I walk along the Riverwalk, enveloping myself in the sweet perfume of petrichor and sense the gentle sprinkling of soft rain against the tip of my nose. I then stand against a railing, stopping to look at the Mississippi River, mesmerized as always by the dep orange glow of the lights from the Crescent City Connection bridge casted on the river. The sight of the bridge pains my heart a little, recalling the frequent trips that Jeff and I would take to Algiers to visit his mother. I close my eyes, fighting back tears. Jeff’s mom wanted her ashes spread along the river, as this spot I stand in is where Jeff’s father and she met in 1989. One entire year before Jeff was born.
Without saying a word to one another we both went together to the Riverwalk, where we spread her ashes and after, we did not say a single word to each other. I had so many things that I wanted to say to him. What his mom had told me right before she died. She said the strangest name to me as she beheld my gaze, and touched my face, her trembling bony hand cold against my cheek.
Why would she have told me that name? It made no sense she would randomly say the name of someone executed several centuries ago.
After that day, the words between us became more and more sparse. Reduced down to nothing more than what stupid tv show we were going to watch in bed. Jeff’s mother, Marie, was the glue that kept him and me together. I kept on trying to keep that glue, but it came undone when I discovered the evidence of his infidelity in the glove box of his car. Said her name was Bessie. No hard feelings, but Bessie made him happy. stung more than stumbling upon the freaking condoms. I could not make Jeff happy? Me? I believed we were soulmates.
I try to forget Jeff, but he’s always there. No matter what I do, he never leaves. I keep dreaming about him every night, though he’s wearing some peculiar dated clothes every time. A house fire and an older man who grabs my hand and yells at me to not go into the fire, but I do not listen to him and go in. The man cries out for me as the fire envelops me and I wake up in a puddle of my sweat. I’ve been having the same dream for two years, ever since Jeff broke it off with me. I shake the dream and Jeff out of my mind and try to focus on the river. The river is my constant and my gravestone for Betty, where I come when I need to be in her presence the most.
Around me are the drunken sounds of laughter and debauchery, but it’s no surprise at all. Mardi Gras should be a whimsical and carefree day of the year for most tourists and locals of New Orleans, but for some of us, it’s not so fun. The stench of urine and vomit is pervasive on the regular, but on Mardi Gras Day, it’s at peak stench. Perhaps I shouldn’t be walking alone at midnight during Carnival season in New Orleans, but I’m used to it by now. I’ve been doing this for a long time now, ever since Jeff broke it off with me for Bessie.
Jeff’s band is most likely at some seedy bar on Bourbon Street, getting sloshed minutes before Lent in of those awful bars hanging back shot after shot. He’s for sure got that pretty Bessie dangling from his arms, stumbling around after drinking one too many of those cheap, disgusting hand grenades everyone drinks while carousing on the infamous Bourbon Street. Mom always tells me I can do better than Jeff. There is no one better. I’ve looked for “”, but every time I close my eyes, Jeff is all I feel. I walk away from the river, my heart heavy like an anvil. The ground shifts under my feet. The more I walk, the heavier I am.
I walk toward Jackson Square, but for a brief moment I believe I sense something elevated from the usual sounds of heaving and laughter. Is it a chamber orchestra? It doesn’t surprise me, considering that New Orleans is home to many performers, myself included, but this is a sound I’ve never heard before. I walk past Cafe du Monde. Beignets frying never get old, but I ignore the sweet temptation to indulge in those powdered sugar pillows.
I run down the steps, the sound of the chamber orchestra growing louder with every step I take. I run past the Buddhist people handing out their bracelets, people falling into the scam and being hit with a demand for money. They’ve tried to get me several times, but they now realize I’m onto them. I perform right across the street, my favorite flute in hand.
In the distance, the chamber orchestra performs right by the Andrew Jackson Statue. My heart soars a little when a flute cuts through the violins, and a suave clarinet follows in close pursuit. I smile to myself and wonder who these people are and why was no buzz centered on them? The musicians are people I don’t recognize, no one local at least. I know of most of the musicians in the Louisiana Philharmonic, and not a one of them is playing here.
The violins lead an ascending melody, flooding with brilliant green and blue all above my head, shimmery and pure like luminous diamonds. The music then shifts to the flute. God, that tone is beautiful like champagne bubbles, fizzling together and it mesmerizes me. The flutist plays flourish after flourish with skill and precision. I wish I could play baroque era music with such a presence. I glance at the performer and there is no effort on his face—he plays with such ease of comfort that for a moment there’s that familiar twinge of jealousy when I encounter other flutists with a better skill set than me.
“They’re amazing,” someone says, bumping into me. He slurs his words as he places a one-hundred-dollar bill in an empty violin case. “Gotta support the arts.”
He is going to regret that one in the morning, but
“Do you know why there’s a baroque chamber orchestra playing right before the end of Mardi Gras?” a voice chimes in.
“I haven’t the foggiest,” the other voice says. “Guess they’re trying to make a statement. It’s a miracle we can even hear them with all this noise. Kind of boring music, though. I want jazzier stuff. It’s Mardi Gras.”
“God, can’t you two just shut up?” I scream out the words and gasp when I realize that I’ve said them out loud, but they need a brief lecture on etiquette.
“Excuse me?” the other woman asks, scoffing with a once over. “Who made you the queen of everything?”
“Have some respect for the music,” I say, frowning. “They’re amazing — like New York Phil good, though on a smaller scale.”
“Who is New York Phil?” she shakes her head and looks at me with complete disbelief in her gaze. She twiddles with her long hair. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“The New York Philharmonic,” I intone.
“She’s one of those people, aren’t you?” the man next to her says.
“One of what?” I ask.
“The ones who think they know everything there is to know about music.”
I shake my head. “I love music. I want to listen.”
“Hank, you’re drunk and you’re making a fool of yourself. Come on, let’s blow this joint. Let’s go to the real party and not this gigantic snooze fest. Bourbon Street baby!” She lifts her cup and dances.
“Good luck with that. Mardi Gras is over in like twenty minutes. Cops are gonna kick everyone out. Don’t wanna get in trouble.”
“Ignore her, honey. Let’s go.”
***
It’s midnight and Mardi Gras is over. I open my phone and try to pull up Uber but people are bumping into me, causing me to lose my balance, and my phone drops to the cobblestone pavement. Someone steps on it and I sigh and grit my teeth. Why did I pick of all days to go on a midnight stroll when I could have just stayed home? I retrieve my phone and tears flood my eyes when right there is a crack right smack dab in the middle of the screen. It even looks like a string of Mardi Gras beads how it cracked. Funny.
I step back when I bump into a man in front of me, frantic and screaming as he runs his hands through his hair. The stranger touches me and looks at me with crazed eyes. I almost fight him off when I notice the fresh tears in his eyes.
“Is everything all right, sir? Do you need anything?”
“Have you seen it? Have you?”
He has a foreign accent.
“Seen what?”
“Has visto mi flauta? Es carisima. Por favor, ayudame. No lo puedo creer.”
“I am so sorry, sir,” I say. “Please say that again, but in English.”
“My flute is gone. I cannot find it anywhere. Someone stole it. Carajo,” he says, gritting his teeth. “It cost me 84,000 dollars. Mi flauta.”
“Oh, God. I’m sorry,” I say, realizing who the stranger standing in front of me is. The flute player from the chamber orchestra. “I play the flute too.”
“You do?” he asks, looking at me with some kind of hope in his eyes.
“I’ll help you find your flute.”
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