Madam: A Novel of New Orleans

by Cari Lynn

  Tom gave a disinterested shrug.

  “Well, it tickles me that such a, how should I put this, such an unmanly man is the one carrying on about legalizing prostitution. I bet Sidney Story has never even been with a woman. I bet this is all some twisted way of covering up something that ain’t quite right in his head, if you know what I mean. I bet this new alderman still lives with his mother. Anyway, as I was saying before I interrupted myself, the City Council wants to show him that he can’t just traipse in here threatening to change things, spouting off all sorts of unconventional, improbable ideas. Impossible ideas, really. How dare someone come and rock the good ship New Orleans!” He waved his arms in big circles, simulating a rocking boat. “This ain’t my view, Tom, but it sure is how the City Council feels about it.”

  Anderson watched the mayor’s little show, thinking the tubby man looked more as if he were losing his balance than rocking a boat. “So, Mayor, do I need to be worried that Venus Alley will be the target of some retaliation from the City Council? Perhaps their way of sending a message to the neophyte alderman and his Public Order Committee that it’s still the Council who has at least a modicum of control over vice in this town?”

  The mayor gave an offhanded shrug. “Not sure the City Council will bother much. It’s not like they can just up and run your gals outta here, Tom.”

  “Those preacher-leechers can certainly try. Though they might as well let the whores take all the booze and tobacco with them, and they can pack up Mardi Gras, too, while they’re at it.”

  “I don’t think you’ve any worry, my friend. Alderman Story may have convinced the Public Order Committee, and their talk is temporarily loud, but the City Council knows those government committees hardly ever do anything. When was the last time a committee accomplished something of note? As I said, no one likes change. You know how long it takes to get the smallest thing done around here.” He leaned over as if letting Anderson in on a secret, dribbling his drink down his shirtfront in the process. “Besides,” he said, dropping his voice, “too many of the City Council are secret visitors to the Alley.”

  “Too many of them are secret profiters from the Alley,” Anderson added. “Doesn’t the City Council realize that a legalized district would make it a hell of a lot easier to get laid in this town?”

  “You’re overthinking all this,” Flower said. “The Public Order Committee will soon tire of their own yammering, and everyone’ll opt to stick with things just the way they are. That’s what always happens, and it’s really much easier that way. Certainly makes my job easier.”

  Anderson took a long sip of whiskey. His thoughts traveled to the nameless corpse that had been lying smack in the middle of Venus Alley earlier that night. No matter how lethargic the City Council, if word of this incident got out, they’d surely bolt up and take notice. A dead body would be perfect evidence for the Council to use to squash this new, loudmouth alderman and his crazy ideas about prostitution.

  “I can stage a raid if you think it’ll quiet the unrest some,” Anderson said.

  Flower twisted his face. “I don’t see the need to go to any trouble, Tom. No one who matters is paying much mind to Alderman Story. Truly, he’s nothing more than a flea. A flitting flea.” Flower fluttered his stubby arms as he moved to the hutch. “Just make sure there aren’t any major incidents involving a whore. You know, nothing that would upset the flow.” He topped off his glass. “No repeats, like last year . . . with the congressman.” He rolled his head back, sucking in air. “Now, something like that, well, that would really get the water boiling again.”

  Calmly, with no expression other than deep thought, Anderson swirled his whiskey—could be a congressman getting hauled into the icehouse at this very moment. “I’ll just order a raid for good measure,” Anderson said definitively. “Never hurts to beat the Bible thumpers at their own game.”

  Mayor Flower was, indeed, correct: Alderman Sidney Story lived with his mother. They resided on the cypress-lined street of Prytania in the Garden District, in a cozy raised cottage with two rocking chairs out front, hearty ferns hanging from the porch, and a flickering gas lamp at the door. It was quite likely that this thirty-seven-year-old gentleman was unmarried for the precise reason that he still lived with his mother; then again, there may have been other reasons—none of which he had given an ounce of thought to.

  He did have thoughts about sex, though. All day long. But not in that way—not in any way that involved himself, or any lustful emotion, or body parts. He thought about sex in terms of revenue and property values, boundaries and crime reports. He also thought about sex in terms of God, and this made his pallid face crinkle as he damned to Hell those women of ill repute and the men who utilized them.

