THE MAGICIAN’S ENTRANCE
(Chapter II of an unpublished novel, the first chapter of which, titled “From Arnaudville to New Orleans,” was published in volume 2 of this journal)
“Mm. Dana wants us to swing by her place.” Walter said, a little distracted, still checking his phone. “She’s fixing dinner.”
Ian raised his slice of Hawaiian pizza, showing Walter that he was already enjoying what they had just purchased. “We’re already eating,” he said, impatient.
“Come on, there’s always space for more in that belly of yours.” Walter replied. “She won’t care even if we show up with pizza.”
After ordering, they had changed their minds and sat down to eat at the pizza place instead of driving back to Walter’s place close by in Mid-City.
They had run into each other when Ian had come out of class at the University of New Orleans earlier that night. Walter had suggested they grab a bite to eat and catch up a little. Ian had homework to do, but that could wait. It had been a while since he had hung out with Walter, and the guy was the type of friend who could funnel you into a wormhole of benders. Ian had needed a break from that lifestyle after things had ended with his girlfriend Amy several months earlier.
He hadn’t seen the tall, curly-haired Dana for some time, too, but there was a reason the two of them weren’t on speaking terms. He had slept with her crazy co-worker, even after the Cajun girl had advised him against it. When they had met at one of Dana’s work functions, he had felt like giving the poor girl a chance. It had lasted two weeks until he had realized his mistake. That co-worker had become, over a short amount of time, a vicious viper. She had charmed him—came on to him hard. It had been difficult to deny her what she had been asking for. Dana had been mad at him. She had told him plenty about her workplace gossip, and she did not trust him anymore with that information once he started sleeping with her co-worker. It had been nothing but petty female rivalry, in Ian’s opinion.
But it had been over a month. Surely Dana must had forgiven him.
It was true that Ian tended to overshare and couldn’t keep secrets. But who cared? He was turning thirty-one in a few months and he was done changing for anyone at this point. He had tried before and it proved useless. For his ex-girlfriend of six years, Amy, he had gone out of his way to please her. It had never been enough. The last three years of that relationship had just been a series of lies. She had pretended she wanted a family, and yet had pushed back when he had brought up getting engaged on several occasions. The last year of the relationship, he kept thinking he was the problem. Time spent with Amy had felt like drowning, yet he had fought to keep that relationship afloat.
A little earlier this year, Amy had admitted to cheating on him, saying it had meant nothing, asking him to give her a break about it, invoking the so-called ‘Mardi Gras fuck’ exemption. But after a few weeks of tiptoeing around the subject, it had turned out it hadn’t been just once. It had been going on for over six months. After admitting her affair, Amy had ended it with Ian.
To be fair, Ian had also been pulling away by that time, suspecting something was going on with Amy. He had felt relieved with the break-up, yet betrayed. Amy had been cruel in the end, accusing him of every wrong. He hadn’t tried to argue, wanting that conversation and relationship to be over. He was done putting up a fight. The less he resisted, the quicker it would end, he had thought at that moment. He had packed up his things and moved out a couple of days later into an apartment in Uptown by Tchoupitoulas Street.
Ian was enjoying his newfound freedom, embracing his single status by fooling around as much as possible. What he needed was a good palate cleanser. No strings attached.
He was also on the fast track at work and those two summer classes he was taking were a piece of cake, even for a Master’s degree in engineering. He still had another year to go, and that was if he was doubling his efforts, but he could do it—his studies had taken a backseat when things had gotten rough at home, and he wasn’t about to repeat that mistake. When he had left class earlier that night, he’d overheard other students’ outcries over the amount of class work. But he hadn’t wanted to brag about this being his second course for the summer. Besides, they only had a small assignment to do—oh, and one for his other class, he mustn’t forget—but it would take him forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. He already understood the material and working at an engineering firm did tend to put things into perspective when you could apply what you were learning.
Ian had known Walter for years; the guy was a party animal who’d also been smooth-sailing it for so long. He was almost done with his own Master’s—in mathematics—about to start his PhD in the fall. Walter made anything sound easy, even balancing grad school and the rest of his responsibilities. There was no way Ian couldn’t too. Well, there was a difference though. Walter didn’t work full-time like Ian did. Ian’s friend had a full scholarship and was always actively looking for others as to not have to work at all. But that didn’t matter, Ian was smart enough, he could do it too if he just put his will into it.
“We could still go over. Dana says she’s got this French-Canadian girl staying at her place for a couple of nights.” Walter said.
“Oh yeah? What does she look like?” Ian asked, his interest piqued.
“She didn’t say.” Walter carried on, checking his phone while finishing his slice of Hawaiian pizza blindly, missing his mouth and having to realign it.
“She knows you’re hanging out with me...?” Ian said, a bit uneasy.
