CHAPTER NINE
Funerals are perhaps the darkest moments in the lives of those who lose a loved one. The day after the funeral, however, is like the sun rising from the darkness. It’s a reminder that life goes on in spite of grief, that joy can be found in the ashes of sadness, that the memory of the one we’ve lost is not an impediment to the memories we create after their loss.
This is true for the Lacroixs as well. They are not joyful, per se, but grief no longer settles over them like a blanket. The children eat well, and even Gabriel seems a little less dejected and dissociated. Etienne and Josephine are tense, no doubt in part because of the awkward interaction between them and Audrey at the funeral, but Josephine no long trembles like a leaf, and Etienne doesn’t seem quite so stoic.
When breakfast is finished, Etienne announces, "Children, your grandmother and I are going to take you on an outing. Mardi Gras is not for young children, but there's a celebration in Audubon Park that's more family-friendly. Mary, you're welcome to join us if you'd like."
I open my mouth to accept, but then I think about Professor Thibodeaux. I might not get a better chance to meet with him. "Thank you," I reply, "but I have some personal errands to attend to. If it's all right with you, I'll make it up to the children by preparing dinner and snacks, and we can watch a movie together tonight."
Etienne smiles gratefully, and I'm relieved to realize that he once more wanted this to be a family-only outing. "That sounds wonderful to me. What do you think, children?"
Gabriel nods. “That’s all right.”
“Can we make ice cream sundaes?” Amelia asks.
I smile at her. “I am famous for my ice cream sundaes.”
She grins, and I feel a touch less guilty about leaving them to go snooping. Josephine gives me a smile of her own and says, "I'm so sorry, Mary. It must be awkward for you to be here just when we happen to suffer such a tragedy."
“I’m well experienced with tragedy, I’m afraid,” I reply. “My only concern is that you all remember that you love each other and you’ll get through this tragedy no matter how terrible it seems now.”
“We’ll certainly remember that,” she says. “It’s hard to face one’s grief in the moment, but the sun rises nonetheless, doesn’t it?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
I take the children upstairs to get ready. Amelia is excited about her day, and while subtle differences in her tone of voice and posture tell me she hasn’t fully processed her grief just yet, I can tell that she’s ready to move on.
Gabriel is harder to read. He doesn’t seem as excited for this outing as Amelia, but he’s a far more reserved person than she is, and it’s difficult to know how much of his shyness is due to grief and how much is his ordinary personality. He does mention that he’d like a particular brand of caramel sauce for his Sundae, and the fact that he can think about that is an encouraging sign. I promise him I’ll buy that sauce on my way home from my errands, then send him on his way.
Once the family leaves, I return to the parlor. The composition Gabriel plays—the one supposedly cursed by Jacques Poitier—remains on the piano. The family hasn’t touched it since the night Claude died. In fact, the entire parlor is as it was when he died. I’m sure they’ll clean it soon now that the funeral is over, but perhaps their superstition will prevent them a while longer.
I realize I’m stalling when the grandfather clock chimes the hour, and I still stand in front of the piano staring at the sheet music. I reach for it with trembling hands, terrified for reasons I hesitate to express. Foolish as it sounds, a part of me fears that when I touch the music, my sister’s vengeful spirit will attack me.
There’s really no reason for me to feel this way. Annie and I didn’t part on good terms, but I’ve not felt so frightened of her in months, not since my first governess position when I have another nightmare of Annie. Interestingly enough, this one also involves her eyes, though in this case, they are empty black sockets rather than orbs of hate.
Finally, I grab the sheet music almost aggressively. When nothing happens, I sigh, partly in exasperation and partly in embarrassment. I look wryly at the yellowed paper and say aloud. “You’ve caused quite a bit more trouble than you’re worth.”
The sheet music has no response to that.
I dress and leave for Loyola. Henri has taken the car, but it’s only an hour’s walk to the University, and I enjoy the chance to stretch my legs every now and then.
The city is alive with anticipation. Mardi Gras is to New Orleans what… actually, I don’t know of any local celebration in the United States as important as Mardi Gras is to New Orleans. I am aware of the salacious rumors and stories that surround Mardi Gras, but to the people here, the holiday is not a lewd celebration of drink and debauchery but a chance to exhibit their culture and their uniqueness. New Orleans truly is a city unlike any other in the United States. It is a culture that grew apart from the Spanish and English influences that shaped most of the nation, and its distance from France means that it differs even from the culture of its founders.
As I observe the wreaths, banners, flowers and even costumes adorning the places and people of the city, I am struck by this uniqueness, this otherness. In a way, it feels as though I’ve traveled to a foreign nation, one that is neighbor to the nation I call home but not an identical twin. Much like Amelia and Gabriel, New Orleans is sister to the rest of the United States, but still separate. They cling fiercely to their traditions, and that pride is evident on every face.
I reach the University to find a much more sanitized version of Mardi Gras preparations. The banners are more generic, the costumes softer—at least among the staff—and signs everywhere warn students that drinking and drug use on campus will not be tolerated and campus police will patrol the university grounds.
I chuckle in amusement at that. I doubt anyone seriously worries about the state of the school, but I am certain the janitorial staff is not looking forward to the cleanup.
Professor Thibodeaux’s office is on the third floor of the College of Music and Media. He is in a meeting with a student when I arrive, but a friendly receptionist in the lobby of the college informs me that he will make time to see me when he’s finished.
As I wait, I glance at the sheet music again. I’m not sure what I expect when I look at it. It’s not as though the notes are going to move to reveal a hidden message or the song is going to play itself like…
Like it did the other night.
