Part 4 (1/2)

”You're here! Is your father all right? Have you seen him?” His thick New Orleans accent rolled out in fat, longish vowels. ”Sorry, my boy, come in. Come in. Suffering through the apocalypse is no excuse for bad manners.”

Julian stepped inside, and Parmenter reached for him and grabbed him into a hug so tight Julian could feel the heat of his sluggish breath.

Parmenter stepped back and pulled his robe close. ”Ah, excuse my appearance. No reason to get dressed these days, what with.... Sit down, son. My G.o.d, I haven't seen you since...how long has it been? Come on this way, it's cooler in here. And please tell me you have good news.”

5.

Matthew Parmenter led the way into the high ceilinged foyer of red-striped embossed wallpaper, cherry wood paneling and gilt-framed paintings. In the living room, two wing-backed chairs slipcovered in linen flanked the enormous red-brick fireplace. Matthew sat in one, and gestured to the other. Julian sat and leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped together, elbows on his knees.

There was no sense in beating around the bush. ”Sir,” he said, ”my father is missing.” A pall shadowed Matthew's face. He bowed his head, mired for a moment in thought, then lifted it.

”I was afraid...I tried to get him to come and stay here. But he wouldn't...”

He shook his head and sighed heavily.

”There was a lot of water in the house, five feet maybe, but I think...there's a good chance he got out safely,” Julian said, rubbing his hands together. ”And he left a note. We just have to find where he went.”

Parmenter ma.s.saged the s.p.a.ce between his eyes and frowned, then, as if he'd come to some indisputable conclusion, gave a quick, resolute nod.

”You'll find him. I know you will.” From a nearby window, an arrow of sunlight pierced the room, and Parmenter stared at the dust motes dancing in it. ”I've been listening to the radio. It's so sad, what's happened in this city. So much heartbreak...”

His voice trailed off. He looked up at Julian. ”Simon is a strong man, resourceful. We have to believe that he's all right.”

”Yes, sir.” Parmenter slapped a hand on the arm of his chair. ”Well. May I offer you a drink? Cognac? A gla.s.s of lemonade?”

”Anything cold would be fine.”

”Thank G.o.d for generators. Have you eaten yet? I'm afraid my cook is in exile in Bogalusa, but I've been known to put together a sandwich that more than one person has survived.” He pushed back a lock of too-long white hair from his eyes. As an afterthought he added, ”Though, mind you, it won't be as good as your father's.”

”I already ate. Thanks.”

”Just make yourself at home.”

Matthew got up and went to the kitchen, his house shoes scuffing and cane tapping along on the high-glossed red oak floors. Julian stood up and stretched his arms. He hadn't realized how tired he was until now, as heaviness draped his body like a curtain of lead.

Julian's gaze fell on a long wall leading to a hallway, where hung a huge, gold-trimmed oil painting. Dressed in a white gown that swirled at her feet, a woman smiled cryptically from the canvas, her long white arm extended, her gloved hand resting on a wooden banister at the bottom of a large staircase.

Parmenter's wife, Clarisse, Julian thought. A real New Orleans socialite. Probably done before one of the Mardi Gras b.a.l.l.s.

He remembered vaguely the last time he'd seen her. I heard your mama was feeling poorly. I heard your mama was feeling poorly. A thin white woman in thin white linen standing at the screen door. Straight-backed, defiant against the codes of her station, the woman had boarded a streetcar and then a bus that took her across town to a place she'd never been-a handmade world of shotgun houses, lazy remnants of jazz, whiffs of barbecue, and angel's trumpet trees. All just to bring an ailing black woman a tuna-salad-on-lettuce-leaf lunch and a pot of clove and sa.s.safras tea. She'd put the picnic basket on the kitchen table while Julian told his bedridden mother, ”You got some company.” A thin white woman in thin white linen standing at the screen door. Straight-backed, defiant against the codes of her station, the woman had boarded a streetcar and then a bus that took her across town to a place she'd never been-a handmade world of shotgun houses, lazy remnants of jazz, whiffs of barbecue, and angel's trumpet trees. All just to bring an ailing black woman a tuna-salad-on-lettuce-leaf lunch and a pot of clove and sa.s.safras tea. She'd put the picnic basket on the kitchen table while Julian told his bedridden mother, ”You got some company.”

The woman had smiled and followed him into the sickroom, where white curtains ruffled from a breeze through the open window. She turned to him. Would you mind putting water on for tea? Would you mind putting water on for tea? Bands of sun through kitchen blinds laying golden stripes across the walls, the water's slow boil, the scent of gardenias hanging over the porch steps where she had been. A ”fine lady,” his mother's frail voice had uttered later. But only now, years later, Julian wondered. Could she have known what her husband had done? Bands of sun through kitchen blinds laying golden stripes across the walls, the water's slow boil, the scent of gardenias hanging over the porch steps where she had been. A ”fine lady,” his mother's frail voice had uttered later. But only now, years later, Julian wondered. Could she have known what her husband had done?

It was a thought that did not ride in alone-it was saddled with a twinge of guilt. No reason to suspect the kind woman's visit was in any way an apology for a husband whose business affairs were as unknowable to her as the mountains of the moon. Just a charitable gesture, the way southerners do. The woman's visit, the tea and lunch, seemed to lift his mother's spirits that week, which would be her last. When a stroke claimed Clarisse's own life less than a year later, the image of the delicate southern lady, head high, dressed in crisp white linen, stuck in Julian's mind.

