Tarnished Gold

  "I'll go check on my roux," Mama said, and headed for the house.

  "Monsieur," I said, "aren't you going on your swamp hunt?"

  "Don't know why," he said, "but I have a little headache and decided to rest instead. I hope you don't mind."

  "Oh no, monsieur. I'll speak to my mother about your headache. She's a traiteur, you know."

  "Traiteur?"

  I explained what she was and what she did. "Remarkable," he said. "Perhaps I should bring her back to New Orleans with me and set her up in business. I know a great many wealthy people who would seek her assistance."

  "My mother would never leave the bayou, monsieur," I said with a deadly serious expression. He laughed. "Nor would I," I added, and his smile faded.

  "I don't mean to make fun of you. I'm just amused by your self-assurance. Most young women I know are quite insecure about their beliefs. First they want to check to see what's in style or what their husbands believe before they offer an opinion, if they ever do. So," he said, "you've been to New Orleans?"

  "No, monsieur."

  "Then how do you know you wouldn't want to live there?"

  "I know I could never leave the swamp, monsieur. I could never trade cypress and Spanish moss, the willow trees and my canals, for streets of concrete and buildings of brick and stone."

  "You think the swamp is beautiful?" he asked with a smile of incredulity.

  "Oui, monsieur. You do not?"

  "Well, I must confess I haven't seen much of it, nor have I enjoyed the hunting trips. Perhaps," he added, "if you have the time, you would give me a little tour. Show me why you think it's so nice here."

  "But your headache, monsieur," I reminded him.

  "It seems to have eased quite a bit. I think I was just nervous about going hunting. I would pay you for your tour, of course," he added.

  "I wouldn't charge you, monsieur. What is it you would like me to show you?"

  "Show me what you think is beautiful, what gives you this rich look of happiness and fills your face with a glow I know most of the fancy women in New Orleans would die to have."

  I felt my cheeks turn crimson. "Please, monsieur, don't tease me."

  "I assure you," he said, standing firm, his shoulders back, "I mean every word I say. How about the tour?"

  I hesitated.

  "It doesn't have to be long. I don't mean to take you away from your work."

  "Let me tell my mother," I said, "and then we'll go for a walk along the bank of the canal."

  "Merci."

  I hurried to the shack to tell Mama what the young man wanted. She thought for a moment.

  "Young men from the city often have low opinions of the girls from the bayou, Gabriel. You understand?"

  "Oui, Mama, but I don't think this is true about this young man."

  "Be careful and don't be long," she warned. "I haven't looked at him long enough to get a reading."

  "I'll be safe, Mama," I assured her.

  Pierre was standing with his hands behind his back, gazing over the water.

  "I just saw a rather large bird disappear just behind those treetops," he said, pointing.

  "It's a marsh hawk, monsieur. If you look more closely, you will see she has a nest there."

  "Oh?" He stared. "Oui. I do see it now," he added excitedly.

  "The swamp is like a book of philosophy, monsieur. You have to read it, think about it, stare at it, and let it sink in before you realize all that's there."

  His eyebrows rose. "You read philosophy?"

  "A little, but not as much as I did when I was in school."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "Three years."

  "You're an intriguing woman, Gabriel Landry," he said.

  Once again I felt the heat rise up my neck and into my face. "This way, monsieur," I said, pointing to the path through the tall grass. He followed beside me. "What do you do, monsieur?"

  "I work for my father in our real estate development business. Nothing terribly exciting. We buy and sell property, lease buildings, develop projects. Soon there will be a need for low-income housing, and we want to be ready for it," he added.

  "There's some very low-income housing," I said, pointing to the grass dome at the edge of the shore. A nutria poked out its head, spotted us, and recoiled. Pierre laughed. I reached out and touched his hand to indicate we should stop.

  "What?"

  "Be very still a moment, monsieur," I said, "and keep your eyes focused on that log floating against the rock there. Do you see?"

