Absinthe Forever

Leaving the door open, she hobbled down the steps with the assistance of a long, knotted walking-stick.

The walking people shifted slightly, letting the old woman make her way through them but otherwise not looking at her. She was dressed in what must surely be a servant’s period costume, the garments worn and faded, and patched in places. Her head was swathed in a multicolored turban, gold hoops swinging from her ears.

Someone hired to give the place further ambiance? Pretending to be a slave? Like the women in Jamestown in their panniered dresses portrayed colonial housewives? As if Nouvel Espoir needed any enhancing.

Why would they hire someone so old? I wondered in concern.

The woman looked to be at least ninety if she was a day, if her tortuous progress through the crowd was any indication. She was so birdlike and fragile.

She might stumble and hurt herself.

She left the crowd, continuing down the drive. Picking her way carefully over the crushed oyster shells, she passed the bus driver dozing inside the coach and the lounging shuttle chauffeur. As the crowd had, he ignored her.

Oh God…she’s coming straight toward me. I watched her approach the car. I didn’t move as she paused beside it.

Was she going to engage me in appropriate chitchat of Nouvel Espoir’s original era? To further the illusion?

I braced myself to respond, but she simply stood there, staring at me while she leaned against that stick.

“Hello.” I broke the silence.

“Mastuh David.” She whispered my name but surprisingly didn’t seem out of breath. Small black eyes bored into mine.

“I’m sorry,” I began. “I don’t…”

“Don’ yo’ recognize Maman Lusa?” She looked a little disappointed but went on when I didn’t answer, “Din’ think yo’d come back, boy, an’ Ah sho’ wish yo’ hadn’, but since yo’ heah…Guess I cain’t say nuthin’ ’cept Welcome back t’ Nouvel Espoir.”

She placed a hand on the door handle as if she’d open the door and pull me out.

“Wait a min…” I began a protest.

There was a sudden flash of light, the sun reflecting off metal…a car’s chrome, someone’s camera… The woman’s image trembled.

My eyes stung so sharply I shut them, brushing at my lids with one hand. When I opened them again, the old woman was gone, in her place only the pale shimmer of heat rising from the gravel.

Where the hell did she go? I glanced at the house again.

A single figure stood on the porch, a small, caramel-skinned woman, not wearing a shabby patchwork dress, but slacks and a white shirt similar to the shuttle driver’s. She had a ring of keys and a small two-way radio at her belt. Over the left breast pocket was a name badge. It was too far away to read but I was certain it said, “LaShawna Owens.”

I realized I was holding my breath. I forced a deep inhalation, almost a gasp, letting it out in a violent rush as a disconcerting sensation settled over me.

Welcome back?

Damned if I didn’t feel as I always did whenever I returned home for a visit, in that moment before the front door opened and my mother threw herself into my arms with a hug. Excitement, yearning…relief that the long drive was over.

Hang on, Davie-boy. You’ve letting the mystery about this place wrap itself around you.

Maybe, but still…

The tour group gathered at the steps, the bus’ occupants joining them, blending together into a small, muttering crowd, complaining about the heat, perhaps?

I waited until the last of the passengers stopped, then slid out of the car, tossing my jacket onto the seat. Locking the door, I hurried to join them, lingering at the back.

“Good morning.” The girl raised her voice so all could hear. Such a loud voice for such a small body. It carried easily to where I stood. She smiled.

“Welcome to Nouvel Espoir.”

Exactly what the old woman had said.

“I’m LaShawna Owens, and I’m your guide for the tour of Nouvel Espoir. Please…” She made beckoning gestures. “Move in closer so you can hear me easily.”

Obediently, the crowd edged toward the steps. I followed, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt, hoping that would help me blend in. The last thing I wanted was to be recognized and singled out. As far as I could tell, with the exception of a couple of teenagers in the crowd from the Haunted New Orléans Tours, the guide and I were the youngest people there by at least thirty years.

“If you have any questions, by the way…” She glanced in my direction.

Briefly, our eyes met before she looked away. I waited for her to acknowledge my presence. She didn’t.

Okay.

“…please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Clearing her throat, she began her speech.

“Nouvel Espoir was built in 1697, in what would later be considered distinctive antebellum Southern architecture, though not typical of New Orleans at that time.”

She gestured behind her to illustrate, waving a hand at the white columns. Several people glanced up at them. So did I. Someone raised a phone, snapping a picture. I decided I’d wait until I was alone to do my photographing.

“The house now rests on twenty acres. Originally there were forty times that many, devoted to the cultivation of sugar cane for the production of molasses and rum. A good portion of the land went for taxes after the War between the States before the family abandoned the property near the beginning of the twentieth century.”

She paused, as if waiting for remarks.

No one spoke, and she continued, “The first Vaurien owner of the plantation was Jacques Antoine, the Marquis Delafée, a noble from St-Nazaire, in Pays de la Loire province, France.”

“Is he the ghost?” one of the teenagers, a boy with a mop of curly red hair, asked.

“I’m afraid the marquis never saw his property. He was very much an absentee owner. It’s his son, Étienne, Vicomte Vaurien, with whom Nouvel Espoir’s story begins.”

“Then he’s the ghost,” the boy persisted.

“The family mausoleum, in the typical New Orleans’ above-ground style, was constructed by Étienne.” LaShawna adroitly fended away answering, by gesturing, this time to the left and the overgrown field.

Everyone looked that way. Rising out of the sea of brush broom, a large, dusty-white sepulcher was visible, several smaller headstones and markers surrounding it. Even from that distance, the name “Vaurian” was visible over the entrance. The tomb took up most of the space of the graveyard, one side almost touching the iron fence surrounding the area.

“Is that where the ghosts stay?” the boy asked.

LaShawna laughed. “I guess it’s as good a place as any.”

“The lawn is so well-kept,” a woman standing behind the boy, probably his mother, said, “but why is that field around the cemetery untended?”

LaShawna looked up, hand shielding her eyes. “It’s getting warm out here and I don’t want any of you to become medium rare. Why don’t I answer that question inside?”

Turning, she gestured to the front door…the closed front door.

Wait a minute. I almost spoke aloud before managing to stifle my question. That old woman…she left the door open. Who shut it?

LaShawna opened the door.