Won't do me no good washing in the river (2/4)
Title Won't do me no good washing in the river- Part two New Orleans
Pairing Eventual David Silva/David Villa, Samir Nasri/Gael Clichy, Past David Silva/Adam Johnson, Alluded Karim Benzema/Yoann Gourcuff
Rating This part pg13
Word Count 5693
Disclaimer Not true
AN: Thank you to albion_lass for being amazing.
New Orleans is nothing more than a shroud of fog. The glow of lanterns and street lights illuminate the fog and create more shadows in an already mysterious city. It's taken them three days to arrive; choppy water in the gulf with a full load slowed them to a crawl. David was not meant for sea travel. He's never been paler and only stopped vomiting when they reached the harbored waters of Lake Pontchartrain.
The other David has been sitting with him, patting his back as the seasickness overcomes him and fetching him water. Silva has spent a majority of their trip locked in conversation with Juan or Meireles. From what he's overheard and what's been told to him, he's learned they're going to stay with a man named Samir Nasri, the man Silva told him to go to if anything happened to him. David has gathered that this Nasri is a wealthy man and that to the public, he is a cotton merchant. However David knows the guns in the smuggler's hold have been purchased by this man and that whatever is in that black bag is something Nasri sent Silva to deliver
There's a carriage waiting for them at the dock. He seats himself in the middle, where he'll be less likely to be jostled about and become sick, while Silva speaks to the crew of the ship and a few of the boxes are loaded onto the back. David's not sure how he feels- motion sickness, anxiety, and uncertainty all while being packed among boxes of gunpowder does not lend to any sort of confidence. Eventually Silva slides in across from him and they leave the docks.
The interior of the carriage is a richly appointed red velvet that feels foreign underneath David's fingers. He can feel Silva's eyes on him, but he looks out of the window instead of meeting Silva's eyes. The only sound at this time in between the late night and the early morning is of the horses' hooves against the pavement. The city has an unusual smell, part water rot and part something he can't place. The harsh, jarring movement of the carriage is a shock after the sway of the boat and David's discomfort is amplified. He's never been the type to use a carriage- he'd rather walk or ride a horse.
"I don't know what will happen," Silva's voice is soft, a departure from its normal confidence. "I don't know if you want to stay."
"It doesn't matter." David doesn't look at him, doesn't see him frown. "Are you staying?"
"Until they have another assignment for me."
Neither speaks again. The carriage takes them to a neighborhood filled with houses bigger than David has ever seen. He's used to houses that drip moss and ivy; these houses have manicured gardens. The driver takes them to a side street, to the entrances used by servants, deliveries, and for people who need to remain unseen. The carriage slows to a stop. Their bags are taken in by a servant who disappears before David steps outside; the black bag is clutched tightly under Silva's arm. It's too dark to see anything except for the illuminated hallway beyond the door in front of them.
Silva leads him inside, down darkened hallways with closed doors. From what little decoration and embellishments he does see, David would be surprised if a woman lived here. The house, while not bare, has no personality other than the pretense that someone wealthy lives here. They climb a narrow staircase, the service staircase, to the third floor. A plush blue carpet runner over the hardwood of the floor muffles their approach. David sees the larger, grand staircase cuts the house in half. The half the service staircase comes up on has four red doors around it. There is only one red door on the other side of the staircase.
The door opens before they have a chance to knock. The man sees Silva and embraces him as one might a brother or, as David thinks, a lover. David sees relief in his eyes at Silva's safe return. Silva says something to the man that David doesn't hear and the man turns to David and bows to him before grabbing his hand and shaking it enthusiastically. David has to school his features to not raise an eyebrow or take his hand away from the man who introduces himself as Francesc Fabregas. Cesc, David is told to call him, brings them into a drawing room; this large room is compartmentalized as David sees this first room leads to others.
"Gael is back," Cesc tells Silva, who bares his teeth in a lewd sort of a grin. "Got back a few days ago."
"Is that where Samir is?"
Cesc responds with a smile.
*
David's not really sure what he thought Nasri would be like. Older, taller, more serious than the man in front of him. He certainly did not expect a short Frenchman who smiled as if he didn't know how to do anything else. A bit pretentious, assuming, not someone who David would normally hold company with. David doesn't have a choice anymore, not if he wants to stay hidden. He puts on a polite face.
Nasri's already dismissed Silva. David waited for at least a half an hour under Cesc's watchful gaze, and multitude of questions, as Silva disappeared behind a door. Silva emerged with a frown on his face and without the black bag. He bid them both goodnight and left them. Cesc had shown David into Nasri's bedroom, to a set of chairs by the windows. He had noticed, with a slight burn in his cheeks, that there was someone in Nasri's bed and he felt as if he were intruding.
"Silva tells me you saved his life and we all have you to thank." Nasri pours him David a glass of water from a pitcher on the table. "Is this true?"
David accepts the glass and settles the base on the palm of his hand. "Do the men working for you make it a habit of lying to you?"
Nasri pauses, stares at David for a moment, slowly sweeps his eyes up and down David's body. David doesn't move, doesn't cower away; mortal men do not scare David. A grin spreads from Nasri's lips and it envelops his entire face.
"Yes, you will do well here." He clasps his hands together in front of his face. "We owe you for protecting Silva and returning him to us. I hope you choose to stay with us." He pauses. "But I'm not sure you have anywhere else to go."
"I'll follow the path God sets for me," David's voice is firm.
"He brought you here."
"Yes, he did."
"Sami?"
David forgot there was someone in the bed and he's almost shocked that it's a man. He takes a glance long enough to see a lighter skinned colored man sitting up in the bed, wiping at his eyes. David knew about this, about the wealthy taking mulatto lovers, but he's never seen it in practice before. The man sees David sitting there and smiles at him. David colors slightly and turns back around to where Nasri is grinning at him, all of his teeth showing, reminiscent of a predatory animal.
"Welcome to New Orleans."
*
The bed beneath David is the most comfortable he's ever been on, but he cannot fall asleep. It's the first time in weeks that Silva has not been next to him. He keeps expecting to hear the other man's breathing or be able to reach out and make sure he's not alone. No, David's alone again. Alone in a city whose culture and customs are foreign to him.
