I shook my head.
‘It’s an alligator — a big one. He’s somewhere nearby. Well, actually if he’s growling there’s probably another one around too.’
It wasn’t something I wanted to hear when I was surrounded by foot-high grass. ‘Just get up the stairs, will you,’ I said, prodding Blaine in the back.
A murmur of voices came from inside the cabin, and the porch screen door was unlocked. We wiped our feet on the doormat which had written on it Blessed Be instead of Welcome.
The inside of the cabin was cosier than I’d been expecting from the exterior. A potbelly stove stood in one corner with an ironwork pentacle above it, the walls were sage green, and the upholstered furniture looked like it had come straight from a 1960s yard sale. My nose twitched at the strong scents of pine, lemon . . . and wax. Drippy candles covered every available surface from the hall table to the bookshelves, turning the cabin into what my health and safety lecturer at Sydney University would have termed a ‘quaint fire hazard’.
A dozen smiling faces turned in our direction. Zeline’s guests had come from all walks of life judging from the variety of ages. Most were wearing normal street clothes, but a couple of black women wore traditional African dress, and one Caucasian woman had donned a sari and an Indian nose chain.
‘Blaine, you’re here!’ a woman called out.
She was about fifty years of age with wild salt-and-pepper hair and gypsy black eyes. One look at her burgundy velvet dress with crisscross front lacing and I knew she had to be Zeline.
‘So nice to see you too!’ said Blaine, kissing her hand. ‘This is my friend Amandine, from Australia.’
Zeline took my hands firmly and peered into my eyes. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Amandine.’ Leaning in closer, her gaze became more intense and her grip tighter. ‘I hope tonight will be fruitful for you.’
A meal was set out on a wooden trestle table on a screened porch facing the bayou. We filled our plates with rice pilaf, spicy butternut pumpkin and sweet potato fritters, before sitting down on tie-dyed cushions to eat.
‘Who is the swamp supposed to be haunted by?’ I asked Blaine.
‘Ghosts of escaped slaves,’ he said, taking a bite of a fritter. ‘They were known as maroons. If they were found, they were whipped or made gruesome public examples of in Jackson Square. So they used their voodoo to make themselves invisible, create curses and terrify their white masters from pursuing them.’
I thought of the advertisement I’d seen in the Oak Alley gift shop calling for the return of an escaped slave. I wondered if she’d ever been recaptured and what happened to her.
Once the meal was finished, Zeline called us back into the living room where she’d set up an altar of white candles. Sandalwood incense wafted in the air. She rang a tiny bell and the chatter in the room fell silent.
‘The temple is about to be erected,’ she said. ‘The circle is about to be cast. May all who are gathered be here of their own free will.’ She lit the candles and blessed the four directions of the room — north, east, south and west. ‘I evoke the God and Goddess and invite you all to participate in peace and love in this ritual for the non-initiated.’
I glanced at Blaine whose shining eyes were fixed on Zeline in rapt attention. For one nervous moment I thought she was going to ask us all to take our clothes off and dance in the moonlight. Instead she passed around a basket with pieces of paper and pencils in it.
‘We are going to use the natural energy of the moon to assist our own powers of manifestation to help us on our path. I want each of you to take a few moments to write down what it is that you most long for in your life.’
When everyone had a piece of paper, Zeline turned on a CD player and Celtic music filled the air. I watched the others scribbling down their desires while I couldn’t think what it was that I most wanted in my life. I’d never asked myself that question so directly before. Up until her death, what I’d most wanted was to please Nan. I’d enjoyed my architectural studies, but wasn’t convinced that architecture was what I most wanted to do with my life. Would I like to be a musician like my father? Would I like to fall madly in love — perhaps with Elliot — and stay in New Orleans?
I noticed Zeline watching me. She pressed her palms together and closed her eyes as if she was trying to help me. As corny as I thought the whole exercise to be, I closed my eyes too. Slowly an idea appeared like the sun rising on the horizon. Gradually the form gained clarity. The words had been there for years, buried in my heart, but I’d never articulated them.
