Sultry Days of Blood and Angels

By Tess Nottebohm

For those of us who never quite grasped the tragic depth of Hurricane Katrinas 2005 inundation of New Orleans, Tess Nottebohms new novel, Sultry Days of Blood and Angels, is a prose poem reminding us how fragile, beautiful, tragic, erotic and utterly sui generis was and is the Crescent City. Sultry Days is confected from the bitter-sweet urban archeology of a place that for three-hundred years has lived a few frightening meters of water away from extinction and lived, therefore, that much closer to the edge. It is that rich boundary teeming with life, sex, voodoo and death and the inescapable tie to Creole customs and cuisine that is an irreducible part of the richness of 19th Century New Orleans so convincingly captured and elegantly served up in Tess Nottebohms Sultry Days of Blood and Angels.

~ Richard Rapaport, author, journalist, and visiting Scholar University of California Berkeley Institute of Governmental Studies

Sultry Days of Blood and Angels is a lush journey into history, identity, and passion. The threadbare pages of an old man's antique journal burst with a Pandora's Box of deep-bayou intriguespurring a modern young adventuress to seek her own destiny through the journal's account of three wildly compelling female characters.

Author Tess Nottebohm brings to vibrant life the mansions and back roads of old New Orleans with exhilaration and gutsy sensuality. Each bodice-ripping, mind-bending escapade is injected with a raw, unconventional twist on relationships, self-awareness, and the elusive nature of time itself. Nottebohm's satisfied readers will end up scouring flea markets everywhere for lace cravats, muslin bloomers, and dusty Cajun talismans!

~ Stephanie JT Russell, author, One Flash of Lightning: A Samurai Path for Living the Moment


Disillusioned with the lack of passion, enchantment, and beauty in the modern world, Annette Emery stumbles onto the ornate city of New Orleans. Under its powerful seduction, and through a chance encounter with a book merchant, she follows clues that lead her to an abandoned cabin in the bayou, where she finds the journal of a fabled recluse, Wellsworth Worthington. Written in 1903, and dating back to events as early as 1822, the complex story that unfolds ultimately brings Annette to her own surprising connection to its notorious characters.

Through Wellsworths bewitched account of the past, we meet two free-spirited young women: Divinity, daughter of slave and master, and Priscilla, of the tormented Lefeuvre family. Healers and scholars, or witches and whores, according to what rumors are believed, their antics are spied upon by Wellsworth, who makes himself the ladies devoted houseman after finding Divinity naked and unconscious in the bayou. He resides at their mansion, Chez Mystiphi, until its temptations become his undoing.

Part mystery, part adult fairy tale, Sultry Days of Blood and Angels is an intricately woven, offbeat tale of obsession, betrayal, and murder, that touches on Vampire lore, Voodoo and Slavery; raising questions about what it means to be truly free. The reader may well be seduced by this books sultry, subversive heart, and swept away by its poetic eroticism, into an exploration of what we have unwittingly lost, and what we might choose to reclaim, from our past. But most of all, it is a dream of the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 16, 2009
• ISBN: 9781465319036

Book preview

Copyright © 2009 by Tess Nottebohm.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the

copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or

dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface

~Part One~

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

~Part Two~

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

~Part Three~

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

~Part Four~

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

~Postscript~

~The End~

~Afterword~

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Acknowledgments

I am most grateful for the generous editing, criticism, and support of Stephanie Russell, Richard Rapaport, Jeannette Sears, Kathie Klarreich, Sandra Weinstein, and Ben Aronoff. Many thanks to Abbie Rabinowitz, and Sandra, for their work on this book’s cover. Thanks to my husband, Andreas, and my brother, Todd Klempan, for the fun we had coming up with the title for this book. Gratitude from the bottom of my heart to Andreas, for his lavish inspiration and invaluable suggestions. Special thanks to Tracy Talbot, for introducing me to one of the great loves of my life, the City of New Orleans.

The characters of Tracy and Meredith are based on actual persons, whose names are used with their permission. Bear Rawlins, and the Red Rock Roosters, are actual person and band, used with the permission of Mr. Rawlins.

Lyrics of Summertime are from the 1935 Gershwin musical, Porgy and Bess.

Lyrics of House of the Rising Sun are from an early folk song of uncertain origin.

image33.jpg

William Russell Flint

Frank J. Buttera

Edmond J. Sullivan

various

1800’s German Etchings

Map of Old New Orleans

Currier and Ives, circa 1885

mappage.jpgfamtreenewfinallfinal.jpgimage34.jpg

In a mad dream, I saw my own heart suspended in the sultry air,

as it rose from the great broiling cauldron of tears and sweat

that was the Old South . . . it was cradled in a demon’s arms,

drenched in the blood of angels.