  What he refused to think about was how many of those men, those partakers of sin, were acquaintances of his. Because this was too despicable to fathom, he blocked it out, like a child plugging his ears. If it were his choice, he would avoid associating with anyone whom he remotely suspected of sinning in this way. But given his higher calling, this wasn’t possible. His was righteous work, although it did require that he associate with all types, from Council members to judges to voters. If dealing with sinners and heretics would further his mission to create neighborhoods free from vice, to create an upstanding New Orleans, a pious New Orleans, then so be it.

  Just as he preached others should do, Story abided by a strict Jesuit code in his own life. The Storys had been devout members of the Immaculate Conception Parish for generations, and the church held great significance in the city, for the land upon which it stood was a gift to the Jesuits by none other than the founder of New Orleans, Jean Pierre Lemoine Sieur de Bienville. Story was well versed in Jesuit history and knew of the tumult his people had faced—how the priests in New Orleans had lost favor and were stripped of their property and then forced from the city, only to prevail half a decade later by returning to New Orleans, repurchasing the same land (which, in neglect, had become swampland inhabited by alligators), and constructing an awesome, Moor-inspired church with the adjacent all-male College of Immaculate Conception, where Story received his education. Taking heart in the Jesuits’ struggles and redemption, Story viewed his own struggle for improving New Orleans as an extension of his forefathers’ journey—knowing he, too, would triumph.

  The church had always provided him guidance and solace, especially when his father passed. Sidney was but a teenager when Story Sr. did the unspeakable, and it was the church that assisted Sidney and his mother in obliterating all evidence and squashing all rumors so as preserve the family’s dignity. For this, Story was eternally grateful, and driven all the more to spread the church’s teachings.

  Even though it was nearing midnight, a warm light emanated from the front window of the Story house. Ever since Sidney was born, the family inhabited this house in the Garden District, a pristine neighborhood of upper-class white folks, considerable greenery, and distinctly American architecture. Also, and importantly, it was a good distance away from the ethnic areas of the city, like the white Creole quarters and the Vieux Carré, where, in Story’s opinion, there existed an overabundance of Spanish and French influence.

  Balding, bespectacled Sidney was still perched at his desk, a tabby cat curled in his lap. Johann Strauss played from the phonograph, although a towel was draped over the barrel so as to mute the volume, dare he wake sleeping Mother.

  Spread before him on his desk was this month’s issue of the Mascot. On its cover: a cartoon parody of a City Council meeting, where, in the midst of discussing legislature, the council members downed whiskey as women danced about, skirts raised and dresses plunging.

  The alderman, with impeccable penmanship, was composing a letter to his favorite Mascot senior reporter—favorite for the primary reason that this particular reporter, Kermit McCracken, espoused the exact same beliefs as Story on every debatable subject.

  Dear Mr. McCracken,

  Once again, I must commend you for tr
uly fine reporting in this latest issue of the Mascot. When I read your line: “Young men can no more be made continent by legislation than gamblers can be forced to cease gambling, yet the evil results of their intercourse with fallen women can be minimized by state regulation,” I nearly leapt from my chair with applause. It is voices like yours, joined with my own, that will set this city onto the path of change, the path of righteousness, and the path of truth.

  I was, however, dismayed with this month’s cover art, entitled “Secret Session of the City Council,” which I know is not within your editorial jurisdiction, but nonetheless, I wish to express to you my opinion, as I trust my words will not fall on deaf ears. It is highly offensive to portray, even in caricature form, the valuable and dedicated work of the City Council as if important and confidential meetings take place in Babylon, where women of ill repute lift their skirts inappropriately high as they dance seductively amidst an inebriated spree. Please note that depictions of this kind only serve to undermine the passionate mission shared by you and I, as well as the Public Order Committee, which I head, and which is a most crucial arm of the City Council.

