Jitterbug Perfume

  “To Papa's fat,” she said.

  “We done drink to fat three time,” said V'lu, raising her own glass of Nehi orange soda, to which Madame Devalier had added, under protest, even though it was a celebration, a squirt of hurricane drops.

  “Very well, then. To Bingo Pajama.”

  “To Bingo Pajama,” V'lu said wistfully. “Wherever him po'soul be.”

  “Now, cher, you mustn't worry your pretty head about that crazy Jamaican. I am confident he can take care of himself.” She sipped. She studied the circle of shellfish, each ritzy blob glistening upon the lustrous floor (or ceiling) of its own intimate architecture, the solidified geometry of its desire. The oyster was an animal worthy of New Orleans, as mysterious and private and beautiful as the city itself. If one could accept that oysters built their houses out of their lives, one could imagine the same of New Orleans, whose houses were similarly and resolutely shuttered against an outside world that could never be trusted to show proper sensitivity toward the oozing delicacies within. She sipped again. If one could accept the exaggerated fact of the oyster, one could imagine the exaggerated fact of Bingo Pajama, who had disappeared after the policeman who attempted to arrest him for selling flowers without a permit had been stung to death by bees; one could imagine that Bingo Pajama would keep his promise to bring them still more jasmine, the laborious but successful extraction of whose essence had occasioned this little celebration on Royal Street.

  The telephone rang.

  “I'll get it,” said Madame, somewhat surprised that the dusty phone remembered how to ring. There was an odd look on her face as she pried her bulk from the depression in the love seat, much as the counterman at Acme's had pried open the oysters a half-hour before. When she returned to the rear of the shop five, maybe ten, minutes later, her expression was even more odd. She looked to be sad, but gay about it; or gay, but sad about it. Sad, gay, it was all the same to V'lu, whose immense brown eyes were becoming somnambulant, if not squamulous, a sure sign that the hurricane drops were beginning to take effect.

  “Priscilla was a Mardi Gras baby,” Lily said, out of the blue. “Have I mentioned that?”

  “Yes, ma'am. You sho' 'nuf have mentioned that.”

  “A Mardi Gras baby.” She drained her glass, regarding the oysters now with no appreciable indication of appetite. “Conceived one Mardi Gras, abandoned the next.”

  “Who she mama?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Ol' Wallet Lifter she daddy, who she mama?”

  “Her mother.” Madame sighed into her empty glass. “You know, V'lu, I no longer remember her mother's real name. She was from a good Irish Catholic family, lived in a fine house in the Garden District, I know that. But the devil will bite a young girl if she gives him a spot, and he sure took a nibble of this one. She could have watched the parade from her veranda, they lived right on St. Charles, but, no, she had to come down to the Quarter, mix with the so-called artists—she loved those artists—and that is where Wally spotted her. He seduced her on the street, under the crepe paper skirts of a float that had stalled.”

  “Revern' Wallet Lifter.”

  “That's what the cynics called him, yes. The Reverend Wally Lester was what he called himself. From the Irish Channel, poor white trash, more than likely, but he wasn't dumb. I never actually heard him preach, but he must have been fairly good, he had the looks and he had the tongue. Traveled throughout Texas; Oklahoma, too, conducting revival meetings in a circus tent; overdramatizing the word of God, turning the Scriptures into a cross between German opera and a hockey game, as only a Protestant can do. Then, every year, about a week before Mardi Gras, never fail, he'd suddenly show up in the Quarter. Oh, nobody enjoyed Mardi Gras more than Wally. He'd go on a rip that lasted well into Lent. After everybody else had wound down, he'd still be bouncing off barroom walls. Next thing you knew, though, he'd be gone; he'd go down into Mexico, some said after women, some said after gold—he obviously had more luck with the women. In any case, by Easter Sunday, he would be back to preaching, setting up his plastic pulpit on top of half the prairie-dog holes in Texas. Until Mardi Gras, when he would return to the Quarter and start the whole thing all over again. Sacrebleu.”

