Our Lady of the French Quarter

Chapter I. Sunday

It was one of those early fall nights in New Orleans where the streets twinkled with fresh rain, the air was a mix of burning sage and stale beer, and the sticky summer heat and a cool autumn breeze were dueling to the death. The heat was winning, and the flickering gas lamps of the French Quarter seemed to taunt that fact, their orange flames burning bright in the thick darkness.

There isn't much that's French about the French Quarter. The perfect grid of pastel plaster and wrought iron is courtesy of the Spanish and their 40 years of indifferent governance over the region following The Seven Years' War, but, just north of Jackson Square, an unmistakably Francophone edifice dominates the truncated skyline.

It is around here, somewhere near the corner of Chartres Street and Ursulines Avenue, that a one-man band sways down the street to the beat of his raucous rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In", symbols clanging between his knees, a drum strapped to his back, a ukulele in his hands, and a kazoo in his mouth. His clothes and skin coated in the faded residue of metallic gold paint, he continues his nightly route. This part of the French Quarter is quiet at this time of night, just a vagrant or two and some lost tourists. At this intersection there are no bars or restaurants, only an antique shop- shut up for the night, some private homes, and the convent. It's an odd place for a street performer to set up shop, with not much foot traffic to keep him in the cheddar, but it's all about the art for this virtuoso.

Footsteps interrupt his kazoo solo. Approaching from behind and building in volume, their intense staccato muddies the makeshift jazz rhythm. They belong to Rose, dressed in the black jumper of a postulate with her shoulder-length brown tresses pinned behind her ears and a gold cross pendant glimmering in the streetlights, she makes for a rather pretty nun to be. Carrying a small suitcase, she meets the one man band at cross purposes and the two pass each other without acknowledgment. Rose is headed toward the convent as the music trails off behind her.

A high stone wall surrounds the property, protecting this historic building, just as it has for nearly 300 years, in the early days from war and unrest, now from drunks and ne'er do wells. Rose reaches the gate. Usually locked at this time of night, it has been left unlatched for her. She enters through it, onto a courtyard of perfectly manicured hedges and a pathway, barely visible in the lazy moonlight, leading up to the small covered porch of this imposing 18th-century building. She stops for a moment to take it in- a massive neoclassical structure, nearly a full city block in size, three floors high, its bright white stucco glowing through the blackness. Unnoticed, a cat has joined her on the path, sitting at her feet, their two sets of green eyes transfixed on the third floor and the tightly closed shutters. It's probably too humid to open the windows, but how strange that the others-

"Rose."

Jumping, the postulate shifts her attention to the now open convent door and sees the backlit silhouette of a nun.

"We've been expecting you."

This must be Mother Bernadette. Rose follows her inside. She is led into a foyer, featuring a staircase to the second floor and flanked on either side by an office and a parlor.

In the dull incandescence, Rose studies her tour guide's features, pale white skin stretched over a sharp nose and collecting into a rounded jaw.

"Welcome to New Orleans," the nun says with a flourish of her hand.

Rose speaks, an initial squeak of nerves and non-use quickly warming into a rich feminine sound, "I'm sorry to get in so late, Mother Bernadette. I didn't realize the train would take that long."

"It's fine."

"So, I'll be staying here? Don't most of the Sisters live-" Rose stops mid-sentence when she sees...

Lacking the time and disposition to acknowledge nonsense or frivolity, Bernadette finishes her thought and answers her question, "-at the school? Yes. But as you're not yet a teacher and you're just getting acclimated to convent life, I felt you would be better suited here."

Any reply Rose might make is interrupted by a ponytailed young woman thundering down the stairs. Dressed identically to Rose, she shouts into the foyer, "Mother Bernadette, Sister Jeanne is calling for you. I asked if there was anything I could do, but-" She stops at the landing, calmer, but out of breath, noticing the new arrival. "Is this Rose?"

"Yes. I will take care of it. Thank you, Louise." Bernadette turns to Rose to explain, "Sister Jeanne is nearing her 92nd birthday and, while she is frail in body, she is not in spirit. If you will excuse me? Louise, please show Rose to her room."

As Bernadette heads upstairs, Rose moves through the archway, into the parlor, closer to what caught her eye, a portrait. It isn't very large, but the face that stares into the foyer from a carved mahogany frame is difficult to ignore. Rose reads the small plaque beneath it, "Painted by Maurice Quentin de La Tour, 1728."

Louise, getting antsy, forces her smooth brown face into a pleasant smile. "Please follow me."

Rose is not listening. "Do you know who this is a painting of?"

"Some nun." Louise is barely able to hide her growing exasperation.

Rose turns to look at her fellow postulate. The woman in the painting and Rose- the similarity is remarkable and unsettling. With their matching sets of eyes, like four polished malachite beads, focused on her, a chill runs over Louise. She has never liked that portrait. "Come on, you must be tired carrying that suitcase." Louise anxiously motions for Rose to follow her. After a moment, she does.