Under the Cajun Moon (4 page)

Jacques had done exactly as instructed, reaching the location just two hours outside of the city. He had hidden the boat on the wooded bank, retrieved the apron, and then slipped into the building sight unseen.

Once they were together, Papa had more fully explained what was going on, saying that he was working on orders from the palace itself, doing the highest-paying job of his entire career. His orders stipulated that the work had to be done alone and that if he told anyone else what he was doing he would forfeit the entire payment. As he had already put in so many hours of hard labor on this job before he took ill, he had made the only choice available to him that would allow him to earn the money he was due: He sent in secret for his son, who was young and healthy and would be able to help him finish the task.

Jacques had been heartbroken to learn of his father’s illness but had tried to remain optimistic. At least their working conditions were not too
terrible. The building the palace had conscribed for this top secret project was well supplied, a roomy old blacksmith shop converted for goldsmithing. As there was only one cot, Jacques had been forced to sleep each night on a pallet on the floor, but otherwise he was comfortable. Meals were delivered to Papa twice a day by a neighboring farmer’s wife, and by supplementing those meals with the food Jacques had brought, both men were well fed. Jacques hid whenever the meals arrived, but otherwise they had been left alone to do their work. As long as they kept the doors closed, conversed softly, and only stepped outside for air in the nighttime, no one had seemed to notice or suspect a thing.

Except for Papa’s lingering ill health and the tediousness of the project, Jacques had to admit that the past few weeks had been enjoyable, a respite from the busyness and noise of their life in the city. Jacques’ mother had died when he was only a boy, so he and his father were used to being alone together.

But then yesterday Papa had taken a bite of bread and managed to lose a tooth in the process. At that moment, his eyes met his son’s and Jacques could no longer ignore the obvious. The old man was dying, and Jacques could not begin to conceive of what life would be like without his Papa, the man who had been there for all of his nineteen years.

Trying not to think about that for now, Jacques returned his attentions to the fine sheet of leaf in front of him. Running his dagger in a crisscross pattern through the gold, he managed to cut the sheet into numerous, perfect squares, two centimeters each. When that was done, he put the dagger away and carefully began piling each square one upon another, intermixed with delicate pages of calfskin vellum.

After he had stacked all of the squares and pages, he gathered the entire pile and gently forced it into a parchment case. That, in turn, was slid sideways into a second case. The double packaging would allow Jacques to hammer the outside with vigor without disbursing the layers of gold inside.

Jacques stood and carried his valuable parcel toward the beating bench. As he went, he sensed his father’s gaze and once again looked at the man, whose pale skin and sunken cheeks made him seem so much older than his years.

“Son.”

“Yes, Papa, what is it? Am I doing something wrong?” Jacques paused in the middle of the room, ready for the expected reprimand. Ill or not, Papa was always correcting and teaching him. This time, however, the older man simply shook his head and spoke, his open mouth revealing the dark place where his newly missing tooth used to be.

“No, son. Now that we’re almost done, I was just thinking how thankful I am that you came out to help. I know you don’t love smithing as I do, but you have worked without error or complaint, and I appreciate it more than you know. You’ve done a good job.”

“Why, thank you, Papa.”

As the old man gruffly cleared his throat and looked away, Jacques felt his own face flush with heat. Papa did not dole out compliments often, but when he did he was sincere. With renewed vigor, Jacques continued toward the beating bench and set the package down on top of its marble square.

“Someday,” his father continued in a more lighthearted tone, “you will earn the title of master goldsmith for yourself and can carry on my mark. Who knows, perhaps you’ll even be named royal goldsmith. You would be invited to live at the Louvre, and all thoughts of station would no longer be an issue for Angelique’s parents.”

Jacques smiled at the dream, but that’s all it was. A man didn’t get to be a royal goldsmith without an enormous amount of talent, dedication, knowledge, experience, and hard work. Jacques was no stranger to hard work, and he had experience and knowledge, but in his heart there was no dedication, and in his soul, not nearly enough talent. His father spoke in grandiose ways, but they both knew the truth, that Jacques lacked any true artistic ability, certainly nothing approaching the skills of his father. He was good enough to serve as a technician and aid to a master but would never be a master himself. He could hardly sketch a pair of candlesticks, much less render them to the client’s expectations in three dimensions. The fact that he hadn’t yet created a masterpiece sufficient to earn him consideration as a guild member was proof enough of his lack of talent.

Still, warmed by the glow of his father’s compliment, Jacques did what
he could do very well, taking care to center the parchment on the marble square of the beating table. He checked the leather apron that hung from the front, positioning it so that it would catch any gold that might accidentally escape the carefully-wrapped sheets, and then he reached for the large hammer. Jacques hefted the fifteen-pound tool in the air and then banged it down against the center of the package.

Hefting again, the beating began to take on a necessary rhythm as Jacques hammered the pile with his right hand and turned and moved it with his left. As a young man, beating had been a skill that Jacques had had trouble mastering—and he had had the blue thumbs to show for it. Now, however, his moves were done with such smoothness and dexterity that he was able to turn the pile after every second stroke without breaking his rhythm or missing a blow.

