Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 02 - Lineages and Lies (4 page)

“We unconditionally welcome descendants of
all
relations of the brave group of colonists, whether lineal or collateral; brothers, sisters, cousins, in-laws, step-relatives, adopted children—each shares in the honor, each confers the rights of membership to you. This is what the passengers and crew of the
Allégorie
would have wanted, don’t you agree? Families were so very important to them. Families that stayed together, families sharing in hardship as well as triumph.”

The audience approved of these noble sentiments. No one dozed anymore.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, we’re here to lead you to exciting discoveries your own descendants will thank you for making. To help you find out if you’re one of us, so to speak, the Society has prepared this outstanding do-it-yourself starter kit. It’s only $235.75—a real bargain, I might add, for anyone with a general interest in tracing one’s ancestry. Dr. Bluemantle has lent his expertise on the project, and you’ll find his powerful insights into the wonderful world of genealogy.”

Pens already hovered excitedly over checkbooks, credit cards danced in manicured hands.

“Of course, if you’d prefer to start with professional assistance, we can arrange that too, for a very reasonable fee. Our Society library, a landmark right here in New Orleans, is a superb repository of genealogical and biographical information. And with your starter kit, you are entitled to a special three-month period of access, at no extra charge.

“Now, allow me to guide you through the many, many useful elements of the starter kit …”

Nick decided to forgo the rest of Nowell’s infomercial. The Society of the
Allégorie
and Nowell would monopolize any business Nick had hoped to land. He couldn’t compete with such boiler-room tactics, however sugarcoated. A conversation with Bluemantle seemed a much more interesting option.

“What about that drink? You promised,” the young woman said, pouting in a most alluring way as Nick exited the row.

“Because you’re such a willing student, let’s say dinner, too. I’m Nick Herald.”

“Jillian Vair. I would like that.”

The melody of her name was pleasing to his ear. They shook hands. Hers was a soft, warm, young hand, full of ardor, but also of hesitation.

The woman in front of them turned her head slightly to let them know she was bothered.

“Meet you here, the hotel bar, seven o’clock,” Nick said. He waved a silent adieu as the lilac-permed woman reached threateningly for her umbrella.

At the back of the room, Bluemantle watched his drink being made. “More! More! Go on … agh!” he complained acridly. “Here, I’ll do it.”

He snatched the bottle of brandy from the hesitant hands of the young man behind the mobile bar; he poured a gusher of it into his Milk Punch—now more punch than milk. Nick ordered a Mimosa.

“Nothing like a little bubbly on a rainy morning,” Nick said. “Might even bring a smile to your face, Woody.”

Bluemantle perfunctorily shook hands with Nick. “You’ve come to gloat, have you? Oh, how the great ones have fallen! Precisely why I didn’t call you.”

With mixed success, the Society had groomed him like a prize dog. His new suit was slightly big on him; he seemed to have lost some weight lately. He needed a shave—a small act of dissent, Nick supposed. But his bleary, flinty eyes still blazed with Rasputin energy, and his indomitable face, overhung by gray crags of eyebrows, was an icon of vengeance Michelangelo would have wanted to paint.

“Come on, you know better than that,” Nick said. “remember when we met in New York, at the gathering of the Flagon and Trencher? I was the one down in the dumps. You cheered me up with bawdy anecdotes of your life in genealogy. I’m just trying to return the favor. Your presentation was excellent, by the way.”

“Ah, yes, the Descendants of Colonial Tavern Keepers,” Bluemantle said, recalling happier times. “That was indeed a good meeting, made better by your presence, Nick. A damn jolly society. And ditto for the Descendants of the Illegitimate
Sons and Daughters of the Kings of Britain. Never met a more enjoyable bunch of bastards! Genealogy as it should be: a celebration of life in all its lusty energy, its folly and its transcendence, the baron in his cups and the barmaid who marries her bloodline to his for a few shillings—not this insipid grasping for filthy lucre and vicarious status.”

Bluemantle emptied his glass and burped. Nick couldn’t miss his Society ring, a flamboyant piece of jewelry portraying the fabled ship sailing on a sea of emerald and framed by banners bearing the society’s motto:
En Foi, Invincible!
, and at the bottom,
In Faith, Invincible!

“You’re working for the Society full-time, now, I understand,” Nick said.

“
Ehnvehnsibleu
, indeed!” Bluemantle snarled mockingly, caustically, butchering with exaggerated nasality the pronunciation of part of the Society’s French motto.

“Utah got too crowded for you, huh?” Nick asked, still trying to get his old friend into a better mood.

Bluemantle’s lips curled, as if he’d swallowed something disgusting.

“Don’t move to Salt Lake City, Nick. A black hole, sucking in genealogy, homogenizing it, commercializing it.”

Salt Lake City, where the Mormons had built the Wall Street of genealogy in the wilderness. From a tenet of their faith—that each church member was responsible for identifying ancestors and conducting rites for their salvation—the Mormons had changed the nature of genealogy in a matter of decades. Nick actually thought that, even considering the regrettable controversy
of “vicarious baptism” without permission, the Latter-day Saints were performing a priceless public service, rescuing and microfilming irreplaceable records, promoting awareness of family history with an admirable non-sectarian attitude. But he knew Bluemantle and his grudge against the genealogical establishment were inseparable. This was not a case of religious prejudice.

“I’ll admit it’s not easy to make a living here as a certified genealogist,” Nick said. “In New Orleans, family history is half illusion, half vainglory, and nobody wants the real story. But you can believe I’ve never considered moving to Utah.”

