by Greg Herren
As awful as the weather was, I figured it would protect us—who’d want to try to follow us around in such a downpour?
And it wasn’t a bad thing to get a jump on everyone else.
We kept Frank’s car in a parking lot a few blocks away, in the Faubourg Marigny. The gutters were so full of water the sidewalk’s edge was starting to submerge. I flipped up the collar of my raincoat. The balconies were leaking, and the wind was blowing the roaring water from the roofs on us. Before we even got to the corner, the part of my jeans exposed below the bottom of my coat was soaked through. My sneakers and socks were also sopping wet. The light at Esplanade was red, and the passing cars were driving slowly, their windshield wipers desperately trying to keep up with the downpour. We stood back a little from the corner to avoid the walls of water thrown up by tires. Finally the light changed and we dashed across the street. Just past the fire station, Decatur made a sharp ninety-degree turn to follow the bend in the river. The parking lot was on the next block, across the street from the Lesbian and Gay Community Center. The wind kept trying to rip my umbrella out of my hands, or to flip it inside out. I tucked my head down to try to keep the rain out of my eyes. My hair was sopping, and water was dripping down my back. Decatur was filling with water, and lightning forked through the dark sky. The deafening roar of thunder followed almost immediately. We finally made it to Frank’s little classic red MG convertible and climbed in. Frank revved the engine, and he zipped out of the parking spot and headed for the gate. He swiped the parking pass, and the gate rose. He swung out onto Decatur Street.
“Follow Decatur through the Quarter,” I directed. The windshield was fogged up. Frank turned the defroster to high, clearing a space at the bottom of the windshield. My teeth were chattering from the cold. Decatur was clogged with cars, all driving about five miles an hour. I hummed with impatience. We reached the statue of Joan of Arc. Just ahead was Jackson Square, and I craned my head to see—and yes, there was a break in the buildings where you could see the spires of the cathedral.
I looked at the riddle again and grinned. Okay, the first few clues were easy—but it was nice to confirm my deductions. “We’re on the right track,” I said over the roar of the defroster, “but who’s the orphan’s friend?”
Frank shrugged.
We finally made it through the Quarter and stopped at the light at Canal. “Go ahead and cross Canal,” I ordered. “Then when you get to Poydras turn right, and then left at the next light—that’s Magazine Street.”
I sighed as Frank followed my instructions. The little car sped through the rain, and Frank maneuvered around cars driving at a crawl. “The way people drive, you’d think it never rains here,” Frank complained as we waited for the turn signal at Magazine and Poydras to turn green.
Magazine Street’s gutters were under the water, which was rising almost to the bottom of the parked cars. Traffic was moving at a crawl, and instead of using both lanes, the cars were moving in the center—straddling the white line to avoid the deepening water on either side.
“Turn right on Calliope, and take the first left after that,” I said. Calliope was the feeder road that ran alongside I-90—and was also, come to think of it, one of the Muses. “Magazine in the lower Garden District always floods.” And sure enough, when we got caught by the light at Calliope, Magazine Street looked like a river on the other side of the underpass.
The light changed and Frank turned, swinging out into the left lane. We got caught again at the next light, and I looked to my left. “You don’t think Prytania is going to flood, do you?” he asked, concern in his voice. He’d gotten caught in one of our flash floods in the car once and it cost almost seven hundred bucks to get it running again.
“Well, I don’t think Prytania floods,” I replied, trying to remember. I hadn’t owned a car since I dropped out of college and moved back to New Orleans, so I never paid much attention to that sort of thing. “I think it’s a high street.”
Camp Street and Prytania met underneath I-90, merging into one street on the downtown side. The light turned green and he turned. There was a small little park right there, shaped like a piece of pie as the two streets drew nearer to each other. “Stop!” I shouted.
Frank slammed on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. “What are you doing?” He looked at me as I opened the car door.
