No Good Deed 58

The riverboat having arrived in New Orleans at last on the morning of the 13th, I realised it was the 50th birthday of someone I had once been. I wondered what years I could claim now that I was Anson Northrup. The last few days on the Enterprise had been torture indeed. My passions were such that I pitied any soul who caught my eye before I found some or other release. The Enterprise had docked at one of the less salubrious points in the port area of the city. Naturally. I took the time to explore the lively, unlovely streets nearest the riverside. For there was plenty of life to be found, even though the Enterprise had disgorged its passengers at the dark hour of five, long before the dawn. The north bank of the Mississippi river, the Front Levee, curled round forming the lower edge of a city of grid-like streets with the occasional diagonal. The unhappy and the hopeless came together in desperate clinches in doorways or on deserted jetties. An occasional stumbling figure would indulge in the futile oratory of the hallucinatory drunk. I saw several fights, only one of which involved a knife. A heavily tattooed sailor cut off the ear of his vanquished foe and attempted to eat it, chewing with great concentration, despite the distraction of the screams.

Dawn came grey, with a milky sun. The night people disappeared as though they had been wraiths, to be replaced by the working population of the riverside. I resolved to turn into the next street which led away from the Levee. This proved to be a grand, if shabby avenue, going by the name of Canal Street. I confess, that by looking up at the sign, I had failed to see the dark haired figure in front of me. His arms were outstretched and he was singing a sustained note that I could not identify, in a loud if tremulous tenor. He was quick to apologise, which saved his life. Dressed in a long coat and with a high-crowned top hat, he sported a bushy moustache very dark in colour. I should have said he had reached his thirties but recently.

'Begging your pardon, Sir. It just does a son of New Orleans such good to return home.'

He shook my hand as if he were in need of several gallons of water and I the village pump. He gave a deafening 'Laaaaaaaaaaaa!' before introducing himself,

'Louis Moreau Gottschalk, composer, musician and true New Orleanian, at your service.'

His enthusiasm was indeed disarming, and I released the handle of the knife concealed in my pocket.

'Anson Northrup, recently returned from Europe.' I offered.

'Ah, Europe. How I miss it! I studied music in Paris, you know!' He gushed.

'The Conservatoire?'

He reddened and ran a finger round his collar, which did seem a little grubby.

'Not exactly. And you? How did Europe hold you captive?' he asked.

'As long as she could, Mr Gottschalk, as long as she could.'