Blindman's Breakfast

Part One: Blind Man’s Breakfast

Chapter 1: The Patio

Giles De La Ronde was born blind, but since a man cannot rue the loss of something he never had, he asked for sympathy from none. In fact, he reveled in a very special superiority over his sighted neighbors in the Vieux Carré.

In place of sight he claimed he was gifted with an ear so finely tuned that he could hear the blood coursing through a woman's veins at twenty paces, and a sense of smell equally as acute. And something more, a sixth sense that gave him the ability to somehow fashion the shape and mood of people as he passed them by. His story is about a woman. She came into De La Ronde's life early one spring. You would know her if you had ever frequented New Orleans, Cannes, Palma, or Beirut when these cities were alive. You might even have met her had you ever taken your pleasures in the brothels of the Reepersbahn, the vice circuses of London, or the flesh marts of Istanbul.

The winter chill had mellowed in the Vieux Carré, and De La Ronde liked to walk the streets in the cool air. He strolled down Chartres, Royal and Bourbon, delighting in the warmth of the sun on his face as his route cut through the intersections between Ursulines and St. Louis.

He took in the smells of the freshly washed streets, breakfasts cooking in kitchens above the shops, the dirgeful blues born notes of a tired musician making his last comment on a stale beer, sweat stained and smoky workday. It was often De La Ronde's habit to take breakfast at the conclusion of such a stroll. On this day he had decided to breakfast at Brennan's. He was, of course, known to all of the staff. He was always admitted to the premises ahead of the queue of tourists who patiently awaited the eight o’clock opening hour. By the time they entered, De La Ronde would already be seated at his favorite table at a shaded spot on the back patio. The position was of utmost importance to the blind man because it was essential to the enjoyment of his all-consuming passion, eavesdropping.

A short distance from this table was an alcove formed by the corner of two walls and the patio foliage. It was a private little place amidst the bustle of the patio. Politicians, businessmen and women, and lovers were drawn to it for the privacy it offered amidst the regular Brennan’s patrons. However, the walls funneled the whispered conversations to the very table at which De La Ronde sat. His highly attuned ears had little trouble in filtering the spoken words from the surrounding noise. On this particular morning, he ordered Eggs Hussarde. As he began to pour his marchand de vin sauce, a body gently brushed past his elbow. A hand touched his shoulder with gentle firmness and he felt the closeness of a face to his ear as a woman uttered an apology in a low husky voice.

As she walked away, De La Ronde's senses were flooded with vibrant impressions. Most overpowering was that of a rapacious sexuality and a clean, fresh bodily aroma ever so slightly enhanced by the faintest hint of expensive cologne applied upon the neck and, so it seemed to him, between the thighs.

A lack of other scents made him realize there was an absence of make-up, creating an impression of confident beauty that needed no adornment. De La Ronde was at once curious and excited, so aroused, in fact, that he had forgotten whether or not he had poured the marchand de vin. He had to dip a finger into the sauceboat to make sure.

He listened carefully, following her footsteps to the corner, his pulse quickening as he realized she had taken the table. Girard, the waiter hastened over to her. Had she been a tourist he would have taken his time. She ordered Absinthe Suissesse. De La Ronde noted that it too was delivered with unusual speed. She had barely begun to drink when a man joined her at the table. De La Ronde smiled. There would be a conversation to overhear. The man ordered a Ramos Gin Fizz and Eggs Sardou in a heavily accented voice mutilated by many cigars. It was rasping, short of breath. They discussed the weather, the man's flight from Barranquila, the price of coffee, the small talk that often covered the arrival and departure of waiters and the beginning of the meal.

There was silence as the man ate. His movements sounded hurried and impatient. He breathed heavily between mouthfuls. She sat quietly drinking the Absinthe, volunteering nothing. Finally he pushed the plate aside, struck a match, and lit a cigar. De La Ronde caught the aroma and judged the cigar to be Havana tobacco of the kind now hand rolled in Key West.

"Have you seen the girl yet?" The man spoke, impatience and eagerness undisguised in his voice.

