Crescent City (19 page)

He’s a good man. No one could be more generous
than he with his overflowing house: Emma’s Georgia relatives, flocking to new land in Louisiana, as the value of Sea Island cotton sank, all stayed first with the Raphaels. Her extravagant relatives from upriver, living the reckless life of wealth even when they had no wealth, spent their winters during the opera season at the Raphaels’. Such was Ferdinand’s bounty.

David turned back into the house. Lucien, cooking the plain supper, sang. Of course, this frugal house, this single servant, baffled Ferdinand. He wanted his son to live well. He wanted his son to make a splendid marriage with the daughter of a powerful family.

At least his daughter had done so. Only a few nights ago David had dreamed of Miriam, such a strange dream, jumbled with some recollection of a deer. Last fall at Beau Jardin Eugene had shot one, a soft fawn-colored thing. He’d flung it down on the grass where it lay with its eyes wide open, sightless before the bright day and the bright woods in which it had been running with the wind when it was brought down. Miriam had turned away and Eugene had been annoyed with her. All that had been in his dream.

She was so charming, his little sister! Her babies were walking now, holding her skirts for support. They made a portrait, delicate as ivory with their pale silks and their heavy black silk hair. He could still remember Miriam in drab wool, cold and shivering in the stony kitchen on the Judengasse. He supposed she had forgotten most of that, for she had been so young.

It saddened him that he had been away from her for so long. He felt that he hardly knew her. And he wished he could like her husband better. He wished he could be sure that Miriam was content with Eugene. He wondered whether he imagined sorrow in her face; sometimes it seemed as though a gray veil had been drawn across it. And it came to him suddenly that
never, in all the quiet family evenings, at the dinner table, or with the children in the parlor, had he heard a word, or seen a touch, a glance, a laugh, between the husband and wife that reflected any tenderness, any bond. Perhaps it was only their way? And yet he began to wonder. The man was so unlike Miriam. He talked business; he talked money. Even when he didn’t speak the word, money was what he was talking about. When he spoke of the war with Mexico and of high democratic principles, he was really speaking about more land for cotton culture.

David had learned not to dispute these things at anybody’s table. It was important that he not be identified as a radical or “different.” His manner of living was already different enough. He must not be a breaker of idols. Small eccentricities were permissible, perhaps even, to a degree, interesting. But in essence he must seem to fit into the society.

“Lucien,” he called, “when you’re finished in the kitchen, will you see that my suit’s presentable?”

He was off to the St. Charles Theater with some colleagues that evening to see Edwin Booth. Get tickets for Joe Jefferson’s performance the week after next, he reminded himself. You’re a young doctor on the way up, you know, a trifle odd, but very pleasant. “Lives like a monk,” he’d overheard someone say recently about him. It had been said without malice, only with a certain kindly amusement.

An instant’s fear now darted in his chest. Had he said too much to Gabriel this afternoon? No, no, Gabriel was an honorable man, there was nothing to fear. He must be more discreet in the future, nevertheless.

Gabriel Carvalho was troubled. He tried, as he walked along the street, to recall the exact wording of
his conversation with David. Had he pointed out that even the most peaceable discussion, the most peaceable meeting, was dangerous? But surely David must know that! One couldn’t live here without having some understanding of the way things were. So then, knowing all that, David was determined to go ahead. In essence, of course, he was right; the end was right, but one had also to consider the means, the cost of reaching that end. You could say that a man like David was still a boy, high-minded but thoroughly impractical, whose efforts would prove futile, if not fatal. Or you could say that he was one of those who throughout history had moved the world forward, sacrificing themselves very often in the process.

And with a tinge of regret he thought, Perhaps I am one of the too cautious ones, seeing what is right but counting the cost of achieving it as too high and the way too difficult, while we wait for others to do it. David sees to the essence of things. I see the complexities.

He was half aware of the opinion people had of him: that he was prudent, “lawyerish,” and deliberate; that, in a word, he lacked spark. Some, he was aware, even thought he was chilly or snobbish; these appellations hurt, since he knew he was neither. He was reserved and had been since childhood, holding his emotion in restraint because, once having let go, he knew he would display too much. His head must keep control of a wild heart, perhaps even a wilder heart than David’s.