  "Yes, but what's so extraordinary about a log that . . . Mon Dieu," he remarked when the log became the baby alligator, its head rising out of the water. It gazed at us and then pushed off to follow the current. "I would have stepped on it."

  I laughed just as a flock of geese came around the bend and swooped over the water before turning gracefully to glide over the tops of the cypress trees.

  "My father would have blasted them," Pierre commented. We walked a bit farther.

  "The swamp has something for every mood," I explained. "Here in the open with the sun reflecting off the water, the lily pads and cattails are thick and rich, but there, just behind the bend, you see the Spanish moss and the dark shadows. I like to pretend they are mysterious places. The crooked and gnarled trees become my fantasy creatures."

  "I can see why you enjoyed growing up here," Pierre said. "But these canals are like a maze."

  "They are a maze. There are places deep inside where the moss hangs so low, you would miss the entrance to a lake or to another canal. In there you rarely find anything to remind you of the world out here."

  "But the mosquitoes and the bugs and the snakes . . ."

  "Mama has a lotion that keeps the bugs away, and yes, there are dangers,but, monsieur, surely there are dangers in your world, too."

  "And how."

  He laughed.

  "I have a small pirogue down here, monsieur, just big enough for two people. Do you want to see a little more?"

  "Very much, merci."

  I pulled my canoe out from the bushes and Pierre got in. "You want me to do the poling?"

  "No, monsieur," I said. "You are the tourist."

  He laughed and watched me push off and then pole into the current.

  "I can see you know what you're doing."

  "I've done it so long, monsieur, I don't think about it. But surely you go sailing, n'est-ce pas? You have Lake Pontchartrain. I saw it when I was just a little girl and it looked as big as the ocean."

  He turned away and gazed into the water without replying for a moment. I saw his happy, contented expression evaporate and quickly be replaced with a look of deep melancholy.

  "I did do some sailing," he finally said, "but my brother was recently in a terrible sailing accident."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, monsieur."

  "The mast struck him in the temple during a storm and he went into a coma for a long time. He was quite an athletic man and now he's . . . like a vegetable."

  "How sad, monsieur."

  "Yes. I haven't gone sailing since. My father was devastated by it all, of course. That's why I do whatever I can to please him. But my brother was more of the hunter and the fisherman. Now that my brother is incapacitated, my father is trying to get me to become more like him, but I'm failing miserably, I'm afraid." He smiled. "Sorry to lay the heavy weight of my personal troubles on your graceful, small shoulders."

  -"It's all right, monsieur. Quick," I said, pointing to the right to help break him from his deeply melancholy mood, "look at the giant turtle."

  "Where?" He stared and stared and then finally smiled. "How do you see these animals like that?"

  "You learn to spot the changes in the water, the shades of color, every movement."

  "I admire you. Despite this backwoods world in which you live, you do appear to be very content."

  I poled alongside a sandbar with its sun-dried top and turned toward a canopy of cypress that was so thick over the water, it blocked ou
t the sun. I showed Pierre a bed of honeysuckle and pointed out two white-tailed deer grazing near the water. We saw flocks of rice birds, and a pair of herons, more alligators and turtles. In my secret places, ducks floated alongside geese, the moss was thicker, the flowers plush.

  "Does your father take hunters here?" Pierre asked. "No, monsieur." I smiled. "My father does not know these places, and I won't be telling him about them either." Pierre's laughter rolled over the water and a pair of scarlet cardinals shot out of the bushes and over our heads. On the far shore, a grosbeaked heron strutted proudly, taking only a second to look our way.

  "It is very beautiful here, mademoiselle. I can understand your reluctance to live anywhere else. Actually, I envy you for the peace and contentment. I am a rich man; I live in a big house filled with beautiful, expensive things, but somehow, I think you are happier living in your swamp, in what you call your toothpick-legged shack."

  "Mama often says it's not what you have, it's what has you," I told him, and he smiled, those green eyes brightening.

  "She does sound like a woman who can draw from a pool of great wisdom."

  "And what of your mother, monsieur?" "She passed away a little over a year ago." "Oh. I'm sorry."

