Jason awoke in a strange bed, sun from a different era shining through his French Quarter curtains. Harve stood in the open door, hands filled with garments as he stared at Jason’s bare chest. When he touched the gris gris bag around his neck, Harve quickly averted his eyes.
“Did you sleep well?” Harve asked.
“Like a top. I even managed to find the facilities,” he said, nodding toward the porcelain pot situated behind a curtained room divider.
“You and the young monsieur got home late last night,” he said.
“You didn’t wait on us, I hope.”
“I was worried and could not sleep. I had a feeling.”
“Oh?”
“Something terrible is about to happen, and there is nothing any of us can do about it.”
“Tell me.”
Harve just shook his head. “I cannot because I do not know.”
“What’s that you’re carrying?” Jason asked.
“You are bigger than Monsieur Matthieu, and his clothes do not fit you. Try these on.”
Harve presented him with shirts, pants, broad coat, and accessories, all of which fit perfectly.
“These clothes are terrific. How did you know what size I wear?”
“Arlette saw you in the hallway. She has a keen eye.”
“Arlette?”
“Monsieur Matthieu’s adjoint.”
“His assistant,” Jason said. “How many people does Monsieur Matthieu employ?”
“There are six of us.”
“Do Matthieu’s parents also live here?”
“Only young Monsieur Matthieu resides in the townhouse. His parents live at the Courtmanche Plantation on River Road. We will all go there soon for the New Year’s celebration.”
“Tell me again how long until New Years Eve?”
“Tomorrow,” Harve said. “Now that you are dressed, are you ready for breakfast?”
“I’m starved. Should I wait for Matthieu?”
“After his nights on the town, the young monsieur likes to sleep until noon. If you are hungry, then do not wait on him.”
“I’m not sure my stomach would allow it even if I wanted to.”
“Shall I bring the food to your room?”
“No way. I’ll take my breakfast in the kitchen.”
Harve nodded his approval.“Then I’ll wait outside until you are dressed and ready.
The old man was waiting when Jason opened the door, leading him downstairs to a rustic kitchen. He pointed to a plank table.
“This is Sarah. She will fix whatever you want.”
“Hi, Sarah. I’m Jason.”
Dressed in a brown print dress, apron, and white cap, Sara was stirring a pot of dough. Something that smelled delicious simmered in a covered kettle over the fire beside a Dutch oven for the cornbread. The black woman didn’t turn around, but Jason could tell she was smiling.
Shelves, stocked with jugs, flatirons, cooking tools, and other kitchen implements sat ready for use. Jason also spotted bottles of homemade vinegar and freshly dried herbs hanging from a cord stretched over the hearth. There were no faucets, only wooden buckets filled with water from the cistern. A large window opened out to the courtyard, assisting the candles in providing light to the room.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Famished and whatever you are cooking smells wonderful.”
“I sampled a bowl myself. It is winter okra soup,” she said, placing a bowl in front of him.
Jason’s eyes closed, and a smile enveloped his face when he tasted the soup.
“Extraordinary. What’s in this bowl of heaven?”
“Thought you might like it. I make it with okra, tomatoes, oysters, rice, and red pepper pod without the seeds.”
“Oh man! I may need another bowl. What do you call it?”
“Winter okra soup,” Sarah said.
“Never had it, or even heard of it, but it’s incredible. I could become attached.”
“Would you like wine?”
“I know of nothing else that could make this soup more enjoyable.”
His mouth opened in awe when she put a bottle of Alsace, vintage 1836, in front of him.
“I have died and gone to heaven,” he said. “Are French wines easy to come by?”
“If you are as rich as the Courtmanche family,” Sarah said.
She smiled when he said, “Guess I’m in trouble then. Who taught you how to cook?”
“Learned from my mama. She liked to improvise, and so do I. Sometimes my experiments work, and sometimes they do not.”
“I can assure you, this time it did,” he said.
A younger woman, dressed much the same as Sarah, entered the kitchen.
“I am Arlette,” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Jason decided to ignore what appeared to be an unintended message. Instead, he pointed to the open window.
“I’m Jason. It was dark when I arrived last night, and I didn’t see how beautiful the courtyard is.”
Arlette nodded. The courtyard was alive with colorful plant life, creeping vines and flowering shrubs. Flagstone pathways weaved around a central fountain where the mouth of a baroque cherub spouted water. A circular staircase led to the balcony of the second floor from which baskets of lush ferns hung.
Arlette was younger, but her skin no less black than Sarah’s. Though she wasn’t grossly overweight, her smallish frame carried a few extra pounds, likely due to the older woman’s food. As Jason finished his soup, he could see why.
“Do the new clothes fit?”
“Arlette, you have more perspective than my mother. My shirts and pants were always a size too large.”
“Better too large than small,” she said. “You looked a sight yesterday. If you do not mind me asking, what do you and Monsieur Matthieu have planned today?”