I picked up the pencil and wrote: I want to truly belong somewhere.
When everyone had completed the task, Zeline opened the kitchen door and revealed a path into the woods lit by hurricane lamps and fairy lights.
‘Each of you will follow the trail one at a time,’ she explained. ‘As you travel, I want you to think about your desire and what its granting would mean to you. Along the trail is a clearing with a cauldron. I want you to read your wish out loud then drop it into the cauldron and let it go. Trust the energies to bring your desire to you. Then continue along the trail and it will eventually bring you back to the front door of the cabin.’
I stared down the path. It was pretty but unearthly. We must have all taken leave of our senses if we were each going to walk out into the swampland alone.
Because Blaine and I were at the back of the room we were the last to go. As each person set out on the path, I strained my ears, waiting for a blood-curdling scream. But when they returned to the house, the guests’ faces were calm and thoughtful.
Zeline selected Blaine to go before me. When he’d set off on the path, I tugged Zeline’s arm and asked: ‘Does this wish-making thing really work?’
‘It sure does,’ she said, resting her sage-like gaze on me. ‘But be aware that your desire will come to you in a way you never could have anticipated.’
When Blaine returned, he sat in a corner by himself with his eyes closed and a blissful smile on his face. I wondered what he had asked for, but I guessed part of the exercise was to keep our wishes to ourselves.
When it was my time to walk the path, my stomach tightened and I wavered. Zeline sensed my fear, linked her arm with mine and guided me towards the path.
‘Walk calmly and slowly,’ she said. ‘Don’t rush. The spirits will keep you safe, but whatever you do, don’t touch the trees.’ Don’t touch the trees? I wondered why she had instructed that so adamantly, but before I could ask she whispered in my ear, ‘Be brave. You are a young woman on the verge of a breakthrough,’ and gave me a gentle shove onto the path.
The moon was bright in the sky and the trees loomed overhead like dark phantoms. The owls hooting added to the spookiness of the atmosphere. Every rock and tree root jabbed through the thin soles of my sandals. A pair of yellow eyes glinted at me from the darkness, then disappeared. Had they been real or a figment of my imagination? I stopped and glanced over my shoulder. I was tempted to turn back, but as nobody else had chickened out, including Blaine, pride overcame my fear and I stumbled onwards.
I saw something move in a cypress tree ahead of me. The hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end. A speckled snake was coiling itself around a branch. Was that why Zeline had instructed me not to touch the trees? Because they were infested with snakes? I wrapped my arms around me and walked gingerly on until I reached the clearing where the cauldron was burning.
I read my wish out loud as Zeline had said to do: ‘I want to truly belong somewhere.’ A shiver ran through me as I dropped the piece of paper into the cauldron and the flames flared.
A chirping behind me made me spin around. I found myself exchanging stares with a fuzzy creature, about the size of a small dog, with a black band marking across its eyes: a racoon. I’d never seen one for real before, only in books and movies. His bright eyes glistened as if he was trying to tell me something. Then he sniffed the air and scampered away. The animal’s appearance had been special somehow. I returned to the house buoyed
by the hope that perhaps my wish really could come true.
As I was the last of the guests to have made a wish, the chatter in the room had resumed.
Blaine beamed at me. ‘Honeybun, I was starting to worry about you! I wasn’t kidding about Bigfoot — there have been several sightings of him this year.’
Zeline approached me. ‘Did you like your journey into the swampland?’
‘I saw a racoon,’ I told her. ‘In the clearing where the cauldron was.’
‘Ah,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Racoons are magical creatures to the Native Americans. They symbolise secrets. His appearance could be foretelling that something very important is about to be revealed to you.’
Blaine and I didn’t say much on the trip home because he needed to concentrate on the dark road. When we reached the Garden District it was well after midnight, but I wasn’t tired.
‘Thank you for taking me out today,’ I told him. ‘It was fun!’
The light in the dining room was off and Grandma Ruby had already gone to bed. She’d left a lamp lit in the entrance hall for me, and the sconces that led to my bedroom were on, guiding me like the fairy lights and hurricane lamps had on the path through the swampland.
