by Jimmy Fox
“What’s this all about?”
“You good at asking questions, ain’t you? Les us take a stroll on over behind that there building. Careful, now: I get nervous when people look at me like that.”
The young man, slightly taller than Nick, had short blonde hair, a thin fair face, and a paunch that strained at the khaki uniform he wore. The patches on his short-sleeve shirt told Nick he was a deputy with the sheriff’s department of a nearby, otherwise unremarkable parish. His nametag read “Chirke.”
Chirke? Sounds familiar. Nick tried to find the name in his overcrowded memory. Thinking helped keep the panic at bay. This wasn’t going to end well, he feared.
They walked through piles of old garbage and a graveyard of refrigerators. The squawk of the patrol-car radio faded into the hiss of unseen life as they entered the dense pine forest. A breeze now and then disturbed the canopy of needles far above them but didn’t do anything for the oppressive heat.
They descended a slope to a small bayou running through fallen trees and clay banks. On level ground now, beside the bayou, they stopped on Chirke’s command.
A good place for a shooting, Nick realized. That slope will block much of the noise of the shot, and no one from the highway can see. He had always hoped to have a glorious epiphany before death; instead, his mind was now merely a camera.
“Okay, Mr. Genealogist. Turn around. I got to shoot you in the front ’cause you went for my gun. That’s after I done found the drugs in your car and you took out runnin’ for the woods, you understand.”
“You’re a descendant of Gershom Chirke, aren’t you?” Nick said. Gershom Chirke sold Ivanhoe Balzar the inferior land.
For a moment the man was rigid in astonishment; then his eyes narrowed.
“Well, what my cousin Sharla been sayin’ ’bout you ain’t far wrong, I guess.”
Ah, Sharla, the Mata Hari of Cane River country.
“You been pokin’ your nose in everybody’s business. You even been pokin’ Sharla. There’s some folks ’round here don’t like any of that kind of bizness. My family’s some of ’em.”
“Got a lot to hide, don’t you, Chirke? Like, for instance, the fact that the land you sold to the state for the highway wasn’t really yours. What did you do, forge a phony deed from Ivanhoe Balzar selling the land back, giving your family title again? That’s how I would’ve done it, maybe.” He was guessing, desperately hoping to buy some time, for what he didn’t know. But he’d hit a raw nerve.
“Them Balzars don’t know how to work land! Never did. They just lazy niggers, thas all. My great-great-granddaddy gave one of ’em a chance, and look at ’em today.” Chirke had said more than he’d intended. “Well, it don’t matter, anyhow, ’cause you ain’t gonna tell nobody. I’m gonna shut you up, but good.”
A mound of forest carpet above them exploded, and what looked like some huge, winged animal pounced on Chirke. Nick went for the gun. It fired twice, as loud as a cannon. A large black hand covered Chirke’s face. In the ensuing frenzy, Nick gave a few punches and took a few from a flailing Chirke. Then he had the gun.
The owner of the black hand used Chirke’s eye sockets as if they were bowling-ball holes and dragged the deputy down to the ground. This man–or bear, as it seemed to Nick–draped in a camouflage cape, was now on top of Chirke, pummeling him. After a rapid series of head blows delivered by Nick’s rescuer, Chirke was still.
Shelvin–for that’s who Nick’s resuer was–stood up, winded, and looked at the bloodied deputy on the ground. “He ain’t dead.”
“Do you know him?” Nick asked.
“Uh-huh. We live on his uncle’s land for next to nothing, ’cept our votes whenever somebody in his family hereabouts runs for something or other, and they always do. Gerald here thinks he tough shit. But he ain’t much out from under his white sheet, if you know what I mean. I been looking for a chance to do that.”
“Thanks, Shelvin.”
“Ain’t no big thing. Enemy of my enemy must be my friend. Right, Mr. Genealogist?”
“The name, as you know, is Nick. What were you doing up there, covered up with pine needles and leaves? How did you–”
“On my way to see one of my women; she live close by. Seen your cars over there, decided to look into it. I know how Gerald and his kind operate. When I seen what was going down, tried a little trick from my field training. Neither one of you saw me moving closer,” Shelvin said with evident pride. “Used the wind and the crow calls to cover the noise, and my poncho to blend into the woods.”