I reached behind the seat for the umbrella I’d stashed back there. “I know I’m right,” I grinned at him, “but I need to look at the park to make sure.”
He sighed and opened his car door once I had the umbrella open and walked around to that side. The park was small and surrounded by an iron fence. At the rear stood a huge live oak, its branches dripping water on the flowers and bushes inside the fence. There was a statue of a matronly looking woman sitting in the park, with her left arm around a little girl who stood at her side looking up at her. There was a historical marker plate mounted on the fence. Urns in Margaret Place to honor Waldemar S. Nelson, donated by his employees July 8, 2000.
That wasn’t helpful, but there was another one on the other side. I splashed through the water over to it.
It read: For a gracious lady, fence donated by Waldemar S. Nelson and Company, Incorporated 1994.
“Damn it,” I cursed under my breath. This was no help. I was just about to suggest we just get back in the car when I noticed yet another marker on a stand at the edge of the pie shape where the two streets joined at Calliope. I dashed up the granite walk edged with red bricks, with Frank on my heels.
I gave a fist pump and shouted “Yes!” after I finished reading it.
MARGARET’S PLACE AND WALK
Margaret’s Place and Walk honors Irish immigrant Margaret Gaffney Haughery (1813–1882), who devoted her life to orphaned children and the needy. An orphan herself, Margaret lost her husband and baby to illness. Although illiterate, Margaret established a bakery and a dairy and became quite wealthy. Her wealth funded seven orphanages, which she founded with her friend, Sister Regis and the Daughters of Charity. The names of her orphanages are shown in the pavement leading to her statue, sculpted by Alexander Doyle of New York in 1884. The funds for the statue were raised by subscription after Margaret’s death. The statue was located within sight of the New Orleans Female Orphan Asylum (demolished 1965) and the Louise Day Nursery, which she helped to found.
“The orphan’s friend.” Frank grinned.
I was fairly dancing with excitement by now. “And the Muses lines up to sing with the breeze?” I pointed up Prytania Street. “They’re right up there.”
Frank looked and shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“This neighborhood is the lower Garden District, that’s what most people call it,” I explained. “But haven’t you ever noticed the weird street names whenever you head up St. Charles?”
Realization dawned in Frank’s eyes. “The Muses.”
The first streets on the uptown side of I-90 were named after the Muses. Clio, Erato, Melpomene, Euterpe, Terpsichore, and Polymnia. “I know we’re going the right way, Frank,” I said as we walked hurriedly back to the car. My feet and legs from the knees down were soaked, and the wind kept trying to rip the umbrella out of my hands.
He checked for oncoming traffic, and we started up Prytania. I grinned as we passed the streets of the Muses—but once we passed Polymnia I told him to pull over. “I knew we were going the right way,” I said. “The blonds from the sea! There they are!” The Norwegian Seamen’s Church was a small, nondescript building with the Norwegian and American flags hanging out front. “Pull over.”
Frank pulled over into a space on the side of the road. “This is it,” I said. The three flags in front of the small building were hanging limply in the pouring rain. “The sapphire must be hidden inside the church.”
“You know, for a riddle, this is pretty easy,” Frank replied as he waited for a car to drive past. A torrent of water splashed across our windshield. “I mean, think about it, Scot
ty. Don’t you think this is kind of easy?”
“It isn’t easy,” I replied. I opened my door and shut it again immediately. The water in the gutter was almost to the bottom of the car. There was no way I was getting out on that side—and we couldn’t leave the car here for long. I looked out the window.
A huge brick complex about five stories tall took up the entire block—but there was a paved area behind it—maybe for deliveries. “Pull up there—we can leave the car there for a little while.”
“I don’t want the car to be towed,” Frank protested.
“Frank, who is going to call a tow truck in this mess? Besides, tow trucks are going to be busy for a while with swamped cars,” I insisted. “But if you want to stay here with the car—”
He pulled up into the paved area and switched the car off. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the car,” he said. “You go see what you can find out there.”
