Southern Ruby (13 page)

‘It's very serious, Ruby,' he said, holding up an X-ray. ‘She's developed an abscess on her lung. The only way to save her is to remove the entire lung.'

The news pierced me as if a blade had been jabbed into my heart. The shock was so great that I barely heard Doctor Monfort explaining that bacterial infections were common in people with immune weaknesses and if the abscess ruptured it would spread the infection to other vulnerable organs, but I snapped to attention when he said, ‘They can do the operation here, but it would be much better if my colleague Doctor Emory performed the procedure. He's a specialist in the field. It's a complicated and dangerous operation with a long recovery time. Unfortunately . . .'

‘Unfortunately what?' I demanded.

He hesitated, then said, ‘He only operates at his clinic in Uptown. He won't operate here.'

My chest tightened. It was money that was stopping Maman being treated by the best doctor for her condition. Uncle Rex had already refused to help. What was I to do?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maman being propped up by a nurse so she could have a sip of water. My sense of powerlessness abated and the fight returned to me. I didn't care what I had to do. I'd rob a bank if that's what it took. I would find a way to get the best treatment for Maman.

‘Book her in with Doctor Emory,' I told Doctor Monfort.

He stared at me in wonder. ‘But . . . ?'

‘But nothing! If Doctor Emory is the best surgeon to do the operation then he is the one who will do it. Only will he let me pay in instalments?'

Doctor Monfort's shoulders relaxed. He was clearly relieved that I had agreed to Doctor Emory performing the surgery. ‘It's not his usual practice but I'm sure it can be arranged. I will speak to him personally about it.'

After Doctor Monfort left, I approached Maman's bed. Her face was drawn and she was struggling to breathe. But when she saw me standing there she smiled.

‘My darling Ruby,' she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘You were my only little baby to survive. How strong you were. How much you wanted to live. Now your little brother and sisters are waiting for me in heaven. Your father too.'

I gritted my teeth. ‘Don't talk like that, Maman. You aren't going to heaven just yet.' I reached out and stroked her burning forehead. ‘Everything's going to be all right. You'll see. Don't you worry one bit. I'll always take care of you, Maman — always.'

I
woke up later that morning with my birth name on my lips: Amandine Desiree Lalande. I'd been named Amandine after the house, and Grandma Ruby had bestowed her mother's name on me too. I recalled my conversation with Tamara in Sydney, how I'd thought ‘Amandine Desiree Lalande' a grand name that was too big for me. Now I realised I'd been given that name because I was cherished by my New Orleans family.

I slipped out of bed and moved to the window, where I had a view of the garden gate. I'd been fascinated by historic houses for as long as I could remember, but ‘Amandine' was something else. Here, the story of my family was coming to life before me like a surround-sound 3D movie. I imagined a young Grandma Ruby standing there in her black dress, telling her tales, while Clifford Lalande watched her, perhaps from this very window, and fell in love.

I could have listened to Grandma Ruby's story all night, but when dawn broke in the sky she told me she would continue it at a later time and that we'd better go to bed. Although I'd
been disappointed, it was probably for the best. I was taking in so much about my family that it was both exhilarating and exhausting. I was rapidly realising that everything I thought I knew about myself had only been part of the story and I had to pace myself to hear the rest.

When I went into the ensuite bathroom, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror.
My father used to look at himself in this mirror
, I thought,
and when he did, he saw these tawny eyes, this angular face, this smooth, even skin
.

After my shower, I applied tinted moisturiser, mascara and lip gloss, which was far less make-up than I would normally wear. Apart from my dyed black hair and silver nail polish, it was the most natural I'd looked in years. I'd suddenly lost the need to radically alter my appearance and put on a mask.

A blue and white tube dress was the first item of clothing I found in my suitcase, and I paired it with white sandals. On my way down the stairs I noticed there were no telltale cracks in the walls or dips in the floors to suggest that the house was shifting unchecked. It pleased me to know that ‘Amandine' was being maintained.

I passed the parlour and a rich, delicious aroma reached my nostrils. It made me think of Mrs Lalande's chocolate cake but I realised it was the smell of brewing coffee. In the kitchen I found a dark-haired woman in a blue tunic pantsuit. She was laying out dishes on the breakfast counter.

‘Good morning,' she said, in a Latino accent. ‘You must be Amandine? I'm Lorena. I missed meeting you yesterday because I was running errands. Your grandmother has already had her coffee and beignets in bed, but your aunty told me that you'd like to eat healthy food.'

I eyed the fresh peaches, blueberries and sliced watermelon Lorena was arranging on a platter. I'd heard that Southerners ate ‘fried for breakfast, fried for lunch and fried for dinner'. I didn't know how Aunt Louise had guessed that I preferred
lighter food, but was glad she had. I thanked Lorena and sat down to eat. She handed me a copy of
NOLA Life News
before she disappeared into the adjacent laundry.

