Sweet Sorrow
"Nola Pollock," the young woman responded to the question asked by the hotel employee at the Sheraton's check-in desk.
"Did you say Nola?" the man asked with a smile.
"That's right. N-o-l-a, Nola. I know, it's a weird name."
"You do realize that's the acronym we use down here for our fair city?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. NO is an abbreviation for New Orleans, and LA is the state postal code for Louisiana. Put them together and you have Nola."
"That's right. I never met anyone with that name before."
"My parents honeymooned here," she explained. "Nine months later, I was born. Hence the unusual name."
"Have you ever been to New Orleans?" the man inquired as he wrote the room number on the envelope that contained her key card.
"No. This is my first time."
"Well, I hope you enjoy your stay in the Crescent City and come back often."
Nola thanked him and then crossed the busy lobby to the nearby bank of elevators. After getting off on the thirty-second floor, she entered her room and tossed her handbag onto the bed. She opened the wooden interior shutters to reveal a floor-to-ceiling window that offered a breathtaking view of Canal Street below. Down the center of the road, between two lines of palm trees, were the tracks of the Canal Streetcar Line. To the right was the famed French Quarter, and to the left was the American sector and central business district.
Once her luggage was delivered to her room, Nola laced up her most comfortable pair of walking shoes, grabbed her camera and exited the hotel, eager to begin work on the assignment that brought her to New Orleans: taking photographs of eighteenth and nineteenth century homes in the "Big Easy" on behalf of American Homes magazine. As she did on every assignment, the freelance photographer would take hundreds and sometimes thousands of unrelated pictures that she would later sell to news agencies, digital image companies, photographic magazines and anyone else interested in purchasing her work.
After crossing Canal Street, she headed toward Decatur, also known as Rue de la Levée, which runs parallel to the Mississippi River. She knew from her research that she would find the Pontalba Buildings there—matching red brick, four-story apartment buildings, each one-block long. Built in the 1840s by Baroness Micaela Almonester Pontalba, the Parisian-styled townhouses were later converted into rental units and are reputedly the oldest continuously operated apartments in the country. These historic buildings included the first recorded instance of cast iron railings, now an iconic feature of French Quarter houses.
Between the Upper and Lower Pontalba Buildings sits Jackson Square, a National Historic Landmark. An equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson, hero of the Battle of New Orleans and the seventh president of the United States, is surrounded by Parisian-inspired landscape, pedestrian walkways and park benches. Facing the square on Chartres Street is St. Louis Cathedral, the oldest cathedral in America. With its three steeples towering above her, the building reminded Nola more of a fairy tale castle than a house of worship.
Once she had taken more than three dozen photographs of both the square and the cathedral, she felt in need of refreshment. She had been advised by friends familiar with the city to be sure to stop at Café Du Monde, located in the French Market, across Decatur Street. Despite it being mid-afternoon, the coffee shop was filled to capacity, both inside and out. Since she had no pressing business to attend to, Nola waited patiently for a seat. When a party of two finally got up, she made her way to the vacant table, only to have a handsome young man beat her to it.
"Let it never be said I'm not a gentleman," he laughed, letting her have the table.
"I don't mind sharing," the photographer declared, inviting him to sit with her.
"I assume by your Yankee accent, you're from New England."
"That's right. Boston. My name is Nola Pollock."
"Nice to meet you. My name is Sebastian Laurent. I was born and raised right here in the Quarter as were my Laurent ancestors all the way back to 1754."
"I'm impressed. I always wanted to trace my roots and see where they went, but I never had the opportunity. I know very little about my grandparents, even less about the people who came before them."
When a waitress handed her a menu, Nola frowned.
"Not much of a choice in coffee: either black or cafe au lait. This clearly isn't Starbucks."
"As a frequent customer of this establishment, may I make a suggestion?"
"Please do."
"I feel I ought to first warn you: the coffee here is mixed with chicory. I've been told it's an acquired taste, but I've been drinking it all my life, so I'm used to it. It's traditionally served au lait: half coffee and half hot milk."
"Chicory, huh? Well, I'll give it a try."
"If you've got a sweet tooth, you might want to try an order of beignets."
"Is that the little powdered sugar donuts everyone seems to be eating?"
