by John Brunner
Time was when, as a callow adolescent, he had dreamed about her in such images as made him glad he was not Catholic and required to make confession. She had been the despair of her family’s servants because she was forever doing mad ungirlish things—exploiting her lesser weight to scramble higher in a tree than him or Auberon, or swimming longer underwater, or on one memorable occasion drinking most from a stolen jug of corn liquor and keeping it down while the boys’ bravado led to vomiting and repentance.
For a while he had imagined they might marry, but that was before the disaster that overtook his family’s fortunes. Now he preferred not to think about her.
Today, however, it was too late to hide. She had caught sight of him. He could not hear her, for there was such a racket, but the way she brandished her ribbon-decked parasol unmistakably signaled come and join us! Reluctant, yet expectant, Joel complied.
And was obliged to stand by, a pace and a half apart from the others, as Auberon airily tossed coins at the porters who were taking his trunks in charge, doffed hat and gloves with perfectly schooled movements, and in turn kissed his mother’s cheek, clasped his father’s hand with demonstrative warmth, embraced Louisette… and turned to Joel and said affably, “How decent of you to turn out, old fellow! Or are you just reporting the new liner for your paper?”
Since the war the Moynes had omitted to invite the Siskins to any of their grand affairs; similarly they had found excuses to decline invitations going the other way. In that moment Joel was far less than regretful about it.
But to be snubbed here by his oldest friend was intolerable. He advanced beaming, making no mention of the fact that he was supposed to be at the St. Charles Hotel investigating mysterious Hamish Gordon; that his editor had been displeased with his last half-dozen pieces and warned that, if this time he didn’t bring in something rival papers would envy, he would surely be dismissed; that he had run the risk simply to greet Auberon on arrival and fix a date to talk over his experiences abroad. Instead—
“Great to see you!” he exclaimed. “Let me know as soon as you’re settled, and I’ll tell you about the changes the old burg has undergone since you left for Europe! A newspaperman, you know, has all sorts of contacts…!”
Appending a monstrous wink, he tipped his hat and marched away, seething.
“How strangely Joel acts these days!” murmured Louisette as he departed. “Almost as though he doesn’t like us anymore… But that’s up to him, I guess.”
Turning to her brother, she embraced him a second time with equal fervor.
“I’ll see you at home tonight!” she exclaimed.
Auberon blinked at her. “You mean you’re not devoting today to the Prodigal Returned? But I have so much to tell you, Loose!”
“I’m sure you do, Obe!”—invoking another of the nicknames they had shared since childhood. (Joel had been Jewel. Gabriel had always been Gabriel; they had forgotten why.) “But—well, your little sister is growing up!”
“I can see that,” Auberon said slowly. “What do you mean, though?”
Indulgently their mother intervened.
“She is pledged to make a river trip today with a gentleman called Arthur Gattry. He’s the best friend—indeed he was groomsman at the wedding—of Major Hugo Spring, who has now resigned from the army and… Oh, Auberon, there is so much to tell you! Infinitely more than could be packed into a letter! Andrew, I think Louisette is in a hurry—what’s the time? Oh, see the watch I gave him the year you went to Europe!”
“It keeps,” her husband grunted, “less than railroad time. If Marocain weren’t beyond reach, I’d tell him so.”
Imelda threw her hands in the air. “Isn’t that just like your father?” she appealed to Auberon. “The trouble we went to, trying to pick a suitable gift! And, come to think of it, that was a blessing in disguise, for it was at Marocain’s that we first saw the gentleman who has invited Louisette today, along with his friend Major Spring who is now, as I set out to say, married. And it’s his wife, a charming lady of very old family, who has agreed to chaperone them aboard the excursion boat—not that in these enlightened days one feels forced to adhere to the strictest of the old-fashioned conventions…”
Life at home had apparently changed little in four years. Auberon concealed a sigh, gave Louisette another peck on the cheek—which passed for forgiveness although inwardly he was fuming—and braced himself to endure his homecoming.