Judging from the number of murders, shootings, robberies and rapes reported in the newspaper I understood why the city was often described as dangerous. But looking out at the beautiful garden and sipping chicory-flavoured coffee, it seemed to me that nothing bad could happen in this lovely part of the world.

I flipped through the paper and a feature article caught my eye:
The Big One
.

It's only a matter of time before New Orleans is hit by a major hurricane that could decimate the city. But even a moderate storm could cause flooding that will kill thousands of people . . .

The journalist went on to argue that despite a system of levees, sea walls, pumping systems and satellite storm-tracking, the city was in danger of a major catastrophe.

Coastal erosion, ironically caused by flood protection efforts, has now made areas inland more vulnerable to tropical storms than they were a century ago. As things presently stand, the only effective life-saving strategy would be to evacuate the city entirely, but given the large population involved, that task is fraught with problems. A spokesperson for the American Red Cross said the organization cannot build emergency shelters in the area because of the risk to volunteers and evacuees . . .

I was aware that New Orleans was prone to hurricanes in the same way I was aware that Italy was prone to earthquakes and the United Kingdom had experienced flash flooding. The threat of a hurricane hadn't deterred me from making travel plans;
after all, what was the chance of a natural disaster occurring on my trip? But what the article reported sounded serious.

Lorena returned carrying a pile of folded towels. ‘Oh, you're reading about the “Big One”,' she said when she passed me. ‘They have been predicting it for years: the big storm that's going to wipe out New Orleans.'

‘What a load of scaremongering!'

I turned to see Grandma Ruby coming into the kitchen, a distinct sashay in her stride. She was wearing yellow capri pants and a white fitted blouse. Her hair was rolled into a Grace Kelly chignon. I wondered how she managed to look so glamorous on so little sleep.

‘Don't worry, Amandine,' she said, taking a seat next to me at the counter and moving her arm in dramatic arcs. ‘I'm seventy years old and I've lived through many hurricanes. Everybody's so serious these days with their meteorological reports and models of potential damage. We had two hurricanes in July, which everyone thought were tropical storms until the weather bureau officially classified them as hurricanes. In the old days when a tempest was coming, we would barricade ourselves in our houses and party until it passed. We never stocked up on batteries and water. We used to buy vermouth and champagne.'

I thought about my mother's letter: partying during a hurricane sounded like gallows humour to me. Maybe the danger was what made the New Orleanians live so vibrantly.

Lorena placed four medicine bottles in front of Grandma Ruby, who took a pill from each one. It was a lot of medication but she seemed in good health. Anxiety pricked me. So had Nan! I couldn't bear the thought of losing Grandma Ruby now that I'd found her again.

‘I'll take you for a stroll to Magazine Street before it gets too hot,' she said to me. ‘My boyfriend has a shop there.'

Lorena and Grandma Ruby exchanged a smile, from which I deduced the ‘boyfriend' was not quite that.

When Grandma Ruby went to the hall cupboard to get her handbag, Lorena took two bottles of water out of the fridge and handed them to me. ‘Make sure she drinks plenty,' she said. ‘She's not as tough as she acts.'

On our way down Prytania Street, I was again taken by Grandma Ruby's gait. Toes pointed and hips slightly thrust forward, it was something between a dancer's walk and a circus performer's strut. It was leisurely too. I had to keep slowing my own pace otherwise I was in danger of toppling over.

As we walked I took in the beautiful houses around us. It was incredible to me that so many antebellum mansions could exist together side by side yet there wasn't a flashy Mercedes or BMW in sight. Most of the cars we saw were dinted Toyotas and Chevrolets.

It wasn't only the kinds of cars the people of the Garden District favoured but how they were driving that caught me off guard. Nobody was doing more than forty kilometres per hour, and their calm manner wasn't broken once by whatever was the New Orleans equivalent of a P-plater hoon or impatient tradie. Nobody gave us the finger either for having to stop so we could use the pedestrian crossing, as had happened to me many times in the Sydney CBD.

Another thing I noticed was that the roots of the live oaks were breaking up the footpaths. ‘Don't you have people trying to sue the city because they tripped on a tree root?' I asked.

Grandma Ruby looked aghast at the idea. ‘Oh, no-one's going to cut these trees down,' she said. ‘I mean, can you imagine this place without them?'

‘I'm glad,' I told her. ‘People on Sydney's North Shore used to think that way too. But as new people move in, they call out the loppers if so much as a leaf drops in their pool. The area's losing its unique charm.'

‘We don't get rid of things in New Orleans because they're old and may not be one hundred per cent convenient. Look at the
St Charles Avenue streetcar: it's been in continuous operation since 1835. The seats are wooden and the “air conditioning” comes from opening a window. But my, what a civilised way to travel compared to a bus. All of us in the district still use the streetcar. You know you're part of something when you ride on it. On a bus, you could be anywhere.'

‘I'm not sure Uncle Jonathan would agree,' I said with a grin.

