Free men of color were rare and were actively wooed by women with discontinued “secondhand marriages” who coveted a legal union and were dogged in pursuing the few available males.
Miguel Plicque was one of these free men of color. His mother had been a beautiful African, finely featured, the color of tobacco, with dark, liquid eyes. Her owner had been a Creole colonist.
Upon giving birth to Miguel, she and her son were emancipated and maintained by his Creole father in the Tremé neighborhood of New Orleans. As was the tradition, Miguel was sent to France to be educated and apprenticed in a trade like carpentry or baking. He developed his artistic talents and returned to Louisiana to become an ornamental plasterer.
Miguel was happy with his life. As a thirty-three-year-old bachelor, he had many social invitations from unattached, free women of color. Most of these invitations were what he termed all-inclusive. But he had no intention of tying himself down to just one woman; he told friends that he was like the Lord: “I love them all!”
Tonight he was having dinner at Madame Caresse’s home. Catherine was one of his favorites: She was beautiful, successful, and self-assured. She also provided a fine meal with wine. However, he hadn’t slept with her. Yet.
Her daughter, Suzanne, was staying with a friend. Miguel was happy about that; Suzanne craved her mother’s attention and was quite sullen, even pouted, when Miguel came over. Now that she had been promised to René, she would be moving into the house the young Creole man was preparing for her, and Miguel could spend more time with Catherine. Alone.
Of course, there was the maid, Hortense, who also seemed to be annoyed when he showed up. Although Miguel suspected that was just the way Hortense was, tonight he was going to try to win her over. Another conquest.
Miguel livened his step up to Catherine’s house, carrying a large bouquet of flowers and a box of pralines. Hortense opened the door and, as he expected, scowled at him.
“Hortense!” He smiled. “Belle soirée, isn’t it? These are for you!” With a flourish, he presented her with the box of candy. “Brown sugar for a Brown Sugar!” he added.
“For me?” The maid’s eyes widened, and she actually smiled. “Well, for heaven’s sake. How nice! Merci beaucoup! Do come in, Monsieur Plicque; do come in! I’ll tell Madame Caresse that you’re here.”
Miguel noted that, while hugging the candy box, Hortense practically pirouetted to the back of the house.
Catherine came into the parlor to greet him. “Miguel, right on time. I’m happy to see you, as is Hortense. The candy was very thoughtful of you.”
He bowed, handed her the flowers, and beamed. “And the bloom on your face, Catherine, puts these poor blossoms to shame!”
Catherine looked at him, then burst out laughing. “Thank you, Miguel; they’re charming. And so was your poetic effort. Excuse me while I find a vase.”
Overkill, Miguel, he said to himself, watching her go into the dining room. Slow down; you don’t want to make her suspicious of your plans for after dessert.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she called out. “We’re having crawfish étouffée for dinner. First, though, we’ll eat some raw oysters. Hortense just got them at the market.”
Raw oysters? That Italian lover Casanova’s famous aphrodisiac? Fabulous! Miguel joined Catherine in the dining room with another huge smile on his face. He noted the bottle of champagne on the table. A further good sign. I’ll just keep on pouring.
Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Yes, I’m ravenous. And it sounds wonderful! I’m sure we’ll have a delicious night.”
Catherine looked at him and cocked an eyebrow but then smiled and said, “I suspect it will be most pleasurable, Miguel.”
It was indeed. Much later, having been pleased and fully sated, Miguel was now in her walnut bed, sound asleep, even slightly snoring, lying naked on his back next to Catherine.
As the full moon shone through the window, Catherine considered Miguel closely for several minutes. Unlike her first lover, who was tall and thin, Miguel’s dark and compact body was finely chiseled, typical of that of many free men of color. He was boyishly handsome, and he knew it.
As a plasterer, he was always in demand. His decorative moldings were renowned throughout the city for their artistic, innovative designs and their quality and durability.