Now I’m being foolish. That was clearly a nightmare. I very rarely sleepwalk, but it’s happened before.
I just feel silly about this whole thing. Maybe I should put the sheet music away and just ask about the rivalry.
“Miss Wilcox?”
I lift my head, and the receptionist says, “He’ll see you now.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I take the elevator to the third floor and soon find myself in a cozy but comfortable office. Like the offices of many professors and academics I’ve known, the walls of Professor Thibodeaux’s office is lined with bookshelves, and each bookshelf is crammed with books: textbooks, notebooks, composition books, and even large, leatherbound manuscripts that are properly described as tomes.
Louis smiles at me when I enter. “Miss Wilcox. You’re the governess for the Lacroixs, right?”
And now I realize that everything I talk to him about will get back to Josephine. I should have known better. I’ve mingled with high society before. They talk to each other.
But I’m here now. I can’t just leave. So I have to make up an innocent reason to talk to him. That means I can’t show him the sheet music.
“Yes. You saw me at the funeral for Mr. Durand.”
His face falls. “Yes. I’m so sorry for Audrey.”
“It’s a tragedy. I feel terribly for her loss.”
He shakes his head. “I feel even worse for her future. I’m afraid she has a fight ahead.”
“Oh?”
He sighs. “Between you and me, there is a great deal of tension between Josephine and Audrey. It’s not appropriate of me to tell you this, but you’ll be in the middle of it soon enough, so I suppose there’s no harm.”
I’m encouraged by this. If he’s comfortable speaking this openly with me, then maybe I can risk probing a little myself. I’ll let him share first, though. As I said before, one learns more with one’s ears than with one’s mouth.
"There's a great deal of rivalry between the musical families in this city," he says, taking a seat behind the desk. "It's unfortunate that something as universal as music can lead to such bitterness between people, but it's the truth. The Durands are one of the most longstanding musical giants in New Orleans. Their patriarch, Pierre Durand, arrived in 1729. They founded the first musical theater in the city the following year, and for two hundred years, they were the premier… shall we say, emperors of the music scene in the city. If you wanted to succeed in any of the musical styles that were popular between 1730 and 1930, and you were from New Orleans, you worked with a Durand.
"Then the Great Depression hit. The Durands had much of their money invested in ventures that collapsed when the stock market crashed. They were able to survive the Depression, but to do so, they had to sell a great deal of their properties. By the end of the Second World War, the city no longer had a musical czar."
His eyes brightened. “Until Marcel.”
“I hear he was a prodigy.”
"The word doesn't do him justice. He was brilliant in ways that only a few in history can match. If jazz enjoyed one-hundredth of the popularity of rock or pop music, he would be considered one of the greatest to ever live. When Claude Durand met him, he thought him the salvation of his family."
My eyes widen. “Claude gave Marcel his start?”
“Claude gave Marcel everything. When he heard about the young Marcel’s performance at the Musee Musique, he immediately endowed Marcel’s musical education.”
“I thought Marcel’s father did that.”
“Marcel’s father purchased the piano. Claude purchased the finest music teachers on Earth and ensured Marcel had access to them at all times. He was only a few years older than Marcel, but he was a shrewd businessman.”
The brightness fades from his eyes. “Not shrewd enough, unfortunately. Marcel had a natural talent for business as well as music. When he began to grow famous for his talents, he went behind Claude’s back and signed deals that not only freed him from Claude’s grasp but also gave him control of much of New Orleans’ music scene.”
“Oh my!” I exclaim. “Claude must have been furious!”
“For a time, yes, but eventually, he forgave Marcel. At least, he seemed to. The belief among those in the know is that when Claude went bankrupt, he had no choice but to accept Marcel’s offer to manage the Midnight Melody. Some consider it an ignominious and humiliating end to the Durand family legacy.”
“Including Audrey?”
“Oh yes. She never forgave Marcel for what he did to her husband. I don’t know if she loved Claude, but she saw in him a chance to be at the pinnacle of high society. To end up instead the wife of a second-rate failure? That’s not something a woman like Audrey can handle.”
He falls silent, and I sit there, stunned. After a minute, he smiles. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ve been somewhat wistful lately, I’m afraid. What is it you wanted to see me about?”
I hesitate a second, then pull the sheet music out. His eyes widen when he sees it. I hand it to him and ask, “Can you confirm that this is the piece Marcel played when he passed?”
“Well, I can confirm that this is a Marcel Lacroix composition. I can’t say for sure that it’s the one he played when he passed away. The truth of that evening is, unfortunately, obfuscated by conjecture. But this is definitely his piece.”
“And Jacques Poitier? Is it true he placed a curse on this piece?”
Louis frowns and looks sharply at me. “Who told you about that?”
The change in demeanor knocks me off balance. “I… I heard rumors,” is all I manage to stutter out.
“Rumors are better ignored,” he replies, gently but firmly. “Especially when they concern one’s employers.” He stands and says, “I apologize again for telling you so much that is none of my business or yours. Let’s make a pact that we will speak no further of this. To anyone.”
“Yes. Of course. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”
“No need to apologize. It was I who stepped out of line.”
He escorts me to the door and leaves me with an admonition. “Care deeply for those children, Miss Wilcox. They will need you. And by the end, I’m sure you will need them as well.”
The end? The end of what? What is he talking about?
Before I have a chance to ask him, he closes the door in my face. I stand there, heart pounding, and wonder for the first time if I might be in danger myself.
Vie Apres a la Mort might not be cursed, but there is no doubt a hex surrounds this family. I fear that by involving myself, I am bringing this hex down on my own head.