“Did you hear what Chirke said? That’s probably your land.”
“Uh-huh, I heard him,” Shelvin replied.
“I believe there’s much more to the story of injustice done to your family. I might need your help.”
“That’s cool. Now, go on back to New Orleans, Nick. Me and Gerald here got some things to discuss.”
Nick handed the gun to Shelvin, who then crouched down next to Chirke.
“This a classic, here. Model 1911 .45 caliber. Well, well, Gerald. Mighty big gun for such a small man. I remember some guys carrying ’em in Desert Storm. Don’t got one of these,” he said, admiring the pistol, “yet.” He slide the magazine out and cleared the chamber, and then tucked the gun in his waistband, familiarity with weapons obviously second nature to him.
Five minutes later, Nick was back on the highway, heading for New Orleans, scrupulously obeying the speed limit.
18
His ticket to the play was waiting for him at the box office, along with an attached note from Una: “You’re late–I’m angry!” The studentworking the ticket window told him that Una had paced around outside, expecting him; she confirmed that Una was in an ugly mood.
He’d put on a wrinkled, nearly clean white shirt in his car; now he tried to make his squashed tie and coat look somewhat more presentable. Ready as he ever would be to face Una’s ire, he walked through the Art Nouveau lobby of Fortescue Auditorium, through double swinging doors, and then down the aisle into the dimmed light of the intimate theater. Sadie Fortescue College was highly regarded as the traditionally women’s, fine arts-centered branch of Freret University.
Nick immediately recognized the wrestling scene of As You Like It. Dion served in one of his several roles as Charles, the boasting wrestler. His tall frame was padded out to make him a formidable match for the smaller, scrappy Orlando, who was about to vanquish him in an upset.
For late summer, not a bad crowd. A heartening number of students. Must be bad weather in the Florida panhandle.
Una had excellent seats in the middle section; but he’d have to scurry over a dozen people to get there. During a wonderfully overacted raucous moment in the onstage action, Nick plunged down the row, trailing his briefcase and copious apologies after him.
“Puh-lease! Do you mind! Watch where you’re stepping,” a familiar voice protested. The Usurper. In the dimness, he hadn’t yet recognized Nick.
“Frederick, doing a little thesis advising tonight? Oh, it’s you, Hilda.” Mrs. Tawpie stiffened at Nick’s sarcasm and shrank away from the armrest she shared with her husband. Nick gave Frederick’s famously expensive shoes some good stomps.
“Where have you been?” Una snarled in his ear. He could see she didn’t really want an answer; he shrugged a plea for understanding. She gave him a quick glare of disappointment and returned her attention to the play. After a few moments, her hand found his in the darkness. Ah, sweet forgiveness!
And so they settled back in their seats and entered the timeless world of the feuding dukes and the band of worthy exiles wandering in the forest of Arden, engaging in philosophical fencing and amorous feints. Whenever the pompous Duke Frederick strutted on the stage, Nick made sure to laugh with inappropriate volume in the real Frederick’s direction.
“A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest, a motley fool. A miserable world!” said Dion as Jaques, beginning the splendid “thereby hangs a tale” passage. He was magnificent, toppi
ng even his most outlandish classroom performances, some of which Nick had been privileged to see. Just about every time Dion delivered his lines, the actors after him had to wait for the audience’s applause to die down before continuing with the play.
Something Jaques had said, Nick wasn’t sure what, made him “deep contemplative” in the protective darkness. He replayed the events of the last few days in his mind; suddenly, the characters he had met and read about moved on a bright stage…
He saw Hyam Balazar, a boy of seven or eight, standing at a ship’s railing, searching the Atlantic horizon to the west for his new island home which his mother, behind him, assures him is near. Then, Hyam, growing up in lush, tropical Caribbean surroundings, working in some kind of exchange with his father, speaking French publicly, maybe refusing to speak Yiddish at home. Nick saw beautiful dark women, naked and beckoning, through Hyam’s young man’s eyes. And then the exciting European cosmopolitanism and urban evils of New Orleans; the lonely years of travel in his wagon as a peddler; the land, the beautiful spread of acres he falls in love with as he rides through it by chance, vowing to acquire it; the shop in Natchitoches and the drudgery of merchandising; the incremental financial and social successes; the slave auctions; the building of Mitzvah; the planting; the marriages, the deaths, the births; Mulatta Belle, leaning on Hyam’s arm as they stroll through Natchez, as he gambles on a riverboat–he too rich and powerful to suffer reproach for loving her, she too beautiful and defiant to care what society thinks.
