Caroline Spector - Worlds Without End

As I passed, the light reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes from me. I noticed that he had straw-colored hair sprinkled with a little gray. His beard was clipped neat and close, giving him an al- most scholarly look. But then I could see his eyes again and once more I had the sensation of being looked through.

Frowning, I turned and hurried on down the corri- dor. I wouldn't have given him another thought, ex- cept that he boarded my plane not more than fifteen minutes later.

He was the last passenger on, probably flying stand-by. But why was he on this flight? And why had he been standing there in the corridor, as though he were waiting for me?

But he passed by me, not even making eye con- tact. What an imagination I had, I thought. The idea that he was following me. It was nothing. A chance meeting of the eyes, nothing more.

Despite the air conditioning, the air was hot and soupy. The smell of beignets hit me as I walked through the airport. One of the charms of the New Orleans airport was the immediate realization that this place was like none other in the United States. That Puritan priggishness was utterly cast aside here.

Maybe it was the weather, or perhaps the strong hold the French had placed upon the place centuries before, but here there was no hand-wringing over drinking, or gambling, or eating. In short, it was heaven, of a sort.

I caught a cab to the Fairmont Hotel, a gorgeous place with nine-meter-high ceilings in the foyer, crystal chandeliers, thick rugs, and the almost phys- ical sensation of decadence. They also made the most fabulous pecan pie there. A southern confec- tion that I've never liked anywhere else.

As the elevator was closing to take me up to my room, I thought I caught a glimpse of Black T-shirt through the milling hotel guests, but I knew it must be my imagination.

The French Quarter was a five-minute walk from the hotel. New York was the only other place in America where history butts up so closely with the present. I went down Chartres Street, then cut over to Royal. The heavy smell of the olive trees in bloom sweetened the air and almost masked the odor of the river.

Lined in antique shops and small art houses, Royal was my favorite street in the Vieux Carre. Bourbon may have been more famous, but the smell of vomit every few steps always put me off. There were some beautiful homes at the eastern end of Bourbon, but they hardly made up for the foul smells and lingering air of dissipation.

I slipped into one of the antique galleries: de Pouilly's. Over the years I'd made friends with the owners of many of these stores. They knew me as selective and willing to pay well for what I wanted. In return, I expected them to keep quiet about my | visits and to let me… wander… in their shops. | The whole Quarter was rabbit-warrened. You might | enter an unpretentious storefront, only to discover a | maze of rooms that led you through any number of connected buildings. I doubt there was anyone who knew all the twists and turns in these places.

A middle-aged man approached me as I entered. He gave off the superior air of someone who just knew I wasn't the sort who could afford to buy here.

"May I help you?" he asked in a tone that let me know in no uncertain terms that he thought he couldn't.

I picked up a bronze piece (not a very good repro- duction at that) and turned it over as though considering.

"Tell Mr. Hyslop that Ms. Sluage is here," I said. I began fingering a porcelain bowl that looked to be an original Meissen. The clerk was obviously torn between telling me not to touch the pretties and trying to decide if I was, indeed, on speaking terms with his employer. Fear won out over officiousness, and he scuttled off like a cockroach.

A few minutes later (I was by now poking around in a large, intricately appointed armoire looking for secret doors), Mr. Hyslop appeared with the now very sweaty clerk in tow.

"Ms. Sluage," Mr. Hyslop said as he held out his hand. "It's so good to see you again. I trust you've been able to amuse yourself?"

As I backed out of the armoire and gave a little sneeze, Mr. Hyslop produced a handkerchief like a magician performing a trick.

"Bless you," he said as he pushed it into my hand. 'I always get the sneezes when I start looking into these old pieces. No matter how hard we try to keep up, they seem to bring the dust with them."

"That's quite all right," I said, taking the prof- fered hanky. "I was just investigating to see if I might want this piece."

"Take your time, take your time," Hyslop said as he waved his clerk away. The clerk slunk off to go harass a couple who'd just stepped inside from the sweltering October air.

"What I'd like to do is take a look at those items you've been keeping for me, and make some ar- rangements for their transport."

Hyslop looked a bit concerned. "Are you not sat- isfied with our arrangement?" he asked. "I thought that-"

"No, no," I said, cutting him off. "It's nothing like that. I've just finally settled down in one place and I'd like to spend some time enjoying the things I've bought."

"Of course," he replied. "How foolish of me. Please, this way."

I followed him through the shop into a series of dimly lit twisting and turning hallways. Then up three flights of narrow stairs painted over so many times there were lumpy bumps like Braille on the railing and walls. It was very quiet here. You couldn't hear any of the usual street noise that bub- bled through the Quarter day and night. He led me into his office, then fumbled around with his keys until he had the right one.

"Here we are," Hyslop said proudly as he flipped on the light switch.

The closet was small, but crammed to the top with arcana. Shelf after shelf with boxes labeled in a code we'd designed. One shelf held only boxes of books. Another, rare pottery. On yet another, articles of clothing. All had special significance. All were pre- cious only to those who knew what to look for.

I could feel the pull of the energy in that little closet.

"I doubt anyone has a better collection of oddities," Hyslop said. "I just recently added this." He pulled a small box from one of the shelves and opened it. Inside was a long white veil, the kind women wore for their weddings and first communions. "It is rumored to have belonged to Marie Laveau's daughter."

"I didn't know she had one," I said. "A daughter, that is."

Hyslop nodded vigorously. "She kept her hidden away. She was afraid that when she died, the whites might kill her to keep the Voodoo under control."

"More than likely to keep the people under con- trol," I said.

"That too, no doubt," Hyslop agreed.

"I'd like to look through these," I said, motioning to the closet.

"Of course," Hyslop said as he wiped his forehead with another clean white handkerchief. I wondered if he had a pocketful of them, magically pristine and freshly laundered.

"Alone," I said in a firm but kind voice. After all, I would need Hyslop and his unusual connections for some time to come.

"Of course," Hyslop said as he pocketed his hand- kerchief. "Just let me know when you're finished."

I smiled at him then, and he gave me a surprised smile back. I suppose I don't do that often. Smile, that is.

It took me the better part of the afternoon to go through the boxes. Most of the items were shams. The bones of some shamanistic practitioner, pur- ported to have special curative powers. Shrunken heads, embalmed monkey remains, fossilized eggs. Books supposedly written in Crowley's own hand detailing his cabalistic findings.

I'd taken care to hide my most precious finds among these harmless trifles. They would be over- looked with all the other folderol. One hopelessly obscure book of cabalistic writings revealed com- plexities of such an esoteric nature that even I had trouble following it. The challenge of it excited me.