‘Oh, you picked that up? Well, let me tell you a little bit about Johnny's gripe with old houses. He grew up in a grand Italianate villa Uptown. When he was a young boy his father, Judge Barial, decided the family ought to have a swimming pool but when the workmen went to dig the hole for the pool they discovered two skeletons buried in the garden.'

‘Really?' I liked the way Grandma Ruby told a story, her lilting accent emphasising certain words. ‘Who did they belong to?'

‘There was a lot of speculation about that. Judge Barial's opponents suggested there had been a murder in the family and demanded a full investigation but the most popular theory of the day was that the two had been victims of a mafia assassination. The mob in those days had a practice of burying bodies in the gardens or under the houses of respectable citizens, where they knew the police were unlikely to search for them. But in the end it was proven that the skeletons were very old and belonged to slaves who had died from natural causes before the Civil War. The whole area used to be plantations and as more digging was done more skeletons were found. The Barial mansion had been inadvertently built over an old slave cemetery!'

‘I can't imagine Uncle Jonathan being happy about that,' I said, with a giggle.

Grandma Ruby smirked. ‘He makes out that he doesn't believe in the supernatural but you only have to say “Boo” to scare Johnny. That's why he and Louise live out at Lake Terrace.'

We turned onto a street lined with small stores — an art gallery, a chocolatier, a florist and a beauty spa — before
arriving at a Greek Revival mansion with a blade sign in French typography out the front:
Galafate Antiques
.

Grandma Ruby opened the door and indicated for me to follow her inside. The shop was a treasure chest crammed with antiques and I was struck by the glint of the mirrors that seemed to cover every inch of the walls. Some were Italian rococo style, while others were baroque. None of them were reproductions. One was a walnut trumeau mirror with an oil painting of a courting couple in eighteenth-century dress. My gaze drifted up from it to the chandeliers and lanterns that dangled from the ceiling like grapes from a vine.

Once I became accustomed to the dazzling atmosphere, I noticed other items: a pair of Venetian blackamoor side tables; a porcelain Cavalier King Charles spaniel in a glass box; a Steinway grand piano. I approached a pair of silver gilt grotto armchairs and spotted the price tag: $34,000. Wow!

The store was crowded and yet everything worked sumptuously together. There was no musty smell or a speck of dust anywhere. How did the owner manage it?

‘I think I've died and gone to heaven,' I said.

Although I had a passion for antiques, I didn't own any. The shabby-chic vintage furniture that was often passed off as antique had never appealed to me. It was the real deal or nothing. Of course I couldn't afford the real deal, so I satisfied myself with the pictures in
Antiques Collector
magazine. A slim black man in his late thirties, wearing a blue blazer, polka-dot cravat and oxford shoes, came down the stairs from the first floor and flounced towards us. ‘Madame Ruby!' he cried. ‘What a beautiful surprise!'

‘Blaine, you handsome devil!' replied Grandma Ruby, accepting a kiss on each cheek from him. ‘I've brought Amandine to see you. She loves history and beautiful objects too.' Turning to me, she said, ‘Amandine, this is Blaine Galafate. The Galafate family has a long history of friendship with the Lalandes.'

Blaine reached for my hand and brought it to his lips. ‘
Enchanté
, Mademoiselle Amandine.'

His manner was highly affected and very camp. I liked him immediately. He was as theatrical as Grandma Ruby.

‘Amandine arrived yesterday,' Grandma Ruby told him. ‘From Australia.'

Blaine's eyebrows shot up as if it had suddenly occurred to him who I was.

‘Well,' he said, bringing his palms to his cheeks, ‘I think that calls for a celebration, don't you, Madame Ruby? I've got some champagne in the fridge.'

‘Good idea, Oscar,' she exclaimed.

He disappeared out the back and I turned to Grandma Ruby. ‘Oscar? Didn't you say his name was Blaine?'

‘Oh,' she said, waving her hand, ‘that's a New Orleans custom. We give our close friends pet names. Mine's always been Ruby. Louise's friends call her Lucy. Even New Orleans has a few different names: The Big Easy; The Crescent City; The City That Care Forgot.' She grinned at me. ‘You can have a special name too. What would you like to be called?'

I shook my head. ‘I'm still getting used to Amandine.'

After Blaine had returned with a bottle of Bollinger and proposed a toast to my visit, I asked him about the store. ‘Where do you obtain these pieces? They're exquisite.'

He sat down at a sales desk and invited me and Grandma Ruby to take the seats opposite. ‘I travel to France and Italy five or six times a year to attend the fairs and private estate sales.'

My eyes fell to a pair of Famille Rose peacocks on his desk. There were many elegant homes in the Garden District, and I imagined there would be more in other affluent areas of New Orleans, but if the other two floors of the shop were anything like the ground floor, Blaine must have a few million dollars worth of merchandise. Surely the locals in New Orleans and the wealthy tourists wouldn't be enough to keep him in business?