Chapter 21 SIOBHAN
Chapter 21
S IOBHAN
The first thing to hit her when she stepped off the airplane at Louis Armstrong International Airport, some fourteen miles outside New Orleans, was the heat. It was seven in the evening, and the sun was sinking below the horizon. The sultry air clamped around her like a vise. Marcel had warned her: “In NOLA, when it’s hot, it’s really hot. And when it rains, it rains hard.” So, she had packed for all eventualities, including a swimsuit, mosquito repellant, sunscreen, boots, and a raincoat. Although they were supposedly there for work, Siobhan had no idea what the week would bring. During the flight she had wondered several times how it was possible that the man reading James Ellroy in the seat next to hers had gone from thinking that getting involved with someone like her was a mistake to suggesting she accompany him to his hometown. And not just that—he had also offered to pay for first-class tickets and put her up in his own home. Did this generous invitation stem from a desire to make things up to her, or was it something else? He didn’t seem to be the same Marcel as before—the one who regarded empathy as a manufacturing defect and not a human trait. Either way, there was no point in getting too excited. Before leaving, he told her that his sister had agreed to have their father placed in a memory care center. Although that was probably the reason he had decided to make a trip to New Orleans just then, she had no idea why he had wanted to take her with him. But it was a change of scene, and she figured it would be good for them, given everything that was going on. A few days of keeping a low profile, and, with any luck, everyone would forget about #Sioblack.
Low profile, in Mr. Black’s language, meant:
1) No social media until further notice.
“What, not at all? Not even to post a picture of the airplane wing? But Bella gets annoyed if I don’t tweet at least a couple of times a day.”
“For the love of god. Forget about her. Believe me, you’ll be happier when you decide not to be at the mercy of the”—and here he made air quotes—“obligations of popularity.”
2) And go unnoticed.
“Don’t you think spending the whole flight in sunglasses and a hat is a bit much? It’s not like we’re Brangelina.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m the spitting image of Brad Pitt. In fact, I get mistaken for him all the time.”
They collected their luggage and headed for the exit. A Black woman with short hair and huge hoop earrings was smoking a cigarette next to a ruby-colored Chevy Silverado parked outside the revolving doors. She was tall and robust, but there was something in her features, a kind of symmetrical delicacy, that reminded her of Marcel. Siobhan guessed this was Charmaine Dupont.
They walked over to her.
“That shit will kill you,” Marcel said, berating her.
The woman tossed her cigarette to the ground and crushed it with her platform sandal. She exhaled the smoke with an almost offensive lack of urgency.
“Is that how you greet your sister, you little brat? Marcel Javarious Dupont, give me a hug right now, or I’ll make sure that scrawny Black ass can’t sit down to write for weeks.”
Siobhan pursed her lips to avoid laughing.
The siblings embraced warmly.
“You’re looking good, Chaz.”
“You’d know that if you came to visit more.”
Marcel snorted.
“I’m a busy man, you know that.”
“Pardon me, Mr. President of the United States.” She narrowed her eyes and slapped the air. “Well, then, who’s this lovely thing? The first lady?”
A stifled laugh gave Siobhan away: she liked this woman’s sense of humor.
“I’m Siobhan Harris.” She extended her hand and Marcel’s sister squeezed it warmly. “It’s lovely to meet you, Charmaine. And if I ever get that far, I’ll hire you to keep my office in line.”
Charmaine threw her head back and let out a guttural laugh that offered a glimpse of a slight gap between her upper incisors.
“Oh, she’d be a natural at that, believe me,” agreed Marcel.
“Don’t listen to this idiot, honey. And call me Chaz, won’t you? So you’re the one who has the privilege of witnessing the great American crime author attempting to write a romance, huh?” she said, and a wicked smile appeared at one side of her mouth.
“Half romance,” he clarified.
“My god, how on earth do you put up with him? He’s insufferable.”
“I wonder that myself.”
“Well, you’ll grow fond of him in twenty years or so.”
“Seriously?”
“No, not really.”
Both women laughed, and Marcel shook his head.
