The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part Eleven

 : The little, one block stretch of Shirmaine Lane in Old Metairie is unusual on its own. Removed from the rest of the neighborhood by two long, tall fences. One that runs behind every house. The other, running in a straight line directly across the street, giving the road the feeling of a shotgun house, though none exist here. And on this unusual street there is a more unusual sight in this pocket universe on Metairie Ridge. For the first time since it was built, every window of the Hammar house is ablaze with light. Were anyone on Shirmaine awake at that time of the morning, and out on the street, they would have finally gotten a glimpse into a home that has been the subject of neighborhood conversations for years.

One resident is out.

Well, two really.

A young teenage girl slowly walks by the house on the opposite side of the street. With her is her dog, a black labrador/chow mix with fluffy fur that makes him look bigger than he really is. On the dog’s collar is a large yellow tag that reads:

Rex, The Wonder Dog. I belong to Erica L., 523 Shirmaine Lane.

Erica stops and looks at the unusual sight. Even Rex sits against the fence that separates the rest of the neighborhood from their street. They gaze quizzically at the sight, framed in the light coming from the living room window. Rex’s enormous pink tongue, mottled with blue patches like he’s eaten a cotton candy giraffe, flops haphazardly over his jaw, showering the grass with little drops of spittle. He does that when he thinks. Or needs to go out. Or breathes.

The small one-story mid-century brick house is generically standard issue, like a model house for a child’s train set blown up to perverse proportions. Yet, it is so devoid of personality most people just look away. On the right, a one vehicle carport that hasn’t ported a car since the old lady died three years ago. It is the only house in the lane built this way. All the others have their carports or garages on the right. A narrow pavement leads from the driveway to the front door. There is no sidewalk in front of the house. There are also no plants or trees on the property, except for the front “hedge”; a tangle of creeping vines that took over the old lady’s azalea bushes years ago. Rather than rip up the area and replant, the family just took to trimming the vines into a rectangle across the front. The vines are now self-supporting, the azaleas they choked out a distant, dusty memory beneath. The front porch consists of concrete steps and a landing, no railings. Next to the door, a white mailbox with black stenciled numbers, 507.

Directly above the vine hedge, the living room window, now ablaze for an unexpected audience of two. The window on the right that should go into the kitchen was sealed over decades ago by his father. He hated the thought of people looking in on him while he was eating breakfast. Over his wife’s objections, he sealed up the window. His mother responded by putting up a ledge, frame and shutters inside, and installing a sunlamp over the breakfast nook. Every morning, slowly roasting while defiantly eating his oatmeal, salted with his own sweat. Such were the many quiet battles inside the Hammar house.

Inside, Oskar enters the room, and picks up two old suitcases, carrying them into another room. 

Erica and Rex watch in silent fascination as he carries out old clothes, more ancient luggage, and neatly-bound stacks of old papers. Some of them look like newspapers.

“What is he doing in there?” Erica whispers to Rex. “And, why? We have to get closer.” Erica begins to cross the street, but Rex stays put, growling softly in reproach.

“Oh, fine you big furball,” she whispers, returning to her spot by the fence. Rex wags his furry black tail a little, happy that she listened to him. “If we see a dead body, we’re out of here. Got it?” Rex ignores her, emitting a tiny little fart to seal the deal. She rolls her eyes, dropping her head down to her hand. “That’s gross, dog. Gross.”

Oskar returns again, and begins pulling a huge trunk back into the house, knocking over a table lamp in the process. It falls over onto the arm of the sofa, aiming a spotlight at Erica and Rex. Oskar stops and tries to return the lamp, when he sees two amber eyes watching him through the window. Suddenly terrified, he scrambles over the sofa to put out the lamp, then rushes to the window.

There is nothing there now. But, something was watching him. Maybe that Greek woman. Maybe that big dumb nephew of hers. Doesn’t matter. Not at all. He returns to the lamp and his work.

Three houses down, Erica and Rex are panting heavily by the side door, trying to catch their breath before sneaking back inside. It looks like they weren’t seen. “That’s why I have a big furry black dog.” She bends down to scratch behind his ears. “You’re easy to hide behind. Okay, let’s go inside. Come on!” She carefully opens the door and Rex marches into the darkened house. Erica watches him go, then turns and walks down the driveway to peer around the corner, just to be sure the Hammar guy isn’t following them. All clear. Still…it feels like he’s…there, watching her. Silently, she rushed back up the driveway, closing the door quietly with a tiny *click*, then setting off behind the houses…This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part Ten

 : Philomena Phistemopheles sits in the solarium of the DuPlessis mansion in Audubon Place, anticipating as many questions as she can.

"Aunt Phil?" Amanda asks. "Why exactly are we here? Shouldn't we be out looking for Hammar? We nearly lost him last time because we waited too long."

Phil replies patiently, "This isn't like last time, Amanda. Stavros and I knew instantly the moment it happened. Last time, my little man had to call me in Mykonos."

Bitsie puts down her cocktail glass and sneers, "I'll bite. What does that mean in the real world?"