When sleep does occur, it is deep but troubled. David dreams that he's back on the boat, but he is the only one. The boat drifts for days, through hot stretches where the sun beats down relentlessly, through storms that throw him back and forth and bruise his body as he chokes on water, and finally through a stretch of fog where he can't see land or sky. Through the entire dream he hears voices calling for him- that of his mother, people of his congregation, his wife, Silva. From time to time he can see them but they disappear as soon as they come.
David wakes up and spends an hour staring out into the sun-filled gardens.
*
A maid brings him lunch and informs him that he's expected downstairs for a dinner party that night. Not even twenty minutes later Silva slips into the room with a large bag in his hand. From it, he pulls a few shirts, a pair of trousers, a vest, and a dinner coat. Silva's dressed in a linen shirt with an upturned collar. A black vest and matching pants finish off a formal and sharper looking Silva, a side of him David has never seen. For his part, Silva looks miserable in this type of clothing, from the tie around his neck to the polished shoes on his feet.
"Samir thought these would be your size," Silva hands him a shirt and motions for him to try it on. "His tailor will be here tomorrow to properly size you for more clothes."
"I don't want to be a bother," David mutters, unbuttoning his shirt.
"You're not." Silva helps him pull on the shirt and unbuttons the vest as David buttons up the shirt. "You helped us, you helped me." His hands stop and he looks at David. "I will always be in your debt."
David's face feels hot as Silva helps him pull his vest on and stands in front of him and buttons it up. Silva's fingers working against his stomach and chest stirs something deep inside of him. He knows that as long as Silva is here, he'll be here too.
Silva finishes buttoning him and looks out the window as David changes into the pants. They're a bit loose, but fit well enough. He lets Silva tie his tie for him and pulls on the lighter summer coat. Silva steps away from him and lets his eyes roam over David's body. David feels small, like he's made of imperfections.
"So?" He asks.
Silva doesn't respond. He looks at David with something akin to confusion. David turns around and looks at himself in the mirror on the dresser. It's been years since he's been forced into something formal. He remembers that day, the way his hands shook as he buttoned his coat, the way the air stood still as they lowered the coffins of his wife and two daughters into the ground, how he felt like his life was over.
"It's not me," he mutters, putting a finger through his tie and slightly loosening it.
"No. But you wear it well." Silva sounds sad for some reason and David turns to look at him. Silva reaches out and puts his hand on David's chest, over his heart; David's hands both come up and surround Silva's. "I'm sorry that I put you in this situation."
"I could have walked away. I made this choice."
Silva's smile is sad; they both know neither of them believes that.
*
Despite his profession, David has never been comfortable around large groups of people. Dinner parties and social gatherings have never been his strength and he feels that is obvious as he sits at the long table in Nasri's garden. Silva is sitting across from him, throwing concerned glances every once in awhile, but spends most of dinner speaking with Cesc. The man on David's left is from England, the second son of some wealthy noble who is bored with Europe and is residing in New Orleans looking for inspiration. David's not sure what type of inspiration he means, but everyone calls him Lord Hart and he comes to understand that he's been financially backing Nasri. He's loud and drinks more than he should, but he is of good disposition and David doesn't mind him too much. The man on his other side is another mulatto, his mother freed during the Haitian diaspora as he comes to learn. Vincent comes across as well spoken and well educated and David discovers he is in charge of supervising Nasri's various factories and boats. The more Vincent speaks, the more David feels like Vincent is the one in charge and Nasri is just the wealthy face.
At the head of the table Nasri sits with the man from last night, Gael, and a blond woman with a tight, no nonsense look on her face. David asks Vincent if that's Nasri's wife and Lord Hart overhears and laughs. Lord Hart, who insists that David calls him Joe but David feels uncomfortable at doing so, decides it's his duty to give David a short history on everyone sitting at the table.
The blond woman is Madam Seger and she owns the entertainment house of choice for the wealthy gentlemen of New Orleans. In other words, she runs a high class brothel and knows everything about everyone of importance in the city. The man seated next to her is her many years younger husband; a sort of prize husband. There are two rumors about how they met- the first is that she found him passed out in a gutter and the second is that he used to work for her. David's not sure which is worse.
Lord Hart flies through the stories and David doesn't remember most of them. The ones he does remember are personal and David feels like he knows more than he should. Gael is the free son of the slave that raised Nasri. Nasri freed all of his family's slaves when his father died and he inherited the estate. David learns that Gael is the one person Nasri trusts. The dark man sitting at the end of the table with a scowl on his face is one of the sons of Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen. His name is Mario and David is weary of him. There is a cat sitting at Mario's feet and Joe tells him it's a voodoo spirit. David isn't sure if Joe is being serious or not.
"That's Le Comte Gourcuff," Joe points to a handsome man sitting near the end of the table. "French nobility, still exiled for one reason or another." The Comte is speaking with a man who appears to have two lines shaven from his head in some sort of artistic flourish. "Karim Benzema is," Joe continues. "I'm not really sure what he does, probably Gourcuff."
David doesn't laugh at the joke, but Joe's booming laugh is loud enough for both of them. He wonders sardonically if this is one of the punishments he must endure. He forgets the names and what Joe tells him about the rest. When he looks up from Joe, he sees Silva looking at him with relief. He spares Silva a smile.
*
"I have no need for a Pastor or any man of God," Nasri tells him the next afternoon after his hangover is worn off and half of the day has passed.
The household rises early except for the master. From his room on the second floor, David hears much of the coming and goings. Before Nasri calls for him, he's been given a tour of the house and the grounds as well as had his fitting with the tailor. They're sitting on the verandah on the side of the house, overlooking a rose garden. Nasri is fond of his roses, going as far as to tell David they were his mother's favorite. It's cooler here on the porch which is also shaded by a large willow tree. A glass of cold lemonade is clutched in his hand, the sour drink causes his lips to pucker. The condensation feels good against his palm.
"What I do have need for is someone who is clever enough to oversee my philanthropic projects," Nasri stops flipping through the papers on his lap and looks up at David. "I have many wealthy patrons who help with my projects, the type of people who have information."
"Information you want me to listen for."