The woman laughed softly, a sensuous, husky sound that both aroused and chilled De La Ronde as he concentrated.

"Of course," she said, "several times. First by 'accident.' Once by 'coincidence.' And finally, by assignation. The first time was at a cocktail party in the Faubourg."

In a voice edged with urgency and expectation, the man asked, "What do you think? Can you accomplish this for me?"

She laughed again. "I have no doubt it can be done. I have already started with some success, and as for what do I think? Well, the task will be pleasurable indeed."

The man sighed heavily with, it seemed to De La Ronda, relief. He sat back and sucked loudly on the cigar. After a moment his chair creaked as he leaned forward.

"Tell me what happened. Everything. I want to know now."

She hesitated. De La Ronde imagined she was casting an eye over the tables as if to see if they had caught the interest of anyone. He played with his knife and fork on a softened piece of rusk as if to appear absorbed in his meal. She drank from the glass, doubtless finishing the Absinthe, at same time seeming to tease her companion. It was a trait De La Ronde judged could range from the mischievous to the sadistic.

"When I arrived back in the Quarter some weeks ago, I arranged to meet her socially. It was made to appear quite casual and accidental. The first time we met was at the party I mentioned in the Faubourg. She was wearing a white silk sheath, very little make-up. Her hair was quite incredible, a glistening golden waterfall down to her ankles. Quite stunning against her tanned skin and the white silk. She was very handsome, Sandeval. I engaged her in conversation, especially about her impending wedding. Like many a young girl about to take that step she has certain doubts.

"The conversation went well. The fiancé is from an old family in the Faubourg, so I have access to the household staff. After the party I was able to get information regularly as to her movements and activities. It was easy enough to meet her as if by coincidence at other events. A friendship has developed. She is a very curious young thing. I don't think it will take much to be able to spend some time alone with her."

The man's breathing had quickened: "When will that be? I don't have a great deal of time and we must get her ready as soon as we can."

"It will be tonight if things go well. She is coming to a small intimate party. For a few days I have had her food laced with some of the 'potions' for which I am so much in demand. I think she will be ready to explore her curiosity further."

The man gave a disapproving snort. "You seem very confident. What makes you think you can turn another woman's head?"

The woman purred. "Sandeval! A man has to discover how to please a woman, but women know only too well how to please each other."

"In that case, Madame, I wish you success tonight. I will be here at the same time tomorrow morning. Remember, you must tell me everything, all the greatest detail. It is part of the bargain."

"I will be here, Sandeval." She stood and walked away from the table, this time not passing close to De La Ronde. The man ordered a Cafe Brulot and re-lit his cigar.

De La Ronde was disturbed by this strange conversation and its erotic overtones. The man was probably South American. His footfall had been heavy. With the labored breath, De La Ronde had already envisioned an ill, overweight businessman addicted to cigars and sugared expresso. His English was perfect yet colored with a German-Spanish intonation. He was probably from Colombia or Ecuador and evidently traveled between Colombia, Florida and the Crescent City.

The woman created a more complex impression. Her husky voice was tainted with the sound of the round-lipped Negro and the back of the tongue tonality of the Creole. Here was an exotic mixture of the city's many bloods. This puzzled De La Ronde for he knew almost all of the Old City society, and certainly everyone of account in the upper crust social circles of the Faubourg Marigny.

"Is something wrong with the Eggs Hussarde, Monsieur De La Ronde?" It was Girard with his best French affectation. The man was pure Irish.

De La Ronde realized that the breakfast had ruined, "No Girard. I just left it too long. Please bring me a glass of the Montrachet. And then I want you to tell me something when you bring the wine."

Girard was De La Ronde's informant at Brennan's. In a now long established ritual, breakfast would end with Girard giving him a visual description of patrons of particular interest. The more detailed the description, the larger the tip he pressed into the waiter’s palm as he left. When Girard returned with the wine De La Ronde asked, "The man in the alcove, he was with a woman a few moments ago, you served her Absinthe Suissesse. Tell me about her, Girard."

