Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
“ H ey, are you okay?” The man was heading down the long hallway toward Flip, who was, in fact, light-headed and weak-kneed.
By the time the man reached him, Flip had managed to regain a bit of composure. “I’m fine. Sorry. I think I just got walloped by jet lag.” That wasn’t a particularly good excuse, but it would have to do.
The man’s nervous expression eased into a smile. “And this city can be a little overwhelming sometimes. Anyway, welcome. I’m Anthony Bergeron. Tony, actually. Assistant director. And you’re here for the tour?”
“Yes, please.”
“Great! Let me talk to Kat for just a sec and then we can get started.”
“It’s just me?” Flip was surprised.
“Unless someone else shows up in the next three minutes, you get me all to yourself. Hang on. ”
Tony ducked into the nearby room to talk to the young woman, which gave Flip a good opportunity to stare at him. Of course, he wasn’t dressed like Scratch; instead of a suit, Tony wore jeans and a pale-blue oxford shirt. His hair was the same dark brown as Scratch’s, but unoiled so that the curls were more noticeable. He had the same face shape, high cheekbones, and somewhat pointy chin. The same sensual lips, strong nose, and arched brows. His height and build were identical to Scratch’s. He even moved with the same confident grace and gave the same overall impression of a man assured of his own beauty and determined not to take life too seriously. The biggest difference between them were the eyes—dark amber for both of them, but Tony’s lacked the depths of sorrow that sometimes appeared in Scratch’s gaze.
And, of course, Tony was entirely real, whereas Scratch was a dream ghost.
There was a logical explanation for the resemblance—there had to be. Either Flip was misremembering what Scratch looked like, or he’d passed Tony on the street. Flip lived only two blocks away from here, after all, and even a brief encounter could have influenced his dreams.
But neither of those explanations rang true.
He was pulled out of his reverie by Tony, back in the hallway and smiling at him. “Looks like you get a private tour. Usually we charge ten bucks, but a couple of the rooms are sort of a mess right now because we just finished an art exhibition, so I’m not going to charge you. Your house tour is on the house.”
Oh, that wink was exactly like Scratch.
“That’s really nice of you. I hope I’m not keeping you from more important work.”
“Giving tours is my favorite thing, and I don’t often get to do it. So let me formally welcome you to the Bergeron-Catanzaro House, built in 1826 and named after two of the families that lived here.”
Rather belatedly, Flip had a realization. “Bergeron. That’s your?—”
“Yep. Sadly, my family hasn’t owned this place since the mid-nineteenth century. But I credit the house with giving me a career. When I was a kid, my parents used to point it out and tell me it was ours once, and that got me interested in our family history, and that got me interested in history in general. Then a job opened up here right after I finished my MA and… and, I’m sorry, you didn’t come here for the Anthony Bergeron Life Story.” He looked a little sheepish but not truly regretful.
“It’s a good story. I’m glad you told me. That connection is really cool.”
“C’mon. Let me show you around the place.”
The tour started in a large front room that had begun life as a parlor or music room. Tony launched into an explanation of who built the house and why it was designed the way it was. His tale continued as they peeked into a bedroom, a bathroom—obviously not original to the house—a dining room, a kitchen, and a long window-lined space that he said had once been the site of an organized-crime-related shootout. Although the stories themselves were interesting, what really delighted Flip was Tony’s depth of knowledge and passion for his subject.
The tour was thorough and not simply confined to the main house. Together they explored the courtyard, the gardens, and the building that had originally housed the kitchen and enslaved people. Tony didn’t try to underplay the grimness of slavery. As they stood in the lower part of that building, which had been used as an office by the man who owned the place in the 1950s, Tony spread his hands. “Some people like to argue that it was better to be a slave working in a fine house rather than in the sugarcane fields, and maybe that’s so, but the truth is that these people were forced to work hard, tolerate substandard housing, and endure assaults on their dignity, autonomy, and physical safety.”
Flip nodded. He could never hope to truly understand what enslaved people had gone through, but seeing a place where some of them had lived helped make their stories feel more real to him. “I have no clue whether any of my ancestors owned other human beings. Does it make you feel weird to know that yours did?”