I got out of the car and opened the umbrella. The wind almost took it out of my hands, but I got a better grip. The road was clear so I splashed across the street. There were two red doors about five yards apart. The one the right had a window in it, so I assumed that was the main entrance. I walked up the stairs. There were some windows running between the doors, and I peered into them. There were a few tables inside, glass cases on the walls, but I didn’t see anyone. I turned the knob and pulled.
It was locked.
Right next to the door, inside a glass case, was listed the name of the pastor and the hours.
It was closed on Mondays.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” I swore. I stood there for a minute, thinking. There was no doorbell—but next to the windowless door I could see one. I dashed across the well-manicured lawn and up the steps and pressed the bell. I could hear it ringing inside. I pressed it again, and was just about to give up when the door opened.
“I’m sorry, young man, but we are closed.” The older man who was standing just inside the door spoke with the singsong intonation of Scandinavians. His skin was very pale, and behind his spectacles his eyes were a very light blue. His hair was completely white and cut short. He was wearing a Tulane sweatshirt and a loose-fitting pair of jeans.
“I’m sorry to bother you—”
His eyes widened and he smiled. “You’re Scott, aren’t you?”
My jaw dropped. “Yes, but how—”
“Please, come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
I closed the umbrella and stepped inside. He was already walking down the hallway in his house shoes. He stopped when he reached a door, and gestured for me to enter. I stepped into a small room that was set up as an office. An ancient PC was sitting on the desk. Shelves of books lined the walls. There was a cross hanging on the wall directly behind the desk. “Tch, tch, you are soaked through,” he said. “May I get you something warm to drink?”
“No, thank you.” I unbuttoned my coat. It was very warm in the room. “How did you know my name?”
“I am Oleg Sjowall.” He shook my hand. “We have a friend in common.” He sat down behind the desk. “Benjamin.” He peered at me over his spectacles. “He sent me a rather cryptic e-mail yesterday morning, along with a photograph of you.” His eyes twinkled. “He wanted me to give you a message.” He chuckled. “No explanation, of course, but that was Benjamin all over.” He opened a desk drawer and started rummaging through it. “I would imagine he is playing some kind of joke on you—he loves that sort of thing, but then if you know him you already know that—oh, yes, here it is.” He handed me a folded slip of paper. “I was to give it to you, and you only. He said others might come asking—but if someone I didn’t recognize asked about him, I was to deny I knew him.” He leaned back in his chair. “That Benjamin! I am of course happy to do a favor for a friend, but so mysterious.” He shook his head.
I swallowed. Obviously, he didn’t know Doc was dead. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Sjowall, but Benjamin died yesterday.”
“Ah.” He leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. “I am very sorry to hear that.” His lips moved silently, and I bowed my head when I realized he was praying. After a few moments, he said, “I hope he finds peace. He was a very troubled man. Is there going to be a service?”
“I’m sure,” I replied, realizing as I said it how lame it sounded. “Do you have a card? I’ll have my parents get in touch with the information.”
He smiled sadly and handed me his card. I slipped it into my pocket. “Well.” I stood up. “Thank you for giving me the message.”
He also stood, and shook my hand. “Benjamin often spoke of you,” he said as he escorted me down the hall. “He thought of you as a son, you know.”
Unexpected tears filled my eyes. So much had happened—I hadn’t really had a chance to mourn, or even think about the fact I’d never see Doc again. “Thanks,” I murmured again, opening my umbrella and running out into the rain again.
I was sobbing when I got back into the car. “Scotty!” Frank grabbed me and put his arms around me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I blubbered. I pulled away from him and wiped at my eyes. “Sorry, it just hit me that Doc is dead…” I took a deep breath and got my emotions under control. “Okay. Whew. Sorry. Doc e-mailed the pastor—he was a friend—a message for me.” I pulled it out of my pocket and unfolded it.
It was another riddle. I read it out loud.