He had been beating gold leaf all month and now did it mindlessly, almost as if he were in a trance. Usually, he passed the time by thinking about Angelique, about her perfect hands and tiny waist and lilting voice. Were she not titled, they would have gotten married by now. As it was, though goldsmithing was generally considered the most genteel of the mechanical occupations, his station was still below hers, which meant that her parents would not even grant him audience for a proposal. The way he saw it, he needed to become so rich through his father’s shop that her parents would accept him as a viable match despite his lack of title.

But would Angelique wait long enough for that to happen? She said she would. She said she would do whatever it took to become his bride. That, of course, had led to an argument between them, for if she was really willing to do whatever it took, then she would simply defy her parents’ wishes and join hands in marriage now.

Ah, well,
Jacques thought as he hammered and turned, hammered and turned.
Perhaps the past month apart has convinced her to take such a bold step.
He would know soon, as the moment this job was finished he was going to return to Paris, seek her out, and once again ask her to marry him. Perhaps this time her answer would be an immediate and enthusiastic “Yes!”

On the other hand, a beautiful, eligible, titled young woman in Paris
had many opportunities to find a more suitable husband than a mere goldsmith. For all he knew, her love had already begun to fade, her dedication to wane, and her affections to seek out another. He wouldn’t know for sure until he looked into her eyes. Until then, he would have to content himself with the knowledge that, from the moment they had met in the Tuileries Gardens two years ago, it had been love at first sight for both of them. His love had never wavered since. He only hoped hers hadn’t, either.

Jacques worked on the package for what felt like hours. When he was finished with the beating, he carried the package over to Papa’s table and waited patiently as the man pulled out the contents and used his loupe to examine the leaf.

“Perfect,” Papa finally pronounced, and Jacques heaved a deep sigh of relief. He would be happy if he didn’t have to pick up another beating hammer ever again.

“So, Papa,” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm, “any guess yet as to what these statuettes are for?”

“I already told you, son, what they are or how they’ll be used isn’t our concern. We’re being paid to make them and to keep quiet about it.”

Jacques didn’t reply but instead retrieved his agate. Despite Papa’s comments, as Jacques held the stone firmly in his hand and began the final polishing, he kept wondering about the palace’s need for two hundred gilded fleur-de-lis statuettes. If the royal orders had been for statuettes of solid gold, at least then Jacques might better understand the importance of discretion. But these were merely gilded—gold leaf on brass—and worth infinitely less. Given that, why such secrecy over mere trinkets?

What was the palace planning to do with them?

Furiously polishing the shiny surface, Jacques could only hope that someday they would learn the answers to those questions. Given that the quicksilver poisoning was going to cost Papa his life, Jacques felt he was owed that much.

The detective pulled out a pen and a notebook and asked me to tell him everything from the very beginning. I tried, starting with my mother’s phone call at the TV studio yesterday and ending with the drive from the airport to the French Quarter. Beyond that, I said, everything was rather foggy, though it was coming back to me bit by bit.

“Why don’t you take a few more minutes to think about it,” the detective said, patting me on the arm. Then he excused himself to go next door, saying he would be back soon.

“But maybe you can help me,” I objected as he stood to go. “Do you know anything about what’s going on here?”

“Sorry. I’m still trying to get up to speed myself. Let me take a look next door. I’ll be back and we can talk some more.”

Alone again except for the uniformed cop at the door, I closed my eyes and tried to recall more of last night, to remember what had happened after my mother told me I had to go to the restaurant to sign papers before I could come to the hospital to see my father. I remembered driving down the interstate toward the French Quarter, my hands clenched around the steering wheel like a vise.

As I had passed the exit for the hospital, a slow-building anger had begun pulsing through my veins, anger and hurt at thirty-two years of rejection from the two people on earth who were supposed to love me
unconditionally. What a joke! Nothing had changed here, nothing at all. Even in their darkest hour, my parents cared more about some stupid signed papers than they did about me.

Why was I even surprised? My whole life I had been nothing to them but an afterthought, a mistake, an inconvenience to be handled. No wonder I craved rules. I had grown up watching two parents ignore the most basic rule of all: that the one thing they most owed me was
themselves
.

Furious, I felt like pounding the steering wheel and railing into the dark, empty quiet of the car. I wanted to yell at a nonexistent passenger as if my father were sitting right there and ready to hear the cries of my heart. I held it in, though, lest passing drivers see and think I was crazy. It wasn’t easy, as this whole situation had managed to push every single one of my buttons. I may have been an adult with a well-rounded life and a successful consulting business, but things like this reduced me to that same little girl who spent her life quietly watching from the sidelines as the world revolved around her parents and their needs. Rounding the broad curve at the Superdome, I couldn’t help but think what a perfect metaphor the massive, looming structure was for my parents and the way they dominated their surroundings at every turn.

Taking the next exit, I left the Superdome behind and made my way south toward the river. As I went, I did the breathing routine I’d learned in exercise class, trying to get my heart rate down. By the time I turned on to the narrow, even streets of the French Quarter, I was finally calm enough to think straight. I could do this. I could meet with Mr. Peralta, sign his papers, and maybe even take a minute to talk with Sam, the restaurant’s former manager and probably the closest thing I’d ever had to a loving father figure. Though Sam had retired from Ledet’s several years ago, he still lived behind the restaurant in a second-floor apartment that overlooked the courtyard. Spending time with Sam was always the highlight of my trips home.