“Yeah, yeah. But apparently, the girl’s annoying. Can’t get her to shut up. Dana’s dying over there. She’s even willing to have you over,” Walter added, chuckling. “She needs help entertaining that girl.”
Ian gave Walter one of his bearish grins, “I’ll entertain her.”
***
Dana had left her apartment’s front door unlocked for them. She had been texting Walter frantically, insisting they swing by as soon as possible. Ian and Walter had been there several times before, Dana’s apartment being always open—not literally like that night—to everyone. It wasn’t unusual for the Cajun girl to host couch surfers, as she had herself traveled to Europe and liked to return the favour.
Dana chose her visitors from their low maintenance quality, never bothering to show them around the city. If she found them annoying, she would make up excuses and leave them to their own devices in the Quarter, without much more than an outdated paper map. It sounded like this French-Canadian girl was about to get that treatment soon enough, Ian thought, amused by the idea.
Dana had been living on the second floor of a raised-basement, Arts-and-Crafts style, shotgun double for a few years now and had never bothered repainting the walls even if some of the paint had been flaking off since her first day there. The hardwood floor had started to adopt a wavelike appearance due in large part to New Orleans’ sinking soil.
The apartment also possessed an unusual layout. Upon entering the apartment, the first room was her bedroom. Her bed was three feet away from the front door. Then came a second, smaller room that had been converted into a makeshift walk-in closet. However, her clothes were everywhere, as if one of her dressers had exploded. She was quite a messy girl, Ian thought.
They passed the bathroom on their right as they followed a corridor, emerging in a small, improvised living room where the futon had been pulled open. Someone’s luggage was set up neatly next to it. The futon was made but in the simplest way. Bed sheets had been thrown on it. Dana wasn’t much for presentation; she saw everything as it was.
Walter was leading the way, letting Ian carry the pizza box with a few slices left. Ian could smell Dana’s cooking—good, spicy Cajun food. His eyes were getting a bit watery from the onion, his stomach growling even if he had already eaten. Walter had been right, Ian could still eat some more, especially if it was jambalaya.
They walked in the kitchen, the last room of the apartment. Dana was cooking at the stove, facing the entrance when they came in. Her face, covered in light freckles, lit up when she recognized Walter. She struck a frank smile and let out an enthusiastic ‘Hey!’ Her short curly brown hair was bouncing off her forehead when she caught sight of Ian. Her eyes, soft brown and usually humorous, glistened. She gave him a static smile before returning to her cooking. She was still mad, Ian thought, but must have not wanted to show it in front of her visitor.
The guest had been in the middle of a sentence when they had barged in. Dana had not told her they had been coming, Ian guessed. The French-Canadian put down her glass of white wine, standing up from her stool by the high kitchen table. Dana, being tall—taller than Ian—you wouldn’t expect any other type of furniture.
The girl moved forward, trying to compose herself after their unexpected arrival. She shook Walter’s hand first, introducing herself. Isabelle. She had an open face—you know, the type who gets asked for directions in the street, even if they’re not from there—and inspired immediate trust. He noticed she had crooked dimples, one a little lower than the other, accentuating her smirk. Sexy.
Ian had taken a longer look than intended when he realized she’d been waiting for his name, her intent gaze making him uncomfortable.
The girl was shorter than all three of them, but then again, they were all above six feet, Dana being the tallest. Ian thought that even someone 5’9” like this girl would be considered a dwarf compared to them. However, he could feel right away that she wasn’t the type who could be stared down, no matter the other person’s height. The way she held herself, Ian could tell the girl couldn’t be easily intimidated, or even impressed.
That Isabelle girl sat back and started complimenting Walter on his long, trimmed, though still a bit bushy, beard. Walter had had his hair cut lately, having it shaved on both sides with a longer, dirty blonde, thick, back slick on top. The girl made remarks about Walter’s nerdy Star Wars punned t-shirt and washed-out jeans, praising his attire. According to her, his friend’s look was trendy back home in Montreal. It was true that Walter resembled a hipster, even for New Orleans.
“You might’ve been skinny enough to pass as one when we first met, Walter, but not anymore,” Ian said, teasing his friend who was reddening as the girl kept flattering him. She was flirting with him.
Ian, on the other hand, looked nothing like that. His brightly coloured polo shirt and khaki shorts made it clear he was just another typical American frat boy to this Canadian. He had decided to shave his head due to his thinning dark brown hair.
It seemed the top of his head was the sole place where his hair decided to fall out, whereas the rest of his body had always been, since puberty, somewhat hairy. Since his early twenties, he had been able to grow a thick coarse beard. But unlike Walter, Ian had always kept it short, not wanting to add to his bear image, a descriptor he had started getting back in college. He had been unable to shake off the nickname, deciding to embrace being called ‘big bear Ian’ by his friends. His large stature had been sufficient to remind anyone of the animal; Ian didn’t need to accentuate it with long facial hair.
