Congo Square

Marie exhales smoke into the humid night and tosses her cigarette to the street below. Sparks dash in the slight breeze. Her nude body is covered in goose pimples. She is frustrated and walks inside. Jake follows, but not before cursing under his breath. Marie notices but says nothing as he pours himself another drink and downs it in one swallow. He refills the glass and offers it.

No, she says, lifting the sheet from the floor to wrap it around herself. Settling on the edge of the bed, Jake sits beside her.

What do you think? He asks.

Well, I wonder where in the world you are, she says.

Well, you found me, he says.

I did? She isn’t sure.

You, know, I think of you too, he says. I worry too.

And what do you think of me? She wants to know.

I remember that time the Smith’s dog bit you on the ass, says Jake.

Marie slaps him on the arm, saying, that ain’t funny—he ripped my dress and left a bruise!

I remember you couldn’t sit on but one cheek for a week, he laughs. And it was the first time I got a good look at your ass too!

She slaps him again. But ya’ know, it really ain’t funny, she says. Every yard I’d walk past, dogs tryin’ to get off they chains to get at me—the nigga girl.

Come on, don’t say that, he says.

Why it’s true, she says. It’s true, and you know it!

A ghostly sound of drumming catches the wind and echoes through the abandoned borough, luring Marie back out onto the balcony. You know the history of Congo Square? she asks as Jake stands and leans against the doorway, halfway in, halfway out.

A bit, he says.

But I’d like you to tell me a story, he says.

A story? I ain’t in the mood for no story, she says.

As three scantily clad, wide-hipped women make their way down the street below, Jake walks up behind Marie and grasps the railing on each side of her. A large diamond ring shimmers on her hand as she inhales, and Jake can’t help but notice its size. Looking out over Storyville, Marie asks, why are you livin’ in Back-a-town anyhow?

Marie, tell me about Congo Square? he asks again.

Marie sighs and says in one breath, Congo Square was the only place slaves was allowed to dance without gettin’ a good whooped—Palace of the Niggas’ they called it.

Yes, but really, tell me about it, he says, and after a deep drag, with an audible exhale, she says as follows.

Two nigga maids swattin’ flies have already spread a quilt out upon the lawn: a platter of sliced peaches sprinkled with sugar, wedges of pimento cheese, a pan of cornbread, and a jar of fresh-squeezed lemonade. A lady carries a crocheted umbrella to shade the high-noon sun. Her children, dressed in white, two boys and a girl, on their best behavior in the presence of their daddy, a southern gentleman—strollin' just behind with a bamboo cane. The lady is helped to the ground by the hand of one of the nigga maids, but the gentleman plops down on his rear end with a stiff knee preferring not to be touched. He’s got a rather severe look but allows his children to run about free, believin’ in his heart that they is safe. Stay in earshot, one nigga maid hollers, knowin’ better, as the children sprint off in laughter.

The man lights his cigar.

On this fine afternoon, the family has come to see the darker race play their goat-skinned drums. The cadence of the exotic beat is excitin’ and brings a pleasure smile to the lady’s face. While the gentleman prefers his earnest gaze, seeing, he has a reputation to maintain. His mustache is finely oiled, his eyes squintin’—it is a sunny day after all. And the square is filled with old money, lavishly adorned ladies of status, and gentlemen with their own severe glares and stiff mannerisms: simple gestures of gratitude for female counterparts, picnickin’, conversin’, socializin’, entertained by the darker race.

Old African music—a rhythm, a dark heart echoin’ from a past well beyond Congo Square and the old plantations to a far-off land—the dark sound intoxicating.

The gentleman puffs on his cigar.

The gentlewoman looks on in amazement as she has narrowed in on a young nigga playin’ his drum. His arms are muscular, his chest unruly, flesh, dark, sweaty, glistening—jaw, chiseled—checkbones, high—eyes, wild yet focused on fury—and his soul, his soul is alive and free and rubs the nerves of the gentlemen so much, so he turns away. He keeps his eye on the children, still believin’ they is safe. That nigga beats his goatskin in perfect rhythm. A fine specimen of humanity, she thinks. The corners of her lips turned upward, the vein in her thin, slender neck thumpin’ faster—the veil before her passion growin’ more delicate, more transparent, as the soul creeps into her hand, as she grasps onto the earth, pulling at the grass so desperate, so hungry. Her eyes widen with wonderment, pupils shrink and grow, and pulsate again, her chest pantin’ so. And within her breath, one can almost hear her thoughts, how nice it would be to own one of my own.

Leavin’ Congo Square, the nigga maids wrangle the children and carry the picnic bundle. The crotched umbrella protects the lady's pale skin from the afternoon sun. The gentleman grabs a paper from a newsboy. He hands him a nickel and reads the headline aloud to the lady, ‘Notha’ Child Kilt in Back-a-Town. How terrible, she says, this world is goin’ to hell in a handbasket, she says. The gentleman glares ahead as his own kin skip about with glee. The lady, she gives one glance back at his flesh—so dark. So, goddamn’d dark, says Marie.

You sounded great tonight, says Jake. Marie changes direction, but Jake circles around to kiss her on the forehead and runs his hands down the curves of her hips. He pulls her by the wrist inside. She drops the sheet to the floor, and they fall to a pitiful raw mattress. Jake rolls on top of her, and they kiss passionately for a song. Marie then rolls out from under him and says, Baby, it’s hot. Can we just lay here a beat?

Sure, says Jake, and she falls to his side, and they stare up at the ceiling, warped with waves of humidity. So, tell me, Jake begins to ask.

Baby, my throat is tired, she says, mind if we just lay here in silence?

Jake takes a breath. Marie looks tired. But they’re both fully aware of the awkward, downward spiral, and Jake sits up, takes the bottle, and raises it, saying, here’s to prohibition. He stands from the bed and leans once more in the doorway to the balcony. A carriage passes by somewhere beyond. Trotting hoofs break the sudden, brutal silence. Jake throws back his head and attempts to swill it all away.

So, how you like New Orleans? Asks Marie.

Love it, he says.