  "She developed heart trouble soon after my brother Jean's accident, and eventually . ." He leaned over the pirogue, his hand trailing in the water. Suddenly he pulled it up and sat back. A green snake slithered past. "A moment ago that was a stick. This place is full of all sorts of magic."

  I laughed.

  "Just Nature's magic. Swamp creatures blend in with their surroundings to survive. Mama says that's true for people, too. If we don't like where we live, if we hate where we are, we will fade away there."

  He nodded. "I'm afraid that might be happening to me," he said sadly, and sighed.

  I was gazing at him so intently, I didn't pay attention to the direction in which my pirogue was going. We struck a large rock protruding out of the water and the impact caught me off balance. I fell over the side of the canoe and into the water, more surprised than frightened. When I bobbed to the surface, I was again surprised, this time to find Pierre Dumas in the water beside me. He put his arm around my waist to keep me afloat.

  "Are you all right?"

  I spit out the water, coughed, and nodded. He and I took hold of the side of the pirogue. He got up first and then helped me into the canoe. I caught my breath quickly, but I was still a bit dazed. Of course, we were both soaked to the skin.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry, monsieur," I wailed. "Your fine clothes are ruined."

  "Hardly, and it wouldn't matter if they were. Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine, but quite embarrassed. This has never before happened to me."

  He smiled. "How lucky I am to be here for a first."

  I looked down at myself. My blouse was stuck to my bosom, the thin material nearly transparent. His eyes drank me in, too, but for some reason, even though I folded my arms across my exposed bosom, I didn't mind as much as I thought I would.

  "I'm soaked to the bone," I moaned, and he laughed. "Mama will be furious, especially when she sees what I have done to you, and my daddy . . ."

  "Stop worrying. It's nothing. I'll tell you what," he said, gazing to our right and nodding, "let's land over there by that clearing and sprawl out in the sun to dry for a while. We won't look so bad when we go back," he suggested.

  I nodded and started to get up to pole, but he stopped me and took over. When we struck shore, he hopped out and pulled the canoe up before helping me get out. For a moment we stood so close to each other, we could feel each other's breath on our faces. His eyes held mine magnetically.

  "My hair's a mess," I said softly.

  "You look even more beautiful."

  I started to disagree, but he put his finger on my lips and held it there a moment. Then he lifted it away and slowly, but surely, replaced his finger with his lips. It was so gentle a kiss, I could have imagined it, but when I opened my eyes, I saw his eyes were still closed. He looked like he was devouring the sensation with great intensity so as to get every bit of pleasure from it. His eyes opened and he smiled.

  "I feel unreal, like I've entered your magical kingdom."

  "It's not magical, monsieur, it's . ."

  "Oh yes, it is, and your kiss is the key," he said before kissing me again, this time harder, longer. I let myself sink into his arms, our wet clothing rubbing, the heat of his body caressing my skin, my breasts.

  We sank to our knees and he sat back, bracing himself with his hands, his face to the sun.

  "I'm not sure which kiss is warmer, the sun's or yours," he muttered with his eyes still closed.

  "I don't know how this could have happened. I can pole a canoe better than my daddy can," I said, still ashamed.

  "I'm glad it happened," Pierre replied. "Here," he said, lying back and extending his arm. "Just lie back on me and it will be comfortable."

  I did as he suggested, my head against his chest, his arm around my shoulder. We lay there silently, our wet clothing steaming in the hot Louisiana midday sun.

  "I feel like a Cajun peanut," I muttered after a few moments.

  "What's that?"

  "Shrimp dried in the hot sun."

  He laughed. "You're so full of surprises, every expression, every word, is something unexpected. What a delight. Tell me how it can be that you have not been stolen away and married. Are all the young men blind here?"

  I said nothing. The silence was heavy.

  "No boyfriend?" Pierre pursued.

  "No, monsieur." I sat up.

  "I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry," he said quickly.

  "I should take you back," I said. "Mama will be angry no matter what."

  I started to stand, but he reached out and seized my left wrist.