Nola found the beignets, square pieces of fried dough buried beneath a mound of confectioner's sugar, delicious. She could not say the same for the coffee.
Given Nola's enjoyment of her companion's company, her impromptu coffee break lasted longer than she had anticipated.
"I suppose I ought to get back to work," Sebastian reluctantly announced after nearly an hour at the Café Du Monde. "Since this is your first visit to New Orleans, I'd be happy to be your tour guide."
Although she had read several travel books on the city and had a pretty good idea where to find everything she planned to photograph, she wanted to get to know the handsome young man better.
"That would be greatly appreciated," she said disingenuously. "I'm terrible about finding my way around new places."
"Could we start with dinner tomorrow night?" he asked hopefully.
"I'd love to—just as long as I don't have to drink any more cafe au lait."
After exchanging cell phone numbers, the two parted company, and Nola returned to the Sheraton to upload her photographs onto her laptop.
* * *
Over dinner the next evening, during which she experienced her first taste of gumbo, Nola learned that Sebastian Laurent was a fellow artist who made his living as a sculptor working for Kern Studios.
"Is it really a year-round job creating Mardi Gras floats?" she asked.
"Yes, but we also do commercial figures for companies like Dodge, Chick-fil-A and Harley-Davidson. Of course, the procedure used is different. The commercial figures are made out of fiberglass and built to last longer whereas the Mardi Gras props are sculpted from Styrofoam and papier-mâché."
"I'd really like to see some of your work. I'll have to stop by Mardi Gras World and take the tour."
"Save your money. I'll show you around the place myself. I'll even see to it that you get an extra helping of king cake, a treat you can't find anywhere in the city outside Mardi Gras season except for our studio."
At the end of the meal, Sebastian took Nola on a brief walking tour of the French Quarter and pointed out the various styles of architecture found there.
"I really love these Creole townhouses," the photographer said as she snapped shot after shot of the Spanish-style buildings.
"See those posts supporting the second-story gallery," Sebastian pointed out, directing her attention to an unusual feature, "and the rings of pointed spikes near the tops of the posts?"
"Yes. What are they used for? To hang plants or Christmas lights?"
"Believe it or not, they're meant to safeguard a daughter's virtue. They're called Romeo Spikes or Romeo Catchers and are installed to deter amorous suitors from climbing up to the gallery for a tryst."
"They certainly look effective," Nola remarked as she zoomed in for several close-ups of the spikes.
As they continued walking through the French Quarter, they passed a former Creole mansion, which had recently been converted into a two-story bed and breakfast named the Dauphine Inn. Nola was immediately drawn to the charming old building.
This is where I ought to be staying, she thought, not the Sheraton.
As nice as the high-rise hotel on Canal Street was, it lacked the New Orleans flavor of the bed and breakfast. Thus, the following morning she returned to the Dauphine Inn with her luggage after calling ahead to confirm there was a vacancy. The moment she crossed the threshold into the lobby she felt a strong sense of déjà vu as though she were being welcomed home after a long journey.
The front desk clerk gave Nola a second-floor guest room with its own bath. When she leaned out the open window to listen to the cascading water of a two-tiered fountain in the courtyard below, she spotted an extremely handsome young man standing beneath the gallery of the building directly across from the Dauphine, one of several structures that shared the courtyard. She estimated he was several years younger than she was, quite possibly still in his teens.
Nola raised her hand to wave to the stranger, but he receded into the shadows. She picked up her camera and photographed the fountain and the rear of the buildings that lined the courtyard. Her new room may not have the altitude of the one in the Sheraton, but it did not lack a pleasant view.
Once she unpacked her things, Nola ventured outside again. After photographing the sights in the vicinity of Dauphine Street, she walked along Governor Nicholls, heading in the direction of the Mississippi. After strolling through the French Market, she took a bus to Mardi Gras World where she met Sebastian Laurent in the gift shop. He then escorted her through the huge warehouse, showing her past and present props and floats in a variety of stages of completion.
"I can't believe you can create such beautiful work with layers of Styrofoam!" she exclaimed when she examined the ten-foot-high King of Misrule he was currently sculpting.
"Wait until you see the completed floats."
"This place is magical!" Nola said when her private tour came to an end. "I can see why you like your job so much."