"It means that Hammar has figured out how to use the orb, and is making a trip that will literally change the world around us. And soon." Phil takes a long sip of straight ourzo, and says, "Which is why I insisted we lay in supplies and take refuge here."

"Oh," Bitsie says, breezily. " And I thought it was just to torture me. I'm hurt."

Philomena smiles unnervingly before launching in.

“The DuPlessis mansion was built here, in this unusual way because it is a focus point. A place that naturally attracts energies. The first rays of the morning sun meet here. The seat of wealth in the City is met just outside these walls. From there, the seats of learning, the universities. Then commerce, transportation, communication. All centered around this point. Stavros, my darling.”

Stavros straightens automatically.

“You work with metals. What are all the railings, supports, this chair? What are they all made from?”

“Iron,” Stavros says, his usually sonorous baritone somehow strained. “Cast iron, mostly on the staircases, doors and windows. The furniture is wrought iron. So are the wall sconces.”

Philomena smiles at him. “And, the floors. So thick, and so purple in the light. Why is that?”

Stavros thinks a moment, then replies,

“Iron content. In the stones. Iron oxides at the surface cause the light to reflect the particles.”

“Very good, darling,” she replies, a flash of pride on her face. “And the glass in the doors, the windows, this very solarium. What kind of glass is it?”

“Lead glass.”

“Yes,” she replies, taking another drag from her cigar. “Iron and lead. Base metals. Notorious for either repelling or containing energy.” Philomena takes up her cocktail glass from Bitsie’s side and rises, slowly wandering in the direction of the dining room. “Bitsie, darling. You’d know this with your extensive antique history.”

“Watch it, Phil” she grumbles, waiting for the punchline.

“Come now," she grins. "I'm not that crass. I mean your literal antique expertise, not your most recent appraisal."

Bitsie begins to speak, then stops. "Good one", she says. Philomena contines.

"The wood paneling inside. Quite interesting. What kind of wood is it?”

Bitsie stands and turns to see where Philomena is looking. Peering at the walls, she takes a few steps towards the windows, then says,

“It’s guyican. But, not the kind you see today. That’s old forest guyican.” She turns to Stavros and Amanda on the settee. “You can tell. The grain is so compact, you can barely see it. That’s what gives the wood that rich orange-burnt umber color. Much like my late husband. Dense and unbelievably expensive.” She faces Philomena, who takes a long drag.

“So what? What does this house have to do with Stavros’ visions or the horrible homunculus Oskar Hammar?”

Philomena turns to her, all artifice gone from her face. 

“If Hammar is going to go back again, he’s going to have a reason. This house, the DuPlessis mansion is built to focus and contain our present. This moment, this reality. Once Hammar goes back, the world around us is going to change. In here, and with what I’ve brought with me, we can keep this time alive”...This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part Nine

 : Inside the DuPlessis mansion, there is beautiful music, but the mood is grim. A classical piece plays gently in the dining room. Sitting at either end of the expansive dining table are Bitsie DuPlessis, encased in clove smoke and gently returning a loose strand of blonde hair to her tight upsweep. Philomena Phistemopheles, in her own cloud of Chanel and brimstone, is entranced with the music. On either side of them, her stoic nephew Stavros Phistemopheles and his uncharacteristically reserved fiancee Amanda Napolitano, Bitsie’s personal secretary. With the table designed to seat 12, they are at a considerable distance from one another, which adds to the tension. Bitsie and Amanda exchange glances, while Stavros watches his Aunt Phil, as if awaiting orders. Only Philomena seems to be enjoying herself, her right hand swaying gently to the music.

“Bitsie, darling. ‘Three Dances’, how kind. How did you know I adore Kalomiris?”

Bitsie blinks a bit before she realizes Phil’s talking about the music.

“Well, it sounded like a venereal disease, so…” She smiles acidly, batting her eyelashes like rifle shots. Philomena smirks, then turns to Amanda.

“Manolis Kalomiris, my darling. One of my favorite composers. A Greek national treasure, you wouldn't know him."

Amanda glances down at the table at the swipe, pursing her lips to keep from opening her mouth.

"And such a lovely man," Philomena continues. "Just looking at him, you’d never know…” She pauses for a moment, a wicked look crossing her face. “Well…you’d never know.” A throaty, dirty laugh erupts before she sits back, closing her eyes and leaving Amanda to wonder what the hell she meant by that. She turns to Bitsie, who merely shrugs, rolls her eyes, and takes another drag.

Schramm appears, pushing a silver serving cart.

“Thank Christ, it’s dinner!” Bitsie exclaims, crushing out her cigarette. Schramm moves around the table, serving the first course. Philomena keeps her eyes closed, turning her face from Schramm as he sets her plate before her, feigning absorption in the music. Bitsie sees this, and waits until Schramm is about to leave before barking,

“PHIL!!”

Philomena’s eyes snap open, fixing Bitsie with an indignant glare.

“I just wanted to give credit where it’s due. Schramm picked out the music for this evening. I’m sure he’s glad you liked his selection.”

A curious calm settles in on Philomena, who merely blinks, then graciously places her napkin in her lap and regards the bowl of gazpacho before her, silently. Amanda looks helplessly across the table at Stavros, but his attention is still focused on his aunt. Bitse looks to Schramm, who nods ever so slightly and disappears into the house.

