Chapter Five
Scarlett
Even in December, New Orleans was wonderful. My parents owned a home in the French Quarter overlooking Royal Street. The home was a three-story vintage structure, the exterior all red brick with black lattice ironwork fringing the galleries. Potted greenery placed here and there overflowed in the tropical climate. Ferns hung from the outside ceilings, swaying to and fro with the balmy air, and elephant ears in box planters caught the bright sunlight, lines of pink running through the green flesh like veins. Hurricane shutters lined the many French windows.
The city was adorned with decorations celebrating the upcoming holiday. Red bows were attached to old iron street poles, and lights were strung up, waiting for night to fall so that they could glow with life. Despite it being winter, the temperature leaned toward seventy-five degrees.
A surge of warm wind blew up my thin cotton dress, and I rolled the sleeves of my cardigan to my elbows, enjoying the feel of tepid air against my skin. I adjusted my Ray- Bans, turning to look toward the house across the street. A dreamy melody floated out toward me, a mesmeric voice riding the wave. Somewhere further down the street, a trumpet player accompanied this gorgeous rhapsody.
“What is that smell?” Romeo sniffed the air.
Moving to the side to let Guido through with the luggage, careful of navigating the uneven pavement with high espadrille wedges, I laughed at the face Romeo pulled. “That’s the French Quarter,” I said, smiling.
The French Quarter had a unique smell, unlike anywhere else I had ever been. The air held the greasy smell of fried foods, perhaps catfish and hushpuppies, raw oysters—salty and fresh—with the sweet smell of powdered sugar—beignets from Café du Monde. Inhaling, olfaction instantly recognizing the rich scent of chicory coffee. It was one of the scents that never left the air here. My mouth watered.
“I like it,” he said. “We must explore this place.”
Rocco hit him on the back of the head, ruffling his hair like a bunch of soft black feathers. All of the men were sweating, their jackets off in search of respite from humidity and heat. New Orleans was a wayward woman. From one minute to the next her moods would swing. One hour she could be hot, the next cold—same with rain.You have to wait her out and hope you have the right clothes on for the moment.That was what my daddy used to say.
“We just arrived!” Rocco called Romeo something rude in Italian.
Romeo returned the insult and they argued all the way inside of the house.
The music across the street changed, a song that I recognized. Dario shocked me when he took my hand, twirling me around. I had to put a hand to my straw fedora to keep the wind from snatching it.
“You say we dance in the streets here, no?”
“Yes!” I said, laughing, almost giddy. “You are a good dancer, Dario.”
“Good practice for later!” He winked at me, setting me free.
Rocco called him from inside and he cursed under his breath, disappearing behind the door to find his brother.
“Hello,” a soft voice called from behind.
I turned to find a woman holding a bike. I opened my mouth to respond but closed it. She was strikingly beautiful. Her hair was tied up in a hair scarf, her oversized square glasses sitting atop her head, but her face was so unique that it was hard to look away. Her skin was like marble, so smooth, with a layer of radiant humid sheen. Her eyes were almost the color of turquoise. A wide, perfect smile matched her features. Her body was soft, but carved like a goddess. The wind smelled of cinnamon and sun after it touched her.
“You’re going to think I’m terribly strange,” she said, breaking my trance. “But that’s not uncommon—I’m accustomed to it now.”
“Try me,” I said, not sure what else to say in response to that.
Donato cleared his throat, coming to stand closer to me. He removed the handkerchief from his pocket, tapping at the beads of sweat from his head. She smiled at him. He went still, his eyes going soft, and a lazy smile finally formed in response to hers. He was thunderstruck, same as I had been.
“I had a dream of you,” she said, eyes solid on mine. “You are some kind of dancer.” She closed her eyes but pointed at my legs. “Graceful, like the ribbons you have tied around your ankles. Ballet?”
Donato and I looked at each other, then back at her.
I cleared my throat. “That’s right. Are you a fortune teller?”
She threw back her head and laughed, almost a witch cackle, but in an endearing way. There was nothing phony about it. “No, I’m a dreamer,” she said, like she was introducing a new species to a novice scientist. “There’s really no other word for it. I dream of people, things, times to come. I even dream of people who have left this world, and those who are connected to them. Most of the time, my visions come true. I see, just in my sleep.”
Her accent was condensed New Orleanian. She shortened her words, and when she spoke, she did so almost melodically.
“Oh,” I said. “And you saw me?”
She nodded, leaning against her bike.
For some reason, this beautiful woman compelled me to tell the truth. “I don’t think you’re terribly strange.” I moved a bit closer to her. “But I might be terribly strange becauseIbelieve you.”