"There's still a lot of New Orleans for you to explore. If you're not doing anything on the weekend, I can show you around the Garden District. There are plenty of elegant old homes for you to photograph there."
"Sounds good. This time, though, the dinner is on me."
"And you don't want to forget to see New Orleans' most sought-after attractions."
"What are they?"
"Our famous cemeteries. Every tourist who comes down here seems to want to visit Marie Laveau's grave."
"I'll put it at the top of my bucket list then," Nola joked.
After stopping at a Starbucks for coffee—without chicory—she returned to her room at the bed and breakfast. Lying on the floor, just inside her door, was a piece of writing paper.
"What's this?" she wondered, turning it over to read the elaborate handwriting on the reverse side.
"But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."
Nola remembered enough from her British Lit class to know it was a quote from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. But who slipped it beneath her door, and why?
* * *
Nola woke the next morning to a drenching rain. Having no desire to venture outdoors in such inclement weather, she went down to the Dauphine's dining room and ordered a light breakfast of coffee and a bowl of cereal. On the way back to her room, she stopped to speak with Wendell McClatchy, the front desk clerk.
"Can I help you, Miss Pollock?" he asked.
"I was just curious about the building across the courtyard out back, the one directly opposite my window."
"What would you like to know about it?"
"Do you know who lives there?"
"No one that I know of," Wendell replied. "It's been vacant for the past year."
"Really? I saw a man there yesterday."
"Perhaps the real estate agent was showing the place to a potential buyer. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"No. You've satisfied my curiosity."
"Are you going to go out and take more photographs today?"
"Not in this weather."
Nola turned on the overhead lights to dispel the gloominess in her room. Then she plugged her laptop into a wall outlet and placed it on the desk. During the few days she had been in New Orleans, she had already taken more than four thousand photographs. Now she would begin the monotonous task of sorting through the images, deciding which to keep and which to delete. After two hours of dragging files and dropping them in folders meant for American Homes magazine as well as ones for other clients who routinely purchased her work, Nola needed to give her eyes a break. She got up from the desk and went to the window.
It's still raining out, she thought, looking at the puddles in the courtyard below.
Her eyes were drawn to the vacant building where she saw the same young man as had been standing there the previous day.
He seems too young to be a real estate agent or a homebuyer, but I suppose he might be older than he looks.
The handsome stranger took a step forward, and Nola was frankly dazzled by his striking appearance. It was strange but she had the distinct impression he was looking up at her window. A moment later, he stepped back into the shadows and disappeared from sight.
By mid-afternoon, the rain stopped and the sun returned. In an effort to ward off cabin fever, the photographer left the inn to get some exercise and fresh air. Although not her intention, she walked around the block and found herself in front of the vacant house across the courtyard.
What a beautiful building. I wonder why it's been vacant all this time.
As she was examining the façade of the house, she caught a glimpse of a person in one of the first-floor windows. Although she was not positive, she believed it was the same man she had twice seen in the courtyard. There was only one way to confirm her suspicions. She walked up to the front door and knocked.
"Hello?" she called when no one answered. "I know someone is home. I saw you looking out the window."
When no one came to the door, Nola took out her cell phone, called the number listed on the FOR SALE sign and gave the realtor the address of the property in question.
"I'm standing here in front of the house," she told the real estate agent. "I was hoping you might be able to show it to me now."
"I'm sorry, but I'm in Baton Rouge at the moment. I'd be happy to schedule an appointment for tomorrow."
"Is there anyone else from your office who can show me the house?"
"No. I'm afraid I have the only key. There's been little interest in the place, you see. In fact, I haven't taken anyone there in over a month."
"Thank you," Nola said and hung up without making an appointment.
No wonder he didn't answer the door. He must be living there illegally. That would certainly explain his hiding in the shadows. Trespassing is a crime, after all.
Later that evening, after treating herself to a seafood po' boy for dinner—another fine example of local cuisine—Nola returned to the Dauphine Inn. Upon discovering that a second quote from Shakespeare had been slipped beneath her door, she called the front desk. Wendell McClatchy had no explanation for the notes left in her room.
"I promise you I will look into the matter," he said. "The hotel has security cameras on both floors. If someone was outside your door, he'll turn up on the video."