“Enjoy,” she says.

It is the last word they will hear for the next four courses.

------------------------------------------------------------------

At last, they leave the dining room and head out into the solarium, now dark and tastefully lit by dozens of lights hidden in the lush rhododendrons and gardenias. The curved lead glass walls and ceiling remind Amanda of being inside an upside-down water glass. Outside the glass walls, a stand of old camellias and rhododendrons surround the house.

They walk along the thick, slightly purplish tiles into the conversation area. The air is slightly humid with an earthy smell. Two semi-circular banquette-style gilded iron lace benches and two matching chairs surround the large iron lace table. On the table, their preferred libations on a simple golden tray. Nearby, Schramm works behind a small tiki bar at the end of the path, preparing cocktails.

Settling in to her chair. Bitsie lights another cigarette. Philomena asks politely,

“Bitsie, darling. May I have an ashtray?”

Bitsie’s eyes grow wide with dread.

“You are not smoking one of those cadaver dicks in her, Phil!”

Both Amanda and Stavros stifle their laughter, finally making some eye contact. It’s been a rough day. He winks like he does when he’s leaving in the morning for work. It reassures her.

“Bitsie, darling,” Phil says, “I wouldn’t dare. These are for indoors.”

Reaching into her voluminous hair, she withdraws a long, slender cigar wrapped in blue-white paper and an ebony holder. She places it to her lips and a flame erupts at the end, followed by a long, silvery miasma of creamy smoke that entwines in endless patterns. The perfumes of wisteria and night blooming jasmine fills the solarium. Philomena turns a smug look towards Bitsie, who’s genuinely amazed.

No.

Unnerved.

Still, it beats the wolf bait she was smoking earlier.

She stands, and walks around the table, giving Amanda the opportunity to go sit with Stav. She comes around to where Philomena sits and takes her seat on the table directly opposite her. In an even tone, she demands,

“What the hell is going on, Phil?”

Philomena takes another puff, and looks towards them. Across the solarium, Schramm stands still, watching. She sits up. Her Cyprian accent seems to fill the solarium as she says,

“If I am correct, I believe we only a few hours to prepare. So listen well, my darlings. We’re all going on a journey”...This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part Eight

 : Oskar Hammar has done something extraordinary.

He has called in sick to his job as the assistant manager of the meat department at Zummo’s Grocery.

It is the only time in thirty years he has ever missed a day of work in the woefully small grocery store at very end of Metairie Road. No one today is really certain how Zummo’s is still open in this age of mega-supermarket box stores. The concept of parking is limited to three spots in front of the door, and good luck to you otherwise. Still, amazingly, this anachronism plods on with a small, aging, but faithful clientele. But, today, there will be no freshly cut lamb chops for Mrs. Skaggs, or ground meat for Mrs. Jenkins’ Saturday meatloaf. And Mr. Laborteaux will have to go without his lamb shanks this weekend.

If all goes well, it will never have happened.

He has spent the entire day in the main branch of the Jefferson Parish Public Library, surrounded by old books that have yet to see the light of the internet. Old, dusty volumes on 19th century land sales; large, ungainly bound volumes of forgotten newspapers with names like the Item, the State, the Bee; and, a scattering of seemingly disparate books, each with pieces of information he needs to know. 

An imperceptible cloud of bibliosmia, the name given to the smell of old books, insulates him. It catches the slightest breeze and halts it. He scribbles away into an unused antique ledger purchased at an old rummage store in the Quarter. The faded marks inside the cover date the book to 1853. As old as the ledger is the collection of antique pencils. He’s carved the tips into two of them with an antique pen knife, again unused before Oskar bought them. The pinch-faced owner of the shop was confused by Oskar’s demand for antiques that were never used, but was very happy to take the money.

He stops again, grabbing an old handkerchief near him on the table and wiping away the graphite dust common to old pencils. He blows away the remaining bits of silver-black across the page, and absently sinks the cloth into his back wallet pocket. He’s sunk a lot of his money into this trip. Again, if he does everything right, it won’t matter.

His fat, round fingers clean once more, he picks up another book and turns to the page he has bookmarked a few hours earlier. He flips through a few pages, a microscopic spray of decaying paper dancing in the fluorescent lighting. He’s nearly gotten everything he needs to know.

At last, he’s found the last piece he’s looking for. He scribbles frantically but neatly into the ledger, tossing aside the nub he’s been using and grabbing another. He mutters to himself as he writes.

“...Pope…12th…21st…closing…Magazine…10 am…that’s all.”

He says the last two words out loud, the sound of his clammy voice almost absorbed by the walls of books. From behind him, a thin woman wearing a beige cardigan, glasses, straight mousy brown hair and a sour look approaches determinedly and says,

“We are closing, ‘sir’. Time to check out and go.”

Oskar turns and glares up at the woman as she italicizes the word ‘sir’. The woman looks down her thin, straight nose at him, not a hint of a smile to be seen. He closes and pulls the ledger to his chest, then grabs the pencils and looks again at the woman for a moment. He wonders what she will be like afterwards.  Uncomfortably, the woman crosses her arms and walks back to the desk in a huff. Oskar watches her go, then walks towards the institutional glass and aluminum doors and marches himself out into the night air, the doors locking behind him.