“You’ve known each other for five minutes, and you’re best friends already. Unbelievable,” he muttered.
“It’s called sisterhood,” replied Charmaine, and then she winked at Siobhan.
“Whatever. Come on, let’s go.”
They stuck their bags in the trunk and got into the pickup. Up-tempo jazz music filled the air when the engine started. They left the airport and headed toward the city. Although the air-conditioning was set to igloo temperature, Siobhan could feel the heat in her body like the onset of a night fever. She rummaged in her purse for a tissue to dry the sweat beading on her forehead.
Charmaine glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“First time in New Orleans?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“August isn’t the best time to come, of course. The weather is crazy at this time of year: it’s either torrential rain or infernal heat. But I think you’ll like it. The Big Easy has a lot going on.”
“As long as Entergy doesn’t cut off the electricity supply, of course.”
“Brother dearest, that’s the kind of reductionist point of view that gives the state of Louisiana bad press. What will our New York friend think of us?”
“Our New York friend thinks we have gators on the porch, Chaz.”
“You’re kidding.”
Thanks a lot for making me look ignorant in front of your sister, you bastard.
“That was only a joke!” Siobhan protested. “Anyway, everyone knows that New York and New Orleans have a lot in common.”
Marcel turned his head and glanced at her over his shoulder.
“Do you mean they both seem friendly and hospitable, but deep down they’re classist, violent, and racist?”
Charmaine sighed.
“You really are a glass-half-empty kind of a guy, aren’t you?”
“I call it a capacity for critical thought, sis.”
“Yeah, and I call it being a real pain in the ass.”
Marcel’s response was to raise the volume of the radio and hum along to a few bars.
Siobhan concentrated on looking at the views flashing by outside the window. The sun hadn’t quite sunk below the horizon, and the last rays of light bathed the battered highway in a twilight splendor. The landscape was not particularly attractive: factories, cranes, gas stations, and superstores scattered here and there—the usual. In the distance she could make out fields of sugarcane and sweet potato, occasional ruins of stately mansions, and willows bent over by the wind. They left behind the causeway linking New Orleans to Covington across Lake Pontchartrain—twenty-three miles, once the longest in the world—and headed toward Mid-City. The panorama changed as they penetrated deeper into the city. As was the case in many other American cities, there was a clear gap between the suburbs and the urban center, although here you got the feeling the inhabitants cared less about those class distinctions. Traditional shotgun houses rubbed shoulders with French architecture and traces of Spanish colonial style. There was color everywhere: purple to represent justice, green to represent faith, and gold to represent power; the colors of Mardi Gras. They turned right, onto the busy St. Charles Avenue, with the metallic clank and hum of the old trams in the background, and made their way to the Garden District, where the streets became tree lined and the houses considerably larger.
After a few minutes, they parked.
“We’re here,” announced Charmaine.
“This one?” asked Siobhan, stretching her neck to get a good look at the pale yellow mansion.
“Mm-hmm.”
She whistled, unable to hide her surprise.
“Wow!”
“Anne Rice lives right across the street,” Marcel said, pointing.
“Are you shitting me?”
“Who can say?” He shrugged. “Things aren’t what they seem in this city. Didn’t Bon Jovi have a song about that?”
The Dupont residence was in a quiet neighborhood lined with nineteenth-century mansions and colorful trees with roots erupting through the sidewalks. Guarded by an ancient oak tree that had most likely been there since the days of Jean Lafitte, the columned, two-story house had spacious balconies on both levels; the upper held a couple of rocking chairs, and the lower had royal ferns hanging from the arches. Four large windows flanked by shutters looked onto a front yard with exuberant vegetation. Bougainvillea, banana trees, and crape myrtles. A mixture of fecund tropical beauty and elegance.
Charmaine opened a gate topped with a row of fleur-de-lis, the symbol of New Orleans. Siobhan followed the siblings inside, where the house was even more impressive: hardwood floors, high ceilings, a vast spiral staircase coming down to the entrance hall, moldings, French windows, and decor that betrayed the large amount of money invested in the property. She tried to imagine Marcel as a child running around this house, but she couldn’t picture it.