"The right information is priceless David," Nasri tells him with a smile before turning back to his papers. "And before your conscience speaks up, know that we build schools and help the unfortunate and all that dribble. I think a hospital will be our next endeavour."
David doesn't say anything and just takes another sip of lemonade. The humidity is approaching unbearable and the cold liquid brings only seconds of relief. He closes his eyes.
"A hospital will be useful if a war breaks out." He murmurs and when he opens his eyes again, a speculative look is etched onto Nasri's face.
"You're much more clever than you look." David doesn't respond. "Tell me, do you have an interest in guns?"
"I can use one."
If Nasri notices David evades answering the question he ignores it. The door behind them opens and a blinding smile overtakes Nasri's face as Gael joins them on the verandah. Nasri's smiles are often fake, smiles that make one feel uncomfortable or like one is being used for one reason or another, but the smile Nasri has reserved for Gael is real. David knows every man, no matter how wealthy or powerful, has a weakness and Gael is Nasri's.
Gael hands Nasri a sheaf of papers before standing behind him, one hand on his shoulder. As Nasri flips through the papers, his hand comes up to cover Gael's. It's an inconspicuous moment that is more intimate than most would realize. It's the first time David sees Nasri as human, as someone who can be simplified. Nasri hands the papers to David, who sees letters as well as an essay.
"If anyone asks, you are my cousin returning from touring abroad. You've been doing missionary work." The letters are forgeries and back up what Nasri is saying; a forged passport is among the items in the stack of papers. "You've never lived down south before, you've never been the Pastor of a church, and this is your first time back in the states for five years."
David thumbs through the pages. The essay is by a man named Thoreau. David looks down at it and back up at Nasri.
"I want you to understand why we are all here," Nasri says by way of dismissing him. "Read it at your leisure. Until then, I need your assistance with a little errand. Gael will take you."
David leaves Nasri on the porch and feels more uncertain than when he set foot on it.
*
It takes them an hour following the river outside of town to reach their destination. Gael procures a carriage for them and Vincent joins them as they set off. David is mostly silent, responding when Gael and Vincent attempt to draw him into conversation, but more content with sitting back and watching the city and eventually the countryside roll by.The buildings and paved roads give way to dirt and trees and eventually they are surrounded by water. Bayou country. The two men lapse into French, their words heavy and exotic in David's ears. They appear to be discussing business of some sort, but they could as easily be discussing the stranger in the carriage with them.
The carriage rolls to a gentle stop and David follows the men out. He can't help but to gape at the large mansion in front of him. It's old, covered in moss and encircled by trees, and is surrounded by the waters of the bayou- it's the type of house where ghost stories and occult legends are formed.
"Forgive my out of the way abode, but I prefer it to the noise of the city."
David jumps. Somehow Comte Gourcuff has joined their small group without his notice. There's a brief flicker of amusement across the beautiful man's face before he gestures toward the house and leads them inside. The man with the funny hair, Benzema, is there lounging across a chaise, bored look on his face and aloofness etched into his features; he doesn't bother to stand and greet them. Comte Gourcuff offers them drinks and seats them in his drawing room where there are already two men. They are introduced to him as Gonzalo Higuain, an inventor of sorts, and Pepe Reina, who is vague on what exactly he does. David tells them exactly what Nasri told him to say- he's a distant relative who has recently returned from abroad. They accept it without batting an eye.
"I've set up everything you need in the backyard." Comte Gourcuff rises and they follow him out a side door and to the back where a shooting range has been set up. "I've covered the labels on the guns to prevent any sort of bias." His lips twitch up into a smile. "I'll leave you to it."
He returns to the house and leaves the five men standing outside. David's not sure what he's doing here and stands to the side as Pepe goes over to a table where six guns are laying out, a mixture of rifles and handguns. They are different sizes and David now knows what was in the boxes on the bottom on the ship. Three of them have white cloth tied around the trigger guard , three of them have red and blue cloth. There are bales of hay stacked a hundred yards down with red 'x's painted on the front of them.
"Samir said you were a good shot," Gael smiles at David and David doesn't think he's ever seen Gael frown.
"He gives me too much credit," David mutters, following him over to the table. "What is the difference between the colors?"
"Two different manufacturers. Ronaldo and Messi. I think they're both fine, but people always argue one is better than the other."
David shrugs and watches as Pepe loads a rifle, steps up to a firing line, and the gun roars to life as he fires it. Pepe is like Gael, he is all smiles and seems to find amusement in everything. Right now that thing is guns and David watches as Pepe fires each gun, jotting notes down in a ledger. When Pepe is done, Gonzalo barrages him with questions. From his questions, David gathers that Gonzalo is some sort of bullet maker. Gael turns to look at David expectantly and he steps up to the table.
Gonzalo shows him the different bullets that he has brought with him for them to try, explaining the difference of each one. Most of what he is saying is beyond David's comprehension. The wood of the rifle feels cold underneath his hand, the pressure of the trigger is firm. David is not fond of guns, even less so after the events of the previous weeks. He had no intention of ever firing one again. He picks up a loaded revolver and aiming it at a bale of hay, he shoots and acquiesces there are necessary evils in this world. If David wants to survive, he will have to deal with them.
"How did they feel?" Vincent ask him when he is done and Gonzalo takes his turn.
"What does it matter?" David shrugs. "They will all do their purpose." Vincent raises an inquiring eyebrow. "I think there is something to be said about a man who looks to his own comfort while taking the life of another."
"If you do not take the man's life, then he will take yours." Vincent responds, expression even as he gauges David's reaction.
"We live in dark times." Is David's only response.
Vincent does not say anything. He simply nods. When David shoots again, he hits the targets with each gun. With each shot, David feels another door shut in the hallway that is his future. David isn't sure who he is anymore.
*
David inhabits a bench on a second floor balcony overlooking the garden in the backyard. At this time in the late afternoon the only sound is from the cooks in the outdoor summer kitchens preparing dinner for the many inhabitants of the house. The Bible in his lap is turned to Revelation, but his eyes stare blankly at the page.
"I thought I would find you here." David shifts and the Bible falls to the floor; Silva's smile falters. "I can leave if you-"
"No." David shakes his head. "Please stay. I could use the company."
