The Nightmare Game (2 page)

I awoke for real now and with great grogginess, I
complied.

I gathered together my belongings and muddled my
way off the plane. Still half in a daze, I wandered down to the luggage area,
retrieved my suitcase and went outside to catch a cab. The taxis and transport
buses were, as always, waiting for arriving passengers to take them to their
destinations. An energetic, smiling black man, long and lean in both face and
body, hurried up to me from the taxicab that was first in line.

“Need a ride, ma’am?”

“Thanks, yes, I do,” I told him almost
automatically. I still felt a little tired and wooly-headed from the latest
dream interruption from the plane, as I always did. The heaviness of the
increased air pressure that came from arriving into a city below sea level
wasn’t helping either.

“Here, let me get those,” he said, grabbing my suitcase
in one hand, my carry-on in the other before tossing them both into his cab’s
trunk.

I climbed into the back seat of the taxi as he
started his meter.

“Where to, ma’am?”

“I’m not quite sure, actually.” The grogginess
served to force an address I had memorized right out of my brain. “I just know
it’s in the Quarter. Just a minute.” I pulled the slip of paper that Carolyne
had given me out of my purse and handed it to him. “I need to go here.” He read
it quickly and handed it back to me.

“Oh, that’s easy, I’ll getcha there quick.”

“Thank you.”

“You movin’ to our fair city?” He asked as we
pulled out onto Airline Highway.

What an odd question, I thought. “No, I’m just
here on vacation. Why do you ask?”

“That piece of paper you gave me with the address,
it says it’s for a realtor. Just thought maybe you was movin’ here.”

“No, as much as I’d love to, my friends are all
back home. I’ve always loved New Orleans, but to tell you the truth I couldn’t
afford to live in the neighborhoods I really like.”

He laughed. “Hey, I hear you.”

“I’m just renting an apartment during my stay and
I’ve got to stop off at this office first to sign in and get the keys.”

“You want me to wait at the office and drive you
to the apartment?”

“No, that’s alright, just drop me off. I don’t
know how long it’ll take. Besides, I was told it wasn’t far and I need a walk
after that plane ride. Thanks anyway, though.”

“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”

There was silence for a few minutes, a silence I
utilized as I peered out the window, trying to get a bearing on my new
surroundings as they passed by and attempting to drive some of the sluggishness
out of my brain. It was a grogginess with which I was now all too familiar, the
apparently inevitable aftermath of being awakened from the recurring dream too
soon, before it had a chance to play itself to its end. Well, at least the
dream was a little different this time, I thought, and I’d have lots of time to
sort it out because, after all, I was on vacation now, wasn’t I? I tried to be
upbeat, but the truth was that now I was actually in New Orleans, the sense of
uncertainty about the apartment which I’d had since finding out that Carolyne
would be a no-show was now starting to mix with a real sense of dread. I tried
to shake it, but it wouldn’t go away and I began to feel queasy and suddenly
vulnerable. It was so contrary to the feeling that I got when I first received
the ads for this rental, but then I didn’t realize I’d be traveling alone. I’d
been uncharacteristically naive. Questions I should have asked when I first got
the e-mail and fax, now, when it was too late, came to mind. What kind of
fly-by-night deal would this turn out to be? It was true, apartment rentals in
the city were common, but for some reason, I suddenly had a bad feeling about
this one. New visions of a broken-down place with bad ventilation, shot air
conditioning, rusty pipes and old, stained bedding sporting bed bugs swam
through my head uninvited. Was I just being paranoid?

“Say,” I said to the driver, “This realty company,
have you ever heard of before? Is it legit?”

“Rochere Realty, yeah, I heard of it. Can’t tell
you if it’s legit or not, but I can tell you that it’s old. It’s a little
place, been around for a long time.”

It got quiet again as I returned to peering out
the window on our ride toward the French Quarter. Everything looked unfamiliar
to me since the drive from the airport took a different route into the city
than my family’s old bus rides did. Despite the distractions of the sights
around me, my mind refused to let go of worries about the apartment. Feelings
of dread continued to deepen as the disturbing unreality of my mood grew
greater.