Abruptly his mind went back to the voyage of the
Mirabelle,
so long ago. He had been in Europe twice since then, once for a summer in Scotland and once for a trip down the Rhine, but that voyage of the
Mirabelle
was more vivid in his memory than either of those other times. For it was then that he had found
and made the closest friend he had yet had. In spite of all differences of background, of temperament, and often of conviction, the admiration and the trust remained, so that each truly cared what happened to the other. It was a rare thing, this caring, not to be explained, he supposed, any more than one could explain the love between woman and man.

Again to the
Mirabelle;
to David, foundering, terrified, in the trough of the waves; to the dog’s piteous bobbing head; to the crying, grateful child. He had quite forgotten that child, but now, however seldom he saw her on some social occasion, that picture kept recurring. The contrast between this recollection of her and what she now was had come to seem incredibly strange, which was actually foolish of him, since it was only natural, after all, that a child should become a woman, a married woman with children.

Biblical phrases came to his mind: cedars of Lebanon, the green bay tree. Supple as a young tree she stood, with her creamy shoulders and her waist emerging from the absurd concealing bell of her skirts so that one could only imagine the body beneath them.

He stopped himself. To linger over thoughts like these! She was another man’s wife—his client’s wife.

One respected Eugene Mendes. Intelligent and forceful, secure in his achievements, he commanded respect. Yet something in his gaze made it an effort to meet that gaze. Perhaps it was your feeling that he was taking your measure, calculating your deficits and strengths.

He seemed a strange choice for Miriam Raphael! It did not seem as if those two could be united. Were not a man and woman supposed to become as one? And he thought again of the wistfulness about her lips. Unlike other women at a dinner table, who were so avid of attention, she often sat removed in some gentle
dream, as though she were expecting something, or even as though she were not there at all. And yet once, passing the Mendes’s garden wall, he had heard delightful laughter, gay as bells, and peering in, had been astonished to see that the laughter was hers. She had been playing with her children, throwing a ball. Her hair had come loose; her hat had come off and the little boy was wearing it, a huge white straw with blue ribbons.

An alligator killed the dog, he remembered suddenly. Why not replace it? And it seemed that the dog had been a link between them, as if his rescue of it had been a portent of—of what? A portent of nothing, he thought impatiently, becoming annoyed with himself. She’s my friend’s sister. A thoughtful gesture from me to her would be acceptable and pleasing. Had he not bought a doll a while ago for the child of a friend, to replace the one she had left out in the rain? So, he would order a puppy from New York; one of the men in the office where he had worked raised King Charles spaniels. He could have it sent safely by ship. And he imagined her face when he put the dog in her arms. She would blush pink with pleasure, he thought, recalling how easily she blushed, and how her smile bloomed.

It was perfectly proper, a simple gift to a friend.

Turning the corner into the Place d’Armes, Gabriel was jolted back to the present by the proud blare of a brass band. A crowd was gathering in the square, where among tents and flags, a regiment had formed into marching order. After a quick glance he passed through the square. The Mexican War was popular, especially in the South. I have no stomach for it, Gabriel thought, as the band’s blare faded from his ears, no stomach at all. Oh, probably it’s not “manly” to think that way. Yet on the Sabbath one prays:
Grant
us peace, O Lord, thy most precious gift.
Nothing is simple. There are so many sides to everything. As one turns the prism, the purest light reflects now from here, and then from there; as one turns, turns … Anyway, I have responsibilities and couldn’t volunteer even if I were wild to go.

Rosa was still tearful in black and jet beads. Always she had appeared to dominate Henry, but now that he was gone, it was plain that she had depended on him. He had not left a great deal of money, and understandably, she wanted to stay with her children in their comfortable house. So Gabriel must now contribute. Fortunately, his prospects were good. He had a new office in the Banks Arcade, a prime location. He had, for a start, a list of clients inherited from Henry, mostly prosperous up-and-coming men like Eugene Mendes.

I shouldn’t like to be his enemy, he thought unexpectedly. And he hastened his steps to get ahead of the band, which had caught up with him.

