There were 132 of us and now only 62 remain, chained together in the holdings of this accursed shipI am soul weary — all of us are the same body; we share the same maladies. We think, breathe, menstruate and cry together.
France seems so far away now, a distant memory. How long have we been here? I have since stopped counting the days. In France, I was comfortable, even if my family could barely heap together enough money to keep my siblings and me together. It still was not enough. I was a wandering seller, one of the plethora of bouquetierès by trade, if one would call crying out hour after hour for someone to at least buy a single one of my carnations. No one noticed me crying out amid I was too small, too quiet and reserved, like some of the other prettier girls who garnered attention from the handsome men who wanted to purchase inexpensive flowers for their mistresses — without their wives knowing.
At first, I wondered why I ended up chained in this hellhole with 132 other women. Why me? At first, I tried to tell those inspectors that I was innocent. I was not who they thought I was. I was an honest girl, trying to make an honest living for her family. Other mouths to feed. But the answer I received was a slap on the face and to The police ruthlessly ignored my circumstances. Why did they not call upon a respectable physician to examine my body? Surely that could have proven my innocence, but they did not. I was merely thirteen years old, in 1710, then brought to Salpêtrière Prison for my sentence. Royal orders on account of public prostitution. I am now twenty-two and have never lived the life I planned. My family wants nothing to do with me. Here we rot, hoping not to be among the unfortunate to die while we wait to dock into a place I hear is called La Nouvelle-Orléans.
All of it is untrue, for how can I be a prostitute if I am but still a virgin?
2019
New Orleans, Louisiana
We’re adrift in the endless sea of people, pulled back and forth by the constant changing of the tides, the pure reek of alcohol enveloping us as we attempt to maneuver around people who stumble over themselves.
But I think to myself about what I would do if I had lost my flute. It did not cost 80,000 thousand dollars like his, but I’m still playing off my Powell flute and I purchased it when I started my master’s at Loyola. I think of the endless hours I spent in the Loyola practice rooms, just myself and the tiny soundproof rooms, hearing all the flaws in my playing, determined to be the best among the flute players. As determined as I was when I was little, machines hooked up to me, to play hopscotch outside with the neighborhood kids.
“Welcome to New Orleans,” I say to the stranger as a group of people throw some beads at us. And some doubloons, to boot. The metal hitting against my skin stings a little.
“Here ya go,” one girl says. “Poor people didn’t catch any beads. Here’s some extra for you.”
I throw back the beads and shout, “I already have enough beads to open a Walmart sized store!”
I watch, laughing to myself as they stumble as they pick them up from the ground.
He smiles but does not face me. “It’s not my first time here, you know. My first Mardi Gras, though. People are serious about those beads.”
“Can I ask you a random question?” I look over at him, changing the topic of our conversation.
The stranger doesn’t even seem to notice my question. Instead, he is scrutinizing everyone’s hands and bags, searching high and low for his beloved wind instrument. He speeds up his pace and almost gets ahead of me, but then comes to a halt and turns to face me.
“I’m sorry, but I asked you a question about a question earlier.”
He stops and lowers his shoulders into a shrug. “I apologize. I still can’t find it. What was your question?”
“Why was there a chamber orchestra in the middle of Jackson Square today? I mean, on a lazy, regular day, it’s not unheard of.”
“Scheduling,” he says. “We did not realize it was Mardi Gras when we booked a slot in the square. We’re from Spain.”
“Well, it was a nice refreshment. Though it was a hard to hear with all that jazz in the streets. You all sounded great. You know, like I said earlier, I play the flute, too.”
He does not seem to hear me now, as he is once again carried away with his words as he still looks everywhere. I realize now that the outcome of us actually finding his instrument looks grim, but I think of endless ways to cheer him up, despite the odds. Thoughts run through my mind like a rolling train as we dash through the endless crowd. It is our obstacle — every second the multitude impedes us is sacred, precious time lost.
“We’ll find it,” I say with reassurance. “The best place for us to go, just in case, is the French Market. Maybe someone’s gonna try to haggle it.”
“Why would they?”
“The average person doesn’t know the cost of a flute. They may have seen your case and want a quick buck. Why do you think it’s stolen, though?”
“I was talking to Cristina. I set my flute on my chair for only a minute, and before I knew it, it was gone.”
“Who is Cristina?” I ask. “Do you think she could help us?”
“She is our clarinetist, and she already left,” he says. “She has to be in Spain tomorrow afternoon. It is useless. Someone out there has flute. Que voy a hacer?”
The French Market is almost in sight and I help to the best of my capability to guide him there. If my hunch is right, the idiot who stole the stranger’s flute might try to sell it there for whatever reason, so we will catch him come hell or high water.
“I see someone,” I say. “They’re right by the bars.”
Without hesitation, the stranger makes a mad dash for the individual standing alone by the bars, looking visibly upset as they scroll through their phone and put it to their ears.