She knew Miguel was skillful in other ways, too. Always quick-witted, he could flatter even the most resistant old crones in the city. Women of all colors were attracted to his twinkling eyes and his ready smile. A wink in their direction, and they were smitten, eager to run their fingers through his thick, silky hair.
Many of his clients’ wives found excuses to watch him work. They plied him with freshly baked croissants. And wouldn’t he like a little coffee to go with that pastry? He would flash his grin, offer another compliment conveying appreciation and pleasure (and, for himself, personal amusement), and continue his work. For he always had plenty of that.
Catherine was fully aware of his flirtations and his lovers, including his most recent previous affair. However, she, too, had her own special talents, and she enjoyed his company, and tonight she had a plan.
Satisfied that Miguel was not likely to awaken, she reached under the mattress for her hidden piece of silk string. She extended the strand out along his member, then multiplied that length by nine. Carefully following the specifications passed down to her through her maternal lineage, she tied nine knots in the string, whispering the words “You are now bound to me in love, Miguel.” Each knot signified a specific element she wanted included in her spell: passion, commitment, communication, support, trust, comfort, appreciation, strength, and satisfaction.
Catherine then smiled to herself and set aside the string to wrap around her waist. She turned to look at the slumbering man. “You will never love another woman, my dear,” she whispered softly. “I’ve just made sure of that!”
Tarot: THE HIEROPHANT
Revelation: Bondage to societal conventions.
It was a beautiful, brisk November morning for her adventure. Millie took the trousers and shirt from their hiding place in her cedar chest and put them on, then slipped her feet into shoes meant for a young lad. She gathered her long auburn hair up into a bun and stuck it all into a tight-fitting boys’ cap, then tiptoed downstairs from her room and outside to savor the sounds and smells of New Orleans.
From Dauphine Street, she headed toward the wharf, passing hawkers going from house to house, peddling their wares to the women leaning over their galleries. Reaching the riverfront, she gazed out at the water.
Before the Embargo Act, the port had been busy. Scores of plank-built flatboats from as far away as Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, had floated west on the Ohio River to Cairo, Illinois, where the Ohio merged with the Mississippi, then south to New Orleans. Each had been able to transport up to a hundred tons of cargo into the harbor. Longshoremen had bustled about, conveying sacks of grain, bales of cotton and buckskin, barrels of whiskey, and crates of other goods up and down the gangplanks, to and from the warehouses, ready to be loaded on oceangoing vessels.
Not anymore. The merchandise was now all trapped; jammed into the city by the embargo. Millie felt as if she were just like those goods: a valuable commodity, but stuck.
She dreamed once again of escape. But how? And what could she do to support herself? Yes, there was always a demand for those in her line of work, but she would have to start at the bottom. Too dangerous.
Heading to the French market, she picked her way carefully down the banquettes. These wooden sidewalks were made from some of the lumber from the dismantled flatboats. But the lack of flatboat lumber left gaps in banquettes where boards had rotted away and hadn’t been replaced; this was yet another casualty of the embargo.
Passing one of the bakery shops, she felt the heat emanating from the ovens and stopped to watch the black men already sweating over the kneading troughs. She inhaled deeply. What a heavenly fragrance! The gorgeous baguettes had
thin, crunchy crusts enveloping soft, fluffy middles. Pain de boulanger: fantastique!
She walked quickly past the butcher shops, also called flesh markets. They were almost completely enclosed, with only a door and a window, yet the odors emerging from them were disgusting, and flies and filth were visible on the floors, the walls, and all the dead carcasses hanging from the racks.
Most of the small carts were already set up at the curb-stones and unloaded. Americans, Creoles, Cajuns, free people of color, Indians, and slaves were ready to do business. Farmers’ eggs; eggplants; hunters’ fowl; rabbit, squirrel, fish, and alligator meat; handmade cheeses and sausages; and bottles of wine were prominently arranged to be eye-catching, and all, insisted the merchants, were the best quality.