“Have you always lived here?”
“Not at all. We used to live in Tremé. You might have heard of it. It’s famous for being the birthplace of jazz and the oldest Black neighborhood in the country. So old that it was here before the United States became the United States.”
Marcel moved closer to Siobhan as though about to share a confidence and said:
“Actually, it’s famous because of the HBO series, but my sister is an idealist.” Charmaine swiped at the back of his neck with her open hand. “Hey, what’s with the violence?”
“Shut your beak if you don’t want me to get really violent. And take our guest’s bags. Do something useful for once, can’t you?”
“The things I have to put up with,” protested Marcel.
This week was full of promise. Siobhan could feel it in every cell of her body.
The backyard was a small paradise with an illuminated pool, a three-person swing seat, and a barbecue area. The table was set. Marcel took the lid off the pan sitting on a wooden board in the center. A column of steam rose from inside and floated in the air. It smelled wonderful.
“I can’t believe you made jambalaya, Chaz. My god, it’s a miracle.” He stuck his hand in with the intention of grabbing a prawn, but his sister gave him a dissuasive slap.
“Where are your manners, young man? Have you left them in Manhattan?” she asked in a pretentious nasal tone, imitating a New York accent. “Come on, let’s sit down before it gets cold. You have to eat this as soon as it’s cooked. Siobhan, I hope you like it.”
“It looks amazing. What’s in it?”
“Rice, chicken, sausage, prawns, and a shitload of pepper. It’s the star of Cajun cuisine, honey.”
“I know. And Marcel’s favorite.”
He glanced at her and gave her a warm smile, one she had never seen before. Siobhan felt like she might disintegrate into a million pieces right then and there.
Charmaine’s eyes, outlined in black, wrinkled in satisfaction.
“I see you know my brother well.”
They ate unhurriedly as they chatted about trivialities. It hadn’t rained for two weeks, and the temperature had shot up to 104 degrees. The garbage collectors were on strike, and apparently every single fly in America had decided to come south. Burnell’s grocery store on Caffin Avenue and the renovation work at the Riverfront, along the banks of the Mississippi. In New Orleans, there’s an unspoken rule that forbids talk of politics or work at the table. The problems of the world are of relative importance, and none of them warrants ruining a good meal. Food—in addition to jazz, Mardi Gras, and the Saints—is sacred.
“In NOLA we always say we haven’t finished one meal before we’re thinking about the next. And it’s true,” Marcel said in a low voice that brought out his Southern drawl. Charmaine murmured an mm-hmm every so often, as though listening to a church sermon in Harlem. “When the heat closes in, and the air is so suffocating it’s hard to breathe, all you can do is try to trick your palate. Hot spices, dark stews, and cold cocktails are your salvation. Just like music.”
Siobhan listened, rapt, her cheek resting in the palm of her hand, feeling like she could spend her life listening to him talk.
“Amen. At last you’re saying something sensible about your place of birth,” agreed his sister.
“They’re just words, Chaz.”
“Sure. I forgot you make a living from them.”
Night fell and brought with it the croaking of tree frogs and the hum of mosquitos, which had started to attack their ankles mercilessly. Once they had finished eating and drained their glasses of Pimm’s, the conversation started to wind down. Siobhan knew the Dupont siblings needed to talk. Either their father was a taboo subject, or they didn’t want to discuss their family situation in front of a stranger. Either way, this was the moment to leave them to it. She excused herself, claiming she was tired from the flight, and went upstairs to the guest room, which was twice as large as her apartment and decorated in French style, with an en suite bathroom and a canopy over the bed. She took a shower, put on a white nightshirt, and dropped onto the springy mattress like dead weight.
“My god, this is comfy.”
She rolled one way and then the other. Then she took a selfie, which she sent to the group chat. The time had come to update her friends.
Shiv
I don’t want to make you jealous, but I’ve just had the most intense gastronomic experience of my life and right now I’m lying in a bed that would fit the entire crew of the Titanic. INCLUDING JACK #JusticeForJackDawson
Paige
Amazing! Just make sure you don’t spend the night like Rose.