I climbed into bed and thought about all the things that had happened that afternoon. Zeline had said that I was a young woman on the verge of a breakthrough. Then I thought about her prediction that my desire would be fulfilled in ways I could not anticipate. ‘Good ways, I hope,’ I said before drifting off to sleep. ‘I’m not a fan of surprises.’
I slept heavily and probably would have dozed most of the following day if I hadn’t been woken by the beeping of my mobile phone to alert me that I’d received a text. I saw the message was from Elliot: I found some of your father’s recordings. Would you like to meet at my place this afternoon?
I looked out the window: the sun was high. Then I glanced at the time. It was nearly one o’clock. I dressed and went downstairs to find Lorena dusting the parlour.
‘I overslept,’ I told her.
She smiled and sprayed some vinegar solution on a cleaning cloth and began wiping the mirror. ‘Your grandmother has gone to a doctor’s appointment Uptown. She didn’t want to wake you because you came in late last night.’
I was torn between wanting to hear my father’s music and waiting for Grandma Ruby to return so I could listen to the rest of her story. ‘Do you know what time she’ll be back?’
‘Usually when she goes Uptown she visits some of her friends and returns around five o’clock.’
I rang Elliot and agreed to meet him in an hour. I sat on the edge of my seat all the way in the streetcar, barely able to keep still. When I rang the doorbell to Elliot’s apartment, I jiggled from foot to foot and tugged at the owl charm necklace around my neck. I hadn’t felt comfortable wearing Nan’s pendant for this occasion.
‘Hello,’ said Elliot when he opened the door. ‘Come in.’
His smile and the sight of Duke the squirrel perched on his shoulder helped to calm me. I let out a breath and followed him into the living area.
‘I called your house last night to see if you wanted to listen to a band at Snug Harbor,’ he said, moving some magazines so I could sit down on the couch. He placed Duke on the windowsill. ‘But your grandmother said you were out for the evening.’
I looked at my lap and straightened my skirt so he wouldn’t see the beaming smile on my face. He’d wanted to go out with me?
‘I was with Blaine. We took a drive along the River Road and then went to a Wiccan magic ceremony in the swampland.’
Elliot clapped his hands and laughed. ‘Blaine is a character! — when he invites you on one of his adventures, you can be sure it’ll be interesting. I’ve been to a frog festival with him, and visited the ambush site of Bonnie and Clyde with a male psychic friend of his who’d dressed as Bonnie for the occasion!’
It was my turn to laugh. ‘I like Blaine too. He’s quirky.’
‘Do you want an iced tea?’ Elliot asked, standing up and moving towards the refrigerator. ‘It’s non-alcoholic, I promise.’
Despite the ceiling fans that rotated the air, it was hot inside the apartment. Beads of sweat had formed on Elliot’s lip, and I was glad that I’d given up wearing heavy eye make-up since coming to New Orleans, otherwise I would have looked like the racoon I’d seen the previous night. I nodded, and he took out a jug of cold tea with pieces of lemon, pineapple, peaches and mint in it. Homemade: I liked that. He poured the tea into highball glasses and placed one on a coaster in front of me. I took a sip. The tea was tangy and refreshing and not overly sweetened.
‘Perfect!’ I said, taking another sip before placing my glass back on the coaster. If I’d been more forward I might have added, ‘Just like you!’
Elliot indicated two CDs on the coffee table. ‘I made you a compilation of the recordings I found of your father playing in various clubs. The other CD is an interview he did with WTUL radio in 1978. I thought you might like for us to listen to that together?’
I nodded and he inserted the CD in his player. After the announcer had introduced my father as ‘a trailblazer in leading a revival of jazz in New Orleans’, he asked how he was enjoying his new fame.
‘I’m not interested in being a star,’ my father replied in a low-key, softly spoken tone. ‘What I’m passionate about is music and being able to share it with others. In fact, I think stardom can spoil the art. It can make you mediocre and common, and I don’t want that to happen.’