Millie stopped at a little stall with a table and ordered chicory coffee. It arrived in a small white cup on a saucer. Perched on a stool, she savored her drink, watching people in the marketplace. Women of all colors were selecting produce, filling their baskets with onions, garlic, and peppers. A gumbo for tonight’s supper, she thought. Taking another sip, she watched as some of the workmen took a break and snacked on sweet-potato pies or rice cakes.
She cherished her time here. No one gave her a second look. On a couple of her previous trips she had passed clients, but they did not recognize her. It was her adventure, an escape of sorts. It was rebellious, independent, a thrill. And she hated to go “home.”
Tarot: THE ACE OF CUPS
Revelation: Embarking on the journey of love.
The lovely, young free woman of color had a mission. Tonight was the beginning of her “left-handed marriage,” and the weather promised to be sultry—perfect for passion. Yes, she had been instructed about how to please her handsome young man. As well as being chaste, she was willing. She was the perfect virgin.
Although she was dressed in a simple muslin dress, her lustrous reddish-blond curls mostly concealed by the required tignon, her beautiful features attracted attention. They always did. But she was unaware of the appreciative glances aimed her way, so intent was she upon her purpose.
She carefully picked her way through the marketplace, dodging the mangy dogs looking for scraps and ignoring the goading vendors calling out their produce. She was unmindful of the sight of dead chickens hanging head down from the racks, the squawks of the live ones in their coops, or the smells of the unwanted fruits and vegetables rotting on the spattered ground. She was aware, however, of her left shoe, in which she had placed a lock of René’s hair, tied with her own pubic hair. The spell was in place.
She mentally reviewed her shopping list: oysters from the fish market; two white candles from a shop on Decatur Street; and fresh flowers, dill, cloves, and champagne from the French market—all necessary for tonight’s ceremony. Her mother’s servants—young Scamp, recently acquired from Lafitte’s auction, and the housemaid, Hortense—normally did the marketing, but these specific items, for this particular spiritual rite, needed to be chosen with ultimate care.
Love, luck, and protection, she thought, will be mine, thanks to Maman’s tutelage and the patron loa of New Orleans, Erzulie Dantor, the goddess of love.
Finally stopping at a stall for some sugar, she took out her money. The merchant accepted her picayunes and handed her a penny change. She looked at it, nonplussed.
“Why, what is this, sir? Did I not give you the correct amount?”
“You did, mademoiselle. But this is one of those American coins,” he said. “And because there’s a shortage of copper since the war began, they’re rather scarce. But it matches your shiny hair. You should have it—perhaps for good luck!”
“Well, I shall treasure it, then. Merci!”
“Will you be making some pralines with that sugar?” asked the merchant.
“No,” Suzanne replied with a slight smile, “but something else just as sweet!”
Love, luck, and protection. So far, so good.
Tarot: THE QUEEN OF SWORDS
Revelation: Sadness, and faith in high ideals.
Another soft and beautiful day, with the rich scent of jasmines padding the November air. Again disguised as a young lad, Millie walked briskly toward the French market, avoiding the little boys “sword fighting” with sticks, and smiling at the small girls playing with dolls.
She made her way around the noisy men and older boys surrounding the cockpit. Males of all colors were yelling and cheering in their disparate languages for their favorite rooster. Those poor gamecocks, she thought. All bloody, and fighting until one dies. Although Pete had told her that cockfighting was the oldest spectator sport in the world, she did not understand why all these men—French, English, Spanish, German, even Choctaw—thought it amusing. Well, it’s one thing they all have in common!
She noticed the old women clustered in small groups. They’re probably grousing about aches and pains, or gossiping. And some of them are laughing! It must be nice.
Then she stopped to look up and admire the spires of St. Louis Church in the background. A priest was on the steps, talking to a Creole family, the mother holding a baby. Maybe making baptismal arrangements . . .
“Millie? Is that you?”
Panic. Someone recognized her. She felt a tap on her shoulder from behind. She whirled around with alarm.
“Millie! It’s Pete! What are you doing here, and why are you dressed like that?”
Thinking quickly, her heart beating rapidly, she tried to smile and say, in her best working-girl character, “Well, a girl’s got to eat, Pete!”