He was already regretting his disdain of Joel.
Depressed beyond measure by Auberon’s coolness, Joel now recalled with agonizing clarity the strictness of his editor’s orders. Could he have thrown away a precious job on a pointless sentimental errand?
How could his absence have changed Auberon so radically? Or was it some sort of European affectation? Who could say?
At this time of morning the wharves and quays were swarming with people: not only passengers from the lately arrived ships, along with crewmen just paid off and looking forward to a spree, but also porters, roustabouts, shoeshine boys, customs officers, peddlers offering snack food and cold drinks.
Through this maze of humanity Joel somehow made his way, moving like an automaton, half thinking he might salvage his situation by going at once to the St. Charles and perhaps bearding Gordon in the lobby, for it was definite that no indirect approach would succeed. The hotel staff must have been well bribed.
Why such mystery? The effect had only been to increase public curiosity. Nobody as visibly rich as Gordon could fail to excite interest in New Orleans, where gossip was a thriving industry. He would surely have done better to give one dull interview to the first reporter he chanced across, whereupon competing papers would have admitted they’d been scooped and let the matter rest.
Could it be that he was hoping not to avoid attention, but attract it?
Yet, intrigued as he was by this puzzling financier, and worried as he was about his job, Joel found himself unable to transform intention into action. Not so much against his will as devoid of it, he simply wandered—uptown, upriver, for no better reason than that he happened to be facing that direction when he started.
“Hey! Look out!”
The shout so startled Joel that he lost his footing on a patch of spilled oil and went sprawling. Not only the hand with which he tried to break his fall, but his best pants that he had put on to go meet Auberon, were smutched on the instant.
But it was the lesser of two evils.
His random course had brought him to that section of the levee devoted to river traffic. Like a metallic forest the chimneys of side- and sternwheelers ranked by the score along the waterfront, while here and there a ray of sunlight gleamed on a brass bell or the tilted glass of a pilothouse window. A steam crane was hoisting bulky freight on to wagons, and its current load—hogsheads of tobacco in a rope net—was being swung across his path. Another step, and he would have been knocked over like a tenpin.
Two men nearby hastened to help him up. From the crane’s cab an anxious black face looked out, and the same voice that had warned him in the nick of time inquired concernedly, “Boss, is you all right?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Joel answered dispiritedly, brushing his pants as best he could and retrieving his hat, now wet and dirty also. The two who had run to help him looked expectant.
Of course. A tip…
He found nothing in his change pocket bar a couple of dimes. This was not what they had been hoping for. Sullen-faced, they moved away, and Joel was about to do the same when a chord of memory resonated. He called to the crane driver.
“Jes’ a minute, boss!” came the reply. “Las’ one of the load… Thar she goes!”
And the barrels of tobacco completed their interrupted journey to the back of a nearby dray.
His immediate task over, the crane driver clambered to the ground, moving awkwardly because he had to favor his right leg. That made Joel certain of his identification.
“Suh, I sho’ am sorry fo’—”
> Joel cut him short. “Oh, I wasn’t looking where I was going! But I think I know you. Didn’t you advertise, just after the war, to find your wife and children?”
The driver froze in mid-movement. When he spoke again, it was in the accent of an educated man.
“I did, sir. We had been separated when I ran off to join the Union forces, and all other means of tracing them had failed.” With a grimace he appended, “So did the advertisements.”
“I’m sorry,” Joel said lamely.
The other shrugged: that was the past! But his curiosity had been piqued.
“How is it you recollect me, sir?”
“I was in the Intelligencer’s office when you came to place an advertisement. In fact I thought of trying to make a story out of your experience.”
“Story?”—with a sour smile. “Only too real, sir.”
“I mean a moralizing article. You were a soldier, of course. Weren’t you wounded in action?”
A dismissive gesture was the main answer. It was supplemented with: “But I’ve been luckier than some. I do have regular work.”
