'I think that's German for
epilogue
The winter was mild that year; the days were balmy, the grass in the fields a soft green, the nights touched with a faint chill, a hint of smoke from a stump fire in my neighbor's pasture. Even during duck season, when the marsh should have been gray and thick with mist, the skies remained a porcelain blue and the cypress and gum and willow trees seemed to stay in leaf through Christmas, almost right up to the spring rains that begin in late February.
There was only one day when I truly felt winter's presence, and that presence was in the heart rather than the external world. For our anniversary Bootsie and Alafair and I treated ourselves to a weekend at the Pontchartrain Hotel on St. Charles Avenue. We were having supper at an outdoor cafe down the street, and the day had been warm and bright, the camellia bushes thick with newly opened pink and blue flowers, the wonderful old green-painted iron streetcars clattering down the neutral ground under the overhang of the oak trees. Then the sun dropped behind the rooftops, the air became cold and heavy, and suddenly there was no traffic or sound in the streets, only dust and scraps of newspaper whirling in the wind through the tunnel of trees.
This is what it could become, I thought. All we had to do was stop believing in ourselves and let the charlatans and the manipulators convince us they have the answers that we don't. They aren't fashioned from anvil and chain in a devil's forge, either. Judas Iscariot was us; there was no metaphysical mystery to Will Buchalter and his sister and the Calucci brothers. Their souls had the wingspan of moths; they functioned because we allowed them to and gave them sanction; they stopped functioning when that sanction was denied.
'What's wrong, Dave?' Alafair said from across the table.
'Nothing, little guy. Everything seemed too quiet for a minute.'
'Then let's go hear the band at Preservation Hall,' she said.
'I think that's a fine idea,' I said, and rubbed the silky smooth top of her head.
One beautiful evening that spring we went to the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival at the Fairgrounds. The Fat Man was up on the stage with his band, his sequined sports coat painted with a lavender glow, sweat streaking his walrus face like lines of clear plastic, his pudgy hands and ringed sausage fingers pounding on the piano keys. People began dancing in the infield, jitterbugging like kids out of the 1940s, doing the bop, the dirty boogie, the twist, the shag, arms and legs akimbo, full of fun and erotic innocence.
Everyone was there for it-Clete and Martina, Batist, Lucinda and Zoot (who wore his Marine Corps Reserve uniform), Pearly Blue and her ex-con pals from the Work the Steps or Die, Motherfucker group, Ben Motley, Hippo Bimstine and his family, black and white people, visitors from Europe, Japanese businessmen, zydeco and Dixieland musicians, granola hippies, Bourbon Street strippers, cross-dressers, French Quarter hookers, coon-ass bikers, Jimmie Ryan and Count Carbonna, the meltdowns, religious crazoids with placards warning of apocalyptic destruction, even Brother Oswald Flat and his wife, who strolled about the grounds, sharing a bag of pork rinds. The music rose into the sky until it seemed to fuse with the gentle and pervasive light spreading far beyond the racetrack, over oak-lined streets, paintless wood houses with galleries and green window shutters, elevated highways, the Superdome, the streetcars and palm-dotted neutral ground of Canal, the scrolled iron balconies, colonnades, and brick chimneys in the Quarter, Jackson Square and the spires of St. Louis Cathedral, the Cafe du Monde, the wide mud-churned sweep of the Mississippi, the shining vastness of the wetlands to the south, and eventually the Gulf of Mexico, where later the moon would rise like an enormous pearl that had been dipped in a glass of burgundy.
It's funny what can happen when you lay bare the heart and join the Earth's old dance through the heavens.