He decides not to wait for the bus. It’s still 45 minutes away, and it will take less time to just walk home. He pulls his oversized Zummo’s jacket around him, the one with the shiny yellow material, and pads along the sidewalk up West Esplanade towards Causeway and Shirmaine Street.

As he walks, his mind is going over all the information he’s learned in the last four years. The ledger, his repository for all the knowledge he needs to make his plans a reality. Names, places, days, events, financial records, genealogy, star charts, stock market records, the information floods his brain, falling into the many little checklists he has created for himself. Tomorrow morning, he will be ready.

Tomorrow, he returns to 1854 to enact his plan to prevent Mardi Gras in New Orleans from ever happening…This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part Seven

 : Turning off of St. Charles Avenue, Bitsie maneuvers the limo onto Audubon Place, giving a cheerless wave to the disinterested guard on duty. As always, the street is devoid of people, every window drawn against the outside world. Beside her, Philomena Phistemopheles’ lip curls at the new money mansions. So common, she thinks. An exercise in mediocrity made real by more money than sense. Where is the whimsey, the character, the wit of the Spanish architecture of the French Quarter? The comforting closeness of the rest of Uptown? Here in this enclave of the locally wealthy, it is all beige and gray and brown. So American.

Approaching the end of the street, Bitsie presses a button on the sun visor. What appears to be a solid wall of wisteria and ligustrum shifts and rolls back, revealing a tiled driveway leading up to the side of the DuPlessis mansion. Philomena gazes at the compound, genuinely pleased to finally see it in person. She nearly made it inside on her last visit. But, that was another time.

Bitsie pulls the limo up to the garage door, and shuts off the engine. The women sit together for a moment, a breeze filtering in through the open windows. Bitsie speaks.

“So. Am I to know why you had to stay in my house? Or, is that little secret part of the fun?”

Philomena turns and faces Bitsie. The face is much as Bitsie remembered it, except for her eyes. They were different now. Something…foreign? No. Unaccustomed. That’s the word.

“You never answered my question yesterday, Darling. Why do you think the house is built this way, on this unusual lot?”

Bitsie blinks. “Ordinarily, I’d have said because Ivan and his family were a bunch of Southern fried power freaks. But I know now that’s not the only reason.”

Philomena twitches an eyebrow in acknowledgment. Bitsie sighs, and continues.

“Fine. No, I haven’t wondered before. I am now. What do you have to tell me?”

“Inside, Darling” Philomena says, satisfied with the answer.

The women get out of the limo and climb the grand staircase to the entranceway. Bitsie opens the front door, and walks inside. At the threshold, Philomena turns and looks directly east through the passage in the trees where the sunlight comes in. Running her hand along the door frame, she feels a gentle but steady thrumm in the wood, the ironwork, the lead crystal windows, everything. Taking a final knowing glance to the east, she finally walks inside the DuPlessis mansion. As a guest…This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part Six

 : From an unpublished book on the family’s history, written by Hetty Louise Dufour DuPlessis (1867-1933). Courtesy of the DuPlessis Family libraries.

“The DuPlessis mansion is an oddity, in every way, much like our family. An unusual mixture of Gothic and Georgian architecture originally designed by my Great Uncle Hiram DuPlessis, and  constructed over a ten year period from 1877 to 1887. I was fortunate to see it happen almost from the beginning, and I urge you to believe that it is an engrossing story!

The parcel of land, then on the outskirts of Jefferson City was bought by our ancestors, Jean-Phillipe and his brother Reynaud DuPlessis in 1854. Long before Uptown, as it came to be known, was developed. Family legend states that the brothers were both hiking through the area before dawn, when they were struck by the first light of sunrise. They had a vision of a grand mansion on that spot, and rushed back into town to lay claim to the land. Soon, they both took wives and built a small home here, guided by the sunrise hitting this spot every morning.

We are the descendants of Jean-Phillipe and Eleanora. Reynaud and his wife Filena left New Orleans suddenly before the Civil War, and never returned. It is believed by the neighbors and a few dissidents in the extended family that Reynaud, as the younger brother, was afraid of being conscripted to fight for the South and fled, too embarrassed to return. But, our beloved Great Uncle Hiram has always said that Reynaud left the States on a family mission, and someday his children will return. One can only wonder!

“Our home is known for the unique herringbone brickwork across the facade, an innovation by my late father, Julius DuPlessis. It is also known as ‘the big house on the little hill’, the land having been built up to avoid some long-forgotten flood or some other natural disaster, as I recall. In truth, I was only a child when the story was told, and all who would know have long since passed on. Though, it has been noted that, despite every hurricane and flood, the neighborhood has never taken water. Intriguing!

“It is also the only house where the front door faces due east. Every other house in Audubon Place faces each other across the streets, either northwest or southeast-the nightmares of the compass! Through some happy accident, even through the unchecked growth of the live oaks and development, the first light of morning shines directly onto the front door of the house, illuminating everything around it with golden sparkling light for several minutes before fading away. Always has, and did when the properties around us were being bought up and built upon.