  “Yo oysters be gitting warm, ma'am,” V'lu announced dreamily. Ignoring her, Madame Devalier went on telling her things about the Reverend Wally Lester that she'd told a dozen times before. “Warm slime don't taste nowhere near as nice as cold slime,” said V'lu. She smiled, revealing a mouthful of small, iridescent teeth. If oysters drove cars, their hood ornaments would look like V'lu's smile.

  “The girl traveled with him for a season. She gave birth in his air-conditioned trailer, parked in one of those awful towns where jackrabbits hop down Main Street.” Lily made a face. “I've always maintained that Priscilla got off to a bad start by not being born in New Orleans.” She refilled her glass. “More champagne? Oh, I forgot. I'm sorry.”

  “Ah 'pose dat be Miz Priscilla on dee phone?”

  “I'll never forget the day they came back. The minute they hit town, she gathered up her things and jumped on the first streetcar to the Garden District, although they managed to have le combat before she got away. Wally brought the baby by the shop so that I could see her, and there were claw marks on his cheek, the blood was barely dry. He rubbed the baby's bare bottom over the scratches, as if that would heal them. A few days later, he brought her by a second time and asked if I would watch her while he 'administered to those sinners who mock the true Christian meaning of Mardi Gras,' as he put it. It was a year before I saw him again. His face had healed without scarring.”

  “Why you?”

  “Why me? Why did Wally leave her with me? Well, I suppose he trusted me. You see, he used to hang out at the shop—”

  “He like you?”

  A blush stained Madame Devalier in the way that debits color the ledgers of a failing business. “No, no, he wasn't interested in me personally. Even then I was too old and stout. I was born old and stout. He was interested in the 'work.' He wanted to learn the 'work,' although what an evangelist would do with it I never understood. I sold him some—some items. He was the only white man I ever sold to.”

  An oyster Cadillac rolled into view, V'lu Jackson incisors sparkling, leading the way. “Hee hee hee. Ol' Wallet Lifter be jazzing up Jesus wif some drops.”

  “Romance powders and money mojo were more in his line, but that's neither here nor there. I agreed to rear his child, because . . . well, I was convinced that I would never marry, and because I thought I could use a girl in the shop, someone to help, you see, someone to teach perfumery to. That didn't work out, of course. Priscilla always loathed the shop, and I never had the assistant I needed until—until you.”

  It might have been V'lu's turn to blush; whether she did or not we'll never know. She did manage a proud pursing of the lips, however, and then she asked, “Dat Miz Pris on dee line?”

  “She was not a brat, you understand. In fact, she would make a sincere effort every now and again to follow in my footsteps, as it were. She was careless and messy, broke a lot of things, but she'd work hard. Then Mardi Gras would come around and, sure enough, here's Wally. He'd bring her armloads of presents: lollipops and pralines, all sorts of sweets, and dollies and stuffed animals and tricycles and, later, bikes, and the cutest clothes: little dotted-swiss dresses with ruffles and sashes. She thought her papa was rich, she believed that with all of her heart, and Wally encouraged it, the swine. When he left she'd beg him to take her with him, but he'd tell her that he had to go south of the border to attend to his gold mines and that Mexico was no place for rich little American girls. Mon Dieu, how it killed me to watch her fight back the tears! For months afterward she'd be moody and morose, claim that the smell of perfume made her ill.”

  Lily poured the last of the champagne. Briefly, she regarded the uneaten oysters, which, although beginning to look increasingly flabby, lay in perfect repose upon the remaining hemispheres of the dream houses in w
hich they'd once enjoyed such exquisite solitude. Two strong hands and a steel blade were required to storm the privacy of the oyster's dark entrance hall. It takes a team of four horses to force the giant clam of the South Seas to yawn against its will. Every passive mollusk demonstrates the hidden vigor of introversion, the power that is contained in peace.

  “About that time the shop started to lose money. I went to Paris with my formulas and was brutally rejected. LeFever showed interest, but eventually it, too, turned me down—”

  At the mention of “LeFever,” a blush actually did seep through V'lu's protective pigmentation, spreading upon her carob complexion like an oil slick on the muddy Mississippi, and even though her nervous system was, by hurricane drops, entertained, she flinched.