“Hah! Then that ‘some’ includes me, I guess. I was sent out today to bring in a particular story, and— Oh, no matter. But in the hope of rescuing something from the wreck I’ve made of my day: is there anything going on around here that might make news?”
He uttered that in the tone of one clutching at straws.
“Well, I heard tell that the crew of the Dolores Day planned to jump ship. Captain Grigg promised a raise in pay and broke his word, so they ain’t going to let her leave till he shows the color of his money.”
Joel shook his head. “Not much use to me, probably. It’ll have been covered by our regular river correspondent. Still, I’ll check it out. Is she moored far from here?”
“I guess about ten minutes’ walk. Just before you get to the excursion steamers like the Isaiah Plott and the Judah Rigby.”
“Thanks very much. Ah…” Joel’s hand had started toward his pocket again before he recalled that he had no change left, only a five-dollar bill he could not afford to break. But in any case the black man stopped him with one amazingly pale palm upraised.
“No charge, boss. Just figure I’m glad your headline ain’t going to read: ‘Our correspondent brained by steam crane. Necktie party held on waterfront!’”
With sudden violence he spat on the ground, swung around, and reascended the ladder to his cab.
Last night the audience at the Grand Philharmonic Hall had been unbearable: catcalling, booing, even throwing rotten fruit.
And yet in his heart Gaston d’Aurade could not blame them. Did they not have grounds when two of the performers were a juggler who kept dropping his knives and balls, and a singer whose voice would have shamed a crow? To make matters worse, some of the pit musicians had reported drunk.
After the show Gaston had had a stand-up row with his employer, and returned to his dismal lodgings so overwrought he could scarcely sleep. Waking at dawn, he had gone to early mass at the cathedral in search of spiritual calm.
But even the music he had heard there had done little to ease his mind, for every note brought back the collapse of his youthful ambitions. Why was he arranging for a theatre band of such dismal quality that he had to simplify even the plainest harmonies for fear of losing his musicians partway through a number? Why was he not devising beautiful brilliant anthems for the cathedral choir?
Silently he swore that if he was still in the same plight at the end of the year, at any cost he would break free. It was reported that since the war many cities scattered across the newly opened territories had become rich enough to afford a taste of culture. Indeed, one rumor claimed that a wealthy tycoon somewhere in the Midwest (but the names of his family and city varied from one version to the next) had invited an entire European orchestra to emigrate at his expense. Surely if even half, even a tenth of such stories were to be credited, there must be a better post for Gaston d’Aurade on this continent!
After mass he had breakfasted on coffee and beignets, then walked to the river and followed its levees westward. Watching the majestic flow of those broad waters often restored his peace of mind. Once he had planned to voyage from mouth to source and back and compose en route a tone poem which would capture all the Mississippi’s moods. Now he feared that that too was doomed to become one more among countless empty dreams.
At least he had found a deputy for today’s matinee performance, so he could spare time for a trip on an excursion boat; they were not expensive, and often one ate better on board than at his lodgings. Creole cuisine was not among the things Gaston had learned to approve since his arrival. Sometimes he wondered whether he had any real reason to remain in Louisiana, or whether he had stayed solely because of the shame he would feel were he to retreat to France poor and defeated, like his cousin who had turned the Hotel Limousin first into a laughingstock and then into a tragedy…
Suddenly he detected the faint sound of a marching band. At once his mood lightened. As a child he had heard the band of the Garde Royale parading through Paris. Ever since, music of that type had retained the power to thrill him. Maybe it could turn the trick again today.
But what lured him turned out to be nothing like the smart, well-rehearsed ensemble he had envisaged. Such bands did exist, for although few of the long-trade steamboats carried musicians—and aboard those that did one rarely found more than a string trio, its members black as often as not and required to double as waiters or barbers—most excursion boats and, of course, all showboats boasted orchestras equipped with ex-military instruments pawned by their former players at the end of the war. A few such, by their decorum and polished phrasing, had impressed Gaston.
