New Orleans, Louisiana

1984

Every week around midnight, I always come to this one spot. It calls out to me every time, like a siren song, beckoning me to go in the roaring current of the Mississippi River. I imagine myself enveloping myself in the water, feeling myself getting pulled into the tide. I really don't know why I've always felt this way about it, ever since my first memory it's been this way.

Today it's Mardi Gras and I'm standing by the Riverwalk. The lights from the Crescent City Connection bridge cast an orange haze upon the water, mesmerizing me like always. The sight of the bridge reminds me of the frequent trips Jeff and I would take to Algiers, back when his mom was at the hospice center. I close my eyes, fighting back tears. Jeff's mom wanted her ashes spread along the river, near where the ferry docks at the Audubon Zoo, her favorite place.

After the day we spread her ashes, conversation between Jeff and me became more and more sparse until it was reduced down to nothing more than what TV dinner we were going to eat. Jeff's mother Anne was the glue that held us together, and I tried with all my might to hold on to that glue. But it all came undone when I discovered the evidence of his infidelity in the glove box of his Brand new Buick LeSabre.

He said her name was Elizabeth, or Bess for short. It was no hard feelings, but Bess made him happy. That stung more than the news of the infidelity. Could I not make Jeff happy? We were engaged. I thought we would be together forever. I cursed the day that I let Jeff Guidry walk into my life from the day I met him at college. If I could go back in time, I would have. Because of him, I lost my chance as a pianist.

And I try to forget him, I really do. But every time I sit at the piano, or try to compose something new, he's always there, never leaving. Almost taunting me.

Like the dreams I have of him every night. I must be going to the river too much because him and I are always in the river in my dream. I've been having the same dream since the day I found out he was cheating on me with Bess. The dream always starts with me being in the midst of a hurricane, and there's a man behind me screaming at me in a language I can't understand.

I am pulled into the flood waters with Jeff in my arms. His clothes look different. Old fashioned. I can't quite explain, but he looks different too. His hair is longier and shaggier and I'm struggling to free myself from his tight embrace to try to get to land, but an undercurrent takes the both of us and I drown with him in my arms. I wake up every time drenched in my own sweat.

Even though I keep having these river dreams, I cannot stay away from this place. It's my constant. It's where Jeff kissed me for the first time. It's where he asked me to marry him. The river is also Anne's gravestone, and where I want to be when I feel the most lonely, which happens more than I can count.

It's got to be close to midnight now. The noise from the Mardi Gras festivities are starting to die down a little, even though I can still hear drunken revelry in the distance. This day should be full of whimsy and magic for most people, but for some of us, it's not so fun. The stench of urine and vomit can be pervasive on the regular, but on this day, it's at peak stench.

Jeff's friends are most likely at some seedy bar on Bourbon Street, riding off the waves of the last of the parade by taking shots of whiskey sours and getting sloshed over those cheap, disgusting hand grenades everyone is always drinking. Jeff for sure has that pretty Bess with her dark blonde hair, D-cup the way he likes it, voluptuous body, and sultry eyes. That must have been what enchanted him to her in the first place. Then I look at myself. A-cup. Mousy brown hair. Dated sense of fashion. I'm still stuck in the seventies, at least that's what my mom says. It's comfortable to wear my mom's old clothes.

And speaking of Mom, she always says that I can do better than Jeff. I know I can. But one day, she said something to me when I visited her home off the Lakefront in Mandeville. She said that because I chose to be his fiance and sleep with him that I bound my soul to him and that I needed to break the bind in order to move on from him, whatever that meant.

I walk away from the railing overlooking the river and walk towards the area around Jackson Square. For a brief moment, I think I hear something out of the ordinary from the typical noise of revelers and the typical sounds of a restless city like New Orleans. Is it a chamber orchestra?

It's a unique sound, unlike anything I've ever heard before. I run over the streetcar tracks, brushing up against crowds of people leaving the finale of the festivities a little earlier. I walk past Cafe du Monde, inhaling the scent of beignets frying. It never gets old, but I ignore the sweet temptation to indulge in those powdered sugar pillows. I must find the source of the sound — it's getting closer now.