Silva sits on the balcony rail, one leg drawn into his chest and the other hanging over the edge. David thinks of Icarus and Daedalus, wonders if Silva would fly if he jumped. He looks like a bird perched on a branch; he looks like a canary in a cage who longs for freedom.
"Will you read to me from the Book of Samuel," Silva asks him, his features softened in the glow of the afternoon sun.
David picks the Bible up from the ground and flips to the verses Silva has requested. As his eyes fly over the page, he sees the story of David and his flight into the wilderness to avoid Saul while he becomes the hero of the oppressed. He knows the story by heart- this is the King he was named for. Closing the book, he holds it out to Silva.
"I cannot read well," Silva confesses to him with a sheepish shrug. "We did not learn our letters where I grew up."
David puts the book in his lap and extends a hand to Silva. Silva takes it, his hand cool and dry in David's, and allows himself to be pulled down on the bench next to David. It's unbearably hot even in this shade, but David finds he does not mind. Opening the book to 1 Samuel 17, he places it in between them, his fingers beneath the words.
"Read with me," David asks of him. "Now the Philistines gathered their armies together to battle..."
They stay there and stumble over words and stories of ancient men and lands until they are called to dinner. David doesn't hear anything- he can only concentrate on how Silva's leg feels pressed against his.
*
The concept of Voodoo is foreign to David. He's never heard of it and has never seen it in practice. From what he's been told, it is a mixture of Catholicism and African cultures- it is exactly the type of religious practice a city like New Orleans would breed. He's skeptical of its practitioners and their claims, but he's not sure what is truth and what is hearsay.
David is returning from a day of calling in the countryside. He's been to two plantations to see about contributions to Nasri's hospital idea and his face hurts from the smile he's forced to wear. The end of summer is the height cotton picking season and David sees fields of white dotted with black. The heat is unbearable- to work in such conditions is beyond David's comprehension. David finds it deplorable; David wears a smile and ignores it when sitting with the families, sipping at iced drinks and making pleasant conversation. He's starting to understand Nasri a little more and the value of a trusting smile that is anything but. He's covered in sweat and greatly desires a bath, but he has one more errand to run.
Mario is a constant face at Nasri's dinner table, but David doesn't think he's said more than a handful of words to him. Mario's mother is perhaps the most famous resident of New Orleans and it is through her that Mario gathers information. Marie Laveau is consulted for everything, her sulking son, one of fifteen children, is an afterthought. He has his own residence, an apartment that he shares with one of his brothers over their storefront. David calls on him at their store and finds the scowling voodoo man surrounded by jars containing an array of powders and objects he can't identify. The air is fragrant with incense and it burns David's nostrils. A stack of paper bills sits on the counter, a large amount to just be left in the open, and when Mario notices David staring at it he shrugs his shoulders as if to say 'why not'. The white and orange cat watches him from the sunny window.
Mario hands it a piece of paper which David tucks away in his coat's inner breast pocket. He doesn't read it. Mario grins wildly and for a moment David believes in spirits and magic- he sees them both in Mario's smile.
"This is for you." Mario hands David a small leather bag, no bigger than the palm of his hand.
"I don't believe in magic." David tells him, turning the object over in his hands.
"You don't have to, it will find you whether you want it to or not."
It takes David longer than normal to bathe that night. It doesn't matter how long he takes; the scenes from the cotton fields are emblazoned in his mind. He doesn't know what Mario intends with the leather item, something Gael tells him is called a gris-gris. David puts it under his pillow; he dreams of rain, rivers, and mud that turns red. He wakes covered in a sheen of sweat and guilt eating at his core.
*
A week later Silva pulls him out of the house during one of Nasri's dinner parties. David stumbles after him, through side streets, alleyways, and along a canal. Silva seems to float in the night air and David feels heavy, feels every crack in his feet of clay. They stop outside the backdoor of a medium sized building with faded and peeling whitewashed walls. Silva pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks the rusted padlock. Turning around, Silva extends a hand to David and pulls him through the door.
They're standing in a small chapel that has seen better days. Its wooden pews are covered in dust and the windows are boarded over. From his bag Silva pulls a few candles and a box of matches. Lighting the candles, he puts them on the altar at the front of the chapel. One of the higher windows is not covered and the smallest amount of moonlight pours in and reveals shining strands of spider webs.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Silva tells him. "I wanted you to have somewhere you could go, somewhere you could feel at home."
David doesn't say anything. Around him the shadows of the abandoned chapel take on a sinister edge and he feels as if they are reaching out to him, pulling him down, under, drowning him in their darkness. Silva is staring at him with large eyes not even two feet away but it feels as if David is on one bank of the river and Silva is on the other. He wants to take a step closer, he wants to grab Silva and refuse to let him leave, but he can't.
"Where?" David's voice is dry, his throat parched.
"Indian Territory." Silva places his hand on the dusty cross nailed to the wall. "If Lincoln wins this election and there is a war, the Indian territories will fight with the South. Samir wants me to see if there are northern sympathizers." He scoffs. "There won't be; they want to open the territories to settlers. No one will support a North that wants that."
"And you? What do you want?"
Silva turns around and a long moment passes between them. David finds himself lost, swept away in the current that is Silva, and struggling to find land. A great weight settles on his chest and he can't breathe. He wants to push it all away, to make the world outside the chapel disappear, to have Silva next to him and not worry about him.
"I don't want you punishing yourself for what happened." Silva takes his hand off the cross; there's a print where the dust has been removed and David will leave it there until Silva returns. "I want you to be happy."
Silva stands in front of David. He reaches a hand up and cups the side of David's face, his thumb tracing the line of David's bottom lip. David leans into Silva's touch, listens for Deuteronomy and Leviticus to damn him, but he hears nothing but the raggedness of his own breathing. His fingers seek out the cross on his neck and with a quick tug he rips it from his neck and presses it into Silva's free hand.
"Come back to me."
Silva rests his forehead against David's. David thinks of the dual meaning of redemption- freedom from captivity and deliverance from sin. David has been battered by the storms, a ship adrift and tossed into the rocks; Silva is his anchor, his salvation. As they stand together in God's house, silence speaking louder and more honest than words ever could, David feels the storm begin to die.
