wheels.
“Hey, man. You got the time?” a young drifter with stiff long hair and a wild debris-filled beard asked. In the blue gloaming, he sat against an ancient oak and cradled a battered guitar with four strings.
“Yeah,” Nick said, “1731.”
Across the street, Nelson Plumlaw sat in front of his computer. What he’d read floored him.
Thirty minutes earlier he’d finished serving on the advisory jury for a fifth-year student’s project that looked nice, but which, if built, would have collapsed within months. They had let her off gently, he and the other architecture professors; a few kind remarks would tell her what she needed to fix for the next review. The professors knew that one of their primary duties was to prevent suicides of likely providers of future alumni.
Nick’s visit that morning had started Nelson thinking. Disturbing thoughts. And after Nick had left his office, he decided to put a question to his friend in London, the manager of the bookbindery, a woman who was thoroughly familiar with English historical texts and records.
Nelson hadn’t expected so rapid a response. Twenty-eight pages had arrived while he was judging the student’s project. What was it, early morning now in London? The poor woman must have worked all night. And this material, much of it recently released by the British Foreign Office … well, it was curious, to say the least.
On his phone he punched in a number from memory.
“Hello—hello. This is Nelson. Nel-son. You must have driven into some interference. Yes, I can hear you perfectly, now. I’m fine, just fine. It’s been quite a while, yes it has. No, no,” he said, reassuringly, “that’s not why I’m calling. No horrid news of that sort, thank God! I’ve never been healthier. Listen, I know this is somewhat unexpected, but I’d like to go for a conversational sail. It’s important. Sunday good for you?” He listened for a few moments. “Dinner? Splendid idea! I’ll meet you there, with a bottle of Beefeater… . Certainly I remember where the marina is… . I’ve missed you, too.”
CHAPTER 9
S outh of City Park there is an oak-entangled neighborhood that became in the twenties substantially what it is today. The streets are named after Homeric figures; the houses are large but restrained in design and materials, consistent with the ethos of Arts-and-Crafts architecture. In New Orleans they’re called Bungalow Style. Some of these houses are private residences, others are rental properties, and one, the largest of them all, contains the library and international headquarters of the Society of the Descendants of the Passengers of the
Allégorie.
Nick knew of the place, but had never had a reason to visit. After the affair at the Grande Marchioness, he understood why he hadn’t landed any jobs from hopeful candidates for admission to this hereditary society. Nowell had that business wrapped up, and no scraps were likely to fall to the floor for hungry independent genealogists like Nick.
This Thursday morning, he was just curious. He wanted to see what the impresario of New Orleans genealogy had produced.
The receptionist turned from her computer and greeted him in Spanish-accented English. Guatemala had been her birthplace,he guessed, possibly Honduras; he sensed that her lineage issued from a Mayan matrix. Florita was her name. She sat within an atoll of desks, filing cabinets, and office machines at one end of a narrow, high-ceilinged room girded with wainscoting. There was an air of prosperity and efficiency about the place. Nick could smell fresh paint, and he noticed that every inch of molding gleamed with a recent, thick coat; the carpet seemed to have been installed that very day. This was no fly-by-night outfit.
The fax machine came to obstreperous life behind Florita; tongues of paper slithered out into an already full tray.
“Ay-yi-yi! All right, I hear you,” she said, scolding the machine. “That thing, it’s going crazy
“Hey, man. You got the time?” a young drifter with stiff long hair and a wild debris-filled beard asked. In the blue gloaming, he sat against an ancient oak and cradled a battered guitar with four strings.
“Yeah,” Nick said, “1731.”
Across the street, Nelson Plumlaw sat in front of his computer. What he’d read floored him.
Thirty minutes earlier he’d finished serving on the advisory jury for a fifth-year student’s project that looked nice, but which, if built, would have collapsed within months. They had let her off gently, he and the other architecture professors; a few kind remarks would tell her what she needed to fix for the next review. The professors knew that one of their primary duties was to prevent suicides of likely providers of future alumni.
Nick’s visit that morning had started Nelson thinking. Disturbing thoughts. And after Nick had left his office, he decided to put a question to his friend in London, the manager of the bookbindery, a woman who was thoroughly familiar with English historical texts and records.
Nelson hadn’t expected so rapid a response. Twenty-eight pages had arrived while he was judging the student’s project. What was it, early morning now in London? The poor woman must have worked all night. And this material, much of it recently released by the British Foreign Office … well, it was curious, to say the least.
On his phone he punched in a number from memory.
“Hello—hello. This is Nelson. Nel-son. You must have driven into some interference. Yes, I can hear you perfectly, now. I’m fine, just fine. It’s been quite a while, yes it has. No, no,” he said, reassuringly, “that’s not why I’m calling. No horrid news of that sort, thank God! I’ve never been healthier. Listen, I know this is somewhat unexpected, but I’d like to go for a conversational sail. It’s important. Sunday good for you?” He listened for a few moments. “Dinner? Splendid idea! I’ll meet you there, with a bottle of Beefeater… . Certainly I remember where the marina is… . I’ve missed you, too.”
CHAPTER 9
S outh of City Park there is an oak-entangled neighborhood that became in the twenties substantially what it is today. The streets are named after Homeric figures; the houses are large but restrained in design and materials, consistent with the ethos of Arts-and-Crafts architecture. In New Orleans they’re called Bungalow Style. Some of these houses are private residences, others are rental properties, and one, the largest of them all, contains the library and international headquarters of the Society of the Descendants of the Passengers of the
Allégorie.
Nick knew of the place, but had never had a reason to visit. After the affair at the Grande Marchioness, he understood why he hadn’t landed any jobs from hopeful candidates for admission to this hereditary society. Nowell had that business wrapped up, and no scraps were likely to fall to the floor for hungry independent genealogists like Nick.
This Thursday morning, he was just curious. He wanted to see what the impresario of New Orleans genealogy had produced.
The receptionist turned from her computer and greeted him in Spanish-accented English. Guatemala had been her birthplace,he guessed, possibly Honduras; he sensed that her lineage issued from a Mayan matrix. Florita was her name. She sat within an atoll of desks, filing cabinets, and office machines at one end of a narrow, high-ceilinged room girded with wainscoting. There was an air of prosperity and efficiency about the place. Nick could smell fresh paint, and he noticed that every inch of molding gleamed with a recent, thick coat; the carpet seemed to have been installed that very day. This was no fly-by-night outfit.
The fax machine came to obstreperous life behind Florita; tongues of paper slithered out into an already full tray.
“Ay-yi-yi! All right, I hear you,” she said, scolding the machine. “That thing, it’s going crazy
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