Preface

A primal drumbeat pulsated through the posh lobby of the recently refurbished Hotel Remy. Something like awe settled over the ultra-hip crowd gathered there to celebrate its grand-opening, as their attention was drawn from their drinks and conversation to the exotic sound that made its way through a haze of incense and candlelight. Only those sensitive to such things would have registered the slight mustiness of the aged building, whose decadent soul could not be entirely concealed by fresh wall-coverings, reupholstered furniture, and new management.

The beating drum conjured three dark-skinned women, wrapped in mystique and ceremonial gowns. On undulating bellies and outstretched limbs, they slithered across the highly-polished black and white marble floor like impassioned serpents. As though possessed, they snaked their way toward a carved ebony bowl of murky water that resembled a small pond, beckoning from the far end of the room.

Though intrigued, the guests were not shocked by the spectacle before them; for this was, after all, New Orleans. Exactly where modern day Voodooiennes might be engaged to bless a business; in this case, indeed, were. A look into the other-worldly cast of the supplicants’ eyes reflected a blazing internal landscape that spoke of this being no hollow performance, but a deep and ancient ritual.

Perhaps it was the liberal flow of champagne and mint juleps, the witchy Southern humidity, or the mesmerizing nature of the rite itself, but I sensed the walls had begun swaying to the rhythm of the drum. Thus melded to the scene at hand, I only vaguely perceived a distant siren as it wailed its way toward some disaster or other; felt that sudden dread for the afflicted, the guilty relief that the trouble was elsewhere.

Momentarily shaken from the spell of the Voodoo ceremony, I wondered who else among the crowd was swept up in its spirit, forgetting for awhile who they had come to hobnob with. Except for a few figures hovering near the nineteenth-century bar in the adjoining room, those in attendance seemed as captivated as I was.

The hypnotic drumming intensified as the women, having reached the sacred waters, doused themselves in its oils and herbs. Their faces contorted in rapture, as chants poured forth in mysterious tongues that seemingly pleaded our human concerns to forces unseen.

A wave of good old-fashioned euphoria swept across the room, pushing the onlookers together in a collective swoon. The person behind me must be overcome with religious fervor, I thought, sensing a sharp jab in my lower back, of what I took to be a zealous elbow.

The potion created of those delicious unruly elements, that can leave us breathless with wonder, flooded over me as never before. But now I was the only one swooning, in fact, falling; as in falling down on the floor. In retrospect, I like to think of it as a graceful slide onto the cool, glossy surface of fine old marble.

Blood pooled at my side, like deep-hued roses oozing their generous colour into fantastical patterns against the greater pattern nature had embedded in the marble of the floor beneath me. As I watched the crimson spheres expand, I wondered if the siren of a quarter-hour prior had somehow been confused in time and had cried out a warning for me. It further crossed my woozy mind that my pale lavender, dreamy layers of a dress, would be a goner.

So it was that I landed in the hospital, after all my bravado concerning the dangers of New Orleans; for I had cavalierly defended my chosen city to friends and family who believed, with a certain relish, the many tales of its crime and corruption. Though I maintained the statistics they heard were exaggerated for dramatic effect, I was now ironically among them. But that fact doesn’t change anything, for I’m prepared to die here one day. Although I distinctly wish to live a lot more first.

While convalescing in the swelter that only a summer in New Orleans can so classically provide, I’d undertaken something I hadn’t expected necessary. That was to write this adjunct to what, I thought, was a completed account of my connection to several long-deceased characters and their lively adventures, tidily wrapped up in a manuscript I had diligently sweated over for many months.

Now, since finding myself at the sharp end of a dagger during a Voodoo ceremony, I wondered if there was a connection between my manuscript and my attack. I had reason to suspect there was.

It all started innocently enough, with my stumbling upon—and, granted, taking possession of—something that wasn’t mine: a journal from the distant past. Though its content was of a mildly subversive nature, I seriously doubted it could have any influence in the present, other than the changes it inspired in my own life. I had also thought it worthy material for a manuscript which, when submitted to several agents—with one notable exception—met with hasty and sound rejection.

But could something in those blithely lifted writings be perceived as a threat, and to whom? These and other questions stirred in correspondence with the throbbing pain from the wound in my back, which was, thanks to pharmaceuticals, only periodic.

I considered that perhaps I wasn’t the intended victim of the stabbing, but had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Though if directed at me—the supporting evidence being the suspicious disappearance of said journal, and related items, from my house that same night—how befitting that my attack took place when and where it did: in an ecstatic moment. Yes, that could be an important part of the message.

There seemed a further admonition in a blurred image that fought its way to becoming a memory. Slowly, the vision emerged: small bones, blood-soaked feathers, a chicken’s clawed foot, what looked like a clump of my own hair, bound together with tattered black ribbon. That was the last object I had seen before falling unconscious in a puddle of my own blood.