This one at first sight—and again at second sight—did not. It was a gang of ill-clad men and boys aged from fifteen to fifty, about a dozen mulattos and half as many whites, under the direction of a short swarthy man with dark eyes, a bushy black moustache, and a manner as excitable as a fractious horse’s. He was conducting his motley bunch of instrumentalists with frantic waves of a wide Mexican hat. If one could call it conducting! He was practically dancing, his gestures were so vigorous. Accustomed to formal concerts and regimental march-pasts, Gaston was shocked.
Yet the sound was potent, and not to be denied. He found himself on the verge of turning away, and at the same time prey to wistful jealousy. This was scarcely to be dignified with the name of music proprement dite… but yonder a clarinetist was evoking a fierce rich tone from an instrument overdue for the rubbish dump, whereas his opposite number at the Grand Philharmonic Hall customarily produced from a brand-new Boehm squeaks reminiscent of a door on badly oiled hinges.
Correct in pitch, granted, for the most part. Which was supremely important according to his teachers back home. So Gaston straightened, resolving to continue in the direction of the excursion boats—and abruptly recognized the tune the band was playing. He had often conducted it when it was popular five years ago. He had been glad when the audience ceased to shout requests for it, owing to its banal simplicity, yet…
Oh, could he really have failed to recognize “Wake Nicodemus”?
Incredible. And nonetheless that was the tune emerging from a chaotic complex of variations. Much against his will he found himself beating time. With an effort he canceled the impulse. Such peasant stuff appealed to the lower, to the animal side of human nature! Possibly the barbarizing influence of the late war…?
But something was happening that fixed not only his but many other people’s attention. Drawing abreast of a steamer called the Jas. P. Tew, the band formed a rough circle. Two or three of the twenty men who had been following it—along with a string of children of all possible colors—ran up her stage.
It dawned on Gaston what he was watching. There must be some dispute between the crew and captain of this vessel. Possibly Governor Warmoth’s new police, the Metropolitans, would be obliged to take a hand. Gaston had never seen them in action, except aga
inst drunks, tramps and stray niggers, but he was flattered by the choice of their quasi-French name and found himself rationalizing yet one more delay en route to his intended destination on the grounds that this was as diverting as, and naturally cheaper than, a steamer ride.
The little parade had already halted alongside other boats to drum up support for the strike against the Dolores Day. None had been forthcoming. So it was no surprise to Manuel Campos when the captain of the Jas. P. Tew appeared brandishing a pistol and yelling insults, accompanied by deckhands wielding clubs.
But what did startle Manuel almost to the point of dropping his hat was recognizing a man in an impeccable gray coat with matching silk hat, leaning on a walking cane and nodding in time to the rough-and-ready rhythms of his picked-up performers. It was the conductor he had seen at the Grand Philharmonic Hall. To inhabit such a world was Manuel’s chief ambition. His esteem knew no bounds for the Frenchman who, with casual aplomb, directed a score of real musicians all capable of reading the dots-and-lines… which Manuel was not.
His heart thumped madly. Let this be the point where the parade broke up! Let this be his chance to make the acquaintance of that august personage! He badly needed a patron, for he was in the States without intention or resources. He had been supercargo of a boat which attempted to run the Union blockade and ran foul not of patrols but of a storm that wrecked her in western Louisiana, where the people called themselves Acadians and spoke a language that Manuel could puzzle out by, as he put it, twisting his ears, and had no love for the Yanquis. Thanks to the fact that he could coax almost any musical instrument to emit a recognizable tune, he had reached the anonymity of this big city, thinking it easier there to obtain passage back to Mexico.
He had failed completely on that score. But now he was no longer eager to return home. He came from a fishing village with a sideline in smuggling: a boring place, as he had learned to describe it in English. New Orleans, by contrast, was full of endless variety. And no one had questioned his right to employment on the steamers that plied the Mississippi. So long as he was capable of doing the work…