I took a sharp breath. My father spoke with the charming lilt of a Southern gentleman. I didn’t know why, but I hadn’t been prepared for that. He sounded like I’d imagined Clifford Lalande had sounded. He was humble in his manner too. I was aware that Elliot was watching me and in spite of myself I started to cry.
‘Are you all right, Amandine?’ He reached over and turned off the CD player.
I stood up and moved to the window. ‘His voice!’ I gasped. ‘His voice! It’s as if he’s here in the room!’
After Nan died, I’d kept her answering-machine tape and played it over and over so that I’d never forget the sound of her. But I’d been familiar with her voice. Hearing my father for the first time was a shock.
‘It’s more intense than looking at photographs or examining objects that belonged to him,’ I told Elliot, wiping my face. ‘He seems alive in real time . . . but he can’t hear me. I can’t ask him all the questions I have.’
Elliot stood and grasped my hands in his. ‘It’s all right, Amandine. I thought the interview might be difficult. That’s why I suggested we listen to it together, so you wouldn’t be alone.’
Something about the word ‘alone’ made me cry harder. ‘Alone’ was what I’d felt for years. The only time I’d had any relief from it was when I was with Nan . . . and now that I was here with my New Orleans family.
Elliot guided me back to the couch and cradled me in his arms. His embrace made me feel protected, like I was enclosed in a suit of armour. I nodded to let him know I was ready to listen to the rest of the interview. He pushed the play button.
Now that the initial shock had dissipated, I listened to my father’s every word with a deep ache in my chest.
When the interviewer asked him about his highly advanced technique, he replied: ‘I loved to play music. Nobody had to tell me to practise. I was up early before school, and raced home straight afterwards to sit at the piano. Perfecting my technique was a way of respecting the music, of allowing something greater than myself to move through me.’
He finished the interview by saying: ‘I give thanks every day that I was born in New Orleans. I’ve had the finest teachers. Some of them paid for by my parents; others were the great old men of jazz who I met in bars and clubs and who wanted to impart their knowledge to me. I’ve been living a charmed life. I owe it to the city to honour its traditions.’
After the interview ended, I rested my head against Elliot’s chest. He stroked my hair with the tips of hi
s fingers. The only sounds in the room were the whirling fans, our breathing and Duke crunching on some peanuts. The peace gave me a chance to reflect on the things my father had said and to further build my picture of him.
‘When the interviewer said my father was leading the way for a revival of jazz in New Orleans, what did he mean?’ I asked. ‘Hasn’t New Orleans always been the jazz capital?’
‘It is the birthplace of jazz, but the city’s segregation policy exacted a high price,’ he answered. ‘Many of the greats moved north to get away from the oppression. Places like Chicago, New York and San Francisco benefited from the influx of skilled jazz musicians, while New Orleans grew staid. Your father studied, adapted and modernised traditional New Orleans jazz, as well as creating his own compositions. He laid the foundations for the sweeping revival of the 1980s and 1990s, but unfortunately he died before he could see it.’
I relished the feeling of Elliot’s warm chest against my cheek. Somehow we were together naturally. I remembered Blaine saying that my father and Elliot had similar personalities. Was that one of the reasons he was so easy for me to be with?
When he turned my face towards him with his hand and kissed me, a bubbly sensation filled my heart. His lips were warm and tasted fruity from the iced tea. When he pressed me harder to him, I wanted to stay, but my father’s interview had brought up feelings that were overwhelming. I needed to clear my head before returning to Grandma Ruby.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I told him, breaking away. ‘I’ve got to sort myself out.’
He nodded and didn’t try to convince me to stay. ‘I’ll take you to Preservation Hall tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘Your father first played there when he was fourteen years old. I think you’ll like it.’
We kissed again when we parted in the courtyard of his apartment building.
‘After Preservation Hall, I’ll take you to Pat O’Brien’s,’ he added. ‘We’ll make a New Orleans night of it.’
‘Okay,’ I said, not afraid to let my beaming smile show now. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
Southern Ruby Page 27
