Free Orfeo by M. J. Lawless Page A

complexion. Ardyce made no response and so it was left to Baptiste to deal with the driver’s small talk.
    All the time the radio was playing and, at one point, the man leaned forward to turn up the volume slightly. The music had been interrupted by a news report, and all the occupants of the cab could not help but hear—among stories of violent crime and accusations of corruption—the predictions that the hurricane season would be particularly damaging.
    “It looks as though it will be bad this year, no?” the driver asked.
    “Perhaps,” Baptiste replied. “They make the same sorts of predictions every year, it seems.”
    The other man shrugged at this. “I hope you’re right, friend. If it gets too bad I wonder why I ever left the Mediterranean.”
    Baptiste made a noncommittal sound in agreement and left the driver to continue his chatter. Looking across at Ardyce, he saw that she was chewing her lips anxiously, watching the city pass them by and urging the taxi on faster and faster.
    “Just here will do,” Baptiste said at last, gesturing to the sidewalk. They had passed some of the beautiful buildings that were being preserved, multi-storey ironwork galleries and red or blue walls looking down on the streets below. Now, however, they had turned into a side street where the houses were less-well maintained, some of them shabby and even semi-derelict. Somewhere before them lay the Mississippi, flowing ever on behind the levees that conducted its slow, pulsing rhythm through the city.
    As Ardyce waited on the sidewalk, pulling her coat across the thin fabric of her dress, Baptiste paid the driver. After this he crossed over to her, gesturing toward one of the nearby doorways. The door itself was dark brown, the paint peeling from the wood and a rusted iron gate closed in front of it. The rest of the building looked similarly dilapidated but lights were shining from the floors above their heads and they could hear the sound of music and laughter. The sun had barely set and already the sky was sliced into two parts: to the west, they could just make out glimmering twilight while to the east darkness covered the heavens.
    “That’s the place,” Baptiste told her. Before he could take a lead she had gone ahead of him and pulled at the grille covering the door. She appeared unsurprised that it was unlocked, though Baptiste already had some idea of the kinds of activities that took place in the building.
    They were assaulted by the greasy smells of stale oils and human habitation, and there appeared to be loud sounds coming from a nearby room where music was playing, presumably from a radio. The noise was raucous and for a few seconds Ardyce looked confounded: music had so long been a sign of Orfeo that she instinctively moved forward, but the racket that flooded the hallway where they stood was nothing like that of her lover. Likewise, the laughter and shouting that they heard was coarse, adding further to the confusion that she felt as she stood among the peeling paint and rotten boards of the entrance way.
    “Come on,” Baptiste said, squeezing past her. “Follow me.”
    As she did so, a door opened and the bellowing noises exploded into the narrow confines of the hall, accompanied by the chaotic smells of life. A young black woman, probably still in her teens and very beautiful, slipped from the door and stood there. She was dressed in a short skirt and a top that covered her small breasts, leaving her waist and navel exposed, and her thick, curly hair was tied back so that her broad forehead shone in the light of the bulb that swung slightly overhead. Though she was only a slight figure her heels made her appear much taller. Her makeup was thickly applied and as she lifted a cigarette to her red lips, concentrating on lighting it, she did not notice them for a while. Before the door closed, the two visitors glimpsed men seated around a table, other women sitting beside them in similar dress as they