The Crescent City: New Orleans, the most lustrous, and infamous jewel of the south. Like the ancestors of old, the ancient city wears a masque that conceals her mysteries from the curiosity of outsiders. Known for her revelry and night-life, New Orleans has a multi-faceted persona all her own.
Like a jigsaw puzzle, the city was long ago broken into diverse neighborhoods represented by the cultures of its occupants. From the notorious French Quarter to the illustrious Garden District, those cultures, for all intents and purposes, were set apart by indivisible lines comprised of individual races, languages, and traditions. Those divisions stood as firm as iron fortress walls, but on occasion, the gates between the walls are flung open and lines are crossed.
For instance, in the renown French Quarter, along Bourbon street, where the heart and pulse of the city beat, anyone can publicly experience the lively rhythm of jazz music, savor the taste of rich cuisine, or quench their thirst with a delectable, exotic drink that revives the wilted spirit from the heat and humidity of a hot summer's day.
By day, a pleasant stroll along Canal Street, lined with shops of antiquities and curious souvenirs, will satiate the desire to possess a part of the historical district. Or, one can imbibe of a blend of French roasted coffee and ground chicory, accompanied by beignets sprinkled with powdered confections while resting tired feet on the outskirts of Jackson Square where open-air marketers peddle their wares. Everything from hand-crafted jewelry to tidbits of confections, like king-cakes or pralines, art works and paintings can be procured for a price in market square.
By night, the Quarter, as it is affectionately called, comes alive with bustling activity of merry-makers, both foreign and native, raking in the bulk of municipal revenue from the tourism trade. It is a dangerous place to be in the after-hours of darkness with its narrow streets, and its strange inhabitants who lurk in the shadows seeking unwary prey to rob and molest. Traders engaged in black market wares take to the streets, peddling human flesh in the form of risqué dancers and licentious sex acts, open to public display, even if more discreet than in the days of old Storyville. When the sun sets below the horizon, crime, of all sorts, is enormously high in this area.
By comparison, the Garden District yields to the influences of its Irish community roots. Moderate stately homes, simple but eloquent by design, offer quiet repose to the weary. Its inhabitants can close their doors to the noise of the city and find the comforts of a calm and quiet atmosphere, a more relaxed and pious lifestyle than the thrill-seekers of the French quadrant of the city.
Outside the city, near the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, lies Mandeville, where antebellum homes stand in salute to the glory of the old south. While large plantations have now been reduced to more manageable estates, their beauty provokes visions of the past when ballrooms hosted celebrations that drew large numbers of guests, arriving by carriage and dressed in elegant finery of European silks and satins; a time when servants and slaves out numbered their masters, and a life of chivalry and honor was observed.
It is here that you will find live oaks older than the city itself, covered in Spanish moss that sway in the gentle southern breezes. The perfume of bougainvillea, gardenia, and lilac hang heavy on the air. Azalea bushes as large as trees, and as abundantly dressed in colorful blooms as to barely see any greenery at all, act as hedges around the large verandas where front porch swings offer a place of rest in the shade. And who could imagine sitting on such a swing without also imagining the taste of a tall, chilled mint julep or iced lemonade spiked with a fine Irish whiskey for effect?
In New Orleans and the surrounding areas, life is lived by the motto "Laissez les Bon Temps Rouler", ( Let the good times roll!)
All these things are but an elegant cloak the city wears and beneath which lies a darker, less refined society; a society steeped in mystic beliefs and ancient traditions which must be at least witnessed to be believed. There exist, societies so secretive that no outsider can penetrate the invisible walls that have been erected around them. In these societies, when the lines of culture are crossed, there is an unmistakable reckoning with repercussions beyond the comprehension of all non-believers. The Creoles of the area describe this principle of cause and effect by saying, "Apre bal, tanbou lou", or translated, "After the dance, the drum is heavy."
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"Come on, Ian! Don't you think you've carried this a bit too far?" Frank admonished in an earnest whisper of dismay. The café was a sea of commotion during the lunch-hour rush and he had no desire to attract any unwarranted attention to himself, or his long-time friend and client. Ian cast a sour look in his direction.
"There was no girl, Ian! When are you going to get that through that thick skull of yours?" Frank pleaded with exasperation. "It was a dream! Nothing more!" Frank insisted.
"She was no dream, Frank," Ian insisted under his breath. He was weary of the same argument that they had replayed over a thousand times in the past year. It was hard to believe that it had indeed been a year ago since his encounter with the elusive woman. The memory still seemed so fresh in his mind.
"Then, what was she, Ian? A ghost?" Frank goaded.
"Maybe," Ian shrugged with seeming indifference.
"I can't believe we are having this conversation again," Frank snorted, throwing his napkin down on the table with disgust. "She wasn't real, Ian. You were tired and you drank too much. That's all there was to it," Frank explained yet again. "Look, no one else saw her, only you. And, even you had to admit that there was no other logical explanation for what happened afterwards."
Ian sighed and sat back in his chair. It was true. No one else had seen the woman. The next day, he had gone back to the apartment where she had taken him, only to find it vacant. He had spoken to the leasing agent himself, and she had said the apartment hadn't been leased in over two months. There was no other logical explanation except Frank's insistence that he had imagined the whole affair. Ian wasn't looking for a logical explanation anymore. He had moved on to the unimaginable for answers.
"Is that what this is about, Ian?" Frank asked with narrowed eyes of suspicion. "Did you come here hunting for some phantom ghost-woman?"
Ian banged his fist on the table, rattling the silverware and causing heads to turn in their direction. He lowered his voice so as not to be easily overheard. "Damn it, Frank! I'm looking for answers. Can't you understand that?" he countered. In his own mind, he knew he was obsessed by the memory of her.
It wasn't just her beauty that haunted him, or even the incredible sex. It was everything about the experience; no one else witnessed them meeting, or leaving the party together. The doorman at the apartment didn't recognize him, or his description of the woman. Most of all, it was what she said to him. 'I own your soul', weren't those her exact words? He'd asked himself a million times, who in their right mind, would make such a claim?
"I'm a writer, Frank, and you are right. We've exhausted all the logical explanations," Ian sighed with resignation. "But, I still want answers even if they are illogical. I have to do this, Frank, and with you, or without you, I'm going to find those answers," Ian said resolutely.
