(no subject)
“Do you wish to see her picture?” the old man queries.
“Yes, I would like that very much.”
“One moment.” The old man shuffles from behind the desk and walks to a door close by. He knocks once and opens it, sticking his head into the room. He hears him tell someone named Pierre that he will be back momentarily and to please watch the desk. Someone mutters their assent and the old man closes the door.
“It’s not far. Follow me please, sir.” The old man gestures towards him and then makes his way towards a dimly lighted hallway.
“Here we are. Excuse the low lighting, sir. Our guests are not usually up so late.”
He reassures the old man he sees fine and begins to look over the photographs hanging on the wall.
“A long time ago the Bonaventure Hotel hosted all of the famous musicians of the golden age. Jazz, swing groups, big band orchestras. I remember seeing Artie Shaw several times in the ballroom. I was just a bellhop in those days. How I loved watching the women in their gowns dancing with their gentlemen in their tuxedos…”
He hears the old man sigh.
“We’ll never have days like that again, will we, sir?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
The old man looks over the pictures and points to one hanging high on the wall.
“Ah, they’ve moved it. Here she is. She was known as Marisol Corazon. Maria of the Sun and Heart. A nod to Spanish ancestors, perhaps. Who knows her family’s exact heritage? Many are like that in New Oleans. A little French, a little Spanish...” The old man shrugs.
“In any case, she was very striking and so mysterious. Her brown eyes like the sweetest chocolate and the waves of her red hair like flames dancing, framing her face. Ah, such a beauty she was. No one knew anything about her past. Except for me. I knew. Maybe I’ll tell you more when you have the time, sir. Poor Marisol. Of course, that was not her given name. She did not use her true name on stage in order to protect what was left of her family. Catholic, you see? But her upbringing could not win against her desire to sing. What a lovely voice she had. To some, not the best but to us that loved her, the angels themselves could not have sounded better. It is a blessing to me that I sometimes still get to hear her voice…”
“Do you mind if I stick my head in the bar for just a minute? I only want to look around.” He realizes his voice sounds like he is pleading but he cannot help himself.
The old man smiles, perceptively. “Of course, of course. Perhaps you are the lucky one who will see her more than once.”
He follows the old man back to the front desk and then crosses to the entryway of the bar. He leans against the wall and glances around. Not a magic trick but a ghost. A ghost that wishes to be found.
“Yes, I would like that very much.”
“One moment.” The old man shuffles from behind the desk and walks to a door close by. He knocks once and opens it, sticking his head into the room. He hears him tell someone named Pierre that he will be back momentarily and to please watch the desk. Someone mutters their assent and the old man closes the door.
“It’s not far. Follow me please, sir.” The old man gestures towards him and then makes his way towards a dimly lighted hallway.
“Here we are. Excuse the low lighting, sir. Our guests are not usually up so late.”
He reassures the old man he sees fine and begins to look over the photographs hanging on the wall.
“A long time ago the Bonaventure Hotel hosted all of the famous musicians of the golden age. Jazz, swing groups, big band orchestras. I remember seeing Artie Shaw several times in the ballroom. I was just a bellhop in those days. How I loved watching the women in their gowns dancing with their gentlemen in their tuxedos…”
He hears the old man sigh.
“We’ll never have days like that again, will we, sir?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
The old man looks over the pictures and points to one hanging high on the wall.
“Ah, they’ve moved it. Here she is. She was known as Marisol Corazon. Maria of the Sun and Heart. A nod to Spanish ancestors, perhaps. Who knows her family’s exact heritage? Many are like that in New Oleans. A little French, a little Spanish...” The old man shrugs.
“In any case, she was very striking and so mysterious. Her brown eyes like the sweetest chocolate and the waves of her red hair like flames dancing, framing her face. Ah, such a beauty she was. No one knew anything about her past. Except for me. I knew. Maybe I’ll tell you more when you have the time, sir. Poor Marisol. Of course, that was not her given name. She did not use her true name on stage in order to protect what was left of her family. Catholic, you see? But her upbringing could not win against her desire to sing. What a lovely voice she had. To some, not the best but to us that loved her, the angels themselves could not have sounded better. It is a blessing to me that I sometimes still get to hear her voice…”
“Do you mind if I stick my head in the bar for just a minute? I only want to look around.” He realizes his voice sounds like he is pleading but he cannot help himself.
The old man smiles, perceptively. “Of course, of course. Perhaps you are the lucky one who will see her more than once.”
He follows the old man back to the front desk and then crosses to the entryway of the bar. He leans against the wall and glances around. Not a magic trick but a ghost. A ghost that wishes to be found.