* * *
Early Saturday morning Sebastian Laurent was waiting for Nola in the Dauphine Inn's lobby with two cups of Starbucks coffee in hand.
"No chicory," he laughed.
As they sat at a wrought iron table in the courtyard sipping their coffee, she told him about the strange young man who was living in the vacant building.
"You mean the garçonnière?" he asked.
"The what?"
"The garçonnière. It belonged to the mansion here. It was an outbuilding where unmarried men of the family lived."
"Another means of protecting the virginity of the daughters?" she laughed.
"It may seem amusing now, but at one time a young woman's virtue was highly prized by potential husbands."
"Ready?" Nola asked after finishing her coffee and picking up her camera.
As Sebastian drove across Canal Street, he told his passenger that the busy thoroughfare was often considered the dividing line between the Creole and American sides of the city.
"You'll often hear people refer to Canal Street as the neutral ground."
"Sounds like you're describing two countries at war," Nola commented.
"Things weren't quite that bad," he laughed. "But the Creoles and the Americans didn't get along with each other."
Sebastian parked his car on Magazine Street, and led the way on foot through the picturesque Garden District. With a fully charged battery in her camera, Nola was not shy about taking photographs of the lovely homes. She shot nearly every house they passed from multiple angles, using both her wide and zoom lenses. When they approached a Greek revival mansion on Third Street, however, the photographer stopped walking, and her camera was still.
"Nola, is something wrong?" Sebastian asked with concern.
"I don't know where I've seen it before, but I know this place."
"That's not surprising. A lot of movies and television programs have been filmed in the Garden District: Interview with the Vampire, Double Jeopardy and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, for example. One of the most popular tourist spots in this area is the Buckner Mansion, which served as the witches' school in American Horror Story: Coven."
"No. I didn't see the house on film. It's more like ... like a memory from long ago. But how can I remember a place I've never been to?"
"You said your parents honeymooned in New Orleans. Could it be they had a photograph of this building and you saw it when you were a child?"
"That must be it," she agreed, preferring a logical explanation to an implausible one.
When Nola raised her camera toward the mansion, she felt a cold breeze that made her shiver on the hot, sunny day. She walked away without taking a single photograph of the house.
From Third Street, Sebastian turned onto Prytania.
"Where are we going now?" his companion asked.
"Lafayette Cemetery."
"Is that where Marie Laveau is buried?"
"No. Her tomb is in St. Louis Cemetery. I can take you there tomorrow, if you'd like."
As they walked along Prytania Street, Sebastian gave a detailed description of the obsequies and burial practices of New Orleans. He was still talking when they entered the gates of the cemetery, pointing out a number of society tombs that were reserved for members of organizations and the burial sites of famous New Orleans residents. Nola listened politely but the talk was beginning to sound like a lecture.
Pretending to still be listening, she walked along the row of graves, taking photographs and occasionally reading the inscriptions. One tomb stood out from the others because of its size and the number of names of those buried inside. Despite its age—the earliest burial dated back to 1838—the structure was in excellent condition. It was obvious the family that owned it spent a good deal of money on its upkeep.
After taking a wide-angle photograph of the entire tomb, Nola zoomed in on the plaque beneath the crucifix. When she read the name, BURBAGE, a wave of nausea came over her. Closing her eyes and putting her hand to her mouth, she called to Sebastian.
"My God! What's wrong? You look terrible. Let me take you to the emergency room."
"No. I'll be all right. Just take me to the Dauphine Inn."
On the way back to the car, Nola had to stop and vomit in the bushes.
"It must have been something I ate," she theorized, wiping her mouth with a tissue from her handbag. "I'm feeling a little better now that I've emptied my stomach. Still, I'd like to go back to my room and lay down for a while."
Sebastian pulled up in front of the bed and breakfast and opened the door for her.
"If you're feeling better by dinner time ...."
"Thanks, but I'll have to take a rain check."
"I'll call you later and see how you're feeling."
Nola walked across the lobby, waving to Wendell as she passed the front desk. The muscles in her legs ached as she walked up the stairs to the second floor.
Maybe I'm coming down with something, she thought, as she put the key into the lock and opened her door.