Another frame held an enlarged black and white photograph, grainy and slightly faded-Simon Fortier and Matthew Parmenter, right hands clasped in handshake in front of a green awning and a sign announcing PARMENTER'S CREOLE KITCHEN. Opening day. Both men nattily dressed in starched and pressed white s.h.i.+rts, heads full of thick, longish hair, faces full of c.o.c.ky grins. Two bright young men on a tear in the world, owner and head chef, employer and employee, friend and friend.

But the next frame dulled his eyes, drained blood from his face. Parmenter again, smiling, shaking hands in front of the awning of the restaurant. But his father's image was replaced with another familiar one-the president of the United States ”I hope you like iced tea. It's all I have.” Parmenter was standing behind him holding a tray with two full gla.s.ses. Seeing Julian's stunned eyes and dropped jaw, he said, ”Oh, haven't you seen that before?” He ambled to the living room and set the tray of gla.s.ses on a small table near Julian's chair.

Julian no longer had a taste for tea, but sat and sipped anyway. He well remembered Simon coming home excited that night. It was more than a dozen years ago, just before his father retired. Simon, I want you to meet someone Simon, I want you to meet someone, Matthew had yelled above the cackle of boiling pots on the six-burner range, while his head chef wiped greasy fingers on a towel. The man was in my kitchen! The man was in my kitchen! Simon said, his voice pitched high, ringing with giddy joy. Simon said, his voice pitched high, ringing with giddy joy. The man was actually in my kitchen! The man was actually in my kitchen! The president's strong paw engulfed Simon's hand, and his eyes seemed fixed on his as he praised Simon's shrimp etouffee, his bourbon-laced bread pudding, and of course, his red beans and rice. Then, he truly The president's strong paw engulfed Simon's hand, and his eyes seemed fixed on his as he praised Simon's shrimp etouffee, his bourbon-laced bread pudding, and of course, his red beans and rice. Then, he truly listened listened while Simon told about his Auntie Maree, his teacher and the true chef in the family, from the old home place at Silver Creek. while Simon told about his Auntie Maree, his teacher and the true chef in the family, from the old home place at Silver Creek.

But a picture with the president? Apparently an honor reserved only for owners, not the lowly genius chef whose artistry had put the restaurant on the culinary world map, and more money in Parnenter's pockets than he could spend in a lifetime.

”The president was a big fan of your father's cooking. He came whenever he was in the state, right up until the week we closed.”

Right, Julian thought. Maybe the president would have been a decent business partner. Maybe the president would have been a decent business partner. He stared down into the tea, then took a long, thoughtful drink. He stared down into the tea, then took a long, thoughtful drink.

Parmenter put down his cup, his whitish brows furrowed. ”I want you to know, Julian, I will do whatever I can to help you find your father. I count him among my dearest friends. You know that.”

Julian paused a moment, then spoke quietly.

”Yes, sir.”

”I know a few people at the police department. They are stretched horribly thin, but there's at least one or two men I can count on for help.”

”I'd appreciate whatever you could do, sir.”

”By the way, where are you staying?”

”At the Best Western in Baton Rouge.”

”Oh? Why don't you stay here? I have so much room. My chef, I'm sure, will be back soon, my housekeeper too. You'll be so much more comfortable...”

Julian bit his bottom lip. Stay here? Stay here? He didn't even want to be here now. He didn't even want to be here now.

”Thanks. I'm good where I am.”

For the next few minutes, Julian listened while Parmenter went on about the night of the storm, the sounds of deafening thunder and rain, the cras.h.i.+ng of tree limbs. The feral braying and cawing of the wind and the eerie calm when it finally ended. How it was so different from anything he'd been through before, even Betsy.

”It was terrible, I must say, a little frightening. But I suppose here in the Garden District we fared better than most.”

You got that right. Julian finished his tea and got up to leave. Parmenter hobbled up with his cane. ”Well, all right. I'll make some calls today. You checked the whole neighborhood? No one has seen him?” Julian finished his tea and got up to leave. Parmenter hobbled up with his cane. ”Well, all right. I'll make some calls today. You checked the whole neighborhood? No one has seen him?”

”Sir, there's n.o.body in in the neighborhood. Daddy's part of the Treme took on about four or five feet of water in most of the houses and the streets. But there was a whole lot more than that in some of the other parts of town.” the neighborhood. Daddy's part of the Treme took on about four or five feet of water in most of the houses and the streets. But there was a whole lot more than that in some of the other parts of town.”

Julian told him about the Lower Ninth, where houses had floated from their slabs, and New Orleans East and even further away in St. Bernard Parish, where the waters rose to the eaves and even covered some rooftops until the whole city was drained.

Parmenter bowed his head, frowning, his face pale. ”I haven't been too well lately. I haven't been out of my house since...I listened to my radio for a while yesterday until the battery died. I guess I didn't realize...”

For a brief moment, Julian felt a twinge of sympathy. If Parmenter had had children, grandchildren, they would have rushed in to look after him, occupying rooms in the enormous house, fluttering and fussing around him. And maybe he would have had a clue about the devastation in the rest of the city.

Parmenter opened the door and the two stepped out onto the gallery. The afternoon sun was full, the twisted branches and leaves of trees spindled out like disheveled hair after a night of restless sleep, and the air was thick and muggy.

”By the way,” he said, ”how is the young lady, your friend? I remember meeting her once years ago. What was her name? Very beautiful.”