Madame Duboise
As Michael leaned against the edifice of a vibrantly colored, 18th-century, French-colonial townhouse to relieve himself, he was hardly concerned with the history of the streets where he found himself pissing.
The cobblestone-lined corridors of the French Quarter felt like a step back in time. The beautiful, Creole-style architecture had remained relatively unchanged for three centuries. Multicolored houses and steel-framed balconies stayed illuminated by the ominous flickering of the same oil-fueled street lamps that danced in the moonlight hundreds of years ago. It is a living portrait. A snapshot of a place birthed from the coalescing of several cultures to produce one of its own
Yet Michael was more concerned with standing up straight while avoiding the ricochet of urine onto his shoes. As he finished, he looked down the road toward the cacophony of laughter and music. The group of friends he had arrived with were mingling with a group of women dressed in cowboy hats. One wore a large white sash with “BRIDE” written across it and everyone cheered as she flashed her breasts to the crowd.
Michael sighed and looked down at his wedding ring, desperately trying to remember a time when such antics appealed to him. He instinctively pulled out his phone and went to his messages.
“Goddammit,” he muttered as he scrolled through the unanswered thread of lengthy texts.
He placed the phone back in his pocket, took one last look at his friends, and began walking in the opposite direction. If alcohol had not quieted his mind, then perhaps a midnight stroll would do the trick.
Michael was amazed at how quickly the chaos of Bourbon Street gave way to eerie silence and empty corridors in just a few short blocks. The jarring juxtaposition between the old world and the intoxicated legions of the new had Michael wondering about those who walked these streets before him. Did it look just like this? Were they French aristocrats? Celebrated musicians? Did they fall in love? Did they fall out of it? Perhaps if the streets hadn’t changed then neither had the struggles of the people who walked them. The thought provided little comfort.
“Excuse me, sir,” a low, raspy voice called out behind him. Startled, Michael whipped his head around to see a shadowy figure emerge from the darkness not 10 feet away. He nearly jumped at the site of the woman. She was short and older but far from elderly, her ethnic ambiguity highlighting a mature beauty whose exact age seemed difficult to place. As she stepped into view, her black lace dress and feathered beret shimmered in the moonlight.
“Whoa-shit! Sorry, you scared me a bit there.”
The woman smiled to reveal her ink-stained teeth.
“I am nothing to fear, baby.” She spoke with a thick Creole accent and held out her hand. “Madame Clair Duboise."
“Uh, I’m Michael.”
She curtsied as she shook his hand.
“Enchanté Michael. I couldn’t help but notice that you look a little lost.”
“Just out for a stroll.”
“At this time of night? Baby, you better be lookin’ over both shoulders.”
Michael nodded politely, casually trying to exit the convo.
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned to continue his walk when Madame Duboise appeared at his side.
“You left the party early to wander these streets with no destination and you ain’t lost?” She leaned in and studied his face inquisitively.
“You got pain behind those pearly blues of yours but I can see that you ain’t no dummy.” She reached out and gently placed her hand, covered in an eclectic assortment of crystals and rings, upon Michael’s forearm and spoke in a hushed voice.
“In the Quarter, there are more things to fear than a stickup man. These streets hold dark secrets.”
The conviction with which she spoke sent a shiver down his spine. He looked around the empty street, becoming increasingly aware of his isolation. He chuckled nervously.
“Oh I’m sure they do. Have a nice evening.”
Once again, Michael turned to leave and once again Madame Duboise appeared by his side.
“You ain’t a believer – that’s okay, baby I understand.” She reached out her hand and removed a large opal from one of her rings. “Sometimes seein’ is believing.”
Pressing the stone to her lips, she breathed deeply and closed her eyes. A sudden gust of wind sent the flickering flames of the oil lamps into a frenzy.
“What the hell?” Michael searched the skies for an answer, terrified by the impossibility of what he witnessed. Did she just do that?
Madame Deboise opened her eyes with a look of contentment as if she had just tasted a sweet, decadent morsel.
“Mmm. It’s a beautiful pain you have there. Like a rose with thorns.”
She placed the shimmering opal into Michael’s hands and placed her hand delicately on top of it. “There are still mysteries in this world Michael, but you ain’t one.”
“What are you-” Before Michael could protest, Madame Duboise began heaving and twitching, faint gasps escaping her lips.
“You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to be anywhere…Your love for her is deep and true…and yet this causes you deep pain–– no, not pain –– fear. You imagine a world without her and see only darkness. A world where your youth ain’t nothin’ but a memory that haunts you. She holds your world in the palm of her hand –– and you… resent her for it. Mmm yes, you do. Love her so much that the slightest turbulence terrifies you. She smells only fear. That’s why she hasn’t responded.”
As Madame Deboise broke her trance, Michael recoiled his hand away, dropping the opal and quivering in fear.
“What the fuck is this? Some kind of trick or something? Who the hell are you?”
“Ain’t no trick, baby. I’ve been here a good long while – my family too. Long enough to remember the sounds of hooves on the pavement. And all that time there been folks like me. From the day my great-great grandmama stepped off that boat til’ now, we been known as traiteúrs – seers and healers, fixin’ the broken parts you ain’t even see.”
“Like a witch or something?” Michael asked.
Madame Duboise placed her hands on her hips and furrowed her brow.
“I ain’t no witch. A traiteúr don’t make magic––there ain’t no such thing. Just energy of people, places, and memories.”
She knelt down to the street.
“You see these cobblestones? You see big ol’ rocks. I see a sponge that holds the footprint of every soul that ever step foot here. I can feel it in my bones. It’s how I found you. Could hear you carrying that weight into these streets from a mile away.”
Michael tried to process the words but they made no sense.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“You ain’t supposed to understand! That’s the beauty of it! These streets hold more than you could know – the good, the bad, the dark–– and in the Quarter, there's plenty of dark. It’s why we celebrate. We drink, we dance, we make music, and revel in the unexplained mysteries of the world. We don’t fear it, we revere it.”
Madame Deboise bent down to retrieve the opal from the pavement and gently placed it into the palm of Michael’s hand, encouraging his fingers to grip it firmly.
“Sounds like you could use a little bit of celebratin’ instead of fearin’.” She curtsied and once again flashed her ink-covered teeth. “You have yourself a fine evening, baby.” With that, Madame Duboise turned and began walking back down the street.
Michael watched for a moment before glancing back at the shimmering opal in the palm of his hand.
“What am I supposed to–,” Michael picked his head back up and scanned the empty street, but Madame Duboise was nowhere to be found.