Luckily, Tony didn’t seem offended by the question. “A little, yeah. But also, some of my ancestors were enslaved. I’m New Orleans Creole. My people came from France, Spain, Africa, Haiti, Sicily. I’m not proud of everything they all did. But it’s complicated, you know? Anyway, I guess if you go digging around in anyone ’s family history, you’re going to unearth some hard truths.”
“Wouldn’t have to dig far with me,” Flip muttered. One generation would do it.
By the time they returned to the hallway near the front door, over ninety minutes had passed, a half hour longer than the official tour. Apparently nobody had shown up for the three o’clock, which was just fine with Flip. He’d enjoyed his time with Tony. “Well, thanks,” he said, feeling a little awkward. “A lot, I mean. This was great.”
Tony beamed. “How long are you in town? I can recommend some places to visit if you want to absorb more history. Or, you know, just eat well.” Was that a slightly flirty tone? Maybe.
“Oh, I live here, actually. I mean, I just moved here two days ago. I’m just a couple blocks away.” Flip pointed in the direction of his apartment.
“That’s great! I—” Tony paused, a blush coloring his cheeks. “Um, it’s a great city. Lots to see and do.”
It had been a long time since Flip had flirted back with someone. Eons. But Tony was so handsome and charming, and Flip felt as if they’d known each other much longer than ninety minutes. “I’d love to hear your suggestions.”
Their gazes caught. Flip had to squash the irrational and idiotic urge to pull Tony into a kiss. It didn’t help when Tony’s tongue darted out to briefly lick his bottom lip.
“Tell you what.” Tony glanced around as if someone might be listening in and then dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “I’m tied up tonight and tomorrow, but how about if we meet here Thursday around two o’clock? I have the afternoon off, and I’ll take you on a walking tour of the French Quarter. Also free of charge,” he added with a grin.
Flip decided to be brave. “I could take us out to dinner. Just to be fair.”
“I like that plan very much.”
Plan. That word renewed Flip’s memory of Scratch, but he pushed the thought away. It was dumb to be thinking of imaginary men when he’d soon be going on a date with a real one.
“Hey,” Tony added, almost as an afterthought, “I never asked your name.”
“Flip Devin. No houses named after me, as far as I know.”
“See you Thursday, Flip Devin.”
He wrote more words that evening and sketchily plotted out the next several scenes. His suitcase, he learned, was now in Houston. If he could bring himself to believe the airline rep, it was due to arrive in New Orleans first thing in the morning.
When it was fairly late, he took a stroll down Bourbon Street, where drunken, noisy crowds still swarmed, and the music and bright lights swirled around him like a fever dream. Sometimes he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a woman dressed in a long gown or a man in a stovepipe hat, but they always disappeared when he turned his head to look. The odors of booze, perfume, tobacco and marijuana smoke, and frying food filled his nose. He remembered watching Dumbo when he was a little kid, intrigued but also frightened by the scene in which the little elephant gets drunk and hallucinates. Now he was Dumbo, despite being sober.
He fell asleep shortly after returning home, and he didn’t dream.
In the morning, an airline rep very earnestly told him that his luggage piece was on the way to New Orleans, while the AirTag said it was back in Oakland. “Can I at least get frequent flyer miles for all the travel my suitcase has done?” he asked the rep. She wasn’t amused.
Guided by his phone, he walked a couple of miles to a vintage clothing shop. It had higher prices than a thrift store, but he found a couple of shirts he liked, including a collared sweater with an orange-and-brown geometric design. The sweater, he thought, would be perfect for tomorrow’s date with Tony. If it was a date. It might be just a friendly local showing a newcomer around. And the sweater would be fine for that as well.
Afterward he gathered more groceries and returned home to write. It was warm today—and far muggier than California—and although he initially produced a lot of words, torpor eventually settled in. He stripped out of his sweaty clothes and lay spread-eagled on the bed, thankful for the ceiling fan. For some reason it was easier to believe in ghosts, fortunetelling, and the third eye when heat clung to the skin and made the air feel thick and blurry.
Miss Amelie was across the street when, freshly showered, he ventured out for dinner. “Told you,” she called. “Open up that Clear Eye and the writing flows nice and easy. Never mind the heat. You’ll get used to it.”
Could she see him at his desk, typing away? He didn’t think the angle was right for that. Maybe she lived in an apartment across the way and could spy on him from there.