Girard busied himself cleaning the table and moving dishes as he spoke since management would not have approved of his little arrangement with the blind man. "A most curious woman, M'sieur. Very striking, tall with a very good figure. A young body but her hair is very dark and peppered with gray. She wore a black summer weight business suit. It looked like it was tailored and did much for her figure, very fine breasts, hips and ass, in my judgment of course, M'sieur. She carried a black purse, more like an attaché case of alligator leather. Quite illegal I believe."

"But what was it that struck you as curious, Girard?"

"Her face, M'sieur. It was strange. At first glance, I took her for Creole society, perhaps thirty years old. But when I looked closely as I served the Absinthe, well she seemed quite old. The eyes had tiny lines here and there. Perhaps just the sun, nevertheless, the eyes were chilling. Solid black like those of a poisonous snake! I have seen her here from time to time and I have yet to learn her name. She always commands the greatest respect."

"Thank you, Girard. You have been most helpful." De La Ronde reached into his left inside jacket pocket, where the twenty dollar bills were kept and pressed two of them into the waiter's hand.

"Tomorrow they will be back. Please see that they get the same table, without knowing, of course, that you and I 'reserved' it for them."

"Of course, M'sieur De La Ronde, I will seat them personally."

De La Ronde did little the rest of the day. It had been curiously spoiled by the morning's encounter and the strange conversation with its menacing import. They were both planning something, Sandeval and this woman. To his senses she reeked of a powerful, sensual evil, a feeling that evoked some deep, deep memory that both excited and disturbed him. He shrugged off the feeling, but it clung like a chill winter mist rising off the delta waters. He was reminded of one other such mysterious person in the Quarter, a Creole Voodoo priestess whose grave was still worshipped in St. Louis No. 1. She had died more than a hundred years ago.

"Or perhaps she is still alive," mused De La Ronde to himself, "and she takes breakfast at Brennan's after a strenuous night of ministering to those still faithful to the Yoruba legacy. Hah! Voodoo!"

The next day found De La Ronde walking directly to Brennan's. He had spent much of the night grappling with disturbing dreams of the strange woman, as much as a man who has never seen can dream, that is. The smells of her body and its heady sexuality invaded his sleep stimulating him to a sweet but unwanted torture.

"Better be good if I stand here an hour to get in. I mean better than homemade sausage at Ziggy's in Bamberg."

The whining nasal accent of a Charleston madam came from somewhere in the middle of the queue as De La Ronde passed by the main door of Brennan’s. The strident voice of the woman cut across the quiet conversations of the waiting tourists. There were snippets of Germany, of England and of New Jersey. One silent body replete with too much garlic.

De La Ronde knocked quietly on a small side door. Louis, the maitre d', let him in.

The man, Sandeval, arrived first. Girard guided him to the table in the corner and seated him. He declined to order immediately, ordering a bottle of Moselle first and lighting a cigar. He sat, smoked, drank, and impatiently tapped his fingers upon the tabletop.

De La Ronde again ordered Eggs Sardou, determined this time to finish the meal. She walked in five minutes later. De La Ronde could sense her presence as she stepped onto the patio and past his table. She walked with an easy relaxed gait and he could well imagine the firm muscled texture of her legs. The same smells and sensations were there along with a casual insolence in her voice as she ordered Eggs Hussarde, French bread, and a bottle of Montrachet to be followed by coffee.

They exchanged the same small talk until the meal was served. Sandeval ordered the Sardou and then clumsily spooned the Hollandaise sauce from the sauceboat onto the eggs and creamed spinach. He ate noisily. Already De La Ronde was disgusted with the man on the basis of sixth sense alone. Now he felt a growing repulsion for him.

"Tell me about last night. Were you successful? Give me details, but first do we have her or not?"

The woman continued to eat and only after the second mouthful did she pause.

"She is ours."