By the time we finally got into the Quarter
itself, my state of mind had become increasingly troubled. I tried to cheer up
as we reached my destination, but since I felt as if I had never really quite
awakened fully from my nap, it was difficult to rouse myself out of my
nightmarish mood. As the cab pulled over, double-parking another car at the
curb, the driver jumped out, got my bags out of the trunk and helped me out of
the taxi.

“This is it, right here,” he pointed. “Rochere
Realty.”

I handed him his fare and a generous tip. He’d
been a good cab driver.

“Keep the change,” I told him.

“Thanks,” he replied. “Have a great time in our
beautiful city!” He tipped his hat and flashed a dazzling smile before rushing
off to get his next fare.

I stood on the sidewalk for a minute, getting my
bearings as I looked around and shook the cobwebs from my brain. It felt good
to be back in New Orleans again, back in the French Quarter. I was glad it was
still around, spared the devastation of some other areas of the city. I felt at
home here and for some reason, I always had. Even though almost two decades had
passed since I’d been back to visit, it felt almost as if I had never left. I
looked at the building that housed Rochere Realty.

The realty company was in one of the plainer
buildings of the Quarter, well kept up but without the elaborate ironwork of
many of its surrounding neighbors. A smallish sign reading “Rochere Realty” was
prominently, yet tastefully, displayed in the front picture window of the
bottom floor. Taking my bags, I walked up to the door and entered. The sound of
the tiny bell on the door announced my arrival. There was no one at the front
desk.

“Hello,” I said tentatively. I looked around the
office trying to spot an employee, but no one appeared. The office’s plain
exterior belied what lay inside. Thick carpeting, expensive looking furniture
and elegant knick-knacks gave it an air of the kind of wealth that comes only
with old money.

“Hello,” I repeated, more loudly now. “Is anybody
here?”

When no one answered, I shouted now, “Hello?
Hello?”

“Come in here,” a disembodied voice shouted from a
back office, somewhat rudely, I thought. Hoping the professionalism of the firm
would improve, I walked back to meet the voice’s owner.

An older woman seemed to be busy at a desk.

“Yes,” was all she said.

“I’m looking for a Miss Rochere,” I said, checking
the slip of paper in my hand for the umpteenth time.

“I am she.”

“I’m here to pick up the key to an apartment I
rented,” I told her.

“Which apartment?”

Glancing back at the paper I’d already memorized
just to make sure, I said, “It’s at a house on Toulouse Street.”

“Very well.” She motioned to the chair opposite
her desk. “Come on in and have a seat.” She was working on what appeared to be
a ledger. Before I even set foot in the office, she returned her gaze to her
work.

“Is the receptionist at lunch?” I asked, wondering
about the lack of professionalism apparent in this office.

“I don’t have a receptionist,” she answered
curtly. “I see no reason to pay for the privilege of hiring employees. I use
temporary workers to help around here if and when I need them. Now, you will
excuse me for a moment while I finish this up.” Her rude tone implied I was her
personal servant awaiting a reprimand rather than a client. She couldn’t even
be bothered to look at me when she spoke. “I will be with you in a moment.”

“Sure,” I responded, putting down my bags and
sitting in the visitor’s chair on the other side of her desk.
Don’t let me stop you
, I thought, bristling under
her tone.
After all, I’m just a customer, not
important at all
.

What I thought was going to be a few seconds
turned into a few minutes. I used the time to look around her office,
suppressing the urge to whistle while I waited. Normally I wouldn’t have minded
as much, but her
telling
me to wait rather than
asking
me to wait really irked me. I tried to
shoot her a look that would get her to acknowledge me, but she was so absorbed
in her paperwork that she continued to ignore me completely. I kept staring at
her, but she didn’t budge. This was going on for too long.

“Excuse me,” I said, getting impatient.

“I
said
I’ll be
with you in a moment,” she replied coldly and irritably, again not bothering to
look up.

Bitch
, I thought,
glaring at her, regretting suddenly that I was never able to master the art of
making laser beams shoot from my eyes. It was very rare that I disliked someone
as immediately and intensely as I did her. Even her tone of voice and rudeness
couldn’t fully explain my intense distaste, even hatred, of her at this very
moment.