Naturally, that Isabelle girl wasn’t complimenting his looks; in fact, she wasn’t paying much attention to him.
The girl barely had a French accent, or at least not like the one you heard in the media. It almost sounded like she was Cajun, but not quite, or even a little Texan—but that couldn’t be, right?—her accent kept fading in and out, as if she couldn’t hold it for long. She was fixing on Walter, as his friend spoke about his upcoming trip to the Middle East.
Dana had said that French was Isabelle’s mother tongue, but it sounded as if the girl had grown up in the States from the way she talked about American politics. The Montrealer was testing the waters to see if they had been bat-shit crazy enough to vote for Trump.
Walter was charming her with his witty humour. The girl laughed without restraint at his jokes as she sipped her wine. Ian leaned in between them, offering her the last piece of pizza. Dana yelled from the stove, protesting that snacks before dinner would ruin their appetite.
Isabelle gave him a wink, her blue-green eyes twinkling, “That’s alright, I’ve got a good appetite.”
She had a semi-permanent smile on her face, as if waiting to be convinced about something. Ian was charmed by her right away.
Dana brought plates and hot pans to the table. She signaled Ian to pick up the pizza box, with a silent tilt of the head. He abided, uncomfortable. He caught a glimpse of Isabelle’s confused expression sitting across from him. Huh, she had also noticed the cold shoulder, Ian realized, amused. Well, well, well, not only did this Isabelle girl have an open face, she had a readable one too.
Nonetheless, Ian needed to get back on Dana’s good side. She had been quite mad at him even after he had offered a level-headed explanation regarding his actions with her co-worker. Dana had refused to talk to him for weeks. This was the first time. She was still angry at him, but she needed him to distract this snooty Montrealer who was already getting into philosophical debates with Walter, making Dana roll her eyes.
That was the only reason Dana was tolerating Ian’s presence in her apartment. He was usually a good distraction for her female guests. However, this time around, Walter was taking the front stage. Ian wasn’t much good for anything at the moment. The girl was directing all her attention towards his friend. As they were done eating, Ian suggested they go out for drinks, hoping to get a second chance at chatting up the out-of-towner.
***
They were waiting outside Dana’s apartment in Uptown. Ian checked the time on his phone; it was already getting late. It was still hot for this last night of May, and thankfully no rain was in the forecast. They were waiting for the girls who were getting ready. No wardrobe changes, they had said, just a quick bathroom fix, whatever that meant.
“You wanna take them, or shall I?” Walter asked him.
“I’ll drive them.”
“Alright, then. I’ll take my truck.”
“Shouldn’t we just all ride together?” Ian said.
“Not sitting inside that tin box of yours with you and Dana.” Walter declared, shaking his head. “How’d you manage to piss off even Dana of all people?”
Ian had also noticed how distant the girl had acted during dinner, avoiding addressing him. He had apologized, though, and soon she would forgive him. It wasn’t the first time he had acted stupidly with her; she always came around.
Walter was smiling. “I know you want that French-Canadian girl for yourself.”
He was amazed by how Walter had read the situation without effort.
“Not sure she wants you, though.” Walter added.
Ian didn’t need him to say it. He already knew. The girl had glimpsed at him, at best. She had eyed his friend, but how could she not. Walter had traveled around the world and was a captivating storyteller. He was also better looking, smarter and more confident. Ian couldn’t compete with that if he was being honest with himself.
***
“Sit up front,” Dana urged Isabelle. “I’ll catch a ride with Walter,” the girl added for the frat boy, before turning around, hurrying to signal Walter in his pickup truck, parked a bit further down the street.
“What’s that about?” Isabelle asked, as she turned away from Dana.
“Oh. Nothing. I’m an asshole.”
“Ha!” Isabelle laughed shortly before noticing this tall what's-his-name's stern facial expression. Lips tightly clipped. His thick brow furrowed. Broody. He wasn’t kidding.
Isabelle leaned over to open the car door. Well, that was awkward, she thought, uncomfortable at the idea of sharing a ride alone with him now. This New Orleanian had said little since he and his friend had showed up at Dana’s place, but there seemed to be something bigger going on between her hostess and this one. Maybe Isabelle would get to know what had happened between them later on at the bar.
Isabelle slid into the front seat after the American moved his crap, shoving it to the backseat already cluttered with a gym bag and food wrappers. Still, his car wasn’t as messy as her internship supervisor’s, she thought.
As her mind drifted back to the Louisiana visual artist, she remembered the conversation they had earlier that day when James had dropped her off at the jazz museum.
“You should let go a little, Isabelle.”