Pairing Eventual David Silva/David Villa, Samir Nasri/Gael Clichy, Past David Silva/Adam Johnson, Alluded Karim Benzema/Yoann Gourcuff
Rating This part pg13
Word Count 5693
Disclaimer Not true
AN: Thank you to albion_lass for being amazing.
New Orleans is nothing more than a shroud of fog. The glow of lanterns and street lights illuminate the fog and create more shadows in an already mysterious city. It's taken them three days to arrive; choppy water in the gulf with a full load slowed them to a crawl. David was not meant for sea travel. He's never been paler and only stopped vomiting when they reached the harbored waters of Lake Pontchartrain.
The other David has been sitting with him, patting his back as the seasickness overcomes him and fetching him water. Silva has spent a majority of their trip locked in conversation with Juan or Meireles. From what he's overheard and what's been told to him, he's learned they're going to stay with a man named Samir Nasri, the man Silva told him to go to if anything happened to him. David has gathered that this Nasri is a wealthy man and that to the public, he is a cotton merchant. However David knows the guns in the smuggler's hold have been purchased by this man and that whatever is in that black bag is something Nasri sent Silva to deliver
There's a carriage waiting for them at the dock. He seats himself in the middle, where he'll be less likely to be jostled about and become sick, while Silva speaks to the crew of the ship and a few of the boxes are loaded onto the back. David's not sure how he feels- motion sickness, anxiety, and uncertainty all while being packed among boxes of gunpowder does not lend to any sort of confidence. Eventually Silva slides in across from him and they leave the docks.
The interior of the carriage is a richly appointed red velvet that feels foreign underneath David's fingers. He can feel Silva's eyes on him, but he looks out of the window instead of meeting Silva's eyes. The only sound at this time in between the late night and the early morning is of the horses' hooves against the pavement. The city has an unusual smell, part water rot and part something he can't place. The harsh, jarring movement of the carriage is a shock after the sway of the boat and David's discomfort is amplified. He's never been the type to use a carriage- he'd rather walk or ride a horse.
"I don't know what will happen," Silva's voice is soft, a departure from its normal confidence. "I don't know if you want to stay."
"It doesn't matter." David doesn't look at him, doesn't see him frown. "Are you staying?"
"Until they have another assignment for me."
Neither speaks again. The carriage takes them to a neighborhood filled with houses bigger than David has ever seen. He's used to houses that drip moss and ivy; these houses have manicured gardens. The driver takes them to a side street, to the entrances used by servants, deliveries, and for people who need to remain unseen. The carriage slows to a stop. Their bags are taken in by a servant who disappears before David steps outside; the black bag is clutched tightly under Silva's arm. It's too dark to see anything except for the illuminated hallway beyond the door in front of them.
Silva leads him inside, down darkened hallways with closed doors. From what little decoration and embellishments he does see, David would be surprised if a woman lived here. The house, while not bare, has no personality other than the pretense that someone wealthy lives here. They climb a narrow staircase, the service staircase, to the third floor. A plush blue carpet runner over the hardwood of the floor muffles their approach. David sees the larger, grand staircase cuts the house in half. The half the service staircase comes up on has four red doors around it. There is only one red door on the other side of the staircase.
The door opens before they have a chance to knock. The man sees Silva and embraces him as one might a brother or, as David thinks, a lover. David sees relief in his eyes at Silva's safe return. Silva says something to the man that David doesn't hear and the man turns to David and bows to him before grabbing his hand and shaking it enthusiastically. David has to school his features to not raise an eyebrow or take his hand away from the man who introduces himself as Francesc Fabregas. Cesc, David is told to call him, brings them into a drawing room; this large room is compartmentalized as David sees this first room leads to others.
"Gael is back," Cesc tells Silva, who bares his teeth in a lewd sort of a grin. "Got back a few days ago."
"Is that where Samir is?"
Cesc responds with a smile.
*
David's not really sure what he thought Nasri would be like. Older, taller, more serious than the man in front of him. He certainly did not expect a short Frenchman who smiled as if he didn't know how to do anything else. A bit pretentious, assuming, not someone who David would normally hold company with. David doesn't have a choice anymore, not if he wants to stay hidden. He puts on a polite face.
Nasri's already dismissed Silva. David waited for at least a half an hour under Cesc's watchful gaze, and multitude of questions, as Silva disappeared behind a door. Silva emerged with a frown on his face and without the black bag. He bid them both goodnight and left them. Cesc had shown David into Nasri's bedroom, to a set of chairs by the windows. He had noticed, with a slight burn in his cheeks, that there was someone in Nasri's bed and he felt as if he were intruding.
"Silva tells me you saved his life and we all have you to thank." Nasri pours him David a glass of water from a pitcher on the table. "Is this true?"
David accepts the glass and settles the base on the palm of his hand. "Do the men working for you make it a habit of lying to you?"
Nasri pauses, stares at David for a moment, slowly sweeps his eyes up and down David's body. David doesn't move, doesn't cower away; mortal men do not scare David. A grin spreads from Nasri's lips and it envelops his entire face.
"Yes, you will do well here." He clasps his hands together in front of his face. "We owe you for protecting Silva and returning him to us. I hope you choose to stay with us." He pauses. "But I'm not sure you have anywhere else to go."
"I'll follow the path God sets for me," David's voice is firm.
"He brought you here."
"Yes, he did."
"Sami?"
David forgot there was someone in the bed and he's almost shocked that it's a man. He takes a glance long enough to see a lighter skinned colored man sitting up in the bed, wiping at his eyes. David knew about this, about the wealthy taking mulatto lovers, but he's never seen it in practice before. The man sees David sitting there and smiles at him. David colors slightly and turns back around to where Nasri is grinning at him, all of his teeth showing, reminiscent of a predatory animal.
"Welcome to New Orleans."
*
The bed beneath David is the most comfortable he's ever been on, but he cannot fall asleep. It's the first time in weeks that Silva has not been next to him. He keeps expecting to hear the other man's breathing or be able to reach out and make sure he's not alone. No, David's alone again. Alone in a city whose culture and customs are foreign to him.
