“I thought you’d understand.”
“Understand what? That you gave away your daughter in some kind of political deal with the Shondells?”
“We made peace with them. My family subsidizes charities all over the Third World. Mark Shondell has a chance to do a great deal of good rather than harm.”
“It sounds more like human trafficking.”
She got out of the car as though she’d been slapped. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that.”
“Sorry, I have my own problems. Your husband is a gangster. So were his father and grandfather. I don’t like your husband, and I didn’t like his father or his grandfather. They give your people a bad name. Why don’t y’all wise up?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Robicheaux, but that’s a ridiculous statement.” She stepped closer to me. She seemed small and absolutely determined and unafraid; she looked up at my face. “Your government doesn’t run a gulag of torture chambers? It doesn’t make deals with the Saudis and the junta in Argentina? Stop embarrassing yourself. You have no idea how many people are dependent on us for their survival, both in Italy and in this country. My family has been loyal to the unfortunate for five hundred years.”
Her eyes were burning. I could hear myself breathing. “Take a stroll with me.”
“Where?”
“Down the street. I’ll give you a history lesson.”
We walked down East Main through the tunnel of live oaks that led to the Shadows, a two-story pillared brick home built in the early 1830s, galleried and hung with floor-to-ceiling storm shutters, now a tourist stop surrounded by a piked fence and a bamboo border. We walked onto the grounds, in deep shade, and around back where the lawn sloped down to the bayou. The drawbridge at Burke Street was on our left; people of color were fishing under it, all of them sitting on inverted buckets, as their ancestors had probably sat there 150 years ago. The tide was in, and the tops of the elephant ears on the mudbank were almost underwater, rippling like a green carpet on the current.
“It’s a fine-looking place, isn’t it?” I said. “William Faulkner and Henry Miller were friends of the owner and used to visit here. Tourists love it. But here’s the real story. Three hundred slaves did the work. You see their graves anywhere? They’re fertilizer in a field or under a dry-goods store. The wife of the owner was known as a good person who refused to flee the Yankees in 1863 for fear the black people who were sick would have no one to care for them. But that doesn’t change the fact that slavery was evil.”
“I think that is the most insulting thing anyone has ever said to me. You’re saying this about my relationship to Isolde?”
“People aren’t chattel. There’s nothing noble about controlling the lives of other people, Miss Penelope. You’re an intelligent and educated woman. What in the name of suffering God are you and Adonis doing?”
“If I were a man, I would knock you down.”
“The question still stands.”
The wind was wimpling the bayou, bending the cattails, swelling inside the live oaks. She took the scarf from her head and shook out her hair. She tilted up her chin. “I can pay you.”
“Nope.”
“I think Isolde and the Shondell boy may have gone to a recording studio in Alabama. The Rolling Stones recorded there.”
“Then let them have some fun. Get Isolde away from Mark Shondell. He’s the scum of the earth.”
“Do you know how many people have died in the feud between our families?”
“Not interested.”
“I thought better of you.”
“Think what you wish. I don’t like cleaning up other people’s mess. Particularly your husband’s.”
“You keep your mouth off him.”
“Gladly,” I said.
Her eyes were wet. I had thoughts and feelings about her that I don’t want to admit. Tingling in the hands, dryness in the throat, desires that hide in the subconscious. She had a strong and solid figure and clear skin and a bold stare that was both intelligent and principled, and she carried herself like a princess; she was obviously not an ordinary woman and not a follower of fashion and was lovely to look at and yet somehow vulnerable at the same time. For most men, this is a combo that turns into a sure bear trap, but it’s one that’s hard to resist and, let’s face it, often worth the trouble. There was only one problem: She was another man’s wife.
“Why do you have that funny look on your face?” she said.
“I think you’re an admirable lady, Miss Penelope.”
“But you won’t help?”