The Tragic Flaw (24 page)

But now, the gas-powered flambeaux torches burn below a slumbering Cicero, while thousands cavort and conjoin lust and liquor on the New Orleans pavement. They party throughout the night under the stare of a watchful full moon, dangling omnipotently in the clear sky.

Cicero sleeps for three days straight, only occasionally stirring or tossing about. For three days, he is without nightmares or dreams, or any painful memories. The drain of dismemberment, fermented fruits, lying, and stealing, have caused his body to shut down. For three days, he lies in a hotel bed, without waking, without seeing the sun.

Monday evening, long eyelashes grace a thick eyebrow. A cornea greets an iris, and light is reflected into the brain. The sense of sight is alive and well in one eye as it juts back and forth, helping the groggy brain to remember where it is. The same soon occurs in the right eye; the room is made more familiar to the decision-making organ of Cicero's body.

After three nights of comatose-like slumber, Cicero awakens. His eyelids painfully crack the green mucous foundation that has formed in the corners of his eyes. The joints in his elbows, knees, and shoulders snap with his first gingerly motions.

 

“Oh, fuck,” Cicero grumbles. The aroma of ripened shit escapes his dry, white-crusted mouth. It aches from thirst and non-movement.

Monday evening, the sun sets slowly in the west as the Mardi Gras festival continues three floors below him and all around. Housekeepers have peeked at him several times over the weekend since the “Do Not Disturb” sign wasn't displayed. The first
mujer Cubana
almost called the
policia
at the sight of what she thought was a dead body. But Cicero's fingers twitched, and then his head turned under the feather comforter, so the NOPD was never notified.

“Fuck,” Cicero moans in a deeper than average voice. The whites of his eyes are now the color of freshly churned butter, and they're bloodshot red with diverging veins.

Cicero sits up and places his feet on the intricately patterned carpeted floor. A pack of wild dogs greets the mailman in his stomach. He hungers for sustenance.

“Damn, I'm fuckin' starvin',” he says to himself in a groggy voice. Cicero slowly stands to his feet and is immediately hit with a dizzying head rush.

“Oh, shit.”

He checks the tiny rectangular date box on the platinum, diamond, and sapphire-encrusted wristwatch he never took off. It reads: twenty three.

“Damn, I've been asleep for three days. I feel like fuckin' Rip Van Winkle,” Cicero quips while sweeping the crust from his eyes with his right index finger. The little crystallized light-green chunks fall to the floor. One can only imagine how many light-green crystallized chunks have been ground into this room's carpet, Cicero thinks.

Cicero, still fully dressed in Friday's outfit, uncomfortably ambles toward his thick black suitcase. Brass latches slide outward and the case opens. He grabs his toothbrush and makes his way to the white marble-wrapped restroom. Gray arteries stretch throughout it. His finger flicks a switch and the instant illumination causes him to forcefully squint.

“Fuck, that shit is way too bright,” grunts Cicero, before turning the light back off.
Click
.

He steps onto the white marble floor and leans over one of the double sinks, looking at himself in the large wall-sized mirror.

The lack of light helps to conceal the five lines that are developing on his forehead and under his light-brown eyes. The unkempt stubble on his head and face is beyond the trendy look. He now resembles a homeless man, a man with nothing.

The brass faucet turns inward and cool water flows in a familiar rushing cadence. Cicero wets his toothbrush, then realizes he has no toothpaste.

“Ain't this a bitch.”

He thinks for a moment, then heads for the mini-bar, just as the sun bids adieu over the horizon and the noise in the streets seems to intensify.

Cicero returns to the bathroom and begins to scrub his teeth up and down, side to side, and back and forth, creating fluoride suds and bubbles of baking soda. He spits and rinses, then attempts the much-needed task of peeling his nearly adhesive clothes off.

They've been on so long, they're like a second skin. The cotton blends hit the chilly floor and Cicero steps naked into the marble white shower. The long brass handle rotates clockwise and cold, chilly, cool, room temperature, lukewarm, warm, and finally hot, steaming water spurts out.

Droplets pound Cicero's face as he closes his eyes and allows the water to penetrate his thirsty pores. He moans with delight at the feeling of a hot shower.

Cicero opens his eyes and takes the paper wrapper off the small bar of soap and firmly rubs it all over his back and arms. This is a cleansing he has longed for.

Cicero then places the soap back on the shelf and he rinses his body clean. Silence soon fills the bathroom as the waters stop running. Cicero steps out of the shower and places a terrycloth robe around him, wiping his size eleven feet on the plush rug in front of the designer toilet.

Moonlight sneaks into the executive suite, painting the French ambiance while he dresses himself in a black suit with a slightly lighter black button-down shirt.

“Damn, I need something to eat ASAP,” he states as he leafs through the hotel's booklet of recommended dining. His stomach growls.

He hurriedly decides on one of the nearest restaurants, quickly grabs his room key card and exits his suite. The elevator glidingly carries him to the first floor where a throng of overpaid party animals jostle and joke among themselves. Cicero slides through them and out the large oak-and-glass doors.

Outside, foot traffic is thick with idiots and losers. Women of all ages with little to no self-esteem are everywhere; walking in tight bunches, surrounded by ogling and touchy-feely students and business owners.

“Show your tits!” is a mantra chanted over and over and over and over. It's heard mostly on Bourbon, but the other Rues also know the noise. Cicero avoids being hit by motorists and trampled by the N.O. mounted police on his way to Royal Street. Since the scene here is much less hectic than Canal and Bourbon, Cicero finds some relief from the tens of thousands he graciously blends into, yet wishes to momentarily escape.

At a restaurant to his right, a boisterous drove of blazers and foreign-made sweaters puff cigars and make informal contracts with Southern handshakes in a courtly setting.