“Naturally, the new folks were jealous.

“By 1920, a generation of new wealth upstarts, war profiteers, erstwhile carpetbaggers and lawyers had built up their own mansions, calling it Audubon Place and fencing out the rest of the City. Like feudal lords, admission to the street must be approved by a guard in a ridiculous little shack. They filled the newly paved street with a well-ordered opulence. Each one facing another in neat, regimented fashion. As if in constant watch for any deviation or new ostentation. Our oddly shaped lot and even odder mansion atop it was an affront to the well-ordered  lives they had constructed around themselves. An insult, really. How often were Mother and I drubbed by these people? They, either refusing to acknowledge our presence, or worse confronting us directly on the street like fishwives, braying their dismay at our beautiful home-the first home in the neighborhood, I am often wont to reply. A home that became the subject of discord at their supper tables. And they were not happy at all. Especially since our family didn’t care one way or another what any of them thought. We were here first. They were drawn to us, not the other way around.

“In 1923, to appease these dreadful people who threatened to have our mansion condemned and demolished if something wasn’t done, Father and his brother Ivor created a kind of false facade built along the front of the property, consisting of a low brick wall (again, with the herringbone patterning. As with most things, Father would only be told so much,) and cast iron trellising now grown through with carefully trimmed wisteria and ligustrum. It is also trained to grow along a new high fence on the Freret St. side, surrounding the property. When fully grown, the facade will completely obscure the entire house from both streets.”

During the 20th century, the mansion became so well hidden that the children and grandchildren of the neighbors eventually forgot there was another mansion in Audubon Place. Which, it seems, is what they wanted. And, the DuPlessis family preferred it that way. Despite their repeated issues, the presence of wealthy neighbors in a closed community was a welcome buffer from the world. The natural transience of the universities supplied them with anonymity every few years. It allowed the family, over generations, to not only build the mansion’s grounds, but also the family fortunes. More than 70% of the entire City of New Orleans is either owned, co-owned, managed, or controlled by the DuPlessis family and all their many businesses and conglomerates. Even their own wealthy neighbors don’t know they bought their land from the family, and their business offices and locations pay rent to them as well. Most of the residents in the City pay rent to the family in some way. A veritable army of accountants and bankers work their entire careers on the DuPlessis’ fortunes, all very handsomely paid. And all controlled from this mansion at the tiny, perfectly manicured hands of Bitsie DuPlessis.

Bitsie herself is not a true DuPlessis. Rather, she is the ex-wife of the last of the DuPlessis line, Ivan. Or, she would be his ex-wife had Ivan not gone missing nearly six years ago before the divorce could go through. Still just over a year away from finally having Ivan declared legally dead, she is the sole agent and executor of the vast DuPlessis fortune and matron of the family manse.

Hetty continues.

“Another unusual feature of the mansion is the sunken first floor. Built down into the land that raises the mansion, to enter one must first climb up an ornate staircase to the front door. Inside, one is greeted by an entry hall that opens out into an open, circular space in the center of the mansion with three staircases branching out into the rest of the house: on the left, the staircase going down to the first floor living rooms and kitchens; on the right, a staircase leading up to the third floor rooms, and before one, a third, shorter cantilevered suspended staircase leading to the semi-detached second floor study. The study was built by Jean Pierre for himself. Family tradition says the head of the household is given the only key.

All three staircases are made from gilded iron lace with mahogany wood treads and banisters. Around the doors to the study, two large, thick windows framed with cast iron flood the area with light. From those windows, you can see the glass roof of a solarium on the first floor, also built into the center of the mansion.

This was done according to Great Uncle Hiram DuPlessis’ original plans. Though I have never seen them, the entire first floor of the mansion is said to be supported on large iron beams; presumably because the pavers are so heavy. It is always feared in New Orleans that we shall all sink into the swamps one day.

“Down the stairs to the left you go, through a paneled passageway that leads into the large living room and dining area. The living room is paneled in an unusual wood called guyican. Imported, it is believed, from the Caribbean sometime in late 1872. Its burnt umber color compliments the mahogany bookcases that line the room, as well as the curiously sleek white marble mantlepiece framing the large fireplace. It is the only item in the house that can be considered spartan. Only the wall with the fireplace has been left open. It is bare, save for the  enticing antique lead crystal and elegant gilded iron lace sconces on either side of the mantle, and a large gilded antique mirror that nearly fills the space. Equally curious is the luxurious, unusually thick slate floor. In the streaming light from the solarium the dark slate becomes a deep purple. Unique in the entire state, slate is said to have been mined and cut in Colombia. Each tile is so heavy, it took over two years for all of them to arrive and be installed. On the left side of the fireplace wall there is a small staircase to a private office, purportedly created and hidden by Uncle Reynaud during construction. On the right, opposite the entryway is a large grand dining room that looks out onto the solarium, paneled again in guyican, and featuring a mural on the ceiling depicting the arrival of the first DuPlessis on Louisiana soil in 1713, painted by a young artist named Alferez.”