I studied her closely, my eyes boring into her.
Despite my dislike of her, I realized that if it hadn’t been for her rude and
discourteous attitude, she probably would have been quite a handsome woman.
About sixty or a well-kept sixty-five, she had a very smooth complexion for a
woman her age and a head of thick, sleek white hair that was pulled back into a
tight bun. She wore a dusty-rose colored suit with a white cut rose bud in her
lapel and a necklace of pearls atop a white blouse trimmed with lace and
clasped at the neck with a golden broach. Gold wire frame half-moon reading
glasses were perched upon her aquiline nose in a way that, combined with her
sternness, completed the picture of a very strict, probably somewhat sadistic,
boarding school principal. She must have been a real beauty in her day, I had
to admit, making me wonder whether her personality had been more attractive
when she was young or if she had just used her looks to torment and humiliate
whatever poor fellows who were unfortunate enough to fall for her. From where I
sat at the moment, the latter seemed far more likely.

When I had first looked around the room, it had
struck me as being warm and cozy, a sharp contrast with the personality that
occupied it, leading me to think now that the ambiance was more for her own
creature comforts rather than to make her clients relaxed. Either that, or just
being a vacation renter, I wasn’t a big enough customer for her to bother with
manners. If she treated all the people that vacationed at her properties the
same way she did me, I doubted she got a lot of repeat business. Looking around
again, for I had nothing else to do, I studied the room a little more. The
carpet was oriental, an expensive one at that, and seemed to be large enough to
fit wall-to-wall. Thick, lush and densely woven, it was interestingly decorated
with multicolored snakes flicking long, red tongues. They wrapped themselves
around each other and the other decorative elements in the rug, interlocking
into an intricate, detailed design that looked almost Oriental, but in a sort
of pattern I had never seen before, not even in my old college art history
classes. When my eyes traveled up from the rug, I saw that the wallpaper’s
background, a very pale dusty pink, was color-coordinated with Rochere’s suit
du jour
. I had images of her closet holding nothing
but identical dusty pink suits hanging all in a row next to identical
lace-trimmed white blouses. I snickered softly under my breath at that thought,
which brought me a harsh, disciplinarian throat-clearing from Madame Rochere.
Well
, I thought,
at least
she knows I’m still here
. Looking over at the wallpaper again, I noticed
it was also overlaid with a pattern that seemed to be based on a not-quite
oriental design. Intricate white flowers, all tightly interlacing with their
trailing green stems and leaves, danced in vertical patterns with tiny white
hummingbirds. A few old paintings that seemed to be of Indian origin dotted the
walls in heavy frames, helping to make up for a lack of windows in the room. It
amazed me that, with all these things put together, the decor didn’t look
overly fussy, but the designs, paintings and frames were so beautiful and
tasteful that somehow they just worked together. Of course it helped, I
guessed, that the furniture’s feel was just the opposite and served to balance
the room. Heavy and dark, almost black, it had a massive, authoritative feel to
it that spoke against the flourishes of the carpet and walls. Antiques,
obviously, and good ones at that, the furniture had a very masculine feeling;
but it was the masculinity of another century, the nineteenth perhaps, weighty
but not above a few curves and little adornment. It had that flawless satiny
finish that spoke of being always freshly polished and very well cared for.
There were few knick-knacks around this room, unlike the entrance, which had many;
but they were large and important-looking pieces. Despite their expensive look,
however, their scale implied they’d been designed for a garden rather than an
interior room. Rochere’s desk was of the same design as the rest of the
furniture except that its front was oddly embellished with a relief carving of
two ornamental snakes wrapping around each other, a very fitting design for
her, I thought. It was topped with writing implements and books that, while
modern, were reminiscent of an earlier age because, like everything else here,
they were conspicuously expensive. This woman was obviously very rich with not
a hint of new money and her office made sure that everyone who came in knew it.
While I noticed a computer in the front office, there was none in here, the
normally allotted space on her desk was occupied by an overly large vase filled
with a huge bouquet of fresh cut flowers. The overstuffed visitors’ chair in
which I was sitting had an intricately carved wooden “crown” at its head and
soft, fat upholstered arms that ended in hands of ornate animal claws arising
from the carved wood arms of the chair’s decorative frame that began near the
floor. It was, I had to admit, very comfortable. But I knew its beauty and
comfort was there only for the use of her far wealthier, more important
clientele, who, unlike me, did not clash with her decor.