HOUSES

By Louis Martinie

HOUSES of OLD NEW ORLEANS


These are two written sketches of houses found in New Orleans. WALKING IN OLD HOUSES was written for a tour guides pamphlet.  It’s a fictionalized warning describing one form of a very real danger.  A LOVELY HOUSE GUEST describes a guest we had for Mardi Gras in 1991.

I and the city are still in a daily dance with Msl. Katrina but we are now beginning to take the lead.

Louis Martinie'






WALKING IN OLD HOUSES


I have had my dog for a long time. Ever since I was a young girl. I remember
a little bit…such a little bit.  It was so long ago that I sat with my
mother's dog in a room of our house on Dumaine and something happened. All that I
remember is the shadows; shadows that moved on the pink wall, deep black shadows
on the light pink paint.  I may have seen more but the shadows are all that I
remember. Perhaps it was nothing but shadows.

A man with black, coarse hair came to where we were sitting. He took my
mothers dog and stood behind it. He dropped his trousers. I was frightened. He had
two tails. One in back that that was long and had a curl to it. One in front
much shorter. I don't know. I was so young and all I saw was shadows. The
shadow that was him looked over at me and I was frightened. He said, "Now, Mon
Chere, there will be a baby."

I was so young.  The next thing I remember is a new dog in the house, an
awful looking new dog.  Its course black fur stood out in points. Such an odd dog,
but odder still only I could see him and I saw him more as shadow than form.
My parents were not concerned. Children see such things and they go away with
age. This they said and I was comforted by their words but the dog never did
go away. He became familiar to me and, in a manner, I grew to love him.

He stayed in the front of the house under a chair in the doorway. Such a long
time he was under that chair. He protected the house and he protected me.
People would enter. If he didn't like them he would follow them, a great shadow
behind them on the ceiling. A shadow that only I could see. I grew up and I
grew old in that house. I never married and the house, in time, became mine.
Still the dog lay under the chair protecting our house.

The rhythm of my life was gentle; I did not rise to great heights, I fell
into no chasms of despairb. Day followed day and night followed night in easy
procession. I grew old with that dog. My hair took on the gray color of summer
mornings cut through with storms but the dog did not age. His shadow remained
black and brisling on the light pink walls. The pink is from a paint that takes
its color from pig's blood and I know that he draws strength from that pink
though I do not know how.

I remember getting very sick. My old body grew so heavy. Darkness covered me
and then light blinded me. I was confused and when I woke up I was sitting in
the chair in the hallway with the dog beneath me.

Things are different now. People can not see me or the dog. Still, I sit and
offer my unreturned greetings. What else is one to do? The dog is the same as
ever. He follows those who enter the house with ill will in their hearts.; a
shadow ever behind them. But now I see what he does. At times it looks to me
like he bites their shadow.  Ah! they feel nothing. They leave unconcerned, as
if all were well. Then the terrible bite shows itself to them, perhaps as an
accident, perhaps as an illness.

I still sit in my beautiful old lace with the dog beneath me and greet those
who come to my house. Though now, after seeing the aftermath of the dogs bite,
often times I add, "Be careful waking in old houses."






A Lovely House Guest


I imagine her in our courtyard bathed in the cool moonlight. She stoops and with alabaster arms gently lifts each of her tiny bedmates from the ancient red bricks. The cool horsemen of the night glide easily upon her soft, white flesh as the moons light drifts through the fragrant air. She awakes adorned with the iridescent tracks of little stars.

We had about 6 people staying with us during the Mardi Gras of 1991. One was a guest from up North. She had lost her mortician license for becoming a bit too affectionate with her uncomplaining though not overly pliant clients. She has a rare condition that makes her intolerant to heat. The touch of a living hand can be uncomfortable and a normally heated room hellish.

She slept in a temple room of the unheated carriage house requiring only a thin blanket. The room looked out onto the courtyard which was peopled by large and elegant slugs of the family Lamacidae. The Master of my Head is a New Orleans loa known as Blanc Dan-i and these slugs are sacred to this spirit so I feel protective toward them.

Our guest enjoyed her own company during the celebrations and left shortly after the beginning of Lent. I went to the carriage house to retrieve the blanket and to tidy the area. A perfect guest, she had left all as she found it, the blanket neatly folded in a corner. I bid hello to the deities of the temple room, retrieved the blanket, and departed. In the courtyard I could see that the blanket was covered with slime.

As both a Voodooist and a Buddhist, I hope that none of her tiny lovers were injured in providing her night time pleasures.