Atop the tiles in the center of the room is a gold and white braided rug bearing the family crest of the DuPlessis family. The legacy of Bitsie’s blessedly dead mother in law, the imperious Alice DuPlessis. Luxurious brown leather couches border the rug on either side, fitted with thick lead glass coffee tables that stretch the length of the sofas. On one side closest to the entryway, a single overstuffed leather chair that doesn’t match anything else in the house. It is Bitsie’s big chair; the last vestige of her life before she became a DuPlessis. The big chair sits up against one of the two columns that separate the living room from the breakfast area, which looks out onto the solarium. Beyond the breakfast area are the kitchens and service rooms, the exclusive purview of Schramm. This part of the house is the only part that has been renovated, albeit minorly, to accommodate modern appliances. The laundry room opens out into the three-car garage, also below ground and guarded by a large bespoke electric door made of thick planks of live oak and iron fittings. In Hetty’s time, the garage was the carriage house and her father’s workshop. His workbenches still line the walls of the garage, and an imposing wooden chest of his special tools sits in the corner: the lock that seals it shut possessing no keyhole, the wood too thick to be drilled or chipped away…This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part Five

 : The tarmac at Louis Armstrong International Airport is busy. Planes maneuver themselves around the new facilities with ease, bringing visitors from around the world to the Crescent City. The concourses are bustling with humanity, rushing to catch connecting flights or strolling aimlessly as vacations begin and cohesive thought ends.

At least, that’s what Bitsie assumes.

Currently, she is standing alone by the limo behind the old airport, deserted except for some assorted men in a service shed by the landing strip. Planes haven’t landed on this runway in years, so of course Philomena Phistemopheles would be arriving here. No inconvenience too great.

Bitsie crushes out another cigarette and rinses the taste of cloves from her mouth with a shot of Japanese bourbon from her purse flask.

Bitsie had given up cigarettes for nearly thirty years before her first meeting with Philomena. She was riddled with crippling migraines whenever the woman was near. Then one day, Rony Parmentiere gave her one of his clove cigarettes and the migraines stopped. As long as she was smoking the cloves. The moment Philomena left town, the migraines and Bitsie stopped cold turkey. That turkey has been back in the smoker again for 24 hours. And it’s gonna stay there until Phil gets the hell out of town or Bitsie wills herself to die.

It’s a gorgeous day though, she thinks. Chilly, the sky, so clear and blue. Even the weeds coming up unchecked along the old tarmac are in bloom. And surprisingly quiet considering all the planes taking off less than half a mile away. She takes a deep breath and agrees with herself that it is a beautiful New Orleans spring day.

A dull bang snaps her out of it. The shed has opened and three men in jumpsuits rush out to the landing strip. Bitsie looks up to see a small, gaudy gold dot in the sky growing larger. The Phistemopheles private jet.

“Beautiful day” she says, lighting up another cigarette. She takes a long drag and exhales,

“And here you are, just in time to fuck it up.”

Reaching into her purse, she pulls out her Maybach Diplomat sunglasses and makes herself comfortable.

“Welcome back, Phil. No one missed you.”

Philomena’s gold Airbus 380 alights onto the runway like a gilded pelican, and swings around towards Bitsie. Two of the workers rush out to the luggage area while a third drives a stair-set up to the plane. She watches as an oval hole opens up on the side of the plane, only to be instantly darkened by the precisely tailored visage of Philomena Phistemopheles.

The overkill forces Bitsie to watch over the rims of her shades, just to be sure she’s she doesn't miss a beat of this performance.

Philomena is encased in a black structured dress that looks to Bitsie like Maleficent arriving at a board meeting. Over one shoulder, a sleek black mink bag.

"Probably skinned 'em with her teeth," she mutters.

Beneath a sheer black picture hat, the Phistemopheles tradmark blue-black mane is now accented by a blue-white shock in the center of her forehead, tortured into a nautilean curl. Even the burnish of her olive complexion pales against the bright blood-red lipstick, which is visible from a distance.

The exact distance being Biloxi.

Philomena spies Bitsie and descends the stairs towards her like a panther at Fashion Week. Seeing Philomena approach gives Bitsie a feeling like food poisoning without the pleasure of eating first. She quickly lights another clove cigarette, just to be on the safe side. Philomena takes her own sweet time as the airport workers scramble after her with more luggage than Samsonite makes in a year. Finally, the women stand face to face.

“Bitchy.”

“Baphomet.”

Philomena smiles unnervingly and trills in her thick Peloponnese accent,

“My darling. No one’s called me that in centuries.”

A deadpan sneer embedded on her face, Bitsie replies,

“Oh. Which name are you using now? Not Lucifer again. That’s so overdone.”

Philomena’s eyes narrow. Bitsie recognizes the warning sign, and takes a long drag off her cigarette.

“Not this time, Beelzebub,” she spits, a thick cloud of sweetly spiced smoke filling the air between them.

“I figured out how to stop your migraine trick the last time, so back off. I’m cloved-up and ready for you.” She takes another drag, blowing it into Phil’s face. Philomena merely smiles, unblinkingly acknowledging the victory. “Speaking of which, those God-awful blunts you like are in the back seat.” She walks back to the limo, complaining, “I had to drive here with all the windows down. Still smells like a funeral in Hell.”