  Yours in Christ’s Truth,

  Alderman Sidney Story

  Story held up the completed letter, blowing on it to dry the ink, then gave his work a nod of satisfaction. From a desk drawer that neatly held all his letter-writing paraphernalia, he removed a gold bar of sealing wax, then heated it over the oil lamp. Dribbling the wax onto an envelope, he pressed into the warm pool his favorite seal, that of a crucifix.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Leave it to Beulah to send me to this part of town,” Mary grumbled to herself. She’d never been to Rampart Street before, and never would’ve had reason to go except for the wildfire spread of the gleet on the Alley. From the talk of other whores, it seemed the john with the dark birthmark on his cheek was the culprit, and he’d lain in Mary’s crib same as he’d detrousered at several others throughout the week. The itching had only just begun, but Mary wasn’t keen on taking chances. More than once, she’d seen Beulah fly out of the crib, fiery-eyed, howling of the burning. And each time, Mary got on her hands and knees and scrubbed that crib top to bottom so as not to worry that the gleet would jump on her.

  Whores would talk of their remedies for the gleet, and many swore by the Tan Tonic, which druggists and even cafés around the Alley sold. Others would visit the Gonzales Brothers cart and pay a whole dollar for a bottle of 7.7.7. But Beulah was the only whore Mary knew who had a remedy that saw her back in the crib in but two days and able to make her full shift without even a hint of agony.

  So when Mary had come upon Beulah waiting at the door today, she had lowered her voice and asked who was the doctor her people went to see.

  Beulah jumped. “No Needle Man comin’ near my folk!”

  Mary pursed her lips. Why did Beulah have to go making a scene? Leaning in, Mary whispered, “I need a remedy.”

  But Beulah just stared blankly. Mary leaned in closer and through clenched teeth muttered, “For the burning.”

  Beulah raised an eyebrow, then gave Mary an up-and-down look, as if it hadn’t occurred to her that particular and scrubbed little Mary could be susceptible.

  “Ain’t no doctor,” Beulah said, shaking her head. “She’s a Voodoo queen.”

  Mary flinched. She didn’t want anything to do with Voodoo. But then again, she wasn’t in any position to lose a week’s earnings. She took a deep breath and, hoping to God she wouldn’t regret it, asked if she could go see her.

  Beulah leaned back and let out a cackle. “Pretty girl gonna show her pale face o’er there on Rampart Street?” She laughed as if that were the funniest thing she’d heard in a long time.

  Mary looked at her pleadingly.

  Beulah crossed her arms over her chest then screwed up the corner of her mouth. “Awright, girl,” she said reluctantly. “Go by the corner of Piety and Rampart. Ask for Miss Eulalie Echo.”

  Mary nodded her thanks and hurried off, knowing that Beulah was shaking her head, if not guffawing after her.

  As Mary walked the unfamiliar cobblestone street, Haitian women strolled by with baskets balancing atop their tignon-wrapped heads. Barefoot children crowded around, calling back and forth to each other in song. Up ahead, a round woman in blue gingham stood over a small burner, frying the most delicious smelling rice fritters. She sang partly in French, “Belles calas! Clementine has lovely calas! Tou cho, quite hot!”

  Mary arrived to the corner of Rampart and Piety, where Beulah had directed her, but the only building there was a cigar shop. Her fists clenched as she schemed that if she’d been lured all this way just for a laugh, she’d go find that gleet-infested john and pay him to infect Beulah.

  Stepping into the cigar shop, she nearly swooned from the pungent tobacco odor. The place was dimly lit and cigar boxes filled rows of cramped shelves lined ceiling high. Behind a counter sat a brown, wrinkled woman counting short, fat cigars.

  Softly, Mary said, “I, uh, was sent here for a remedy.” The woman didn’t look up. Mary piped up a little louder. “’Scuse me, ma’am . . . was sent here for a remedy. Would this be the right place?” Still, the woman didn’t look up, just continued tallying the cigars, moving them from one pile to another, mouthing the numbers and bobbing her head to the count. Was she deaf? Mary wondered. Oh, horse’s ass, Beulah!

  Mary gave it one last try. “Ma’am, I’m lookin’ for a Miss Eulalie Echo.”