And there is young Ivanhoe, in the study of Mitzvah, being taught by Hyam himself, to the measured ticking of a clock. Young Jacob taunting younger Ivanhoe, calling him names, fighting with him, not bold enough yet, and too afraid of his father, to cast out his half-brother. Euphrozine, whispering plots to Jacob, urging him on in their gambit for complete control when their ailing father would finally die. An old man’s hand grasping a quill pen as it scratches out three letters promising land. The death of Hyam. The cruel reign of Jacob and Euphrozine. The war, Jacob’s horrible injuries, which drive him nearly mad; his humiliation, which finishes the job. The death of Mulatta Belle. Ivanhoe, writing his diary at the end of each day in his barbershop, wondering if anyone would ever read it, hoping that his carefully crafted testament will somehow secure the future for his descendants–
“Nick? Nicholas Herald! Are you asleep? You can’t be; your eyes are open.”
Una tugged forcefully at his coat sleeve. The house lights were up, the curtain closed. It was intermission, thrown in by the drama department as a ploy to entice people to buy tickets in the lobby for the upcoming season.
Nick came to. Damn! He’d missed Jaques’ great hymn to melancholy, his favorite part. But something just as wonderful had come to him in his reverie.
“‘From hour to hour, we rot and rot, and thereby hangs a tale,’” he mumbled from memory toward the curtained stage. Thoughts of Ivanhoe’s first diary entry, of what Erasmus III had said about keeping important papers in the family Bible, of Twice’s demented oration on mortality and eternity…all swirled around in Nick’s consciousness.
I know! I know where to find Ivanhoe’s letter! He jumped up, just stopping himself from dashing to the nearest exit.
“What happened to your face?” Una asked, noticing a few scratches and bruises. “If you’re drunk, Nicholas Herald!” She wagged a warning index finger. When extremely put out with him, Una lapsed into frigid formality. One of his grandmothers used to do the same thing; he thought it was cute.
“Drunk? Not yet, my dear. Not yet. Come on, let’s get some champagne before these artsy-fartsy types suck the bottles dry.”
In the urbane chatter of the lobby, second champagne in hand, he explained to Una why he hadn’t phoned her for the past few days–leaving out any mention, of course, of his barbaric butchery and borrowing of irreplaceable documents.
“While I was gone, did you notice anything in the news about an old guy who committed suicide over in the Irish Channel?”
“Yes, I believe…I’m certain I did. It was in the Times-Picayune. A small article. I didn’t know him, so I didn’t really give it a second thought. Why do you ask? What did that unfortunate man have to do with you?”
“He was my client, Una. He didn’t kill himself. I think there was foul play involved.”
“You mean he was…murdered?” She stumbled over the baleful word.
“I’m not sure. Another client of mine might be responsible.”
“Oh my God!” she blurted out; and then, in a lower, conspiratorial whisper, “It just occurred to me: a tourist was fished out of Lake Pontchartrain.”
“So,” Nick said, “that’s par for New Orleans. What makes you think it has anything to do with the old man or me?”
“She was from Poland and worked in her state’s archives. She was the equivalent of a genealogist!”
“Ah,” said Nick, massaging his neck. Being scared shitless was tiring work. “I see what you mean.”
“I don’t like this. Are you in any trouble, Nick? Please, please don’t get caught up in something that might…might lead to any harm.”
“The harm’s been done, long ago, and I have no choice anymore about whether I’m caught up in it or not. Someone’s already made that decision for me. But you can help.”
