The Baron's Black Book

The Baron’s Black Book

I race from the bar after the strange man with the obsidian, sunken eyes, his lost book clutched in my palm. Bursting out into the narrow, crippled streets of New Orleans, I turn my head frantically trying to spot his peculiar top hat, decorated with small charcoal bones and deep purple rooster feathers. Despite the full moon and scattered gas lamps, a dense fog ensures my search fails.

Catching my breath, I look down at the small, black book gripped in my trembling hand. Why is my hand shaking? The book is worn but bound with quality and durable leather. I instinctively raise it to my face and sniff it, a habit picked up visiting old cartography stores. Musty paper, tarnished hide, cigar smoke, a hint of...what’s that, iron? No, blood maybe? How did he forget this book? He cherished it the entire time I watched him. I must get it back to the man.

I notice the little, black book is a Moleskin. The craftsmanship was a clue, but chiseled in the back, I feel their logo beneath my fingers. I’m familiar with these journals. I had fallen in love with them as a kid after reading that they were the go to notebook of many of my heroes. Hemingway drained rum cocktails in Key West while scribbling prose snapshots in his journal. Van Gogh sketched the curves of lovers over his pages in Parisian cafes. Picasso also filled his book with lovers, his were Spanish, but the real difference was he made money doing it. Sorry Vincent.

For my thirteenth birthday, Moleskins were my number one request. I furiously filled them, copying vintage maps. That was my thing. I was a treasure hunter propelled with youthful imagination. I’d etch, planning adventures along the Caribbean and Carolina coasts, my quest for every lost pirate chest. Days vanishing as I plotted my course and future fortune in those little books.

In the haze of mourning my lost dreams, I had forgotten about the man for a moment. I snap out of the reverie and remember a feature of these journals. Just inside, there lies a spot, In case of loss, please return to____. I whip off the elastic shackle and open to page one. ...return to Baron La Croix. Baron La Croix? What kind of name is that? Reading on...425 Basin Street.

Below that, Moleskins read, As a reward: $____. I just stare. Over the underline, $20,000 USD. What? That can’t be real. Maybe he’s a real Baron? No, that’s not a thing. Is it? Who would give that kind of reward for some crusty book? What is written inside? The numbers to swiss bank accounts? Blackmail evidence? The Coca Cola recipe? Is this Hugh Hefner’s little black book?

I start to lose my breath again. Hands convulsing, I turn the page to try to find out what the hell I was holding. On the sheet, I begin to read long, wispy, baroque cursive. I have not given you permission to read this book. Nobody reads this book, but I understand if you have found it and are curious. But we all know what happened to the cat, don’t we? If you are going to continue your meddling, you do so at great peril to yourself, your loved ones, and perhaps humanity. Damned is the soul that continues within.

I slam the book shut, and squeeze it even more shut in my tight fist. OK, really, what is going on? Great peril to humanity? Who is this guy? Damned is the soul? What is this book? I need another drink. Or did I have too many drinks? I return to the bar assuming a deficit.

Back at my stool, “Another sazerac?” I nod, my voice gone from shock. I try to remember the last few hours.

The man had caught my intrigue right away. I couldn’t help but stare at him, past the short skirts and low cut shirts, through the cigarette smoke and mediocre jazz.

Everything he wore was black. That strange top hat, a long overcoat (an odd choice for this murky heat), his tattered suit (must a frayed pocket the book slipped through), and his button up shirt, all black. The shirt was made of an almost silky fabric, though it must not have been silk. The collar stood up too straight for that. But it had a sensual shine to it, something lusty about the texture.

He also carried a black cane with a skull for a handle. It appeared to be once golden, but was now grimly dulled to a blackish hue, quite ornate in design, but well tarnished. When I later chased him, he didn’t seem to need it. He moved quickly, deliberately, but with no haste. He did have one piece of color. Stuck in his lapel was a red pocket square. Well, more burgundy, but with a fiery brightness to it. It flamed from his ensemble bringing attention to an outfit that found its home in the shadows.

My attention was his. But now, as I try to recall the events, it was actually his hands and the notebook I kept staring at. His hands were dark black and cracked, yet quite exquisite, veins raised and pumping with rage. He had sharp, rounded, almost talon like, fingernails that rapped methodically, a metronome against his brandy snifter, as the pen danced on the page. I watched him vigorously glide a gorgeous, pewter Mont Blanc over the leaves for hours. It felt like watching a delicate but murderous ballet. I was hypnotized the entire evening.