On the floor was another note. After reading it, she walked back down to the lobby and handed it to the desk clerk.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow," Wendell read aloud. "That's Shakespeare, isn't it?"
"Romeo and Juliet, just like the others."
"I had the opportunity this afternoon to review the footage taken by the second-story security camera."
"What did you find?"
"I saw no one except you and the maid, a sixty-year-old woman who swears she knows nothing about the notes. I believe her, Miss Pollock. Not only has she been a valued employee for more than ten years, but she barely speaks English. Anyway, I shall continue to look into the matter."
After thanking the desk clerk, Nola returned to her room. She kicked off her shoes and walked to the window. The handsome young man was standing in the shadows. This time Nola had no doubt he was looking up at her.
Who are you? she wondered.
Fighting another bout of nausea accompanied by vertigo, she lay down on her bed and immediately passed out.
* * *
The ring tone of her cell phone penetrated her sleep, but Nola did not get up to answer it. When she woke in the morning, she checked her voice messages. Sebastian had called three times to see how she was feeling. The photographer did not bother to return his call.
The growling of her empty stomach reminded her that she had not eaten in over twenty-four hours. When she got up to get dressed, she found yet another note on the floor.
"These violent delights have violent ends," it read, quoting Friar Laurence's warning to Romeo.
The mention of violence unnerved Nola, who was becoming increasingly frightened that she was being stalked by someone.
And I have a pretty good idea who that someone is, she thought, her eyes going to the garçonnière across the courtyard.
Although she could not see him, she had the distinct impression the handsome young man was lurking in the shadows. Her initial instinct was to phone the police; however, she had no proof that the stranger had sent her the notes. On the contrary, the security footage exonerated him. It was proof he had not stepped foot inside the bed and breakfast.
But he might have persuaded the maid to leave the notes in my room.
The safest course of action would be to leave New Orleans and return to Boston. Ignoring the ringing phone—she was in no mood to talk to Sebastian Laurent at the moment—she turned on her laptop and went to the United Airlines website. Once she made a reservation for a return flight to Logan, she packed her things and checked out of the Dauphine Inn. Wheeling her luggage behind her, she walked back to the Sheraton. Canal Street, neutral ground between the Creoles and Americans, had an immediate calming effect on her.
With three days before she was due to return home, Nola would have more than enough time to visit the River Road sugar cane plantations and complete her assignment for American Homes magazine. After contacting a tour guide who offered to drive her to Oak Alley, Laura, Houmas, Destrehan and Whitney plantations the following day, she decided to do some research into the bizarre events she experienced since arriving in New Orleans.
Nola's first step was to google "Burbage family New Orleans." The most-visited site in the list of results was one entitled Crescent City Hauntings. According to the paranormal website, Christian Burbage, the eighteen-year-old son of a prominent New Orleans family living in the Garden District, died an accidental death in 1852. His ghost was said to be one of many that could be seen at Lafayette Cemetery.
While searching for more information on Christian Burbage, Nola found a reference to the Burbage home in relation to a New Orleans ghost tour. She called the given phone number and arranged for a private meeting with the tour guide.
"Every city has its old legends and folk tales," the guide, a history major at Tulane, said when the two met at Willie's Chicken Shack.
"You mean Christian Burbage never existed?" Nola asked with disappointment.
"Oh, no, he was real enough. But little is known about him except that he died at a young age. However, the legend is that he fell in love with a Creole girl named Céline DuBois, who was engaged to a member of a prominent Creole family, the Laurents."
"I met Sebastian Laurent. He never told me about any legend."
"I'd hardly expect him to. His is an old family, the subject of many scandalous tales."
"Did Céline DuBois return Christian Burbage's affections? Sebastian told me the Creoles and Americans did not get along."
"That's right. A Creole girl would not be allowed to marry an American man. Still, the heart wants what the heart wants. Although he was forbidden to see Céline, Christian managed to visit her without her family's knowledge by entering the courtyard through the garçonnière. Céline would then let him inside her home through the back door."
"Under the noses of her family?"
"No. They had their assignations when the parents were out of the city. Then one night there was a violent rainstorm, and Céline's parents returned home earlier than anticipated. There was no way Christian could go out the back door undetected, so he tried to escape by going over the railing of the gallery. However, the rain made the cast iron slippery, and he fell to his death."