  “—after stringing me along, and with not so much as a franc for my time and trouble. I should never have left New Orleans. I was depressed after that, I admit, but Priscilla was worse. At least I kept a roof over our heads, dealing in items I had rather not discuss. Priscilla wouldn't turn a hand, just talked about her papa all the time, how he was going to come and give her this and that, buy her a sports car, pay for ballet lessons, move her into a big house with a yard, until finally I had to tell her the truth about the Reverend Wallet Lifter and his Mexican fortune; I had no choice, V'lu.”

  V'lu was still recovering from the dent that the reference to the French fragrance house of LeFever had kicked in the fuselage of her midnight airship. She perceived that her mistress needed comforting, but “She believe you?” was the extent to which she could respond.

  “No, she didn't believe me, but she never forgave me, either. Oh, I suppose deep down she may have believed me. In any case, Wally's next visit was a stormy one, and did little to improve our financial situation. Six months later, she ran off and married that accordion player.”

  “How old her be den?”

  “Sixteen.” Madame shook her head and clucked. “Sixteen.”

  “He hab plenny money.”

  “He had some money. Priscilla imagined that it was plenty. And money was what she wanted. I mean, he was pushing forty, not exactly your dashing Latin lover, and she was such a pretty little thing—and so smart in school! His band, it was one of those South American tango fandango bands, was fairly popular for a while. They traveled all over, from Puerto Rico to the New York state mountains, playing in resort hotels. He claimed he was going to train her to dance with his troupe. I can't fathom how either one of them could have believed that for an instant. Mon Dieu, the girl has two left feet!”

  “Him go he home, though. Overseas.”

  “Yes, his band eventually folded, and he returned to Argentina alone, but I believe she had already left him by then. She left him right after Wally passed away.”

  “Her come watch she daddy die?” V'lu knew perfectly well that Priscilla had been at her father's deathbed, she'd heard the story more times than there were beets rotting under her cot, but she was disposed to hear it again.

  “Pris was there at the end. Wally took sick in Mexico and had the decency to come back to New Orleans to expire. He was rather far gone when Pris and I got to Charity.” Madame crossed herself, ringed fingers flashing like UFOs over the summits of her mountainous breasts. “The second we walked into the ward, though, he opened his eyes. His eyes were heavy and feverish, rather like yours are right now. He stared at Priscilla for quite a while before he spoke.”

  “Whut he say?”

  “He said, 'You're startin' to turn out like your ol' daddy, darlin'. A novelty act.' That hit her like a brick.

  “Then he recognized me and winked. He was only fifty, but he looked sixty-five. 'Stay in touch,' he said to me. 'Have you ever . . . ?'

  “He closed his eyes and folded his arms on his chest; you could almost see the life ticking out of him. He sighed, kind of sweetly, and a contented smile softened his face. He muttered something. Then he was gone.”

  “Whut he mutter?”

  “He said, 'The perfect taco.' That's it, those were his last words. He sighed, 'Ahhh,' and said, 'The perfect taco.'”

  The two women were silent for some time, maybe meditating upon the mystery of it all—the life, the death, the goofiness—maybe, in V'lu's case, in communion with a private totem. The oysters, those tender masters of sequestrable engineering, apparently had given up the ghost, perhaps to be reborn, in distant times, in distant foams, as Aphrodites. When finally V'lu spoke, the abruptness caused Lily to accidentally jettison the last remaining bubbles of champagne.

  “Whut Miz Priscilla call about?”

  “Pardon? Oh. Well, Miss Priscilla is seeking help, monetary or otherwise, in obtaining some—are you prepared for this?—some premium jasmine oil.”

  "Jamais!" snapped V'lu. She caught herself. “Never,” she repeated in English, catching herself once more and amending her response to: “Nebber.”

  “Chérie, I am surprised at you. Don't look so upset.” With a yellowed linen napkin, Madame dabbed at the champagne spots on the love-seat velvet. “The Parfumerie Devalier has extracted eight ounces of the most magnificent jasmine essence the world has ever known. When we establish the proper base note, we shall own a boof that will have Paris crawling here, to me, on its knees. It could ruin us if our extract fell into the wrong hands, but still, Pris has some rights. It took a lot of heart for her to turn to me after I rejected her three years ago, pushed her away in favor of you, when she asked to come back into the shop—”

  “But—”

  “I am aware of what you are going to say: she refused to help me when I really needed her. Well, I refused to help her when she needed it, too.”

