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 the 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.
“You’re not from around here,” the young man said in a quiet voice, taking her in with dark and hungry eyes.
“And how could you tell?” she replied teasingly, sipping her drink and taking a long drag on her cigarette.
He shrugged, “You don’t look Cajun and you don’t look Creole.”
“Oh no?” she replied, raising one of her elegant eyebrows and looking at him questioningly.
“No ma’am,” he replied. “No one down here is as lily white as you.”
Violet didn’t have much time to ponder this statement as she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Even lighter than me, Rivet?” Lucas Henry slid into the seat beside her, smiling broadly.
“Not even close,” the bartender called Rivet replied with a roll of his eyes as he set down a glass of bourbon on ice before the man. They conversed in what sounded like French for a moment before Lucas turned his attention to Violet.
“What a pleasant surprise to find the famous Violet Mi
ller in my usual haunt,” he exclaimed, pulling a cigarette from the inner pocket of his summer suit. He looked exceptionally well put-together after the way she had seen him the night before. He wore a suit well.
“Yes, quite a coincidence,” Violet replied. She couldn’t help but be somewhat captivated by the man, she realized, looking into his laughing handsome face.
“It’s actually haunted, you know,” said Rivet, lingering where they sat.
“It’s true,” Lucas nodded, sipping his drink. “Rivet and I have been friends for a loooong time. And ever since we’ve known each other, we’ve known this bar to be haunted. But wouldn’t you know it? Rivet grows up and buys this place!” He let out a hearty laugh.
“Well if I hadn’t, then where would you be drinking?” Rivet shot back.
“In the gutter,” he replied smoothly, and they all laughed. Rivet mixed another Southside for Violet, and they continued to converse. As the evening wore on, one or two other patrons came into the bar. Rivet seemed to know them all.
“Ever had absinthe?” he asked her after her third Southside.
“Well yes, in Paris a couple of times,” Violet replied.
“Paris! So you’ve been to the mother country,” Lucas replied as Rivet readied two gracefully curved goblets of the green liquor. He rested an ornate silver spoon over the top of each glass, and balanced a single sugar cube atop the surface, before slowly pouring ice water over the sugar. As it filled the glass, the absinthe turned cloudy.
“Oh, I suppose I have,” Violet replied faintly, momentarily mesmerized by the pearly diffusion of the cocktail as it caught the candlelight.
“They’re all a bunch of snobs over there anyway,” Rivet said matter-of-factly as he removed the spoon and pushed their drinks to them.
“Ochan!” Lucas replied, raising his glass first to the bartender, and then to Violet. She followed suit. She had to admit that she was beginning to feel the effects of a long day in the sun and the many cocktails of that evening. A healthy glow colored her normally pale cheeks, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. Lucas appeared to be completely sober, although he had stripped down to his shirt sleeves. He still wore white suspenders and a stiff white collar. Even through the haze of liquor, Violet could sense that he was interested in her. His eyes lingered on her, wanting.
The evening wore on, and they spoke about art and Jazz music. Lucas and Rivet regaled her with tails of haunted New Orleans. They spoke of voodoo, and other mysteries. Close to midnight, a rag-tag group of bohemian musicians came in and began to improvise next to the piano at the other end of the bar. Violet’s head was spinning in the most delightful way, full of laughter and music. There was a moment where she lost track of Lucas. His jacket was still draped over his chair, but he and Rivet were missing. Violet made her way to the powder room, still managing to comport herself with grace. She pushed open the heavy wooden door that separated the bar from the corridor where the restrooms were located. The space was lit by a single dim bulb that hung from the ceiling between the ladies and the gents. The passage was murky and smelled of malt and stale beer. As her eyes adjusted, Violet realized that she wasn’t alone. At first she thought it was one large man, but then she saw it was two men, intertwined as if in an embrace. As she crept closer she recognized them and let out a quiet gasp.
Rivet was pushed against the wall. His shirt was unbuttoned and pulled off one of his shoulders. Lucas was bending over his bare neck, teeth bared. They looked strangely fang-like in the half-light. With a low growl, he forced his body against the bartender’s and sank his teeth into his smooth black skin. Rivet let out a moan that Violet could not distinguish as pain or pleasure. Lucas remained attached to his neck. He seemed to be sucking at him with unbridled hunger. She watched as his unoccupied pale hand wandered over Rivet’s chest, down his stomach to the front of his trousers. Rivet moaned again, arching his back and pressing against the other man’s touch. Violet felt a rush of heat between her own loins as she watched the forbidden act. She let out another gasp, louder this time.
