The Great and Calamitous Tale of Johan Thoms

Meanwhile, more absinthe was firing up the boys as they headed back toward the palace. The streets were quiet.

They pondered the wisdom of their trek to the Old Sultan’s.

“I know! Follow me.” Johan pulled his friend to the left, away from the empty boulevard.

* * *

A fine and fragrant lady of the night muscled in between the twins and whispered in Herb’s ear. He looked interested.

A burst of laughter echoed as Srna gave them all his best impression of the perpetually furious, energetically uncomfortable, and supremely crazy Indian diplomat from Vienna, Mr. Rajee. It was his party piece. It was a good one.

* * *

The door opened. The boys entered the Cellar.

There, at the first table they were set to walk past, were three smartly dressed, drunk men and a girl whom Johan recognized, her pupils as black as the Earl of Hell’s riding boots.

Oh God! Concentrate! Johan, concentrate!

Johan moved directly toward the table from where the laughter came.

Aphrodite had surely seen him.

Five (#ulink_adb81f59-9b26-5669-8809-96b5d74559a4)

We Are the Music Makers. We Are the Dreamers of Dreams. (#ulink_adb81f59-9b26-5669-8809-96b5d74559a4)

Oh! Pleasant exercise of hope and joy!

For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood

Upon our side, we who were strong in love!

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,

But to be young was very heaven!

—William Wordsworth

Early hours June 10, 1913. Sarajevo.

Lorelei Ribeiro indeed recognized Johan Thoms straightaway.

She motioned him forward, gesturing to Herb to make way for the two strays.

Introductions were made in English. This time it was Bill’s turn to play the drunken fool as Herb announced;

“I’m ’merican.”

“You are a merkin?”

Bill spluttered. “He’s a fucking merkin!”

He had tried to whisper this in Johan’s ear, but everyone had overheard. None of the men knew it referred to a certain kind of hairpiece. Lorelei, however, smirked. Johan and Bill took their places at the table, glancing around at the assortment of female detritus scattered around the Cellar.

“It’s like the bloody Crimea in here,” Bill said.

The boys nodded their heads in appreciation to the host, Srna, who remained as well groomed as a cat, and as well preserved as black-currant jam.

Johan was no longer the gibbering wreck of the night before. He held the ensuing conversation with his elders in the palm of his hand, moving it skillfully to include each present. He inquired politely as to James’s home state of Idaho, engaged Mario on the family tree of the Srna clan in Sarajevo, and delved for details of New Orleans from Herb.

“The French Quarter is one place I would truly love to visit one day.”

“It’s one mad place, son,” Herb agreed, with heavy eyelids.

“I have an invitation from the owner of the Napoleon House to stay whenever I want. His son is in the same faculty as I. Do you know of the place, sir? It’s on St. Louis and Chartres, I think.” He pronounced the street names as a local would have.

“Every one in the quarter knows the Napoleon House. Best bourbon sours this side of the Mississippi, and the other side, too, I’d hazard a guess. I’ve climbed that crooked old staircase myself on a couple of occasions, to untold treasures above,” Herb said, with a weary bullishness.

“And are there really vampires there?” Johan attempted to rerail the conversation in front of the lady. Lorelei squirmed in her seat.

“There’s every sort of vampire and weird creature of the night in the Easy. Odd critters from seaboard to west head to N’awlins for their crazy antics. It’s why I left, sir. They’ll get you in the end,” Herb said. “You should take your friend up on the offer. There ain’t nowhere like it.”

“And the black magic?”

“As I said, those weirdos get up to everythin’. Voodoo shit is just the start of things. Snakes and skulls make ’em live forever. But make ’em look like they eaten’ nothing but bones for a year a’ Sundays.”

“I prefer the Garden District,” interjected the beauty to Herb’s right. “Those mansions are haunted, for sure.” Her features lit up, and the reflection of a candle danced in her black eyes. Herb took this distraction as his chance to excuse himself and headed toward a darkened arch. James followed him, slowly.

Cartwright and Srna were discussing the rights and wrongs of duels and satisfaction, and Johan was left face-to-face once again with Lorelei.

“So, we meet again,” was Johan’s opening gambit. At least it was in English and the words were in the right order.

“A pleasure.” Lorelei advanced her metaphorical pawn forward one space.

“May I excuse myself for last night? I don’t know what came over me,” Johan said, but with enough confidence so that she might think he was not a complete moron. So far so good.

“That’s all right. It happens,” she answered in vermouth tones with a tilt of the head which implied that it was not the first time she had had such an effect on man or boy, but it also suggested that she quite enjoyed it.

They had the next twenty minutes all to themselves.

Soon the American boys were meandering back to the table, stopping to ogle young ladies and engage them in a confused dialogue. Lorelei leaned forward and, with her left hand under the table, grabbed Johan’s crotch.

An awkward pause followed. Lorelei grinned.

“What is that perfume?” was all that the youth could manage.

“It is called Chance.” With her right hand, she twisted his shirt collar and top buttons a half turn, and with her black eyes she glared deep into his dilated pupils.