In the distance, I see the chamber orchestra, scattered around the statue of Andrew Jackson in the square. My heart soars a little when I realize this. This is unlike anything I've ever seen before, well, at least not in Jackson Square on Mardi Gras day. I smile as I take a step closer to the orchestra. The musicians are people I don't recognize, not at first glance.

The violins to lead into an ascending melody, one I have heard many times since I started re-taking my music classes at Marigny Conservatory. The overture to Ignace Leblanc's Le Fleuve. I hum along with the melody, the music floods my mind with brilliant green and blue all above my head. It shines, shimmery and pure like luminous diamonds.

Then I hear the sound of a flute. And it's my favorite part of Leblanc's overture, when a flute answers to the violins with a haunting motif that the lead soprano in Leblanc's opera sings often. God, his tone is beautiful, like red champagne bubbles, fizzling together one by one. The flute mesmerizes me, and as I see the flautist playing flourish after flourish, something moves within me. I don't know what it is about the guy, but there's a certain kind of familiarity about him. About how dedicated he looks, moving and flowing along with the music. I close my eyes and drown out everything else.

But when I do that, I'm met with a series of images from a place I can't figure out. As the music builds to a shimmery crescendo and the flute soars above everything else, its flow constant like a river.

"He is amazing," I say to myself. "Totally rad."

In the corner, near the edge of the square, I see someone in a black jacket. I squint my eyes and see what he's trying to do. Is he a set photographer for the orchestra? Because he's sure taking a lot of pictures. He's a little suspicious to me, the way he's studying the chamber orchestra then snapping more and more photos. I don't like it. Something doesn't feel right. How can he be snapping pictures like this, flashing incessantly? I can tell it's bothering the orchestra. I almost go up to him to tell him to stop taking photos when I notice that he's disappeared, probably into the Mardi Gras multitude.

#

It's midnight and I sigh as I peek away from my watch. Mardi Gras is over, but I wish that the chamber orchestra continued playing the overture. There is something about that piece that I've always felt connected to. Hell, the entire opera for that matter. I am curious about the piece, and as I'm walking up to the musicians to get to know them better, someone brushes up against me, nearly shoving me to the ground.

"Hey," I cry out. "Watch where you're going!"

But he doesn't hear me and my eyes widen when I realize that he's the guy I saw earlier. The one with the camera. He is already far ahead of me and he approaches the orchestra as they are packing up their instruments. So he must be the photographer.

I take one step before I hear someone cry out, something I can't understand. The members of the orchestra are in a shambles as they scurry around.

"Ladron! Un ladron!" (thief, a thief!)

Oh, God. He's not their photographer. He just stole something. Probably an instrument. I run faster and faster until I see the thief in the distance. He's holding a flute, camera bag hanging from his left shoulder. I am adrift in the endless sea of people, pulled back and forth by the constant changing of the tides. I attempt to maneuver around drunken revelers who stumble over themselves. The thief makes it closer and closer to the front of St. Louis Cathedral. The pure reek of alcohol attacks my nose, a flurry of bright purple, green and gold costumes flash all around me, making it even harder to see the thief in the midst of all of these people. The corner streetlights emit a dim lamp glow, casting a dark shadow. It barely gives any light. God, this poor musician is going to be out of a flute. I need to help him. I have to. I feel this strong urge to do this, like I owe him something and I don't quite know why.

"Mi flauta!" (my flute) I hear someone cry out. I turn around and notice the flute player. He brushes past me as I run up to the thief. And before I know it, we are both running close together. He turns to look at me.

"He was taking pictures earlier," I say breathlessly as I continue running. "I was there listening. I'll help you get your flute back. There," I say pointing. "He's right there."

The flautist only nods and we both run closer to where he's running. He is running faster and faster once he notices that we're on his tail, and now a string of Mardi Gras crowd trickles in, the ones that are being led away from Bourbon Street. I am nearly drowning in the crowds and the stranger and I get separated from each other. I wish I found out his name because I could call it out right about now.

The thief, I see him. My breath hitches as I see that he's no longer running. Maybe he's waiting for someone. I feel someone else brush up against me. I turn to look at who it is. The flutist. His warmth envelops me. His breath hot like fire against my neck. My skin tingles with his nearness, and I can feel his heart beat hard and fast against my back. I begin to spring myself forward in an attempt to confront the thief through the chaos of all of the Mardi Gras things around us. The crowds. The noise. Just a Closer Walk With Thee wailing in the distance. It's when I catch the scent of the man's cologne that I bite my lip. An inebriating mix of cedarwood and citrus. Is it lemon? Lime? God, his nearness is like being caught in the eye of a hurricane. Calm, steady. Almost peaceful.