She opens the back door and a stench like rotting horsemeat and burning electrical wires rushes out. Bitsie and the workers, about 15 feet away, all recoil. One of the men forcefully vomits onto the steps of the plane. Philomena smiles and walks towards the box on the seat. She picks it up, takes a long ardent sniff, and stuffs the box into her mink bag. Instantly, the stench is gone.

“Thank you Bitsie. That was kind of you” Philomena says politely.

Bitsie blinks uncomfortably and glances away at the workers struggling to move a Monkey Hill-sized mound of baggage and… old trunks? What, she couldn’t bring the good luggage?

“So, Phil. How did you get them to open Moisant just for you?”

Philomena smiles gracefully and says,

“The ambassador owed me a favor. Alexandra is such a lovely girl. She knows I despise crowds.”

The workers arrive with the baggage, looking worse for wear. It is taller than the limo.

“I’m not sure all of this will fit in the trunk, Phil,” Bitsie says. “If I’d have known, I’d have brought a U-Haul.”

“It will all fit. Just go sit up front. I will be there with you momentarily. Go.”

Not needing any reason to walk away from Philomena Phistemopheles, Bitsie turns and goes around the front of the limo, and climbs into the driver’s seat as packing begins. She can barely hear Phil and the crew outside.

She checks her phone. Message from Amanda; Phil's rooms are ready.

The limo begins rocking, and there is muffled shouting from the trunk.

Message from Rony; plane delayed, will call when they land.

The back doors of the limo open, and baggage is crammed in tighter than it should go. The privacy window behind her rises, cutting her off again. She pays no attention

Message from Stav; liquor arrived. Garage is full, will have to park in the driveway.

More shaking, and something screamed in Greek. Silence. The trunk and the doors all close.

No messages from Schramm. That’s concerning.

Before she knows it, Philomena is in the passenger seat next to her, the workers are nowhere to be seen, and the jet is turning to taxi back down the runway..

“That was quick” she says, starting the car. “I hope you tipped them well.”

“They were properly compensated, darling.” says Phil, producing one of her new cigars.

The pair drive back to the mansion in silence, save for the sound of rushing air from the open windows as they both smoke their choice of poison to pass the time. The clouds in their wake are visible all along the I-10, leading drivers behind them to believe a major accident has happened, causing a traffic jam. Coming up on the Causeway exit, Philomena suddenly barks,

“Darling! Take this exit. I want to drive by the Hammar home first.”

Bitsie looks askance at Philomena, but does as she’s told. Coming around the curve, she asks pointely,

“What are you planning to do, just find him and strike him dead now? If it gets you out of town faster, I know pig farmers in Simmsport. They'll never find the body.”

Philomena snorts with amusement, but otherwise remains silent. They cross Causeway's rush-hour traffic effortlessly. Because, of course. They finally make their way onto Chester and into the neighborhood. They come to the turn when Philomena yells “STOP!”

Bitsie slams on the brakes with a small squeal, the limo bouncing to a halt. Philomena gets out of the front seat and walks over to the street sign. Chester and Ridgelake.

“This is wrong. The last time I was here, this street was called Ridgeway, not Ridgelake.”

Bitsie, having also gotten out of the limo leans out between the door and the windshield and says,

“We know. It’s the only thing we could find that didn’t change back after the first time. We don’t know why. Doesn’t seem to have bothered anything substantially, though.”

Philomena is disquieted by this seemingly insignificant change. She turns and heads back towards the limousine.

“Never mind driving by the house. I’ve seen what I needed to see. Home!”

Bitsie watches as she climbs back into the passenger seat, smacks her lips regretfully and mutters “Sure, why not? That’s where all the liquor in Orleans Parish is by now anyway.”

She crawls back in and puts the limo in gear to head back to Audubon Place…This Is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part Four

 :  Bitsie DuPlessis stands opposite Amanda Napolitano in her lavish Uptown mansion. Stavros Phistemopheles recovers on the couch after revealing that his aunt Philomena Phistemopheles is coming to New Orleans from Greece because Oskar Hammar is back. And, thanks to Schramm…there’s something else.

With eyes blazing and a rictus of a smile on her thinning lips, Bitsie approaches Amanda and with dripping sweetness asks,

“Is there something you’d like to…ask me, Amanda? Dearest?” Bitsie fairly growls the last word.

“Not anymore, no!” Amanda bleats, looking to Stavros for guidance.

Bitsie slowly begins to walk around the lead glass coffee table towards her.

“But, you did, didn’t you? You were going to ask me a question. Isn’t that right? A question?”

She is now face to face with Amanda, who has no idea what to do.

“What’s the question, Miss Napolitano?”

Amanda is afraid to breathe. Last names are never good. Bitsie looks genuinely deranged, like a cornered chihuahua. Stavros finally puts an arm between them, giving Amanda the chance to slink away for breath.

“It isn’t a question, as much as a requirement.”