“Of course I’ll help, Nick. You know that.”
“You have a safe-deposit box, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Later, I want to give you some documents to keep for a while.”
“I’ve been wondering why you’re carrying that horrible briefcase around, here, at a play. How old is that thing?”
Nick ignored her question. “As soon as you can, put the documents in the box. Don’t tell anyone, anyone what they are or that I have anything to do with them. Better yet, don’t even read them. Una, I can’t deny that there might be some…”
“Trouble? That word again. This is serious. More than harmless genealogical research. Nick, what’s going on?”
“Maybe I’m like old Adam in the play; Orlando says he’s pruning a rotten tree that can’t yield a blossom. But I think I can right some old wrongs–and some newer ones, from what you’ve just told me.”
Una shook her head and put her hand on his arm. “I wish you were back in the boring old English department, living the life of quiet desperation you’d grown to despise. All the violent plots there were merely literary.”
A friend of Una’s from the history department came up to chat with them; but the conversation soon turned to university politics, the latest juicy grants and fellowships, backstabbing, and toadyism.
“I’ll get us another drink,” Nick said, making his escape.
The table holding the champagne glasses and little masterpieces of hors d’oeuvres with a decidedly New Orleans zing was off to one side of the lobby, beneath an impressive stained glass window somewhat in the Tiffany style, except with recognizable Louisiana motifs. Fortescue students in the early part of the century made these windows, as well as Fortescue Pottery, ceramics that have gained deservedly high regard.
Nick waited in a competitive wave of bodies to get to the table; New Orleanians get testy when deprived of their pleasures.
He was admiring the big backlit window above the bar when a woman said, “‘Persephone’s Return to the Marsh,’ it’s called. A gift from Artemis Holdings.” She was standing beside him, as beautiful as Persephone herself, Nick thought. “Zola Armiger,” she said, re-introducing herself. “We met briefly at–”
“The Plutarch. Sure. You’re not easy to forget. A gift, huh?” said Nick, pointing at the window. “Yeah, I see the tasteful donor plaque there. Tell me, does Artemis Holdings have a weekly quota of good deeds? Like a minimum daily requirement of some vitamin that keeps your public relations department happy? I’m halfway expecting you to tell me your company gave Shakespeare a stipend.”
“I wish we’d been able to, but I’m not quite that old. We’re still searching f
or our modern bard.” She seemed to be considering him for the position. “You wear your skepticism on your sleeve, which I suppose makes you the good scholar you’re reputed to be. Tell me, do you see an ulterior motive in everything?”
“Descartes is one of my heroes: doubt everything,” Nick said. The crush of people carried them a few inches closer to the bar. “Or almost everything,” he added, taking in her beauty.
“I assure you, we are what we appear to be.”
“You mean Artemis is a company full of great-looking women? Where do I sign up?”
Zola couldn’t suppress a laugh at his flagrant flirting. Her dark eyebrows, Nick noticed, were perfect sonnets of expression. Seeing them, Shakespeare wouldn’t have needed her money as a spur for inspiration.
Finally with new champagne glasses in hand, they walked to a grouping of pedestals topped by some choice Fortescue vases.
“A quota?” she asked. “Why should there be any limit to the good one is able to do? Artemis and the Samaritan Fund–which I manage–do good when the opportunity arises; we know this enriches us spiritually and teaches good corporate citizenship to others.”
“Three cheers for benevolent capitalism.”
She was determined to make her point. “We believe that the companies that treat their customers and employees with respect are the ones that will endure. Our quota of good deeds, as you call it, is our vote of confidence in such organizations. This philosophy might make enemies for us, might cause people to ridicule us–”
“Like me, for instance.”
“I don’t think you were being serious, were you? No, I sense that your sarcasm is a shield. You seem to me the kind of man who avoids seriousness whenever he can, who doesn’t like to show the depth of his feelings.”
“Take my skepticism as interest, then.”
“In me or my company?”
“Oh, definitely,” Nick said, intentionally vague.
She smiled brilliantly, without pretense. Her eyes lingered on his face and then darted off to scan the crowd, as if Nick could read her thoughts through her pupils.