Corrine Broussard, come on, you can do this. Don't make a sound. Don't let the thief know you're anywhere close. Who on God's green earth is this man to make this reaction out of me? I can't do this. I can't. I've got to get away from this guy. He's dangerous, but God, why do I want to stay in this moment forever? We have to get his flute back.

But the plans are destroyed when the flutist dashes toward the thief and cries out. Of course, the thief runs again and we are once again back in the same situation we were in just minutes before.

"Thief!" I cry out, hoping at least someone in the NOPD will hear us. "Thief! Thief!"

People turn to look, but of course most of them are too drunk to do anything and are leaving. All I can say is thank God we are in Bourbon street, where the streets are full of cops. At the beat of the very last minute, I spy a cop approaching us and I quickly yell out to him. "Thief!"

He turns around and blows his whistle as he catches up to the thief. We pick up our pace and follow in hot pursuit.

"I think he's over there," I say to the stranger. "Do you think that's him?"

The flutist shrugs. "I don't know, I have bad vision at night. Forgive me, but who are you and why are you helping me?" He turns to look at me, brows furrowed in curiosity.

"Thought I'd help a fellow musician out," I say in reply.

"Do you play flute?"

"Piano. Tried flute in high school. I collapsed the first week of marching band practice and it wasn't because of the Louisiana heat. I can't play the thing to save my life."

"We all have our talents," he says.

"I hear you have an accent. Where are you from?"

"Malaga. It's in Spain."

"Always wanted to go," I say, running up past a couple of people.

"It's a beautiful country. You should visit sometime," he says, stopping in his tracks, like a cessura after a musical cadence. "Wait, I think I see him. Is that a camera?"

I squint through the veil of darkness. There are no lampposts to give much light in this area and all I see is the vague silhouette of a man. For a moment, he almost looks historical in the way he appears. Even seems like he has one of those old-fashioned French military hats, and I can't quite shake it off. The familiarity of his stance and the sudden chill that cascades up and down my spine.

"That's him."

We make a run for it when a few Mardi Gras people, perhaps tourists, dressed apropos in bright colors, get in our way and start dancing around us.

"Please move out of the way," I say, "Excuse us!"

They continue dancing around us as if they have not heard me. I want to scream. We're going to lose the thief and that's just fucking great. He's probably gone off into some alleyway by now thanks to these people.

In the distance, there's the faint sound of police officers whistling as they herd people. By now, the cop that we saw earlier is long gone too. The performers are still blocking us and I make one last attempt to scream in their faces like a crazy person in order for them to move out of the way. And thank God they did because they were drunk off their asses. Completely shit-faced.

"I saw him," the stranger says.

"He just turned down the corner."

We make a mad dash for it, scraping past people. And I feel guilty about knocking a few wasted people over, but I have no time to help them. We need to get this guy and now, since the cop we found earlier must have forgotten about our little issue.

There he is. We've got him. He's standing by a wall, holding the flute under his armpit as he smokes a cigarette. The puffs of smoke, a haze of tobacco float around him enveloping him. There are no lampposts to give much light in this area and all I see is the vague silhouette of a man. For a moment, he almost looks historical in the way he appears. Even seems like he has one of those old-fashioned French military hats, and I can't quite shake it off. The familiarity of his stance and the sudden chill that cascades up and down my spine when the figure seems to change back to another form. Why did that happen? I nearly lose my breath when I think about it, but I can't pause to ruminate on that freaky thing.

The thief turns to look at me and steps forward, taking one step closer and closer until the dim light of a building illuminates his features and I am dumbfounded when I see who stands before me. I'm shocked. Absolutely shocked. I thought this dude was somewhere playing concert halls in New York City after getting that once in a lifetime scholarship. The one he won, the one that was unjustly ripped away from me.

I cannot believe, absolutely cannot believe that this brilliant musician of a man stole a flute.

"Iñaki, why the hell did you steal a flute?" I ask.