  “You hep her she whole life.”

  “I could have helped more.”

  “How?”

  “I could have told her the truth about Wally. Years before I did. I could have squelched her silly fantasies.” Madame paused. “But then, perfume business is fantasy business, is it not?” She draped her napkin over the shellfish platter like a shroud. “Don't fret, cher. I didn't even mention our jasmine to Priscilla, and since we have no assurance that the Jamaican will supply any more, we may not be able to afford to share with her. Yet, what harm if we did? I can't imagine how she might use it. To be frank, it would please me if her recent interest in perfumes proved sincere. But she is far from expert in the field.”

  V'lu sat upright, her countenance uncharacteristically grim. “Her hab dee bottle,” she said firmly. “Her hab dat dadblasted bottle!”

  The older woman seemed about to protest but changed her mind. The two of them just sat there, as if they were mourners sitting the night with the shrouded oysters. It was early in the week, so no bellows of alcoholic gaiety drifted in from Bourbon Street, nor any screech from a tourist having her purse snatched over on St. Ann. They might as well have been on the plantation; indeed, they could make out crickets rubbing their patent leather hooves together in some nearby courtyard. A tomcat wailed. A foghorn Mark Twained on the river. Then, directly above their heads, there was a single soft thud or plop, followed by the softer sound of something rolling across the floor.

  “Hmmm,” said Madame D. “Maybe our Bingo Pajama has returned.”

  “Yes, ma'am. Or else it be somebody else all dee time be throwin' dem beets.”

  That, at any rate, was what V'lu had intended to say. At precisely that moment, however, the hurricane drops hit her with full force, and, instead, she exclaimed, “Ui zeh! Ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch, ch.”

  PARIS

  LATE ONE FOGGY AFTERNOON in November, just as he was snapping shut his attaché case and calling it a day, Claude LeFever was summoned to the offices of his father, Luc, president of LeFever Odeurs. He arrived to find the old man wearing a whale mask.

  “Papa! What in the world . . . ? Take that off!”

  Although more accustomed to giving the orders, Luc did as he was bid. When the mask had been removed, it was easy to see why Claude reacted as strongly as he did. There are people in this world wh
o can wear whale masks and people who cannot, and the wise know to which group they belong. A tall man, shoulders only slightly rounded by seventy years of nagging gravity; a powerfully built man, whose torso the blind might mistake for a home freezer; a handsome man, nose structurally sound enough to support what might have been the heaviest pair of horn-rimmed spectacles in Europe; a dignified man, despite a residual patch of snow-and-rust hair that resembled a wad of stuffing from a wino's mattress, Luc LeFever was so staid of bearing that on those rare occasions when he forged a smile, his body treated it as an infection, tripling its output of interferon in a frantic attempt to repulse the alien life form that had invaded it. This is not a portrait of your average whale-mask man.

  (Of course, Marcel LeFever was also a distinguished-looking gentleman, sober in his selection of tailor, barber, and facial expression, but in Marcel's eyes were telltale squadrons of milkweed seeds, eager to fly to faraway places upon the first cooperative breeze; whereas Luc's gaze was sedentary, a clump of briers that scratched with severity anything careless enough to brush against it.)

  “I wished to experience, for just five minutes, what it must be like being him,” said Luc. He smoothed his hair. He lit, with a gold-plated lighter, a Romeo y Julieta Presidente, handmade in the Dominican Republic with Cameroon wrapper: a foe of socialism, Luc had long maintained a personal boycott of Havana cigars.

  “I wished to experience what it must be like to be . . . unstable.” He blew a smoke ring. It was square.

  Claude was more than a little surprised. “What brought this on?”

  “Death”

  “Pardon?”

  “I was examined by physicians this morning.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Relax. My blood pressure has escalated, but if I submit to their damned medication, it will come back down. Other than that, I have a faint heart murmur, and a slight swelling of the big toe that could herald an attack of gout. Nothing to be alarmed about, but it underscores the fact that I'm getting to be an old, old man. I mentioned this in passing to one of the doctors, and he said, 'Nobody lives forever, Monsieur LeFever.'”