  "I haven't known you long, but somehow, I feel I can be honest with you, and I hope you feel you can be honest with me. There's a pain in your heart. I wish I could remove that pain. I wish I had some of the magic that's in this place."

  I sat again. He released my wrist, but took hold of my hand.

  "Gabriel. Your name is like music to me." He took my other hand and gently, but firmly, pulled me closer to him. "You're too beautiful to be unhappy. I won't permit it," he said, and kissed me again. When we parted, he wiped away the fugitive tear that had escaped from under my burning eyelid. "Someone hurt you? Some young man?"

  "Not some young man," I said.

  "An older man?" I nodded. "He took advantage of you? This happened recently?" he asked, firing one question after another.

  "Yes. Often I go into the swamp alone. He came upon me one day and . . ."

  "I hope he was made to suffer for it."

  "No, monsieur. He is a wealthy man, and wealthy people often escape pain and suffering," I said bitterly.

  "That's not true everywhere," Pierre said, and looked down. "At least, it's not true for me."

  "Your brother," I said, recalling what he had told me. He nodded.

  "There's more. I don't wear the ring all the time," he said, "but . ."

  My heart stopped and then started. "You're married, monsieur?"

  With great reluctance, he nodded.

  "Oh," I said, as if my heart had turned to lead. For a moment I couldn't breathe. The air seemed even more humid, more tepid.

  "But it's not a happy marriage," he said quickly. "We are childless and the doctors say that is the way it will always be. My wife has some difficulties."

  Despite the weakness in my legs, I stood up quickly. "We must return to the shack, monsieur. I must help my mother prepare for the day's selling."

  "Of course."

  "I am sorry I caused this to happen to you. Mama will get your clothing dried quickly. It will be better if we just walk along the bank," I added.

  He stood. "Gabriel. My wife is even more bitter about our marriage than I am. She thinks I think less of her. It's as if a wall has fallen between us these days. A house, a home, a marriage, should
be filled with love. Two people should do everything they can to make each other's lives more meaningful, happier; but we are like two strangers sharing coffee these days.

  "My heart hasn't felt as light and happy for some time as it did when I first saw you emerge from the fog in the swamp. You are truly like a breath of fresh air. I assure you, I mean it when I say I would do anything in my power to keep sadness from your door."

  "Merci, monsieur," I said, but I started to walk away. He followed.

  "Gabriel." He took my hand into his again and I turned. "You felt something special when we kissed, too, didn't you?"

  "I do not trust my own feelings anymore, monsieur. Besides," I added, gazing down, "you are married, monsieur. I don't want to go looking for any more trouble; it has a way of finding me itself."

  "I understand." He nodded and then smiled. "Can we be friends?"

  I shook my head.

  "Why not? I'm really a nice guy," he said, smiling. "I'll bring you references."

  "I'm sure you are nice, monsieur."

  "Then?"

  I lifted my gaze to look into his mesmerizing green eyes. "Being friends with you . . . it's like being a starving person in Mama's kitchen and promising only to take a small taste of the shrimp etoufee, monsieur. Why fool yourself into believing the impossible? Once you taste it, you can't help yourself."

  He laughed. "Not only beautiful and magical, but wise, too. I'm tormented by the possibility we will never see each other again. You won't turn me away, will you?"

  "I'm sure you have fine, well-to-do friends in New Orleans, monsieur. You don't need a poor Cajun girl in the bayou."

  "That's exactly what I need," he said as we continued to walk along. He still held on to my hand. "Someone who will tell me the truth and listen with sincerity to what I say. I'll pay you for your time. I know. I'll hire you as my personal swamp guide," he added. "I'm sure there is a great deal more you can show me."

  "But, monsieur . . ."

  "As long as you don't dunk me in the water every time we go poling," he added.

  I couldn't help but laugh.

  "That's better. Look at me, soaked but happy. I'm like a little boy again," he said.

  His exuberance swept me along. I thought of dozens of reasons to protest and refuse him, but he was too cheerful and too determined.