A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

But we always believed that the sun would rise again, and even though another generation might pass away, the earth would abideth forever, even though it was unlikely we would know those biblical terms. Like the Bedouin whose concept of God derives from his experience inside the immensity and great emptiness of the desert, we believed that our marshlands and swamps and rivers and bayous were not only Edenic but somehow created especially for us.

It was a terrible kind of innocence to be possessed by. We began to see, when it was too late, that the earth is not inexhaustible and that it cannot bind its own wounds as fast as we can inflict them. Also, candor requires me to say that these conclusions are not held by everyone, and the revelers whose mantra is “Let the good times roll” often remind me of Irish celebrants trying to put a good hat on the funeral of a loved one.

I did not want to dwell on these unhappy perceptions. It was a glorious day, I told myself. I w

anted to bring a degree of happiness to Leslie Rosenberg and her poor afflicted daughter. Outside of Jeanerette, we stopped to eat in a café that smelled of gumbo and po’boy fried oyster sandwiches and dirty rice and crawfish étouffée, and as soon as we sat down, I heard a duet singing on the jukebox like the year was 1955.

Leslie saw the look on my face. She glanced at the jukebox and back at me. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“That’s Johnny Shondell and Isolde Balangie.”

“Adonis’s stepdaughter?”

“Do me a favor?” I said, smiling.

“You don’t want to hear Adonis’s name?”

“I ripped out his spokes this morning.”

We were waiting on our food. She had put a cracker in her mouth. “I didn’t get that.”

“I took him down. In his home theater. In front of his wife or whatever she is.”

“Please tell me you didn’t do that.”

“I have nonchemical blackouts sometimes. This was one of them.”

“You should have told me this earlier.”

“It’s not of consequence,” I said.

She was quiet a long time, the jukebox still playing.

“Have you met his employees, the ones from Sicily?” she said. “They never speak. They’re like shadows. There’s no light in their eyes.”

“I hear they’re gumballs.”

“The guys with smashed noses and emphysema lungs are for show. The Sicilians look like Hollywood body doubles for Pee-wee Herman but will take your soul as well as your life.”

I loved Leslie’s language. “Let me explain something about Adonis,” I said. “He hit me in the chest and twisted the blow so it would bite into bone. He likes to shame and hurt people and make them feel bad about themselves. Only one kind of person does that: a coward and a bully. He got what he deserved. I wish I had busted him up more than I did.”

She smoothed her daughter’s hair and looked for the waiter. “I think we should go,” she said. “Can we take the food with us?”

Another song by Johnny and Isolde began playing. “You know what Swamp Pop is?” I said.

“No,” she answered.

“It’s called the New Orleans Sound. The melody tinkles like crystal. Ernie Suarez and Warren Storm from Lafayette had a lot to do with it. Fats Domino and Guitar Slim, too. It’s like listening to ‘Jolie Blon.’ You know it’s about a lost love of some kind, something you can’t tell other people about.”

“So why isn’t it still around?”

“It takes the listener too deep inside himself.”

“That’s a strange thing to say.”

“Why do you think people live on cell phones? It’s because they don’t want to live with their own thoughts.”

“I want to go, Dave.”