Cicero steps inside the refined and painstakingly designed establishment. Over the years, it has become a cornerstone of New Orleans' exuberance and a leader in delectable Italian and Cajun fusion dishes.

A line of couples and quartets snakes from the host's stand to the sidewalk.

“Fuck this,” Cicero decides.

He walks directly past the groups, attracting the piercing stares that only whites from the South can deliver. The busy blond-haired host, a descendent of French criminals, studies tonight's reservation list and fails to notice Cicero's abrupt advance to the front of the line.

“Excuse me, sir,” Cicero states promptly with confidence.

The brown-eyed Cajun doesn't look up.

“Yea, we're all full tonight,” he says effeminately, jotting check marks next to names like Toussaint and Rideaux. Smells of sizzling shellfish waft toward the door from the kitchen.

Softly and gently, two one hundred dollar bills float down the reservation list, stopping where the ink bleeds from the host's pen.

The twenty-nine-year-old host and his school loans endearingly look up at Cicero.

“Let me see what I have available, sir,” he says with ardency.

The original Italian mosaic-tile floors remain immaculate as the sparkling stained-glass windows reflect the glow of detailed crystal chandeliers.

“Ah, yes. We just happen to have a cancellation. Are you dining alone this evening?”

Cicero grins. He loves it when money screams.

“Yes, I am.”

“Excellent. Follow me then, sir.”

Grumbles emit from the line behind Cicero. One older man in particular is irritated. His dark-gray suit is surprisingly well tailored and the gold nugget ring on his left pinkie is an eye-catcher.

“Say, chief, this guy just came from nowhere. Now we need a table, ya understand?”

His red face, fat cheeks, and white mustache give him a
Papa Noel
quality. But the young brunette filly under his arm helps dispel that notion.

“I'll be right with you, sir,” the slim host says as he grabs a menu and the much longer wine list. “Follow me, please,” the host instructs. The men stroll beyond photographs of celebrities, dignitaries, and duchesses that line the corridor walls.

Darkness fills the Bayou sky and sins and sins multiply. But young Cicero Day is now seated in a house that hedonism built, ready to fuel his famished frame.

He peruses the unique menu from his quaint candlelit table near the back of the dim restaurant. Cream-colored walls dotted with black-and-white photos provide a relaxing backdrop amidst the unfiltered white noise of drivel and prattle. Ubiquitous chatter and occasional outbursts of laughter remind Cicero that these days are festive ones.

Appendages, skin, and bones in a right-fitted shoe rapidly head skyward as his heel rolls smoothly on the tile flooring. Then the reverse occurs. His foot taps from sheer hunger. Water placed on his table serves as a resource to temporarily douse the flames of starvation.

Cicero considers the Gulf shrimp simmered in a spicy red gravy with Creole vegetables. He then looks over the crisply fried almond-crusted fillet of trout topped with sliced almonds and lemon butter sauce.

“Damn, that sounds good, but fuck that,” grumbles Cicero.

He then glances past the poached chicken breast topped with baked ham over bordelaise sauce, but instead Cicero goes with the grilled filet mignon, topped with a rich béarnaise sauce.

“Sir, have you decided?” the young chipper waiter inquires.

“Yes, I have. I'll have the filet mignon.”

“An excellent choice, sir. How would you like that prepared? I must inform you that our chef recommends medium rare.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.”

“In that case, I'll have mine medium well,” Cicero chimes, bucking the powers that be. The waiter frowns slightly.

“Would you like something other than water to drink?”

“This water with lemon is cool for now.”

“Okay, I'll have your order in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Moonlight invades through large rectangular windows sectioned in nines and framed in oak. Chandeliers, ceiling fans, and recessed lighting adorn the interior as small palms stand along the walls. Tables are densely packed together.

The bouquet of grilled mammal flesh and decapitated crustaceans is deliciously alluring. It fills the restaurant and seeps into the wooden fixtures. Noise is everywhere.

Moments later, his dish arrives leaving vapor trails in its wake, resembling an artful snapshot from a cookbook. Presentation apparently is everything.

“Thank you,” Cicero tells his waiter as he places the round plate on the pristine tablecloth.

“My pleasure. Can I get you anything else?”

“No. Not right now.”

“Okay, sir. Bon appétit.”

Cicero immediately digs in, slicing, forking, placing and chewing. Slicing, forking, placing and chewing. The tender cuts of meat are succulent. Saliva releases in his jaw at nearly torrential proportions.

A few patrons even silence their talking and begin staring at the carnivorous beast they see before them. In a matter of moments, the fare is gone, and the plate it arrived on is almost spotless.

The waiter happens to pass by and nearly loses his composure at the sight of the emptiness before the guest he just served.

“Wow! Is there something else I can get you, sir?” the waiter says without an inkling of a Louisiana accent.

Cicero dabs the corners of his mouth with the ecru linen napkin that accompanied his meal.

“Yes. I'll have a cognac, please,” a satisfied Cicero states.

“Certainly. Do you have a preference?”

“Louis the Thirteenth.”

“Coming right up,” says the waiter as he scoops up Cicero's plate and utensils and whisks them away. A belly aches no more.

The waiter soon returns with a warmed amber-colored cognac in a fine crystal snifter.

“Thank you,” Cicero says, gripping the two-hundred dollar shot of French ambrosia.

The matured potion tickles his taste buds and excites the palate as Cicero takes a long, prudent sip. It's quite delightful.

As he sits there, Cicero gazes across the clamorous room, trying to decipher certain conversations, or make eyes with a Southern belle who's lost her way. The lukewarm cognac seems to occupy a void in his bereft system, making him whole again. The nighttime sky is hauntingly inviting.