Visiting hours over, and doubtlessly in a drug-saturated state of mind, I found myself drifting back many years to an odd incident that took place in a badly frayed cantina in the 1970’s in Rosarito, Baja. There I met a polished young woman seated incongruously, as was I, in that dingy den of iniquity.

She, whose name I don’t recall and wouldn’t use if I did, told me such a convoluted and improbable tale that not even a Hollywood script could be based on its outlandish, though intriguing, premise. The woman swore the story was not only true, but had been unearthed by her father, a trial lawyer who had some involvement with the notorious Manson Family at the height of their madness and mayhem.

All I remember these two decades later is that she, of sane appearance, believed Charles Manson, of distinctly insane appearance, had been brainwashed by the FBI or the CIA—I forget which and it hardly matters—into committing the dastardly crime of masterminding the murders for which he is infamous.

The woman emphasized how gruesome the murders needed be, in order to strike primal fear into a stunned populace. The elements must be deeply disturbing: beautiful pregnant actress, signs of devil worship, homicidal lost girls under the influence of a longhaired monster with mad-cow eyes.

And the purported reason for such a crazed and desperate plot? To discredit the powerful, youthfully exuberant, movement afoot, whose followers believed it was the dawn of a New Age. Whose slogans make love, not war and tune in and drop out did, no doubt, have some people fretting over the status quo.

So, to preserve itself, that status quo cooked up enough horror to derail the current exploration of freedom and community, driving the citizenry back into a 1950’s illusion of security, based on all-encompassing productivity and consumption.

Thus, our brainwashed maniac scapegoat and his tragically psychotic followers—now a symbol of sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll gone terribly awry—brought a budding revolution to a halt, with the exception of a few diehards, and eventually planted the seeds for the movement’s opposite: a freshly sowed crop of a dubious harvest, known as yuppies.

Added to the mix, already thick with Margaritas and weird confidences, were references to communism, cover-ups, clandestine agencies other than the CIA and FBI; adamantly related in hushed, but lurid, detail.

I dismissed the story as sheer fiction; or, at best, highly embellished occurrences entertainingly spun into mad conspiracy. A twist on how a movement that espoused peace, love, music, equality, and flowers in our hair, unraveled into tattered remnants; leaving only fringe types to the tie-dyed garments once donned by those who dared dream an earthly nirvana.

Around the time I’d heard enough and excused myself from the woman, a drunken fellow at a nearby table dropped his dentures—even they had a few teeth missing—into the mangy layer of sawdust that covered the barroom floor. As he made a groping search under the table, his lecherous expression implied he might find a naughty schoolgirl who took a tumble into the sawdust just to give him a bit of a tease, when, voila! he picked up the recalcitrant object, and gave it a cursory brush against his unkempt sleeve before reinserting it in his askew and toothless maw.

All the while a broken, but valiant, neon Dos Equis sign flashed, as stout mariachis steadfastly serenaded the stale air with love songs; perhaps courting the full moon that peeked through the multitude of holes in the roof of the saggy cantina, just enough to impart hope by dappling the shadows with a witchy-ness I knew better than to trust.

The whole thing was chalked up, in my mind, as tequila induced. So it went without saying, I took everything that night with as many grains of salt as brimmed the Margaritas, that were consumed like frothy promises of a better tomorrow.

And what does that memory of long-ago have to do with my current plight, one might reasonably ask? Only that there was a perplexing corner of my mind capable of imagining such a conspiracy. For it seems when too many people start believing life is magical, and set about fashioning paradise in the here and now, something untoward occurs. Perhaps it is of our own making, because we can’t really conceive of a world without suffering.

Maybe it was the pain medication, but I wondered if there lurked some misguided fool(s) who actually believed the journal I’d found could inspire the masses out of their television/junk-food induced trance. And perhaps dethrone the powers that be, by taking to heart some quaint suggestions for adding more fun to one’s life, without rampant and mindless consumption.

In my present state, I could think of no logical explanation for the disappearance of the journal in question, as well as my laptop and other items related to this story. Fortunately, most of those writings had been copied into my own, so-called manuscript; of which a disc was kept at a friend’s house, enabling me to publish this.

On that subject, suffice it to say I’ve been humbled by the mainstream literary industry, and reduced not only to self-publishing, but to printing with an underground press belonging to none other than my eccentric neighbor, aptly named Mad Dog; or, as he’s likely to point out when inebriated (that is to say often), God Dam when spelled backwards.

So, you can see the effort I’ve put forth on behalf of a long-deceased ancestor and her contemporaries, whose tale from a century ago makes much of today’s antics dull by comparison. If I believed in ghosts, which I assuredly don’t, I would think I’d been hexed by them into going this far.

You are hereby invited to traverse the path that lead to this hospital room, where I’ve had plenty of time to ponder how I lost track of my soul, only to find it again in this steamy place known as New Orleans. As you will see, that is not the only thing I found.