Shiv
Meaning?
Paige
ALONE.
#JusticeForSioblack
Shiv
Ha, funny. Whose side are you on?
Paige
I’m on the side of anyone who blows away the cobwebs down there FOR ONCE, honey
Shiv
My cobwebs and I are fine, thanks.
Paige
Like hell.
Lena
My brain is going to explode. Wasn’t Mr. Black a bastard only interested in one-night-stands ten seconds ago?
Shiv
It’s Paige’s fault, she’s an undercover troublemaker.
Lena
I know. Did you get to NOLA ok?
Shiv
Lena
Cool. And what about the sister?
Shiv
She’s AMAZING.
She’s super friendly and has a great sense of humor.
And the best thing is, she knows how to put Mr. Black in his place.
Paige
I LIKE HER.
Lena
I do too. So, what are your plans for tomorrow? I hope you aren’t going out to the woods to practice voodoo and predict the future with chicken bones.
Paige
Why don’t you ask him to take you to St. Louis Cemetery? They say it’s haunted. And apparently Nicolas Cage had a huge white mausoleum built there in the shape of a pyramid that’s always covered in lipstick marks.
Shiv
SERIOUSLY? Gosh, how macabre.
Paige
Perhaps it’s a nod to National Treasure.
Lena
Or perhaps old Nicolas is a member of the Illuminati.
Paige
Anyway, getting back to the SUBJECT, I think it’s really something that you’re in New Orleans with him.
Lena
With Nicolas Cage?
Paige
No, for god’s sake. With MARCEL. And I admit I have contradictory feelings about it. A week ago I thought he was a hot idiot, but this plot twist has removed most of his idiocy from the equation. What if he’s just hot?
Lena
You aren’t objectifying him, are you? Because that’s what it sounds like.
Paige
What I mean to say is that maybe we misjudged him. Maybe he isn’t a jerk. And maybe he likes you, Shiv.
Shiv
He doesn’t like me, Paige. Or if he does, only as a friend.
Paige
Yes, but ... would you take someone who’s just a friend to meet your family?
Lena
Damn right. And I have to admit you make a good couple. If you get together, it would be like a fairy tale ending.
Shiv
My god ... How many romance novels have you been reading? I think I’m a bad influence on you. I’m going to bed. ALONE.
She shook her head.
Although she was tired, she knew she wouldn’t fall asleep anytime soon with so many emotions whirling in her mind, so she decided to Google New Orleans.
It was a way to bring her a bit closer to Marcel.
Jazz.
Hurricane Katrina.
Tremé.
Legends of New Orleans.
After a while, someone knocked on her door.
“Come in.”
It was him.
Siobhan put her phone down and sat up in bed.
“I saw the light was on, and ...” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t been devoured by a gator or anything.”
“Unlike the mosquitos, I don’t think the gators are finding me too tempting at the moment. Maybe they’re vegan.”
“Vegans in Louisiana. Nah. That’s highly unlikely.”
They both laughed. Lovely little wrinkles formed around his eyes.
“I like Charmaine. Are you sure you’re siblings? You don’t seem much alike.”
Marcel bared his teeth.
“You’re so kind. I think I might change your return ticket to New York to tomorrow morning.” Siobhan stuck out her tongue, and he laughed. “Okay, I’m going to bed. If you need anything, Chaz’s room is downstairs and mine is right next door to you. Sleep well.” He turned on his heel but immediately swiveled to face her again. He rested his hand on the doorknob, moistened his lips, and said: “I’m really glad you’re here.”
There was a confessional note to his voice.
“I’m glad too.”
For a moment, he remained frozen, enveloped in a dense cloud of awkward silence. He looked at her intensely. She had never been with a man able to convey so much without saying a single word. And that look betrayed an internal conflict.
The same one she was experiencing.
“Good night, Siobhan,” he said at last.
“Good night, Marcel.”
Everything seemed the same.
But everything seemed different.