“The Resident of No. 13 Vieux Carré”
Antonio Roman Campos
FICTION
Looking In
Notwithstanding his prominent position in the gossip circles of Louisiana’s curious gentry, shockingly few concrete details were established concerning the singular personage known as Monsieur Louis Dauphin of No. 13 Vieux Carré, in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Quite out of place in this age of jazz music and rollicking parties, he could still be seen garbed in the breeches and frock coats of Old France, peeping through his upstairs window in the gloaming or strolling through the back alleys of the city by lamplight. Monsieur Dauphin, in his embroidered waistcoat and his stately black hat, appeared to be a gentleman directly transplanted from the now-defunct Court of Versailles. His crinkled black hair was tied with scarlet ribbon into the prim queue of a European nobleman, although it perhaps bore the most distant trace of African blood. Similarly, his skin, though naturally tanned and rich in color, was powdered in courtly white lead, creating an appearance so anemic as to appear almost corpse-like. Furthermore, not a trace of silver was ever to be seen upon the enigmatic monsieur, but, instead, his every vestige was emblazoned with purest gold. There was gold on the tip of his strong ebony cane, and there was gold on the buttons of his long-tailed frock; his two front teeth appeared to be made of gold, and there was a golden sparkle in his narrow and distant eyes.
Seldom seen by the light of day, the secretive gentleman could occasionally be spotted going out in the late evening, just as the glowing, subtropical sun sank beneath the spires of the old cathedral. Yet more rarely, he could also be seen slinking back up the steps of his wrought iron enclosed porch just before the break of day. Nobody knew where he spent the long evenings of his seemingly nocturnal existence. The Frenchman was never seen at the adjacent public houses, nor at any of the numerous parties in the Quarter, nor at the glittering estates of the nearby Garden District.
Out of curiosity, a young boy had once tried to follow the cryptic gentleman; however, he lost Monsieur Dauphin in the weeds of a nearby cemetery, which the pursued had apparently crossed as a shortcut on that moonless night. A young woman—the boy’s elder sister—had also attempted to shadow the enigmatic French cavalier. Unfortunately, due, indubitably, to some unforeseen misadventure, she had been found dead the following day in Lake Pontchartrain with bloated features and pallid, limp flesh.
Thus, the man remained a mystery, and the rumors about him cast yet longer shades.
Looking Out
Yes, I know quite well the rumors about me that circulate throughout the great city of New Orleans. I know that, on quiet nights in the public houses, the inebriated boatmen and bricklayers mock me as the living ghost of the old French Quarter. I know that the children dare each other to approach my house, claiming that it is the residence of some foul haunter of the swamps. I even know that the dear old nannies of the Garden District mansions call their little ones into their houses at night with warnings of old Louis Dauphin and his coven of bloodthirsty vampires.
I tolerate these rumors, and, in fact, I promote them.
It is easier, somehow, to be a creeping phantom or a nocturnal terror than to be what I truly am—a wealthy Southern landowner, descended from generations of harsh Louisiana planters, in love with a poor Congolese woman from the bayou. I hoped that the world might be more tolerant by the changing of the year to 1920; I thought that, perhaps, the old ways might have been disrupted by the Great War and the changing country. However, people like me must still live in secret, even in the relative freedom of the Crescent City.
The old frocks, the golden canes, and the black silk cravats are all mere elements of a false façade and artifices of a superficial identity. I wear them to misdirect the rumors concerning my nightly outings, just as I creep across the nearby cemetery in order to meet my beloved creole queen, Harriett, at the discreet café on the other side.
I did not mean for that boy to follow me and get lost in the cemetery on that moonless night, when the fog from the lake rolled across the tombstones like ghostly breath and the mosquitoes descended upon me in thick clouds. Certainly, I did not intend for his worried sister to follow him, and I did not want her to become disoriented and fall into the old canal. I tried to save her! Earnestly, I did! And yet, when she saw my hand descending towards her and my pale face in the moonlight, she screamed rather than accepting my aid. “God take me!” she cried, “Take me before he gets my soul!”
What am I to do now that I have caused so much pain without good reason? Am I to continue to live this sad and liminal life, or should I finally elope with Harriett, and let the whole sordid matter disappear into the past? Is it time, at last, to remove my ghoulish disguise and join the sunny world of the living? Or, in so doing, would I have to reveal the truth of the girl’s death and my own unexpected aspirations? In so doing, would I be forced to dissolve my connections with she whom I love?
Far better to live under the tyranny of rumor than under the tyranny prejudice. Far better to be feared as a ghost than to be ridiculed as a man. Far better to visit Harriett by night than to never be with her at all!
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