Bluemantle slammed his glass down. “Wise boy! Bartender, another, the way I like it,” he demanded. “No Mardi Gras out there. No Bourbon Street depravity, so sad and disgusting it’s fascinating. No world-class jazz, blues, and … what is it, Xylosomething? With the washboard and accordion?”

“Zydeco, you mean?”

“That’s it! No soul-satisfying cuisine and the mindset to enjoy it. No Galatoire’s, Antoine’s, Commander’s Palace, or Bayona. No heritage of moral rot, histrionic fatalism, and insane lust that has made this glorious city a continuous wonder simply because it hasn’t been wiped from the face of the earth by God!”

Bluemantle had lost none of his fire and brimstone.

“Take my advice, Nick: get out of this tainted business now, before you become an old, bitter, impoverished intellectual whore like me. Before betrayal begins to seem the height of justice.”

Nick detected some dark meaning within the torrent of words.

“I read your article,” Bluemantle added, between sips. “The one on establishing the identity of colonial clerks through chirography. Quite good, except for some lingering postmodernist nonsense from your academic days. Yes, overall, rather a satisfactory performance. There are only a few things with which I would quibble.”

“Tonight’s your chance. Why not join me and a lovely woman for dinner? You can take me to task all you like.”

“No,” he sighed. “I’m a little tired.” A lecherous gleam enlivened his eyes. “You say she’s pretty?”

“The blonde in the seventh row.”

“Ah, yes, I noticed her earlier. Quite enchanting. Quite. Your work in
that
area I cannot criticize. Anytime after seven, then.”

“Perfect!”

Bluemantle grabbed Nick’s coat sleeve and pulled him down the few inches to his face. “There are very interesting new things I must tell you, one gadfly to another. Very shocking things … about—about lineages and lies. All is not Bristol fashion, shipshape.” He was slurring, trying to stay on topic, whatever it was. “But we must be discreet for now, content ourselves with puns and evasion: gadflies sometimes get squashed.”

You’re being discreet, all right, Woody; so discreet you’re making no sense
.

Meanwhile, Preston Nowell was fielding questions from the audience.

“This is not for
them
,” Bluemantle said, a little too loudly, gesturing toward the audience. Several women shushed him. “They haven’t a clue, never will. Professionals with specialized knowledge—
honest
professionals and scholars—we, yes, we are the ones, the only ones who should be doing the noble work
of genealogy. This is anarchy, promulgation of confusion! If it weren’t for my arthritis, I’d throw this damn ring into the river! Can’t get the blasted thing off.”

He tugged briefly at the ring, spilling some of his drink. Then, his eyes gazing into another time and place, he said, “Oh, my young friend, tonight I will spin you exciting tales, of the good old days when the fertile plains of genealogy were unfenced by these uninspired farmers. When the bold rider of history could marvel at sunrises over mountain ranges of unknown facts, forests of unguarded sources, canyons of unthought hypotheses, countless flocks of unindexed wonders. Ah, for those days of rapturous discovery… . Tonight, tonight, we toast the glories and ironies of this great masque of life! My new boss, P. T. Barnum up there, will foot the bill. Call me from the bar when it’s time. I have work to do. I’m writing my memoirs, did I tell you?” He took two steps, but came back. “Thank you, Nick. You
have
cheered me up.”

Then he stalked with drunken dignity out of the room.

Bennie, the bartender in the Chevalier Room at the Grande Marchioness, was a friend of Nick’s. Otherwise, Nick wouldn’t hang out with any frequency at such a ritzy place.

Here in the Chevalier Room, Nick rated special privileges. A few years back he’d discovered, in the course of some unrelated research, that one of Bennie’s lineal ancestors was a colonial tavern keeper who had served Spanish Louisiana’s Governor Galvez meat and drink, and
then had served
with
the governor in successful raids against the British in West Florida. This discovery earned Bennie, after Nick completed the appropriate affidavits and applications, membership in the Flagon and Trencher and in the Sons of the American Revolution.

Nick relished a bit of stagecraft. He liked to bring his best clients to this bar, especially if they were the bibulous sort, to deliver his completed work in the elegant setting of antiques and crystal. Bennie understood that when Nick showed up with a client, he and his excellent waitresses were to help Nick lose the battle for the check, while allowing him to retain a little face. They possessed a multitude of tricks for such occasions.

It was fitting that Nowell would have selected one of the best hotels in the city. The Grande Marchioness was the kind of place that runs a small ad in the
New Yorker
and
Town & Country
, and is booked solid for years. What better way, Nick thought, to attract potential members of a certain age and income than to gild the lily, lend their lineage a glamorous patina of Old World luxury, appeal to their snobbish instinct to stand out in the American mobocracy? Nick was beginning to appreciate Nowell’s marketing savvy; the Society was a demographically targeted growth industry.

Facing the hotel’s marble-encrusted entrance hall, at a table beside an interior wall of mullioned windows, Nick sat with his second Negroni, heavy on the Campari and lemon. Seven o’clock came and went. No Jillian Vair. Bennie had told him a woman had called three times before his arrival; no name, no number, no message. Nick decided he’d been stood up, and ordered another drink, content to intensify the buzz he was
already enjoying. He looked around for a phone; he might as well call Bluemantle. It could still be an interesting evening, listening to his friend’s tirade.

Bennie had just set his new glass down when two paramedics jogged through the entrance hall. A few moments later, two uniformed cops followed, radios squawking underneath their wet ponchos.