The Marigny Keepers

Chapter 4

Alene dreamt of The Musee D’Orsay that night, or rather what her subconscious mind thought it might be like to stroll through the Parisian museum, since she had never been there. In the dream it was another time, another era, and she moved through the museum slowly, taking in the rich hues on canvases painted by Manet, Bonnard, and Cezanne, until she felt aware in her dream that her legs were covered by a heavy floor-length skirt. Its fabric swished and swayed as she walked, its weight moving almost as if it were a pendulum. She eventually became aware that there was an arm cradling her waist; she had a male escort as she toured these majestic halls. At the end of an airy, cool corridor, she came to stand before a painting in an ornate frame that looked familiar, but the name of the painter was out of reach. In the painting, a stern-looking woman with dark hair appeared to be watering an exotic bouquet.

    Just as her brain was about to make the connection and reveal the identity of the painter to her as surely one she had studied earlier that year, she felt warm breath against earlobe. The man behind her in the dream was embracing her, whispering in her ear to indicate his desire to her. Without even turning to look at his face, Alene knew it was him: Perrin.

 Somehow the dream was so realistic that even after waking up, she lay in bed for nearly an hour staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, wondering about past lives and if it was possible that she somehow knew Perrin from another time. It was the shade of his eyes, so very, very blue, that was just so familiar… too familiar.

She had dated Eric all four years of high school. She thought she knew him nearly as well as she knew herself. Even though it had been almost six months since the last time she had seen him, she could still recall with clarity the freckles on his shoulder blades, exactly how much scruff he would have on his upper lip between shaving on a Friday morning and their Sunday night kiss goodbye, and the temperature of the palms of his hands on her body. And yet as well as she had known Eric, her feeling about Perrin was so much more intimate, and he was practically a stranger. It was almost as if both times she had encountered him she was remembering him more than she was getting to know him. It was a baffling sensation.

It was finally the ringing of her cell phone in her handbag that got Alene out of bed.

“Hello?” she answered, not recognizing the number on the caller ID screen.

“Miss Lafitte?” a man’s voice asked. It was Dr. Schwartzbach, at the museum.

“Yes, it’s me,” Alene said, clearing her throat and wiping the sleepiness from her eyes.

“Would you be able to stop by the museum this morning? I have some very exciting news to share with you.”

Alene waited for her housemate, Diane, the Japanese girl from Texas who was working at Brennan’s, to finish her shower, and then showered quickly and dressed. It was fortunate for everyone in Miss Briscoe’s house that Miss Briscoe rose with the sun and Stacy, the bartender at O’Brien’s, tended to sleep until early afternoon, or there simply wouldn’t be enough hot water in the boiler for four showers each morning.

“Up so early on a Friday?” Miss Briscoe commented when Alene entered the kitchen to grab a banana from the counter top for her walk to The Quarter. The old woman was seated at the grand dining room table in the next room with a perfect view of the kitchen, reading her beloved Times-Picayune, the daily local newspaper. Miss Briscoe rarely began a day without reading the paper cover to cover.

“I’m working on a project and I need to stop by Jackson Square,” Alene informed her for no particular reason other than that she thought Miss Briscoe, who was born and bred in Faubourg-Marigny, might admire her interest in Louisiana history.