With a sense of foreboding, Nola asked if the DuBois house still stood.
"Yes," the guide answered, "but it's no longer a private home. It's been converted into a bed and breakfast called the Dauphine Inn."
The photographer gave the guide a fifty dollar bill for her time even though the full walking tour cost only half that amount. She then returned to the Sheraton, fighting an irresistible impulse to learn more about Christian Burbage's death. Finally, her resolve to put the matter behind her weakened, and still ignoring Sebastian's persistent phone calls, she crossed Canal Street, passed Chartres, Royal and Bourbon Streets and turned right onto Dauphine.
Suddenly, her surroundings began to change, and Nola found herself in New Orleans of the 1850s. Dressed in period clothing, Sebastian Laurent was walking behind her, calling for her to stop, but she doggedly continued toward the former DuBois mansion. With each step she took, the sky darkened. Eventually a fierce storm erupted; yet despite the heavy downpour, she remained dry.
Sebastian's cries become louder and more frantic.
Nola knew the DuBois mansion was just ahead of her, but she could not see it in the dark. A bolt of lightning rent the sky. In its light, she saw Christian Burbage's bloody body impaled on the Romeo spikes. The legend was true; he had fallen from the gallery but not to the street below. His death had been much worse.
In that terrifying instant, the photographer from Boston returned to the present time.
"There you are!" Sebastian called. "You had me worried. I've been trying to get in touch with you since yesterday afternoon. Didn't you get any of my messages?"
Nola continued to stare at the spikes on the post supporting the second-story gallery even though the gruesome corpse had vanished along with the glimpses of the past.
"Romeo spikes," she said as though speaking in a trance. "What an apt name for those dreadful barbs, for Christian and I were like Romeo and Juliet, children of rival wealthy families—not Montague and Capulet, but Burbage and DuBois, American and Creole."
"What are you talking about" Sebastian asked. "Are you feeling all right?"
As though she had not heard him, Nola closed her eyes and recited, "For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo."
Worried about her mental state, the sculptor took the photographer by the arm.
"You're clearly not well. I'm going to take you to see a doctor."
She pulled loose from his grasp and began running away.
"Nola!" he shouted.
She stopped, turned and replied, "There is no Nola."
Moments later, she stepped off the curb and into the path of an oncoming SUV.
* * *
"She walked right out in front of my car. I couldn't stop. I swear, she looked right at me and smiled," the distraught driver cried.
A passerby phoned the police as Sebastian knelt beside the critically injured woman. Nola Pollock's eyes sought not the face of the worried sculptor but rather those of the handsome young man who emerged from the courtyard behind the inn.
"Christian," she uttered, whispering the name of the man she had loved more than a century and a half earlier.
Not one of the witnesses—not even Sebastian Laurent who was holding Nola's hand—would later recall seeing a handsome young man lean over the dying woman. Consequently, no one saw their lips touch.
"Thus with a kiss I die," Nola quoted Romeo in a barely audible voice before taking her last breath.
As he had done in a previous life after the suicide of Céline DuBois, his betrothed, Sebastian said a silent, tearful farewell to the dead woman he had grown to care about. Once the paramedics removed her body, all he could do was walk away. Oddly enough, as the distance grew between him and the Dauphine Inn, the memory of Nola Pollock faded into the past. By the time he reached Café Du Monde on Decatur Street, it was as though she had never existed.
* * *
On a warm February afternoon, Sebastian Laurent stood next to a pretty redheaded teacher from Metairie. The two, bedecked in gold, green and purple beads, were sipping hurricanes as they watched the Krewe of Rex parade make its way along St. Charles Avenue.
"Here comes my favorite float," the artist announced, calling his girlfriend's attention to what he considered his finest work.
"They're exquisite!" the redhead exclaimed when she saw the brightly painted oversized Romeo and Juliet at the center of the float, surrounded by masked men throwing out collectible doubloons to the crowds along the parade route.
What neither the artist nor his girlfriend realized was that Sebastian had sculpted the Styrofoam lovers in the likeness of Christian Burbage and Céline DuBois, New Orleans' own star-crossed lovers.
First Hurricane Katrina and now Salem! Just how much catastrophe can New Orleans take?
