"Passion rules us all," someone once said. "And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments."
And I know, in my time with Alexandra, these are some of those finest moments. Also, the most terrifying.
Summer. New Orleans. She and I are facing each other, lying on a bed in our second-story room at a small European-like pension. We're here for the week. It's all dark wood but with French doors leading to a small balcony overlooking the narrow street below. Not very elegant. A bit shabby. The building must be a century old. Everything creaks. But then all that is down here in the French Quarter is from another time, a bit eerie and otherworldly.
Alexandra invited me. I am Albert, and I am unable to resist her. We flew down from Newark. She lives in Manhattan. I'm across the Hudson River in Hoboken. We've been friends for months now. And we have been eating and drinking our way up and down Bourbon Street for much of the week.
She is lying on her side in her white slip -- that's all she has on -- her nipples hard and very visible underneath the silk fabric. She wears no underwear. The slip, which has intricate lace at the hem, is hiked up higher than mid-thigh. She knows my eyes are riveted to her slender legs. They remind me of fine English porcelain. She knows that too. She's more than willing to let me look. I just can't touch. It is something I may have to explain in more detail.
But first, she pulls out from the top of her slip, between her breasts, this little curio, attached to a neck chain. It's no more than three inches tall, made of some kind of sandstone, a carving of some sort. I lean in closely. It's the figure of a monkey, crouching down, with a rooster beside it.
"It's The Sacred Monkey and Cock," says Alexandra. It's good luck. A talisman, she tells me. It looks sinister to me.
"You don't buy these, Albert. You have to find them down here. They're usually left beside tombs in some of the old, haunted cemeteries, in high grass or at some crossroads," she says. "And when you find one, you keep it for three years. Each birthday -- that's the exact day you come across it -- you make one wish. It comes true sometime during the year. So you get three wishes while you have it. But at the end of the third year, you have to 'abandon' it for a new owner to find."
Her three years are up. So she asks me to spend a few hours on my own while she finds "the monkey" a suitable new home, where someone else can claim it. I'm not allowed to be part of this. She dresses, opens the door to leave, just as I ask:
"Is this from some kind of religion or something?"
"This is New Orleans, Albert. It's Voodoo."
* * *
I have written of Alexandra before. You need to know what she looks like. It's because she is quite different. Tall, slender, dishwater blond hair that falls to about her chin. It's pulled back behind her right ear, but on the left side is falling down, covering that half of her face, almost to her eye. All of it in finger waves. She may be in her early 40s. I'm only 27.
You'll find her in vintage 1930s dresses, and only in blues and blacks. Add to that a pair of black leather opera gloves that reach to her elbow. Her eyes, set wide apart, are rimmed with heavy kohl, complimented by long black lashes. She wears green lipstick and a large cat's-eye earring in her right ear. Only in the one ear. Her skin is very fair. She speaks softly but with authority. She reminds me of a runway model, albeit a bit older. And her clothes are a bit time-worn.
Oh, yes, and she wears an old brown fedora that looks as if she's retrieved it from a dumpster. She may have. She wears it nearly always, even when in just her underwear -- if she wears any at all. Much of the time she is naked under her thin dresses. Most people can tell. All of it is an extension of her personality. You can see why she draws attention.
She's street savvy and alarmingly smart. Far more so than me, and probably you too. I know almost nothing of her past. She keeps herself secret. She's restless and elusive. There is no way to know her logically. But we have fun, with her leading us on various adventures to keep herself from being bored. This is one of them.
* * *
It's early evening before Alexandra and I rejoin each other in our room. With her back to me, she pulls from a sack something resembling stuffed toys. But I only glimpse before she tucks them in her shoulder luggage bag. As she's taking a pee in the bathroom, I quickly open her luggage and see they are unmistakably Voodoo dolls, old and musty looking, wrapped in rough-hewn paper. I close the bag, cover my tracks. When she comes out, I ask about The Sacred Monkey, but she doesn't want to discuss it. I'm growing concerned.
We head to Bourbon Street as sunlight disappears altogether. We are walking, browsing really, past all the pastel buildings, the clubs and restaurants, wrought iron balconies, old street lamps, now turned on. Small sidewalk tables-for-two and greenery hanging down from just about everywhere. Jazz and Dixieland playing, always within earshot. And, of course, crowds of people. We stop to have a beer. We walk some more.
Suddenly, she takes my hand and steps up her pace, hurries around several people. "See the woman in the floral print summer dress walking ahead of us? I like her. She looks like she could be fun, don't you think, Albert?"
We hurry to catch up, or at least to not lose her as the crowd thickens. Even on this hot, late-summer evening, the street is full of walkers, gawkers and hucksters. From college goths to swinging retirees. Street musicians everywhere, panhandlers, sidewalk artists, roaming white-faced mimes too. We dodge horse-drawn carriages and a cluster of pedicabs. They're all here. After all, it is New Orleans.
In my few past trips here, The French Quarter always seemed like drunken fun, very trashy touristy and a little naughty. Silly ghost tours and women flashing their breasts, teenagers making out in alleyways. This trip seems darker, more forboding. I notice more Voodoo shops and cemetery tours. More creepy characters in the bars. Maybe I'm just a little on edge because of Alexandra's Sacred Monkey and those two Voodoo dolls. But she is not one to answer too many questions. I have learned to go along.
It probably doesn't help that I just this afternoon ran across an odd magazine item: It has been said there are more people reported missing from New Orleans, without explanation, than from any other city. That should tell you something.
Still holding my hand, Alexandra leads us up near the woman we have been following, or about 10 feet from her, as the woman stops to look into a restaurant. She's trying to choose one. We see her face. We step away.