I shake the memory and finish my drink. My nerves remain unsteady. I adjust my medication with a bourbon chaser. I guess I’m headed to 425 Basin Street. I hail a cab and recite the address. The cabby just starts driving. “You know where that is?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s the St. Louis Cemetery No.1. Everyone knows that place.” The cemetery? Who wants a notebook returned to burial grounds?

We pull up to the overgrown graveyard. Most of the tombs sit high above the ground, battered but enduring, scarred with dates from the 1800s. I don’t know where I’m going, so I just start wandering like some lost soul looking for his final resting place. I feel pulled and follow that instinct. Within minutes, I’m there.

I see the dark man in front of a huge crypt. He glows from a small altar of red candles, hunched over, chanting and rocking to himself, thick smoke billowing from his mouth. Showing up here, I question my sanity as much as his. This isn’t worth twenty grand, is it? I mean, it’s worth the money, but my life? Plus, who knows if the money even exists? He’s obviously crazy. I turn to leave but feel myself magnetically locked as he barks, “You! You have my book don’t you? I have your money.”

“I, I do, but why? Why am I here? What, what, what is this book? Why is it worth so much to you?”

He speaks in a low tone that sounds like hollow wood. His syllables are spaced out, pronounced, slow, rhythmic. They have an air about them like a primal drum. “You really want to know? It might change your life forever. If I tell you, she will come for you offering the world.”

I must know. I nod, my voice gone again. “So be it,” he continues.

“My father (he pronounces it Fah-Dah) was a Haitian novelist, my mother (Moh-Dah) a French doctor (Doke-Tah.) My father followed his dreams. He abandoned us and died penniless, a drunkard on the streets. My mother provided for me. She sent me to good schools. As a child, I obsessed over alchemy, and became a pharmacist as an adult. But I always longed to be a poet. So I made a deal.

“When you make a deal with Marie Leveau, you know her? The Voodoo Queen of this land? She brokers the arrangement and connects you with a Loa, a spirit of the dead. She assigns your shadow guide and gives you a little black book. You can then harness that god, momentarily mixing your souls, under the full moon every month. During this time, everything you write in your book will be genius, built with hundreds of years of the Loa’s power, sex, and experience.

“I was blessed with Baron La Croix as my spirit. When you evoke the underworld, you gain immense strength. There is complete control for whatever it is one lusts after.

“I desired to write the world's most beautiful poems. Others have harnessed their powers to compose symphonies, to solve mathematical equations, to draw beautiful women, to craft delicious recipes, even write code for all those little tricks in your cellular gadget. It doesn’t matter your goal. When their spirit enters you, you have all the capacity needed to make it a reality. Whatever you put down on paper in your little notebook is perfection. Men and women become gods in their chosen skill.

“So, I made my deal many years ago. And each full moon, I write the world's most heartbreaking poems. Words that would shatter souls if they were ever heard. But on the eve of her death, I must return my year’s notebook to Madame Leveau. She cleanses the pages, inhales their truths, and they become blank again. If I don’t return my little black book, she voids the contract, and I lose my right to become Baron La Croix.

“So, that is why I place such a stiff bounty on the return of that book. It is all the money I have. If I had more, the reward would be more. Nothing is as valuable and sacred as that book to me.”

“But why don’t you share your poetry? You are allowed to share what you write, aren’t you? You could make millions. Have a much bigger bounty. Be a success. You are just a pharmacist, and no offense, maybe not a very accomplished one, based on your modest ransom. It’s a lot of money, sure, but not compared to what the words in the book must be worth. If they are as good as you say they are, why don’t you share this so-called brilliance with the world and get what you deserve?”

“Yes, of course I can share it. I can become rich, famous. But if you gave up your soul for the one thing you wanted most, would you just let peasants have it for free? I wanted the most beautiful words to ever have been written. I will face eternal damnation for my actions. If I shared my exquisite turns of phrase, others would be getting a free ride.” He gets angrier with every sentence. “I sacrificed everything for this. Why should they get to mount my coattails? This beauty, this art, it belongs to me and me alone! Only I get to know the enchantment of giving up everything you have for the one thing you love. Now, take your bag of money and leave me!”

A brown, rolled up grocery bag filled with twenty thousand dollars is hurled at my chest. I grab hold with both arms, hugging it against me. It’s more money than I’ve ever had. All from just returning a book to some guy that believes in magic and is clearly, clinically insane. I feel bad for the poor guy. But his mind’s loss, is my coffer’s gain.

I start walking towards the exit of the graveyard, still quite stunned by the night’s events and the lunacy of that madman. Just as I’m about to leave, wind swirls around me, hissing and screeching. It carries a woman’s words in that familiar creole accent, “Want to make a deal, treasure hunter (Hoont-Tah)?” I look down, and between my feet is a brand new little black book.