Miriam, on her way home from the French Market with Fanny, caught the last of the trooping flags and drums as they swept out of sight and hearing. Silence flowed back. The side streets were empty except for the milk wagon clattering its brass-bound cans and the old Negro with the ice cream freezer on his head crying:
“Crème à la glace! Crème à la glace!”

“Look,” said Miriam, “isn’t that Mr. Mendes leaving that house?”

“I can’t tell from here, Miss Miriam.”

“But surely it is, in his new maroon coat.”

The maroon coat hurried down the street and disappeared at the corner. A moment later a woman came out of the house and waited for a carriage that was just emerging from the carriage house in the alley.

Miriam and Fanny came abreast as the carriage drew up to let the woman enter it. She was a magnificent quadroon. Strong daylight glittered on gold chains, twining in her hair, on pearl tassels and gold leather slippers. A coal-black servant followed her, carrying a basket like that which Fanny was carrying for Miriam.

The young woman’s frankly curious eyes met Miriam’s for just an instant; then, lowering her eyes at once, she stepped into the carriage and drove away.

“Who was that, Fanny?”

“Why, Miss Miriam, you know. One of those. I don’t like to say,” Fanny said primly.

“Of course I know
what
she is. I meant, she recognized me.”

“How could she ever know a lady like you, Miss Miriam?” Now Fanny was shrill.

“But she did,” Miriam insisted. “I even felt for a second that she was about to speak to me.”

“She wouldn’t dare! She wouldn’t dare talk to a white lady. Queen’s far too smart for that.”

“Queen? Is that her name? And, Fanny, that was Mr. Mendes. They came out of the house together. You saw it as well as I did.”

“I don’t know what I saw, Miss Miriam. Please don’t ask me what I saw,” Fanny pleaded.

“You’re trembling, for heaven’s sake! Don’t drop the basket or you’ll have those berries all over the street. Now, Fanny, tell me, what are you keeping back?”

“Nothing, Miss Miriam. I swear I’m not.”

“I don’t believe you. Listen here, Fanny, did I save Blaise for you? We’ve grown up together. You owe me something in return.”

“Miss Miriam,” Fanny said desperately. She panted, keeping up with Miriam’s hurried steps. “Listen,
if I do know anything, it’s nothing that’ll do you any good. Nothing you’ll be happier knowing.”

“Let’s not talk about doing me good. I don’t want to be made a fool of, that’s all. I have a right to know what’s happening.”

Fanny was silent and Miriam said gently, “I know you’re scared to talk. So I’ll talk and you’ll just nod your head if I’m right and shake it if I’m wrong. Mr. Mendes and that—that Queen. He goes there all the time?”

Fanny nodded. Her frightened eyes were wet.

“And he has been going there. He and she have been—together a long time?”

“I don’t know how long, Miss Miriam, I swear I don’t. I only know what I hear. I didn’t tell you anything, did I? You aren’t going to tell Mr. Eugene that I told you anything, are you? He’ll beat me.”

“He won’t do that, Fanny. He has never beaten anyone, you know that perfectly well. And I wouldn’t let him even if he wanted to.”

“But he’d send me away,” Fanny wailed.

“I wouldn’t allow that, either.”

“But you’re not gonna tell him?”

“No. Go wash your face. Take the basket to the kitchen and wash your face. I’ll just sit here in the garden awhile.”

The fountain goddess, goddess of love, stood in her marble calm above the double cascade. On the wall plaque opposite the bench where Miriam sat, the name of the young wife who was buried there had been obscured by the droop of the trumpet vine.

Had the girl Aimée been sick with strife and doubting as I am? Or had she known from the beginning where she was going?

Miriam frowned. What was she really feeling at this moment? She tried to get outside herself, to see herself
as an observer might Chiefly then, it was pride that she saw. But why should she mind? Why care? In fact, she ought even to be grateful to that woman for taking care of Eugene’s needs. Rarely now, when he came in late to find her asleep, did he wake her as he had when they were away at Beau Jardin.

Liaisons of this sort were common. No girl, however sheltered, could have lived in this city without knowing about them. The weekly quadroon balls at the Washington Ballroom were freely advertised. The girls were so beautiful that often the white balls emptied out early and everyone knew that the young men were bound next for the Washington and its beautiful quadroons. Everyone knew, although no one talked except Rosa, blunt, chatty Rosa.