Read Online Cat People by Gary Brandner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gary Brandner
Tags: Horror
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she finished breakfast Irena went upstairs and took her sketchbook from the drawer where she had put it. She sharpened half a dozen soft-lead pencils and put them in her tote bag. The sun outside was bright and inviting, the breeze fresh through her window.
She looked into the kitchen to say goodbye to Femolly, then set off to see New Orleans.
Chapter 7
The first stop Irena made was at the Visitor Information Center on Royal Street. There an enthusiastic lady loaded her down with maps, guidebooks, pamphlets, directories and even offered a free cup of New Orleans coffee, which Irena politely declined.
She sat down on a bench to look over the many sightseeing plans available. Finally she chose a fifty-mile bus tour of the entire city, which seemed very reasonable at twelve dollars.
The bus left from the corner of Royal and St. Ann streets. Irena bought a ticket and settled into her seat, aware of a growing sense of depression. Of all the passengers on her bus, happy tourists of all ages, Irena found she was the only one riding alone. There were families, with all their noisy interplay. There were young couples more interested in themselves than the sights of the city. There were middle-aged couples happy to be spending time together without the kids, and older couples who could communicate totally with each other by a touch or a look. Only Irena had no one.
She wondered if ever she would find the special man, the one who was right for her. A man she could do things with, like take this tour of New Orleans. A man she could share with. Share. What a lovely word, even if it was overused these days by pop psychologists. It was a magical word. A process whereby you gave away part of yourself, only to become more of a person than you were before.
The bus started up, and Irena put the lonely thoughts out of her mind to concentrate on the sights of New Orleans.
They rolled up quiet Esplanade Avenue, then turned down Rampart Street, where old walls had connected the three forts on the northern border of the original city. The driver called their attention to Congo Square, now officially called Beauregard Square, where the slaves were allowed to gather and blow off steam on Saturday nights. They passed the Theatre of the Performing Arts, famous for Mardi Gras balls, and cruised along legendary Basin Street.
The City of the Dead, New Orleans' above-the-ground cemetery, gave Irena a chill. She took more interest in the Quadroon Quarters, where Creole gentlemen had maintained small cottages for their mixed-blood mistresses.
They left the French Quarter then and cruised out Esplanade to the banks of Bayou St. John, then west along the shore of Lake Pontchartrain. On the way back they drove through the Garden District, where Irena marveled at the lovely old homes. These houses, much larger and more lavish than the Gallier house, had been built by the "Uptown" Americans who were determined to outdo the French aristocrats who lived south of Canal Street. The air here was sweet with the floral perfume of the many gardens that gave the district its name.
The last section of New Orleans they saw was the one Irena liked least. Called "Fat City," it provided an alternative to the historic charms of the French Quarter, with modern discotheques, expensive shops, and new restaurants surrounded by steel-and-glass high-rise apartment buildings.
When she alighted from the bus back on Royal Street, Irena felt unsatisfied. Everything had gone by too fast. She decided the only way to truly absorb the feeling of the city would be to walk along the narrow old streets and take the time to really look at things. Listen to the special music of New Orleans, inhale the smells, feel its textures. She set out on her own, studying the people, trying to pick up the rhythm of the city.
She came to Jackson Square, at the heart of the French Quarter, and stopped. A dozen artists of varying talent had set up their easels and were brushing on their impressions
She looked into the kitchen to say goodbye to Femolly, then set off to see New Orleans.
Chapter 7
The first stop Irena made was at the Visitor Information Center on Royal Street. There an enthusiastic lady loaded her down with maps, guidebooks, pamphlets, directories and even offered a free cup of New Orleans coffee, which Irena politely declined.
She sat down on a bench to look over the many sightseeing plans available. Finally she chose a fifty-mile bus tour of the entire city, which seemed very reasonable at twelve dollars.
The bus left from the corner of Royal and St. Ann streets. Irena bought a ticket and settled into her seat, aware of a growing sense of depression. Of all the passengers on her bus, happy tourists of all ages, Irena found she was the only one riding alone. There were families, with all their noisy interplay. There were young couples more interested in themselves than the sights of the city. There were middle-aged couples happy to be spending time together without the kids, and older couples who could communicate totally with each other by a touch or a look. Only Irena had no one.
She wondered if ever she would find the special man, the one who was right for her. A man she could do things with, like take this tour of New Orleans. A man she could share with. Share. What a lovely word, even if it was overused these days by pop psychologists. It was a magical word. A process whereby you gave away part of yourself, only to become more of a person than you were before.
The bus started up, and Irena put the lonely thoughts out of her mind to concentrate on the sights of New Orleans.
They rolled up quiet Esplanade Avenue, then turned down Rampart Street, where old walls had connected the three forts on the northern border of the original city. The driver called their attention to Congo Square, now officially called Beauregard Square, where the slaves were allowed to gather and blow off steam on Saturday nights. They passed the Theatre of the Performing Arts, famous for Mardi Gras balls, and cruised along legendary Basin Street.
The City of the Dead, New Orleans' above-the-ground cemetery, gave Irena a chill. She took more interest in the Quadroon Quarters, where Creole gentlemen had maintained small cottages for their mixed-blood mistresses.
They left the French Quarter then and cruised out Esplanade to the banks of Bayou St. John, then west along the shore of Lake Pontchartrain. On the way back they drove through the Garden District, where Irena marveled at the lovely old homes. These houses, much larger and more lavish than the Gallier house, had been built by the "Uptown" Americans who were determined to outdo the French aristocrats who lived south of Canal Street. The air here was sweet with the floral perfume of the many gardens that gave the district its name.
The last section of New Orleans they saw was the one Irena liked least. Called "Fat City," it provided an alternative to the historic charms of the French Quarter, with modern discotheques, expensive shops, and new restaurants surrounded by steel-and-glass high-rise apartment buildings.
When she alighted from the bus back on Royal Street, Irena felt unsatisfied. Everything had gone by too fast. She decided the only way to truly absorb the feeling of the city would be to walk along the narrow old streets and take the time to really look at things. Listen to the special music of New Orleans, inhale the smells, feel its textures. She set out on her own, studying the people, trying to pick up the rhythm of the city.
She came to Jackson Square, at the heart of the French Quarter, and stopped. A dozen artists of varying talent had set up their easels and were brushing on their impressions
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