“A president where so many were laid in their graves
Where the wings of the angel reach up for the sky
Follow the finger of the shepherd who saves
Those who gave their lives fighting the fire
Lead the way to a maiden whose own very eye
Looks where you will find what you most desire.”
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the window.
“Lafayette Cemetery Number One,” I said after a few moments. “A president where so many were laid in their graves—it’s on the corner of Washington and Prytania.”
Frank started the car and pulled back out onto Prytania Street. The rain hadn’t let up, and Frank had to drive slowly because the visibility was so bad. I pushed all my sad thoughts about Doc out of my head—there would be time to mourn him later, once we had the damned sapphire in our hands and this was all over.
The light at Washington was green, and I told Frank to park on Prytania. The main entrance to the cemetery was on Washington Street, but directly across the street was Commander’s Palace. Even with this storm, parking would be a mess on Washington. It always kind of amused me that one of the city’s best restaurants was across the street from a cemetery.
We got out of the car and opened our umbrellas and crossed the street, running down the brick sidewalk. The gates to the cemetery were open. Despite the rain, which was undoubtedly keeping visitors away, it was open. It was getting colder, and the rain continued to pour down. Lightning flashed nearby, and the thunder was deafening. We darted through the gates. A steady stream of water about two inches deep was flowing out of the main walkway through the gates, and my feet were freezing. “Maybe we should wait out the rain,” Frank shouted.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost four. I shook my head. “They lock the gates at five,” I insisted, “and if we’re going to find the thing we should do it now. I’d feel a lot better if it were in our hands rather than his.”
Frank nodded as we made our way through the cemetery, and I sighed.
This was where it got hard.
I wasn’t familiar with Lafayette Number One—it wasn’t where either side of my family had their tombs. Originally, my Creole ancestors were buried in St. Louis Number One, just outside the French Quarter, and there was a Diderot mausoleum there. But about a hundred years ago, for some reason the Diderots had started being buried in the cemetery out near Metairie, at the end of Canal Street. The Bradleys had always used that same cemetery. This was my first time ever setting foot in Lafayette Number One.
Legend holds that the original F
rench settlers had tried burying their dead below ground, but the first rains had brought the bodies up to the surface. This was why they started building small mausoleums, with spaces for multiple coffins to be put in at once. Once the mausoleum was full, the next body was simply shoved into the oldest crypt, and the former occupant and their coffin was shoved into the back, where a receptacle was built for the old bones and decayed coffins. The cemeteries were like cities for the dead, with the mausoleums looking like little houses and the pathways between them laid out like streets. Lafayette was really the old American cemetery, from the olden days when the descendants of the original French looked down their noses at their new neighbors and refused to mix with them. The cemeteries were filled with beautifully sculpted statuary either in front of the door or on top of the mausoleum. The more stern Protestants simply adorned their mausoleums with a huge cross on the top, not going in for that Catholic idolatry.
“I see at least five angels just from here,” Frank said through chattering teeth. “Which one did he mean?”
I shook my head. “We could be here all night,” I replied. I was feeling a little discouraged. I thought for a moment. “The next line has to do with those who gave their lives fighting the fire.” My own teeth were starting to chatter. We took shelter from the wind in the doorway of a mausoleum marked McQuay. “I wonder if there’s a—” I stopped talking, and pointed directly ahead of us.
jefferson fire station was carved across the top of a mausoleum. Beneath the words, a horse-drawn fire truck was carved into the marble. The mausoleum directly to the right had a giant angel standing in front of it, carrying a sword.
“This is too damned easy,” Frank said. He was shivering. “I mean, come on, it’s even in the same street from the damned gate.”
“I don’t know, Frank,” I snapped. “Maybe Doc just thought I was too stupid to find it if he made it hard.”
“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it,” Frank said.
“Well, he did want me to be able to find it,” I replied. “And he pretty much fixed it so that Mr. Sjowall wouldn’t give the last riddle to anyone but me.”