When sleep does occur, it is deep but troubled. David dreams that he's back on the boat, but he is the only one. The boat drifts for days, through hot stretches where the sun beats down relentlessly, through storms that throw him back and forth and bruise his body as he chokes on water, and finally through a stretch of fog where he can't see land or sky. Through the entire dream he hears voices calling for him- that of his mother, people of his congregation, his wife, Silva. From time to time he can see them but they disappear as soon as they come.
David wakes up and spends an hour staring out into the sun-filled gardens.
*
A maid brings him lunch and informs him that he's expected downstairs for a dinner party that night. Not even twenty minutes later Silva slips into the room with a large bag in his hand. From it, he pulls a few shirts, a pair of trousers, a vest, and a dinner coat. Silva's dressed in a linen shirt with an upturned collar. A black vest and matching pants finish off a formal and sharper looking Silva, a side of him David has never seen. For his part, Silva looks miserable in this type of clothing, from the tie around his neck to the polished shoes on his feet.
"Samir thought these would be your size," Silva hands him a shirt and motions for him to try it on. "His tailor will be here tomorrow to properly size you for more clothes."
"I don't want to be a bother," David mutters, unbuttoning his shirt.
"You're not." Silva helps him pull on the shirt and unbuttons the vest as David buttons up the shirt. "You helped us, you helped me." His hands stop and he looks at David. "I will always be in your debt."
David's face feels hot as Silva helps him pull his vest on and stands in front of him and buttons it up. Silva's fingers working against his stomach and chest stirs something deep inside of him. He knows that as long as Silva is here, he'll be here too.
Silva finishes buttoning him and looks out the window as David changes into the pants. They're a bit loose, but fit well enough. He lets Silva tie his tie for him and pulls on the lighter summer coat. Silva steps away from him and lets his eyes roam over David's body. David feels small, like he's made of imperfections.
"So?" He asks.
Silva doesn't respond. He looks at David with something akin to confusion. David turns around and looks at himself in the mirror on the dresser. It's been years since he's been forced into something formal. He remembers that day, the way his hands shook as he buttoned his coat, the way the air stood still as they lowered the coffins of his wife and two daughters into the ground, how he felt like his life was over.
"It's not me," he mutters, putting a finger through his tie and slightly loosening it.
"No. But you wear it well." Silva sounds sad for some reason and David turns to look at him. Silva reaches out and puts his hand on David's chest, over his heart; David's hands both come up and surround Silva's. "I'm sorry that I put you in this situation."
"I could have walked away. I made this choice."
Silva's smile is sad; they both know neither of them believes that.
*
Despite his profession, David has never been comfortable around large groups of people. Dinner parties and social gatherings have never been his strength and he feels that is obvious as he sits at the long table in Nasri's garden. Silva is sitting across from him, throwing concerned glances every once in awhile, but spends most of dinner speaking with Cesc. The man on David's left is from England, the second son of some wealthy noble who is bored with Europe and is residing in New Orleans looking for inspiration. David's not sure what type of inspiration he means, but everyone calls him Lord Hart and he comes to understand that he's been financially backing Nasri. He's loud and drinks more than he should, but he is of good disposition and David doesn't mind him too much. The man on his other side is another mulatto, his mother freed during the Haitian diaspora as he comes to learn. Vincent comes across as well spoken and well educated and David discovers he is in charge of supervising Nasri's various factories and boats. The more Vincent speaks, the more David feels like Vincent is the one in charge and Nasri is just the wealthy face.
At the head of the table Nasri sits with the man from last night, Gael, and a blond woman with a tight, no nonsense look on her face. David asks Vincent if that's Nasri's wife and Lord Hart overhears and laughs. Lord Hart, who insists that David calls him Joe but David feels uncomfortable at doing so, decides it's his duty to give David a short history on everyone sitting at the table.
The blond woman is Madam Seger and she owns the entertainment house of choice for the wealthy gentlemen of New Orleans. In other words, she runs a high class brothel and knows everything about everyone of importance in the city. The man seated next to her is her many years younger husband; a sort of prize husband. There are two rumors about how they met- the first is that she found him passed out in a gutter and the second is that he used to work for her. David's not sure which is worse.
Lord Hart flies through the stories and David doesn't remember most of them. The ones he does remember are personal and David feels like he knows more than he should. Gael is the free son of the slave that raised Nasri. Nasri freed all of his family's slaves when his father died and he inherited the estate. David learns that Gael is the one person Nasri trusts. The dark man sitting at the end of the table with a scowl on his face is one of the sons of Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen. His name is Mario and David is weary of him. There is a cat sitting at Mario's feet and Joe tells him it's a voodoo spirit. David isn't sure if Joe is being serious or not.
"That's Le Comte Gourcuff," Joe points to a handsome man sitting near the end of the table. "French nobility, still exiled for one reason or another." The Comte is speaking with a man who appears to have two lines shaven from his head in some sort of artistic flourish. "Karim Benzema is," Joe continues. "I'm not really sure what he does, probably Gourcuff."
David doesn't laugh at the joke, but Joe's booming laugh is loud enough for both of them. He wonders sardonically if this is one of the punishments he must endure. He forgets the names and what Joe tells him about the rest. When he looks up from Joe, he sees Silva looking at him with relief. He spares Silva a smile.
*
"I have no need for a Pastor or any man of God," Nasri tells him the next afternoon after his hangover is worn off and half of the day has passed.
The household rises early except for the master. From his room on the second floor, David hears much of the coming and goings. Before Nasri calls for him, he's been given a tour of the house and the grounds as well as had his fitting with the tailor. They're sitting on the verandah on the side of the house, overlooking a rose garden. Nasri is fond of his roses, going as far as to tell David they were his mother's favorite. It's cooler here on the porch which is also shaded by a large willow tree. A glass of cold lemonade is clutched in his hand, the sour drink causes his lips to pucker. The condensation feels good against his palm.
"What I do have need for is someone who is clever enough to oversee my philanthropic projects," Nasri stops flipping through the papers on his lap and looks up at David. "I have many wealthy patrons who help with my projects, the type of people who have information."
"Information you want me to listen for."
