Perrott’s estate, and claimed there was no evidence Perrott had ever used that symbol before. Moreover, no gentleman of the time who used calling cards would have inked his signature on a calling card. He would have had it engraved.” He paused as if coming to a decision. “The letterbox was found buried beneath a body of water in the moors called Cranmere Pool—the same place Perrott left his card.”

  Lou whistled. “So Perrott’s calling card was found a hundred and fifty years ago in the English moors, and this box here, buried more or less since the time of Christ, was uncovered a few months ago in the same location, and with the exact same marking.”

  “Correct.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence,” I murmured.

  Asha didn’t seem surprised. Mr. Sofistere probably hadn’t wanted her to disclose certain details before he trusted us.

  The butler returned to whisper something in Mr. Sofistere’s ear, and Lucius’s jaw tightened. “I apologize, but something has come up. You’ll have to excuse me.” He picked up an envelope off a side table and handed it to Asha. “Travel expenses. Let me know if you require more.”

  “Thanks again for the ticket,” I said slowly, thinking how strange the whole affair was.

  “My pleasure. I’m glad you’re both accompanying Asha. Traveling alone is never a good idea.”

  “Anytime,” Lou said magnanimously, as if he was the one who had supplied the free ticket.

&nb
sp; Mr. Sofistere stood. “Good evening, then.”

  He shook mine and Lou’s hand and embraced Asha, then disappeared into the depths of his house.

  -6-

  Since leaving the firm, part of me felt buoyant once again, full of hope and promise. Unencumbered, fresh.

  The other part of me felt that somehow I had failed, and not just because of my dimmer financial prospects. Life’s questions still lurked beneath me like the bottom of a dark lake.

  The day before our departure for Dubrovnik, I walked alongside Bayou St. John, one of my favorite places to reflect. I saw the sluggish green water as a microcosm of the world: change and movement, a parade of colors and smells, a complete tactile experience with the mystery of the unknown lurking just underneath.

  Yet what was really down there? Did the world’s army of distractions exist solely to divert our minds from the fact that from dust we came and to dust we shall go and that nothing, no matter how glamorous, could change that fact? Were our entire lives a desperate grab to manufacture significance?

  I wanted to do something before my time came. I wanted to find meaning, I wanted to fall in love, I wanted a glimpse of the puppeteer.

  Metaphorical or not, the inscription on the letterbox kept rising to the forefront of my thoughts.

  The God Path.

  I didn’t know if a trip to foreign shores would provide any insight to life’s questions, or to the enigmas surrounding Asha’s past and the letterbox.

  But I was ready to find out.

  That night Asha and I ate dinner in the French Quarter, then met Lou at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, a dive bar near the Fauborg Marigny. Lafitte’s was one of the oldest bars in the country. Paint had never graced the wooden rafters, the stone floors remained pitted and uneven, light eked out of candles stuck in sconces and demijohns.

  We slipped into a craggy wooden booth and enjoyed the buzz of anticipation before a journey. Asha had one arm draped over her handbag, which contained the letterbox. Since we were leaving in the morning, she had carried it home.