His deep, lush voice and Greece-meets-Irish Channel accent has always gotten to Bitsie. It was working now, but she knew she couldn’t give in. Digging her nails into her palms, she puffs up and demands,

“What requirement?”

Stavros walks past Bitsie to the mantle and stares at his reflection in the antique mirror before facing her.

“Aunt Phil said we will all be staying here. With you.”

If you knew what to listen for, you could actually hear the blood vessel in Bitsie’s head pop.

“Like hell she is!” she bellows. Swiftly, Schramm collects everything from the coffee table, as well as a few loose pieces of bric-a-brac around the room as he goes. Bitsie stalks the living room, huffing like an enraged panther.

“I’ll be God-damned if that woman is setting one single hoof inside this house!” She looks around ferociously for something to throw. There is nothing. 

“DAMN IT SCHRAMM!” she shrieks. Seeing the opportunity, Amanda tries to make a break for the back stairwell, but Stavros stops her. Hyperventilation has finally kicked in, and Bitsie comes to a standstill for a moment, trying to focus on Stavros.

“Tell me,” she says malevolently. “When Philomena made this grand pronouncement, were there bouzoukis and castrati belting it out on Mount Olympus? Or, was it more of a foothills kind of demand--”

Stavros begins to call her out..

“--STOP! You have no lines in this scene! This is my monologue, you just turn the pages and look pretty.” She knows the right buttons to push, and Stavros stands, momentarily de-activated. She moves steadily towards him. 

“Now, let’s ask ourselves some questions. Why would a woman who once told me I was beneath contempt want to stay in my house? Sadism? Most definitely. Maybe not the main reason for coming, but a medieval way to pass the time.” She directs her ire towards Amanda, who stands stock still as Bitsie approaches. “Is it because I’m so wealthy? Given that she’s responsible for most of Greece’s debt, I highly doubt that.” She takes another drag from her cigarette, and glides past Amanda, tossing the butt into the fireplace. Her back to them, she continues.

“All I can afford to ruin is a small duchy, maybe an island nation--freeze Amanda!” Bitsie’s arm shoots out from her side, pointing at Amanda who has started retreating towards the solarium.

“Sonofabitch”, Amanda hisses under her breath as she returns and sits again on the sofa. Stavros remains stolid, his eyes boring uncomfortably into the crest on the rug. Her tongue clicking in her head, Bitsie turns her eyes on Stavros, mounting the coffee table like a runway, and walking up to him until they are eye to eye. The stench of cigarette fills his nostrils as she breathes into his face.

“So, the question remains. Why does Philomena Phist-Up-My-Ass demand to stay in my home?”

Stavros stares back at her, his face like burnished marble. Cold and unwavering. Bitsie waits for an answer when suddenly, the phone rings. Bitsie turns suddenly towards the sound, nearly falling off the table, were it not for Stavros’ arm bracing her gently. Amanda jumps, startled by the sound. Without thinking, both women look to Schramm.

He is visibly surprised by this. Usually, he picks it up before it has even rung. This call got past him. For the first time, Amanda sees a look of genuine concern in Schramm’s eternally serene countenance. Bitsie looks surprised too, and nods to Schramm to answer it. Only Stavros is unmoved.

“Put it on speaker” he says firmly.

Schramm’s gloved finger presses the speaker button and the ringing ceases.

“Bitsie, darling” says a rich female voice. “Haven’t you ever wondered why the DuPlessis mansion is such an oddity? Or, are you too drunk to care?”

Everyone recognizes the thick Peloponesian accent and wicked voice. Stavros glances to see the anger and color drain from Bitsie’s face. Schramm slowly backs away from the phone, retreating into the house like fog. Amanda drops the knotted tissue on the floor. No need for worrying now. Outside, under clear and sunny skies, what sounds like a lightning crack snaps them into clarity.

“I am coming to you tomorrow morning, my darlings. Bitsie, you will meet me at the airport. Alone! Leave your ‘servant’ at home.”

Bitsie looks for Schramm, who is nowhere to be found. A little chill goes down her back. For the first time in twenty five years, he’s not there.

“Stavros, you and Amanda will meet us at Bitsie’s lovely little cottage.”

Bitsie, in full Kaintock twang claps back,

“I think the phrase you’re looking for is 12 bedroom mansion, bitch!”

“Bitsie darling, well done. That was almost clever. Stavros, you will prepare my suites. I don’t want the butler in there. Amanda, you will prepare the adjoining suite for you and Stavros. And, Bitsie my darling?”

Grudgingly, Bitsie barks “Whaddya want now, Philomena?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of having some good liquor delivered to you. It will make a nice change from the swill you usually have. Stavros, you will sign for the delivery. And, pick up my cigars from my little Cuban men in the Quarter before you collect me. They are expecting you promptly at nine. Tomorrow!”

The phone clicks off. They stand in silence like unexpected mourners at a funeral. Stavros and Bitsie look at one another, both humbled. He extends his hand and helps her off the table. Whatever animosity between them all is now forgotten. Amanda goes to Stavros as Schramm appears behind them all. Bitsie looks at everyone and takes their hands. Meaningful looks pass between them. And, in unison they say,

“Shit”…This Is My New Orleans.