"Yes, thank you."
"I'd like to know more about you. . . especially how you came to be brought up in the Cajun world but ended up living with a well-to-do Creole family in the Garden District."
"It is a long story."
"Good," he said. "I'd like it to be like Scheherazade and the Arabian Nights. . . A story that goes on and on, just so you would be here on and on."
I laughed, and he brought his fingers to my face again and again he traced the lines down to my lips, only this time he held his fingers there longer.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked. "I've never kissed a girl before."
"Yes," I said, not quite sure why I was allowing him such intimacies. He leaned toward me and I guided him with my hands to my lips. It was a short kiss, but it quickened his breath. He dropped his hands to my breasts and leaned in to kiss me again, holding his lips to mine longer as his fingers brushed my breasts as lightly as feathers. He tried to push the material away from more of my breasts and was frustrated.
"Louis, we shouldn't . ."
It was as if I had slapped him. He not only pulled back but this time rose from the stool.
"No, we shouldn't. You should go now," he said angrily.
"I didn't mean to . ."
"To what?" he cried. "Make me feel like a fool? Well do. I'm standing here aroused, aren't I?" he asked.
One glance told me it was so.
"Louis."
"Just tell my grandmother I got tired," he said. His arms dropped stiffly to his sides and he started away, moving toward the door.
"Louis, wait," I cried, but he didn't stop. He hurried off. Pity for him flooded through me. I followed to the doorway and gazed down the corridor after him. He seemed to be absorbed by the very darkness in which he dwelt and in moments was gone. I listened for his footsteps, but there was only silence. Curious, I walked farther into the west wing of the house, passing another, smaller sitting room and then going around the corner to stop at the first door. I knocked gently.
"Louis?"
I heard no response but tried the handle anyway. The door opened, and I looked in on a beautiful, spacious bedroom with a grand canopy bed, the mosquito netting draped around it. The room had a damp, fecund odor, and I saw that the flowers in the vases were all dead. Two small lamps that looked like antique oil lamps were lit. They were on the night stands and threw just enough illumination to outline what looked like someone lying in the bed, but on closer inspection, I saw it was just a woman's nightgown laid out for someone's use.
I was about to close the door when suddenly, an adjoining door on the right was thrust open and Louis appeared. I wanted to call to him but he groaned deeply and slammed his fists into his eyes, falling to his knees at the same time. The act took away my breath. I stood trembling in the doorway. He wrapped his arms around himself and swayed for a moment, then he clawed at the door jamb and pulled himself into a standing position. Head down, he turned and closed the door. I waited a moment, looked over the bedroom once again, and then stepped back and closed the door softly.
Practically tiptoeing, I made my way back to the center of the house and finally to the sitting room in which we had had our tea. Mrs. Clairborne was in her chair, staring up at the portrait of her husband.
"Excuse me," I said. She turned slowly. I thought I saw tears winding down her pale cheeks. "Louis said he was tired and went to his room."
"Oh. Fine," she said, rising. "Your driver is waiting outside to take you back to your dorm."
"Thank you again for dinner," I said.
Otis appeared at the door as if he'd popped out of thin air and opened it for me.
"Good night, mademoiselle," he said, bowing.
"Good night."
I hurried out and down the steps to the car. Buck hopped out quickly and opened the door.
"Have a good time?" he asked.
I didn't respond. I got in and he closed the door. As we drove off, I looked back at the mansion. Louis and his grandmother were about as rich and as powerful as any family I had known or would know, I thought, but that didn't mean that unhappiness stopped outside their door.
How I wished Grandmere Catherine were still alive. I would bring her up here secretly one night, and she would touch Louis and he would see again and put aside all his sadness. Years later, I would attend a concert in some magnificent hall to listen to him play. Before it was over, he would stand up and announce that the next piece was something he had written for someone special.