Peter shook his head. “You don’t look like a girl in that getup, Millie! And I don’t see any food you’ve supposedly been shopping for.”
He continued gazing at her, a mixture of surprise and amusement on his face. “Hmm. I’ve been telling you my stories, and here you are with a much better one!” He chuckled then and comfortably, gently, took her hand and led her to a bench at Rose’s, a popular coffee spot.
After ordering two cups of chicory coffee and beignets, he said, “So? Tell me what you’re up to.”
Peter looked sincerely interested, but Millie was not accustomed to trusting—him or anybody—and was not about to share her most private experiences.
“I would rather not, Pete. You’d think it’s silly. Can’t you just forget you saw me here?” She tried to divert him. “Tell me instead what you’re doing these days.”
Peter continued to study her. “No, no, no—not so fast, there!” He chuckled again. “I want to know what’s going on, and no, I can’t forget you, Millie, no matter where you are or how you’re dressed. You ought to know that by now! And by the way,” he added, “you’re the prettiest boy around here.”
“Oh, sacré bleu,” she said, trying to think of another way to distract him. Cradling her coffee cup, she picked it up to sniff its delightfully pungent aroma, then took a sip. Looking up again at Peter, she found him still gazing softly at her, and she felt her reluctance melt away.
“Oh, all right then.” She paused, putting her cup down. “But only if you keep my secret!”
“Of course you can trust me—always.” He reached for her hand and stroked her palm.
“I come here to the market to get away from all the pimps, the thieves, the murderers, and, yes, the whorehouses in my neighborhood. I like to watch all the nice, clean-looking people here, think about what their lives might be like, pretend I exist in a different world.”
“And what would that world be like, Millie?”
She moved her hand away from him and picked up her sugary beignet. “Oh, you’ll think it’s absurd, Pete.”
She nibbled an edge of the fried pastry, looking up at him for several seconds to be certain that he wasn’t mocking her.
He wasn’t.
Lowering her eyes, she chose her words with care. “I would like to be a normal woman, Pete. Someone who could shop, meet and greet friends, laugh and share gossip, and then go home to make a nice oyster stew for my husband, who loves me for who I really am.
”
Millie looked up at Peter again, suddenly feeling uncomfortably exposed and vulnerable. She was surprised to see the tender expression on his face. As he reached across the table (Is he going to take my hand again?), he knocked over her coffee cup, spilling the hot liquid and, she realized, spoiling the mood she was (surely?) imagining.
“Oh!” She jumped up, composing herself quickly. “Well, look at that! Thank goodness nothing broke!” She purposefully placed the empty cup back on the saucer, without looking at him.
“And,” she added, with a quick glance up at the sun, “it’s getting late. Thanks for the coffee, Pete; hope to see you soon!”
And before he could say anything, she gave him a “professional” wink and bounded away.
Tarot: THE ACE OF PENTACLES
Revelation: Perfect attainment, rapture, bliss.
Ouah! Or, Suzanne thought, as the Yankees would say, ooh là là! Last night—what a night! She fairly skipped along the wooden sidewalks toward her mother’s home, recalling every luscious moment of her first entire evening with René Bonet. And he had promised to come back again tonight!
Rapping on Catherine’s door, Suzanne heard Hortense shuffling across the cypress floorboards.
Hortense will love hearing about it, too! Suzanne smiled as she thought of sharing her euphoria with the older woman.
Hortense was like another mother to Suzanne; she had helped Catherine raise her. Catherine had procured the maid through her plaçage arrangement, the year before Suzanne’s birth. Hortense’s bedroom was one of the two small rooms in the rear of the house. Once used for storage, it was perfect for the maid’s needs. There was enough space for the narrow bed and a small dresser; plus, it adjoined Suzanne’s childhood chamber. The servant was often at Suzanne’s bedside to comfort her after bad dreams, calm her during storms, and feed her and nurse her when she was ill.
The Cards Don't Lie Page 7