“What d’you mean?”
“You know,” James paused, “just enjoy your time in New Orleans. Trust the process, it might lead you somewhere new.”
She had arrived in Arnaudville disillusioned as to what it might bring her professionally. Doing an event-planning internship in rural Louisiana after working for years for a large festival in Montreal was somewhat of a step back. She had left Canada, a bit disappointed at how her career had come adrift, unable to find something better than an unpaid internship after her contract had not been renewed.
But now six weeks on, she needed to let go of unmet professional expectations. Yes, she was overqualified to be doing this at thirty-one, but fuck whatever people might think of her. She had agreed to it and she would now commit to enjoying herself, like James had suggested.
After all, it was a Wednesday night, and she was going out for drinks with strangers she had just met. She hadn’t been much for partying, back in Montreal. But this was New Orleans, and if there was a place where you could pick who you wanted to be, this was it.
Sitting on the front seat of this frat boy’s car, Isabelle shivered. This guy’s AC was blasting, like everywhere else in Louisiana. To warm up, she crossed her arms.
“Is it too cold for you? I can lower it, if you want,” he said.
“Oh yes, thank you.”
She was surprised by his immediate kindness. She had found him intimidating when he had first walked into Dana’s kitchen. Isabelle couldn’t put her finger on it, but something to do about his striking build had been nerve-wracking at first. The feeling had come and gone when he had introduced himself, flashing perfectly straight teeth through his short dark coarse beard.
“How far is it?” she asked after he had fiddled with the AC.
“It’s just around the corner.”
He plugged his phone into the car radio, choosing a song almost fifteen years old. Isabelle recognized it right away; it was “Are You Gonna Be My Girl?” by Jet. She liked that indie-pop song and started singing along. The frat boy tapped the rhythm on his steering wheel as she carried on with the lyrics; she smiled his way, getting a shy grin in return.
Isabelle was just out of her teens when this song came out. It had coincided with her time in Texas. Prior to being bilingual, she had always learned songs phonetically, often unable to fully understand what English lyrics meant—Well, no one could understand the Smashing Pumpkins’ lead singer anyway back in the ‘90s, even if English was your native tongue. This Jet song though, she remembered hearing it for the first time back in Fort Worth.
She had told most people she had met in Louisiana about her time in Texas, to explain her accent. No one could place it unless she mentioned the Lone Star State. Then they would follow with a “Ooh, I’m so sorry, honey.” She had been expecting it; rivalry between neighbours is a universal cultural phenomenon after all.
They arrived at the bar quickly, as the local boy had said. It was in the middle of a residential area. There was no other activity nearby, except for a large streetcar barn, where all the lights were still on, even if there was no visible activity inside.
Intrigued, Isabelle took a longer look as she walked by it, joining Dana and the wannabe hipster—Walter—in front of the bar. The other local boy was following her.
Standing by the door, Walter informed them it was stand-up night, explaining the commotion inside the bar, busy for a Wednesday night.
“Oh yeah, one of my friends is performing tonight.” Dana replied before entering, followed by Walter who was putting his phone away in his jeans back pocket.
After they both went inside, Isabelle took a harder look at the corner entrance of this bar. It had two narrow wooden French doors. She had seen similar doors in the Quarter, by the jazz museum, earlier that day when she had gone out to get a cup of coffee. Both of them needed to be open if you wanted to enter full frontal, otherwise you had to move in sideways. It was a narrow set of doors for the U.S., she had thought. It seemed to be an architectural trait of the city. She stood motionless longer than needed, studying the doors closely as she came to that conclusion. For an instant, she thought she was alone, just to notice the frat boy standing still next to her.
“What?” he asked.
“They’re quite narrow.”
“They’re not that unusual for New Orleans. But what of it?”
“I mean. This is the U.S. You guys are number one for obesity per capita. This,” she said, wagging her finger at the doors, “is probably discriminatory, and only moments away from getting sued.”
He stared at her, saying nothing. Alright, she was no skinny girl herself, but that had been a little funny. Though the longer she waited for his reaction, the less she thought he’d been insulted by her joke. It was as if he was trying to refrain from bursting out laughing. The shadow of a smile appeared by the corner of his mouth.
That’s when Isabelle saw it, standing outside this bar on this hot and humid night. The large, imposing and tall build, the hairy forearms and calves: this guy was shaped like a bear. His shaved hair was thinning on top, but he still had dark, thick eyebrows. If he frowned, as he did earlier, he appeared menacing, with a crease forming above his long snub nose. It was only when his candid smile framed by his coarse beard appeared that he seemed kind. What was his name again? Ian? Yeah, he was handsome.
He pushed one of the doors aside, moving sideways for her to get in first, shaking his head while saying under his breath:
“Savage.”