  At this, the woman’s head rose. Neatly resting the handful of cigars, she motioned for Mary to step behind the counter. There, she lifted a thick velvet curtain to reveal a doorway and, with a sweep of her arm, bade her through. Silently, Mary followed her down a dark hall, where she was left to wait alone on a stool outside a closed door. The cigar smell was now mixed with a spicy clove scent, and Mary could hear a strange, crackly chanting coming from the other side of the door.

  “Eh, eh. Bomba hen hen. Canga bafie te. Canga ki, canga li.”

  Voodoo spells, Mary thought, and this sent shivers through her. Oh Saint Teresa, please forgive me, I’m not wanting to tempt no demon spirits!

  Just then, the door opened and the crackly voice beckoned. “Come.”

  On command, Mary rose and shakily stepped through the door. The flickering light from dozens of candles cast long, eerie shadows across a tiny room. She glimpsed drooping shelves piled with dusty old books and scattered with bones of all shapes and sizes. Surprisingly, there were also just as many statues of the Virgin—little ones, big ones, wood ones, porcelain ones, on the shelves, on the floor, hanging on the wall. There was even a Negro Virgin, holding her hands out to beckon, while the whites of her eyes against her charcoal skin seemed to bore into Mary, asking, Don’t you know you don’t belong here, white girl? Mary jerked her head away.

  Her gaze then fell to a crooked table lined with rows of different-sized jars. In one, a turtle swam furiously, trying to scale the jar and free himself, as if he knew a bad fate was in store. In the next jar, a floating eyeball stared emptily across the room. In another, a fleshy blob, gently bobbing, looked almost like a miniature baby. Mary couldn’t help but lean in closer to examine . . . oh my, she could make out little tiny fingers!

  A hand touched Mary’s shoulder and she jumped. Flipping around, she was suddenly face-to-face with a rail-thin, brown-skinned woman, one piercing amber eye looking fixedly at her, the other wandering off into the distance. The woman had a head of thick, wild hair, pieces of it knotted around small, glass medicine bottles, making the shadow of her leaping onto the back wall look like the Snake Lady herself. Mary held her breath that she wouldn’t turn to stone.

  “Don’t be afraid of Eulalie Echo,” the woman said, her voice deep and husky. “Lay.” She motioned to a gnarled-wood table lined with a featherbed.

  Quivering, Mary willed herself to move forward and climb onto the table, even though her legs wanted to run as fast as they could out of there before she accidentally got cursed—or before
some part of her wound up floating in a jar. She managed to squeak out, “I come looking after a remedy for—”

  She was silenced by a bony finger in the air. “Eulalie knows. Now, show me the promised land.”

  Mary leaned onto the featherbed and felt Eulalie pull at her bloomers.

  “Hold,” she ordered, pushing Mary’s leg upward. Mary grabbed her own calf and held her leg in the air as Eulalie looked her over.

  Even though she spent most days in this position, Mary was uneasy with this strange woman poking around. “I ’spect you can tell I make my business on Venus Alley,” Mary said, surprising herself by the tinge of shame in her voice.

  “No matter,” Eulalie said. “Venus Alley or high-class mistress, they all come to Eulalie. The gleet ain’t partial.”

  “Even a proper mistress gets the gleet?” Mary asked, thinking it was something that only ran its course among people in the filthy places.

  “Half New Orleans got the gleet, child,” Eulalie said.

  Wincing at a stab of pain, Mary could feel her eyes welling up. “This is just the gleet, ain’t it?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

  “Hush, now. Deep breath.” Eulalie pinched a bunch of dried sage between her fingers and hovered the leaves over a lit candle. She trailed the smoke over Mary, and the intense scent stung her nostrils. Her head began to spin. The hazy figure of a man appeared in the room. Mary could make out a mop of dark hair and a scrawny frame. Squinting, she tried to discern details of his face, but he was mostly a blur. Just then, he spoke, and his screechy voice was eerily familiar: Sign says you pay by the inch. She got thirteen inches there. Mary squeezed shut her eyes and shook her head.

  When she opened her eyes, the man was gone. She blinked, refocusing—he was still gone, as if he hadn’t been there at all.