“Yeah, yeah,” I hear the guy say. He’s slender, tall, kind of sus, looking as his hands tremble. “I found something fantastic. , it should get us out of here and the boss’ll love it. Poor sucker didn’t even see it coming either. Idiot.”
I knew it. My instincts came in handy once again. The guy is where we want him. The stranger taps the man on his shoulders.
“What the hell do you want?” he asks, lowering his phone to neck level. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”
“Mi flauta,” he says. “La tienes? Por favor, dame mi flauta.”
“What the freak kind of language are you speaking, dude? I don’t have what you want. Get the hell out of my face.”
“I think you have what he wants,” I say, gulping hard, my blood pulsing in my veins.
I don’t know what kind of weapon this dude might have on him. In hindsight, we should have called the cops. Oh, God. I’m so stupid. I’m the walking definition of it.
“Y’all must be high or something. Don’t have it. I was lying earlier. I speak a little Spanish. Hombre, it’s Mardi Gras in New Orleans. You can’t just leave something like that lying around.” “h”
“Please help,” the stranger says, this time in English.
“No puedo, senor. Look.” There is a hint of rushed agitation in the tone of his voice. “I’m a cop, staking the place out. Can’t blow this cover. My partner and I have a lot riding on this, but where did you find out your flute was missing?”
“Jackson Square,” I say. “He was playing in the chamber orchestra.”
Recognition lights his eyes as he nods his head. “Right. One of my men was in Jackson Square. My suggestion to the both of you is to go to Flambeaux’s Pawn Shop. It’s right at the corner of—”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s no such place as Flambeaux’s Pawn Shop. Who are you?”
“Not a tourist?” he asks, arching a brow.
“He’s lying.” I face the stranger. “He’s not a cop. He’s got your flute.”
The false police officer scoffs. “I don’t have your stupid flute.”
“Yes, you do.” The stranger attempts to grab the bag, but the other guy stops him and grabs his arm, twisting it.
“How’d you even know I was here?” the thief asks, taking a stumbling step when the flutist releases himself from the tight grasp, and pushes him back, pinning him against the stucco wall of the entrance to the French Market.
I see the way he looks at the thief, an intensity in his gaze that gives me a chill that cascades up and down my spine. It seems the moment lingers on for eons; him staring the thief down as he bared his teeth.
“Give me my flute,” he says, his voice rough like falling boulders. “I said,” he pushes him back against the wall. “Return to me my flute.”
The thief draws himself back and cowers under the flutist’s gaze, almost as if whimpering like a puppy as he grabs the bag and takes the disassembled flute with trembling hands.
I have seen nothing like this before in my life. It is almost as if the man has complete power over the thief. Staring him down as if he were someone like a law enforcement official — if only just for that moment.
“Here,” he says. “Take it.”
“Thank you,” he says. “Now explain to me why you had the audacity to take my flute.”
The thief frowns. “I needed the money. It looked expensive, so I took it.”
The flutist arches a brow. “Money? There are legal ways to get money. Give me another reason,” he steps forward, jabbing the flute into his diaphragm as the thief grunts from the momentary sting. “And it better be good.”
He scrunches into a ball and looks at me, then the flutist. His expression is blank and emotionless as he runs a hand through his dark, curly hair.
“My d-daughter,” he says breathlessly. “She has stage three blood cancer. The treatments are getting too expensive. I cannot pay her bills and Medicaid is refusing her life saving treatment. I can’t even feed her enough. Every day she cannot get out of bed because she is too weak. Children’s hospital took her in for her chemotherapy and now that will be more money. She is only fucking nine years old. No kid should have to go through that agony.” He beats on his chest, looking down at the ground.
“Prove it to me,” the other man says, jabbing into his side the footjoint of the instrument.
Is he saying the truth to us? I feel a squeeze in my chest as my eyes sting from the first onset of tears, thinking of the little girl struggling to walk, the little girl in unimaginable agony. The little girl that thinks her father is working legal 9-5 jobs just to make ends meet and pay hospital bills and not wrapping her mind around the thought of the end of her life. The one that more than anything to fight for it like a warrior. That little girl was once me, laying in a hospital bed, hearing the endless beep, beep, beep of the machines that they hooked me up to. I remember thinking how badly I wanted to play the flute, just like my late mother did. Dad would play her recordings for me, the ones that she did before she died of the same cancer that was trying to take me away, too. And here I am now.
“Oh, you want proof?” he asks, letting out a painful sob as he drops to the ground. “Here’s your mother fucking proof.”
He throws his phone into his hand, showing the endless photos of the beautiful little girl hooked up to oxygen, pale face, sunken eyes. It is like looking into a mirror and seeing myself there. The little girl with her bright dark honey-brown eyes carries with her so much pain, but there is also joy at seeing her father take the picture. It’s a photo of her at her 9th birthday party, and she sits in front of her cake, happy tears rolling down her cheeks.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Iñaki."
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