“Harve tells me Matthieu likes to sleep until noon. We saw part of the Quarter last night, but it was dark. I’d like to do a little sightseeing.”
“I am going to market for groceries. You are welcome to come along with me.”
“When?”
“I am in no hurry. Whenever you are ready, we will leave.”
Jason returned upstairs briefly to finish dressing and try on his new boots. Like clothes and broad coat, they fit perfectly. He noticed as he walked downstairs to meet the young woman.“I will summon Gaston to bring the carriage around to the front,” she said.
“It’s such a beautiful day, why don’t we walk? It’s not that far, is it?”
“We may have lots to carry when we are finished.”
“Then have Gaston meet us there. It’s too beautiful to travel by carriage when we could be walking.”
“As you wish,” she said.
Jason glanced at the oversized basket she had propped against her leg.
“If you have another basket for me, we can buy twice as much.”
“Most Frenchmen do not like doing a woman’s work,” she said.
Jason put a finger to his lips. “Then don’t tell anyone.”
They were soon strolling down St. Ann, toward the French Market and the Mississippi River. Jason’s eyes darted from building to building as if he were seeing the French Quarter for the first time.
“There are so many colors. Everything seems alive.”
“The Spanish rebuilt after the Great Fire, using tile instead of wood. They placed the buildings closer together, and nearer the streets to provide fire brakes. The different colors help us distinguish the structures from one another.”
“Paris would be envious.”
It was as if the city had been painted by magical fairies. Azure, pastel pinks and off-yellows melded with red tile roofs and bright blue sky.
Horse-drawn shays and carriages tooled brick and cobblestone streets as pedestrian traffic moved at a leisurely pace along the sidewalks, or banquettes as the Creoles called them. Unlike the last time Jason had seen the Quarter in daylight, there were no cars, no streetlights, no noise at all, except for the occasional whinny of a coach horse, or bray of a donkey.
There was apparently no zoning as shops, sidewalk coffeeshops, and cozy cafes flourished beside schools, churches, and residences. No one seemed to care, everything melding together in a perfect motif.
“I’ve visited New Orleans many times, but I’ve never seen it quite like this. The different colors are stunning. It’s absolutely incredible.”
“There is no place like it on earth. At least that is what everyone tells me,” Arlette said.
“You’ve never lived anyplace else?”
Arlette shook her head. “Just here and the Courtmanche Plantation.”
“Everyone is right,” Jason said. “New Orleans is one of a kind.”
When they passed a coffeehouse, the aroma stopped Jason in his tracks.
“That smells wonderful. Let’s get a cup.”
“I will wait out here for you, Monsieur,” she said.
Jason started to protest, and then realized slaves weren’t allowed to fraternize with whites.
“I apologize for being so inconsiderate,” he said. “Will you forgive me?”
“You do not need my forgiveness, Monsieur.”
“Yes, I think I do,” he said, touching her hand. “You are an excellent and knowledgeable tour guide.”
Jason’s words made Arlette smile. As they neared the French Market and the river, he saw the differences a hundred and fifty years had made. There was no Cafe du Monde, Jax Brewery, or large levee, or the Moonwalk fronting the Mississippi River. Riverboats of another era were lined up, unloading bales of cotton and other items, gathered from the hinterlands.
Sailing vessels, waiting to unload their merchandise from France and Spain lay anchored in the river. The whistle of a passing snag boat echoed all the way to Bourbon Street. Though still early, the river and docks were alive with activity. The Market was no different, wagons unloading produce, furs, fish, and oysters to supply the vendors occupying hundreds of colorful stalls.
“Oh, my word!” Jason said, eyeing the leather goods stacked in one vendor’s stall. “Is there anything you can’t buy?”
“Fresh okra and tomatoes,” Arlette said. “For those vegetables, we will have to wait until spring. Right now, we can purchase kale, Swiss chard, mustard, collards, endive, and turnips.”
“I had okra and tomato soup an hour ago. How do you explain that?”
“Ask Sarah when we return to the townhouse.”
Jason pawed through a stack of cabbage. When he handed one to Arlette, she shook her head.
“This one is better,” she said, placing it in her basket.
They continued shopping, slowly traversing dozens of noisy aisles. A tapestry embroidered with purple and gold fleur de lis hung from one of the stalls. Red, yellow, and blue banners flapped in a light breeze. Like a kid in a candy shop, Jason found several things he wanted to buy as souvenirs. At least until he remembered he was unable to breach the gap with anything other than his own body, and Mama Mulate’s gris gris bag he wore around his neck.
“You are entrusted with money?” Jason said as Arlette paid.
“I am a slave, not a thief,” she said.
“Arlette, I’m truly sorry. Forgive me?”
“There is nothing to apologize for. Most white folks call me a nigger, and not in a subtle way. Monsieur Matthieu and his mother do not call me that, and I have not heard it from you.”
“And you never will,” he said. “If I could change things for you, I would.”
“Our baskets are full,” she said. “Let's find Gaston and return to the townhouse.”