She ate again. De La Ronde was tantalized. He concentrated all his senses on the figure sitting beyond his table. Finally she spoke again. "As I have said, I have cultivated a friendship with the girl over the past few weeks, explored her uncertainties, and her curiosities. Through the household staff, I have been able to begin feeding her various drugs and potions that have served to help our purpose. Last night was a more intimate affair. A few close friends in a casual atmosphere, a 'safe' environment for her and one in which we could talk far more intimately than before.

"I laced her drinks with my best aphrodisiacs and we spoke of the intimate and the erotic. Once a friend, I then became a sister, a mother, and finally her lover...."

Sandeval sucked noisily at his wine glass and quickly poured another. "Madre de Dios! Then she is truly ours. This is really going to happen. Madame, I will double your fee if you can bring this affair to a speedy conclusion. I must have the girl soon."

His voice, although hushed in tone, was choked with tension and anticipation.

"Don't you want to hear the intimate details of the seduction, Sandeval?" Her voice mocked his excitement.

The man must have made some sign to her for De La Ronde did not hear a response. True, it may have been drowned out by the loud proclamation of the Charleston woman who was now whining to her companion, "Spinach for breakfast? Great Day in the Morning! I can't eat reputation. I should have had the ham."

De La Ronde shook his head as if to better focus back on the table in the corner. The woman was now in mid sentence. "...in the darkness of the little private patio. We kissed there for the first time. I was quite captivated by her beauty and firm youthful body. I had left a long silken scarf nearby earlier in the evening. I had dusted it with just a little of your cocaine, Sandeval. Normally I would never have proceeded so fast, but as we both know, time is of the essence. The drugs, of course, made things easier."

"The scarf?"

"I loosened the waist band of her silken sheath and dropped one end of the choker down it. I slipped it between her thighs, then held both ends and drew it slowly upwards, then gently pulled it from end to end. She melted quickly.

"The trick, Sandeval, is almost as enjoyable to administer as it is to receive. The moment of orgasm is completely under the control of the person manipulating the strand of silk. With skill it can be long delayed and with the cocaine, the intensity of the orgasm can be spectacular. Our handsome friend finally fainted. I undressed her, then we slid into the hot tub to play. We stayed there a long time drinking, eating, and making love. She finally professed her love for me.

"By dawn there was no doubt in her mind that the marriage was not possible. I think with a little more time, a few days at most, she will defiantly announce that the wedding is off, and why. When the family discovers that the son is to be cast off for another woman the scandal will be such that nothing will be said. Then a few days later, when she disappears, there will be no alarm."

Once again, De La Ronde's meal lay cold and stale in his plate. His heart was pounding. The bizarre and erotic conversation disturbed him deeply.

Sandeval was lighting another cigar and leaning back in his chair. "This sounds wonderful. If this can be done you have control of her. But then, how can that control pass on to me? It must be delicately done but she must be completely submissive nevertheless."

"That will be accomplished."

"How?" She purred again. "The hair Sandeval, the hair. She is incredibly vain, and the focus of that vanity is her hair. The girl has now been seduced by my sexual tricks and potions. Next, I will delve into her innermost fantasies and ply her with more drugs, erotic encounters, and ritual hypnosis. The key moment will be when she is willing to forsake the man and his family. Once that is done, she will progress quickly from lover to slave. Give me a few days now, and I will be ready to deliver her to you. Let's meet here in three days and I will either have her for you or, at the very least, be able to set a firm day shortly thereafter."

"Very well, but then I want more details, I mean everything not just one teasing episode. Remember that was part of the agreement and the fee. In the meantime, I will arrange for a launch to come upriver. I have planned for a freighter to pick up a cargo of Genoa pine in the Delta for just this 'delivery'."

De La Ronde left the table. He had heard enough and was sure that the conversation was about to end anyway. Girard was surprised, and not a little dismayed at the second abandoned meal. De La Ronde walked directly down to Jackson Square and on a bench opposite the Pontalba Building. No one was within normal earshot as he spoke softly to himself, puzzling over the conversation. "A girl about to be married into a family of status in the Faubourg is about to be abducted by this woman and sold to a South American who plans to ship her God knows where. This is extraordinary."

Chapter 2: The Counsel Of A Friend Upload 11/21/21