"The right information is priceless David," Nasri tells him with a smile before turning back to his papers. "And before your conscience speaks up, know that we build schools and help the unfortunate and all that dribble. I think a hospital will be our next endeavour."
David doesn't say anything and just takes another sip of lemonade. The humidity is approaching unbearable and the cold liquid brings only seconds of relief. He closes his eyes.
"A hospital will be useful if a war breaks out." He murmurs and when he opens his eyes again, a speculative look is etched onto Nasri's face.
"You're much more clever than you look." David doesn't respond. "Tell me, do you have an interest in guns?"
"I can use one."
If Nasri notices David evades answering the question he ignores it. The door behind them opens and a blinding smile overtakes Nasri's face as Gael joins them on the verandah. Nasri's smiles are often fake, smiles that make one feel uncomfortable or like one is being used for one reason or another, but the smile Nasri has reserved for Gael is real. David knows every man, no matter how wealthy or powerful, has a weakness and Gael is Nasri's.
Gael hands Nasri a sheaf of papers before standing behind him, one hand on his shoulder. As Nasri flips through the papers, his hand comes up to cover Gael's. It's an inconspicuous moment that is more intimate than most would realize. It's the first time David sees Nasri as human, as someone who can be simplified. Nasri hands the papers to David, who sees letters as well as an essay.
"If anyone asks, you are my cousin returning from touring abroad. You've been doing missionary work." The letters are forgeries and back up what Nasri is saying; a forged passport is among the items in the stack of papers. "You've never lived down south before, you've never been the Pastor of a church, and this is your first time back in the states for five years."
David thumbs through the pages. The essay is by a man named Thoreau. David looks down at it and back up at Nasri.
"I want you to understand why we are all here," Nasri says by way of dismissing him. "Read it at your leisure. Until then, I need your assistance with a little errand. Gael will take you."
David leaves Nasri on the porch and feels more uncertain than when he set foot on it.
*
It takes them an hour following the river outside of town to reach their destination. Gael procures a carriage for them and Vincent joins them as they set off. David is mostly silent, responding when Gael and Vincent attempt to draw him into conversation, but more content with sitting back and watching the city and eventually the countryside roll by.The buildings and paved roads give way to dirt and trees and eventually they are surrounded by water. Bayou country. The two men lapse into French, their words heavy and exotic in David's ears. They appear to be discussing business of some sort, but they could as easily be discussing the stranger in the carriage with them.
The carriage rolls to a gentle stop and David follows the men out. He can't help but to gape at the large mansion in front of him. It's old, covered in moss and encircled by trees, and is surrounded by the waters of the bayou- it's the type of house where ghost stories and occult legends are formed.
"Forgive my out of the way abode, but I prefer it to the noise of the city."
David jumps. Somehow Comte Gourcuff has joined their small group without his notice. There's a brief flicker of amusement across the beautiful man's face before he gestures toward the house and leads them inside. The man with the funny hair, Benzema, is there lounging across a chaise, bored look on his face and aloofness etched into his features; he doesn't bother to stand and greet them. Comte Gourcuff offers them drinks and seats them in his drawing room where there are already two men. They are introduced to him as Gonzalo Higuain, an inventor of sorts, and Pepe Reina, who is vague on what exactly he does. David tells them exactly what Nasri told him to say- he's a distant relative who has recently returned from abroad. They accept it without batting an eye.
"I've set up everything you need in the backyard." Comte Gourcuff rises and they follow him out a side door and to the back where a shooting range has been set up. "I've covered the labels on the guns to prevent any sort of bias." His lips twitch up into a smile. "I'll leave you to it."
He returns to the house and leaves the five men standing outside. David's not sure what he's doing here and stands to the side as Pepe goes over to a table where six guns are laying out, a mixture of rifles and handguns. They are different sizes and David now knows what was in the boxes on the bottom on the ship. Three of them have white cloth tied around the trigger guard , three of them have red and blue cloth. There are bales of hay stacked a hundred yards down with red 'x's painted on the front of them.
"Samir said you were a good shot," Gael smiles at David and David doesn't think he's ever seen Gael frown.
"He gives me too much credit," David mutters, following him over to the table. "What is the difference between the colors?"
"Two different manufacturers. Ronaldo and Messi. I think they're both fine, but people always argue one is better than the other."
David shrugs and watches as Pepe loads a rifle, steps up to a firing line, and the gun roars to life as he fires it. Pepe is like Gael, he is all smiles and seems to find amusement in everything. Right now that thing is guns and David watches as Pepe fires each gun, jotting notes down in a ledger. When Pepe is done, Gonzalo barrages him with questions. From his questions, David gathers that Gonzalo is some sort of bullet maker. Gael turns to look at David expectantly and he steps up to the table.
Gonzalo shows him the different bullets that he has brought with him for them to try, explaining the difference of each one. Most of what he is saying is beyond David's comprehension. The wood of the rifle feels cold underneath his hand, the pressure of the trigger is firm. David is not fond of guns, even less so after the events of the previous weeks. He had no intention of ever firing one again. He picks up a loaded revolver and aiming it at a bale of hay, he shoots and acquiesces there are necessary evils in this world. If David wants to survive, he will have to deal with them.
"How did they feel?" Vincent ask him when he is done and Gonzalo takes his turn.
"What does it matter?" David shrugs. "They will all do their purpose." Vincent raises an inquiring eyebrow. "I think there is something to be said about a man who looks to his own comfort while taking the life of another."
"If you do not take the man's life, then he will take yours." Vincent responds, expression even as he gauges David's reaction.
"We live in dark times." Is David's only response.
Vincent does not say anything. He simply nods. When David shoots again, he hits the targets with each gun. With each shot, David feels another door shut in the hallway that is his future. David isn't sure who he is anymore.
*
David inhabits a bench on a second floor balcony overlooking the garden in the backyard. At this time in the late afternoon the only sound is from the cooks in the outdoor summer kitchens preparing dinner for the many inhabitants of the house. The Bible in his lap is turned to Revelation, but his eyes stare blankly at the page.
"I thought I would find you here." David shifts and the Bible falls to the floor; Silva's smile falters. "I can leave if you-"
"No." David shakes his head. "Please stay. I could use the company."
