and that only because he’s a rotten-souled Englishman whom our heroic President drove back into the sea etc. etc. – it would be as much as their jobs are worth to do otherwise, with the election coming up. But the man who did that also murdered a man, rotten-souled Englishman or not—’
‘Patrick would call you out for describing him as an Englishman,’ put in Hannibal. He got to his feet, crossed back to the cot. ‘ I’d call you out on his behalf, except that I’d have to ask you to be my second, and you wouldn’t be willing to carry a challenge to yourself, would you?’
‘No,’ said January firmly. ‘And I’m not the one who’d say he was English. Americans don’t know the difference between English and Irish. But whoever it was who committed the greater crime, I won’t be sorry to see him swing.’
‘The boy didn’t do it,’ said Hannibal stubbornly. ‘It’s ridiculous to think he did. They’ll never bring it to court – solventur risu tabulae .’ He extended to January the handkerchief and its contents. ‘Whatever information a dollar and fifty-nine cents can purchase,’ he said, with grave and bitter irony, ‘bring to light – and keep the change.’
‘Get yourself some more medicine,’ said January gently. ‘Do you need me to keep it for you?’
‘I seem to be doing all right lately on a few spoonfuls a day.’ Hannibal looked around at the shambles of the room, and under his graying mustache a corner of his mouth hardened and turned down. ‘Today was different. So foul and fair a day I have not seen , at least not since I gave up living with that woman who ran a flogging parlor in Venice – but not many days have been so. I’ll be well, amicus meus . Will you be at the Countess Mazzini’s tonight?’ He squinted at the glaring light of the door again, the blinding yellow having mutated into slanted and violent gold.
‘If I can get clear of the Swamp before the local bravos start roaming the streets.’ By the sound of it, flat-boatmen, gamblers, and river-pirates had already escaped the dense heat of the Broadhorn for the moving air of the yard. Their desultory conversation gyred up to the open attic door, aimless and brutal: we beat the crap out ’n him . . . damn yellow-bellied Injuns . . . Lost two dollars on the damn dog . . .
‘Come to supper.’
‘They’ll all still be there.’ Hannibal sat on the edge of the cot again, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. ‘Wanting to talk about it. Another time – thank you.’ He repeated, ‘ Non omnis moriar – I’ll be all right.’
Though he flinched from the evening sunlight, Hannibal climbed down the rickety stairs with January and walked with him as far as the edge of the trees. None of the men in the yard so much as glanced at them, though the Glutton, sitting in the opening that served her dwelling as both window and door, waved to Hannibal and called out, ‘You feelin’ better, Professor?’
‘A very riband in the cap of youth, lady!’ He kissed his hand to her. ‘The sight of your beauty would raise a man’s spirit from the very ground.’
From the edge of the trees, January watched him walk back toward the stair and saw him intercepted by a gambler and the Broadhorn’s cigar-puffing proprietress herself, and then hustled into the dark of the saloon.
SIX
B y six o’clock – the hour at which Countess Leonella Mazzini opened the doors of her establishment for business – word had circulated among the whites in New Orleans about the hilarious contretemps that had befallen at a Sambo funeral that morning: ‘Dropped the coffin . . . out tumbles this English feller sombody’d knifed an’ switched into the box!’ Whoops of laughter all around. January wouldn’t have been surprised at these remarks from the customers of the Broadhorn: they’d probably have found the event equally risible had the vanished corpse been their own Pa or Uncle Ned. But the patrons of the Countess
‘Patrick would call you out for describing him as an Englishman,’ put in Hannibal. He got to his feet, crossed back to the cot. ‘ I’d call you out on his behalf, except that I’d have to ask you to be my second, and you wouldn’t be willing to carry a challenge to yourself, would you?’
‘No,’ said January firmly. ‘And I’m not the one who’d say he was English. Americans don’t know the difference between English and Irish. But whoever it was who committed the greater crime, I won’t be sorry to see him swing.’
‘The boy didn’t do it,’ said Hannibal stubbornly. ‘It’s ridiculous to think he did. They’ll never bring it to court – solventur risu tabulae .’ He extended to January the handkerchief and its contents. ‘Whatever information a dollar and fifty-nine cents can purchase,’ he said, with grave and bitter irony, ‘bring to light – and keep the change.’
‘Get yourself some more medicine,’ said January gently. ‘Do you need me to keep it for you?’
‘I seem to be doing all right lately on a few spoonfuls a day.’ Hannibal looked around at the shambles of the room, and under his graying mustache a corner of his mouth hardened and turned down. ‘Today was different. So foul and fair a day I have not seen , at least not since I gave up living with that woman who ran a flogging parlor in Venice – but not many days have been so. I’ll be well, amicus meus . Will you be at the Countess Mazzini’s tonight?’ He squinted at the glaring light of the door again, the blinding yellow having mutated into slanted and violent gold.
‘If I can get clear of the Swamp before the local bravos start roaming the streets.’ By the sound of it, flat-boatmen, gamblers, and river-pirates had already escaped the dense heat of the Broadhorn for the moving air of the yard. Their desultory conversation gyred up to the open attic door, aimless and brutal: we beat the crap out ’n him . . . damn yellow-bellied Injuns . . . Lost two dollars on the damn dog . . .
‘Come to supper.’
‘They’ll all still be there.’ Hannibal sat on the edge of the cot again, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. ‘Wanting to talk about it. Another time – thank you.’ He repeated, ‘ Non omnis moriar – I’ll be all right.’
Though he flinched from the evening sunlight, Hannibal climbed down the rickety stairs with January and walked with him as far as the edge of the trees. None of the men in the yard so much as glanced at them, though the Glutton, sitting in the opening that served her dwelling as both window and door, waved to Hannibal and called out, ‘You feelin’ better, Professor?’
‘A very riband in the cap of youth, lady!’ He kissed his hand to her. ‘The sight of your beauty would raise a man’s spirit from the very ground.’
From the edge of the trees, January watched him walk back toward the stair and saw him intercepted by a gambler and the Broadhorn’s cigar-puffing proprietress herself, and then hustled into the dark of the saloon.
SIX
B y six o’clock – the hour at which Countess Leonella Mazzini opened the doors of her establishment for business – word had circulated among the whites in New Orleans about the hilarious contretemps that had befallen at a Sambo funeral that morning: ‘Dropped the coffin . . . out tumbles this English feller sombody’d knifed an’ switched into the box!’ Whoops of laughter all around. January wouldn’t have been surprised at these remarks from the customers of the Broadhorn: they’d probably have found the event equally risible had the vanished corpse been their own Pa or Uncle Ned. But the patrons of the Countess
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