~Part One~

Here I make a small departure from the traditional form of storytelling, offering the reader a choice of beginnings. Since the tale at hand is told through the journal to which I’ve referred, the optional first chapter is what my mother would call a vainglorious digression. As I’ve been prone to those since childhood, I think it only fair to suggest that the reader might want to skip ahead to chapter two, where this book rightfully begins. But for those who don’t mind a short stroll down my personal memory lane, there may be something in the nostalgia of my childhood that speaks to other restless hearts.

Chapter One

It was for my birthday, in 1957, that I received a gift which spoke volumes to my five-year-old self, awakening a princess from her deep and dreamless sleep. My parents, of humble means, bought me the one thing I had pestered, cajoled, lobbied and longed for, yet scarcely believed good fortune would bring.

Breathlessly, I held the large, airy box in my anxious hands. As few things this size could be so light-weight, it seemed God (to whom I’d addressed a few fervent words on the subject in my nightly prayers) had granted my wish; hopefully wasn’t just playing one of His practical jokes.

My treasure spilled forth, frothily overflowing the box that could no longer contain its magical contents. Layer upon layer of white tulle emerged, as mystical as snow; which, in my California beach-town childhood, was limited to seasonal flocked pine trees and the glitter trapped inside glass globes that, when shaken, fluttered around miniature scenes encased therein.

Escaping its box was the beloved bouffant slip of my desire, in all its glory; the object I had ardently coveted since my mother took me to a matinee of Gone with the Wind at the Redondo Strand Fox Theater a few months prior to my birthday. Little did the poor woman realize that by taking me along to a movie she no doubt believed I would sleep through, she was on the verge of creating a monster.

Though I recalled little of the story from my first viewing of the iconic film, its costumes made a dramatic impression. Realizing my mother wouldn’t indulge me in the long dresses of that era, and that I was stuck with the shorter ones in fashion during the 1950’s, I could at least insist on full—an outstanding feature of those glorious gowns.

The spectacular movie, in its Technicolour grandeur, even took my mind off the carnivorous sand-fleas for which the Fox was notorious. Unwisely built on the sand near the Redondo Beach pier, the theatre was home to fleas that made a veritable feast of the hapless audience throughout the usual double feature, cartoon, and newsreel. Gone with the Wind was so long it was itself a double feature, complete with intermission. Through it all I was held in the grip of its ferocious beauty, as by a velvet claw from which I was never entirely released.

Of course, what those period gowns called for were hoop slips, or crinolines. A hundred years later a shorter, tamer version was known as the bouffant slip. The very thing now in my proud possession! That Scarlett Oh Hair-a had nothing on me!

I vividly recall that first day in my new slip; my endless prance around our block, certain the neighbors peered from their windows in wonder at my splendid self. How could they not, for hadn’t my hand-me-down dress been dramatically transformed by the poofiness of my grand Bouffant Slip?

Not only had my simple cotton dress become, in my mind’s eye, something of an extravaganza, but my bobby socks and Sunday patent-leather shoes were enhanced to perfection by the magic of my slip. My legs did tingle a bit at the stiffness of the tulle brushed against them—a trifle for such beauty!

And so I strutted up and down our street for what must have been hours, letting others feast their eyes on my majesty, while royal ruffles held court under my dress, and dubbed me a princess.

Nestled in those layers of tulle was the seed of my budding confidence. For the very next day at school, emboldened by my birthday slip, I introduced my classmates to the Mermaid game.

On the playground during recess, I enthusiastically gathered the kindergarteners around me, not unlike a mother hen with her unruly brood, to inform them of a new game they might be allowed to play, if they followed my instructions carefully. Since this got their attention, I basked for a moment in the glow of my newfound authority.

Here’s how it goes brimming with confidence, I made this up as I went along. We are in the ocean and you are all fish—whatever kind you want to be! Smiles amongst the crowd—they seemed pleased! Then (dramatic pause) I (pause) am the Mermaid! I stand in the middle and you all swim around and around me. So . . . I gestured, Start swimming!

And they obeyed! I was their uncontested mermaid. The world was as it should be—I at its center, with everyone else enjoying themselves while celebrating me. Monarchy at its best! And, as a benevolent ruler, I was richly appreciative of the ardent participation of my subjects.

The game continued for a few more days, enlivening recess for me, until enthusiasm wore thin and we drifted on to something else. Oddly, no one challenged my role as mermaid. It was years before I realized that perhaps the others had as much fun as I did, envisioning themselves as amazing sea creatures—iridescent, fluid . . . each in the world of their own imagination.

Though my whims were never again quite as accommodated as on those days in the school yard, something of the experience embedded itself deep within the folds of my being, like mineral veins in the earth, reinforcing the fragile seams of self with its