Free Crescent City by Belva Plain Page A

all the niceties. What does a girl need, after all?”
    Eager little Miriam, curious, quick and fanciful! Surely that mind was the equal of David’s own? It occurred to him that a girl’s mind might be wasted just as much by idle luxury as by the meager poverty of their European village. He was about to say so when his father resumed his explanations as they walked along the river’s edge.
    “Yes, these ships are my lifeline to the world.” He looked around, lowering his voice so as not to reveal any private affairs to strangers. “Last year, David, webrought in thirty thousand dollars’ worth of specie from Mexico alone.”
    Four and five deep, ships lay in tiers along the river. On foot and on horseback, in fashionable carriages and overloaded wagons, traffic surged through the streets. The city was fat and glossy with prosperity.
    “You can see any type of humanity you can think of on this riverfront,” Ferdinand mused. “Every kind of confidence man and swindler. You will see a laborer shoot dice for a few cents and a rich man bet thousands on the boat races. On the river steamers, of course, you’ve got the professional gambler. You have to watch out for card sharps going up the river. Many a planter’s been fooled by one of those gentlemen. I’ve seen a man lose the profits of a whole year’s crop in one hour’s poker game. Thousands and thousands of dollars.”
    They crossed to walk on the shady side of the street under triple tiers of iron-lace balconies. Someone above them, watering a pot of hanging ferns, sent an instant’s worth of pungent fragrance into the sultry air.
    “That’s the Cotton Exchange, corner of Royal Street. Maybe I’ll take you there tomorrow and introduce you to some of my friends. Sure there’s nothing you want before we go home?”
    David thought of something. “I’d like to buy some books in English.”
    “Still insist on English? Well, all right, there’s a bookstore down this way. We’ve got about nine bookstores in the city, you know.”
    At the back of a deep narrow shop sat an old man wearing a skullcap. He stood up when they came in.
    “English books? Over here. Poetry, novels, history, grammar. All here.” He stood watching curiouslywhile David examined the shelves. “If you want a grammar, young gentleman, I recommend this one.”
    “I want to teach myself to speak English,” David explained, speaking in French.
    “The grammar will not be enough, then. You should acquaint yourself with the literature. Then the language will come alive for you. Do you like poetry?”
    “I’ve not read very much, and that in German. But yes, I like it.”
    “Then try Lord Byron, a Romantic.” The word was savored and repeated. “Romantic. A young man’s poet. Not for me any longer, but certainly for you. And for novels, Sir Walter Scott. He’ll hold your interest. There’s nothing dry about him.”
    “My son can have as many books as he wants,” Ferdinand said. “On education I don’t stint.”
    The old man bowed. “And most wise of you, sir.”
    When a pile had been assembled and paid for, the proprietor shuffled back to the shelves and handed David a thin leather-bound volume.
    “When you have finished all these others, you will have learned enough of the language to appreciate Jonathan Swift, the greatest writer of them all. He was a satirist. You know what a satirist is, young gentleman? No? I’ll tell you. He is a man with sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, or, I should say, pen. He sees the evils of the world. He ridicules and scolds.”
    “I should imagine that sort of thing to be way over the head of a fifteen-year-old lad,” Ferdinand objected.
    The old man shook his head. “Not this boy’s. I see by his eyes that he will understand. Here. Take it.”
    After they left the shop, David asked why the old man had given him a present.
    “That’s called
lagniappe,”
Ferdinand explained. “Merchants here always add something in proportionto what you buy.