Lucas paused, looking up at her over Rivet’s shoulder. He released the man’s neck. His eyes seemed to be shining red, and blood colored his lips crimson. Violet screamed and threw open the door to the bathroom. She locked it behind her, and leant against it, her heart pounding. Her head was spinning as she tried to process what she had seen. Perhaps it was the “green fairy” making her see things after all those stories Lucas and Rivet had told her. She sat on the toilet and put her face in her hands, attempting to collect her thoughts. After a few minutes, she had calmed, supposing that the vicious look on her new acquaintance’s face had been a mere trick of the light, and decided to venture back out to the bar. She slowly opened the door of the bathroom and found that the corridor was now deserted. She walked with apprehension towards door, moving slowly from the quiet of the corridor into a cloud of jazz music and cigarette smoke. She found Lucas at the bar, nonchalantly sipping another bourbon. She glanced at Rivet, her heart suddenly pounding. He looked just as he had before—no sign of blood staining his white shirt. It must have been her imagination.
“I don’t suppose you’d be so kind as to pour Ms. Violet here a tall glass of water?” Lucas said calmly.
“That sounds like just the thing,” Violet offered him a small smile.
“Well we noticed you’d been gone to the ladies for a while, you know,” he teased.
Violet rolled her eyes. When Rivet set the water down before her, she lifted it, and drank it all down before condensation had a chance to form on the outside of the cold glass. She felt better. The effects of the shocking hallucination melted away, and she relaxed once more. She had never experienced such vivid effects from absinthe in the past, but she supposed every part of the world had its own recipe.
“I should have warned you about the absinthe,” Rivet said kindly, “I make it myself.”
“And you know,” Lucas interrupted, “he is a voodoo man.”
The men laughed heartily as Violet’s eyes widened. She was so tired and tipsy by now that she couldn’t distinguish whether the men were joking or not.
Lucas, perhaps sensing her fatigue, cleared his throat and settled the bill with Rivet. “I’ll escort you home then, shall I?”
“Well if you wouldn’t mind, I’d be delighted.” Violet replied, hopping off of her bar stool and waiting by the door as he pulled on his white linen jacket and fetched his hat.
They stepped out into the evening together. The air was thick and muggy. The moon hung huge and almost full, barely visible through the hazy clouds. A mosquito landed on Violet’s arm and settled in for a long bite before flying off, drunk and sated. When they reached her house, Violet paused for a moment, and then invited the man inside. Caroline was long gone, and house was dark but for a single light burning in the front entryway.
“Since you walked me all the way home, can I offer you a drink?” Violet asked, throwing her cloche onto the table and leading the way into the sitting room. Lucas followed her, admiring the décor of the house as he went.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he replied, standing by the mantelpiece and peering at the collection of photographs there. As in the rest of the house, they were mostly portraits of Mr. Astor and his wife on their various travels around the globe. Violet poured a glass of sherry for herself and her guest. He watched her in the reflection of the French doors. The soft fabric of her dress clung enticingly to her hips as she shifted from side to side. She glided across the room, passing him his glass as she made her way to the phonograph. She put on a record of slow jazz and raised her glass with a half-smile.
“To New Orleans,” she toasted.
“To beautiful women,” he replied.
She laughed, “Come on, I’ll show you the house…If you’re a painter, I think there’s one room you might appreciate.” She led the way from the drawing room up the stairs to the studio. She flipped on the light and turned to him.
“Well this
is something,” Lucas purred, taking in the white room with the relish of a painter looking at a Fresh canvas. He sauntered over to the shelves, picking up tubes of color and admiring the sable brushes. “I would love to paint you,” he said, almost to himself. He turned, sherry glass in one hand, brush in the other, and fixed his gaze on Violet.
“Take your dress off.”
There was something about the way he said it that caused Violet to shiver. He wasn’t asking, he was telling her what she was going to do. And for some reason, staring into the dark of his eyes, she set her glass down on the floor, reached back, and pulled the long zipper of her dress down. Blue fabric fell over her feet, and she stood before him, exposed under the lights of the room.
“You see? I knew you’d be wearing something interesting underneath.” Lucas walked towards her with the air of a man commenting on the weather. He caressed the line of her jaw with the soft bristles of his paintbrush, tracing the curve over her neck and the sharp angles of her clavicles. He stopped just short of where the curve of her breasts began beneath the blue lace of her teddy.
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