Flip strolled over to her. “How long have you lived around here?”
She frowned in thought. “In the Quarter? Moved here after Katrina. But I’ve lived in the city my whole life.”
“I can’t imagine that. I’ve never lived anywhere for more than a few years.”
“You ain’t found the right garden to put down your roots. Don’t mean you won’t. But some folks don’t get planted until they die.” She gave a raspy laugh.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He used to think that he was content being a tumbleweed, to use her plant analogy. He’d thought it meant freedom. Lately, though, he was maybe feeling untethered in a more negative way. Unconnected to anywhere—or to anyone.
Miss Amelie shuffled a deck of cards but didn’t deal any of them out. “You think you came here because you had fun on vacation in this city once, and ’cause it ain’t cold here in March, and ’cause you figure it’s a good city for authors. But maybe you came here ’cause you’re s’posed to be here.” She leaned back in the chair, her expression implying she’d said something significant.
Flip felt slightly stunned. Her analysis of his reasons was spot-on. But he didn’t agree with her last sentence. “Are you talking about fate? I don’t believe in fate.”
She harrumphed and slammed down the deck of cards. “Don’t believe in ghosts, don’t believe in fate. What do you believe in, boy? Anyhow, that ain’t what I meant. Sometimes a person just fits into a particular place like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Could be ’cause they got ties there, or could be they’re just the right shape. Now, get along and find yourself dinner. Turn left when you get to Decatur and go up a block to the place with the duck quesadillas. That’s what you’re in the mood for. And hurry yourself or you’re gonna get caught in the rain.”
He’d never even heard of a duck quesadilla, but now that she’d mentioned it, well, it sounded pretty tasty. His stomach growled. “See you later, Miss Amelie. ”
She was staring down at her phone and didn’t look up. “Tell that old player that I wouldn’t mind if he came around again. Ain’t seen him for a long time.”
Flip decided it was best not to ask what she meant by this—and even better not to think about it at all. He shook his head and headed for Decatur.
The restaurant wasn’t anything fancy, but the quesadillas hit the spot perfectly. Flip sat at the bar to eat, enjoying the noisy buzz of conversations and the bustle of activity, even when people bumped into him in passing. He was just considering whether he might still be hungry enough for red beans and rice when there was a loud crash. Momentarily startled, he recovered and identified it as a thunderclap. Miss Amelie had said that rain was on the way, but of course nobody needed supernatural talents to foresee the weather. They could just use a phone app.
Flip decided to forgo the extra food, and by the time he stepped onto the sidewalk, several more thunderclaps had resounded and large drops were starting to pelt the pavement. He took off for home at a fast clip, grateful he had only a few blocks to travel. Rain started sheeting down in earnest before he turned the corner onto St. Philip, leaving him soaked to the skin. Water flowed down the streets as if they were rivers, carrying wrappers and other bits of debris. He thought he saw a crowd of people hurrying northwest, away from the river, but that must have been some odd trick of the downpour and poor light, because when he squinted he saw that the street was empty .
Just outside the door to his building, a mangled umbrella lay on the pavement like a dead prehistoric bird. It was the kind with a handle you could hook over your arm when it wasn’t raining. Without really thinking about it, he picked the thing up and closed it as best he could—which wasn’t very well—and carried it inside. He stood for a moment in the building’s small vestibule, dripping and staring bemusedly at the broken umbrella.
And damned if he didn’t carry the umbrella upstairs to his apartment and set it in the corner of the kitchen, as if it might possibly be useful for something. He didn’t feel quite right in the head. Not insane, but… muddled. It was as if he had a high fever, except he didn’t feel sick at all. Or maybe it was like being drunk or high. No, that wasn’t it. He felt as if he were in a dream. Hell, his actual dreams—the ones with Scratch—had felt more real than he did now.
Dazed, he wandered out onto the gallery, where the rain fell so hard that he could barely breathe, where he was blind to everything but the bolts of lightning and the thunder that reverberated through his body like an alien heartbeat. He heard a piano playing something lively, and a crowd laughing. He tasted cigarettes and bourbon.
When he came inside, he closed the windows but not the curtains, stripped off every stitch of clothing, and sat down to write.