Silva sits on the balcony rail, one leg drawn into his chest and the other hanging over the edge. David thinks of Icarus and Daedalus, wonders if Silva would fly if he jumped. He looks like a bird perched on a branch; he looks like a canary in a cage who longs for freedom.
"Will you read to me from the Book of Samuel," Silva asks him, his features softened in the glow of the afternoon sun.
David picks the Bible up from the ground and flips to the verses Silva has requested. As his eyes fly over the page, he sees the story of David and his flight into the wilderness to avoid Saul while he becomes the hero of the oppressed. He knows the story by heart- this is the King he was named for. Closing the book, he holds it out to Silva.
"I cannot read well," Silva confesses to him with a sheepish shrug. "We did not learn our letters where I grew up."
David puts the book in his lap and extends a hand to Silva. Silva takes it, his hand cool and dry in David's, and allows himself to be pulled down on the bench next to David. It's unbearably hot even in this shade, but David finds he does not mind. Opening the book to 1 Samuel 17, he places it in between them, his fingers beneath the words.
"Read with me," David asks of him. "Now the Philistines gathered their armies together to battle..."
They stay there and stumble over words and stories of ancient men and lands until they are called to dinner. David doesn't hear anything- he can only concentrate on how Silva's leg feels pressed against his.
*
The concept of Voodoo is foreign to David. He's never heard of it and has never seen it in practice. From what he's been told, it is a mixture of Catholicism and African cultures- it is exactly the type of religious practice a city like New Orleans would breed. He's skeptical of its practitioners and their claims, but he's not sure what is truth and what is hearsay.
David is returning from a day of calling in the countryside. He's been to two plantations to see about contributions to Nasri's hospital idea and his face hurts from the smile he's forced to wear. The end of summer is the height cotton picking season and David sees fields of white dotted with black. The heat is unbearable- to work in such conditions is beyond David's comprehension. David finds it deplorable; David wears a smile and ignores it when sitting with the families, sipping at iced drinks and making pleasant conversation. He's starting to understand Nasri a little more and the value of a trusting smile that is anything but. He's covered in sweat and greatly desires a bath, but he has one more errand to run.
Mario is a constant face at Nasri's dinner table, but David doesn't think he's said more than a handful of words to him. Mario's mother is perhaps the most famous resident of New Orleans and it is through her that Mario gathers information. Marie Laveau is consulted for everything, her sulking son, one of fifteen children, is an afterthought. He has his own residence, an apartment that he shares with one of his brothers over their storefront. David calls on him at their store and finds the scowling voodoo man surrounded by jars containing an array of powders and objects he can't identify. The air is fragrant with incense and it burns David's nostrils. A stack of paper bills sits on the counter, a large amount to just be left in the open, and when Mario notices David staring at it he shrugs his shoulders as if to say 'why not'. The white and orange cat watches him from the sunny window.
Mario hands it a piece of paper which David tucks away in his coat's inner breast pocket. He doesn't read it. Mario grins wildly and for a moment David believes in spirits and magic- he sees them both in Mario's smile.
"This is for you." Mario hands David a small leather bag, no bigger than the palm of his hand.
"I don't believe in magic." David tells him, turning the object over in his hands.
"You don't have to, it will find you whether you want it to or not."
It takes David longer than normal to bathe that night. It doesn't matter how long he takes; the scenes from the cotton fields are emblazoned in his mind. He doesn't know what Mario intends with the leather item, something Gael tells him is called a gris-gris. David puts it under his pillow; he dreams of rain, rivers, and mud that turns red. He wakes covered in a sheen of sweat and guilt eating at his core.
*
A week later Silva pulls him out of the house during one of Nasri's dinner parties. David stumbles after him, through side streets, alleyways, and along a canal. Silva seems to float in the night air and David feels heavy, feels every crack in his feet of clay. They stop outside the backdoor of a medium sized building with faded and peeling whitewashed walls. Silva pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks the rusted padlock. Turning around, Silva extends a hand to David and pulls him through the door.
They're standing in a small chapel that has seen better days. Its wooden pews are covered in dust and the windows are boarded over. From his bag Silva pulls a few candles and a box of matches. Lighting the candles, he puts them on the altar at the front of the chapel. One of the higher windows is not covered and the smallest amount of moonlight pours in and reveals shining strands of spider webs.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Silva tells him. "I wanted you to have somewhere you could go, somewhere you could feel at home."
David doesn't say anything. Around him the shadows of the abandoned chapel take on a sinister edge and he feels as if they are reaching out to him, pulling him down, under, drowning him in their darkness. Silva is staring at him with large eyes not even two feet away but it feels as if David is on one bank of the river and Silva is on the other. He wants to take a step closer, he wants to grab Silva and refuse to let him leave, but he can't.
"Where?" David's voice is dry, his throat parched.
"Indian Territory." Silva places his hand on the dusty cross nailed to the wall. "If Lincoln wins this election and there is a war, the Indian territories will fight with the South. Samir wants me to see if there are northern sympathizers." He scoffs. "There won't be; they want to open the territories to settlers. No one will support a North that wants that."
"And you? What do you want?"
Silva turns around and a long moment passes between them. David finds himself lost, swept away in the current that is Silva, and struggling to find land. A great weight settles on his chest and he can't breathe. He wants to push it all away, to make the world outside the chapel disappear, to have Silva next to him and not worry about him.
"I don't want you punishing yourself for what happened." Silva takes his hand off the cross; there's a print where the dust has been removed and David will leave it there until Silva returns. "I want you to be happy."
Silva stands in front of David. He reaches a hand up and cups the side of David's face, his thumb tracing the line of David's bottom lip. David leans into Silva's touch, listens for Deuteronomy and Leviticus to damn him, but he hears nothing but the raggedness of his own breathing. His fingers seek out the cross on his neck and with a quick tug he rips it from his neck and presses it into Silva's free hand.
"Come back to me."
Silva rests his forehead against David's. David thinks of the dual meaning of redemption- freedom from captivity and deliverance from sin. David has been battered by the storms, a ship adrift and tossed into the rocks; Silva is his anchor, his salvation. As they stand together in God's house, silence speaking louder and more honest than words ever could, David feels the storm begin to die.