CCJC Audio Podcast Episode 00044, Season 2
The Fantôme Bernard de Marigny, a ghost forever bound to the land he inherited, materialized on Frenchman Street. He wasn’t wearing his usual form of powdered wig and breeches, but moved about as a swirling orb of otherworldly energy. He was trapped, a karma prisoner of his own making.
His ghostly form doomed to be forever tethered to the Faubourg Marigny. He was now a constant witness to the world he no longer understood. It was a world of contradictions to his original vision for Louisiana and a stark reminder of all of his failures.
“This is my eternal purgatory,” he moaned. His voice a mournful whisper that echoed through the bustling street of endless nine-night and nine-night, unheard by the living. He, the once visionary developer of this very ground, couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This place had him a captive audience to its evolution. Where were the elegant avenues he’d envisioned?
What happened to polite conversation? What was this ear assault of sounds against his otherworldly senses? The drumming band marching by, the buskers on the corner? Was it some kind of nine-night funeral? Where was the branle French music?
What were these humans wearing? He, who once charmed the elite of New Orleans and dignitaries from all over Europe, now he felt a shiver of disapproval or confusion. Why did he even convince Jean Lafitte to join the Battle of New Orleans to save the place . . . but now he felt a vibe that was more akin to shame? Not that of others, but a shame he alone owned.
His phantom gaze fell upon a woman with hair the color of a flamboyant pink sunset. She was hawking “Vegan Mufflettas? He heard a wail, his own voice in a silent scream. He, who had enjoyed the finest Creole cuisine, the richest of velouté sauces . . . the seafood and garden bounty produced by the labors of his enslaved people, and that was his deepest shame.
The shooting pangs of extreme guilt, the humbling recognition of an inherent wrongness of what he and his kind had done was a fire that consumed him now. Everywhere he looked there were constant reminders of the bad choices he’d made.
The blazing pangs of extreme guilt, the searing recognition of the inherent wrongness of that system. It was a fire that consumed him now. A constant reminder of the bad choices he made, the lives he had irrevocably harmed and impacted.
The entitlement thrust upon him in his youth when his father died in his childhood in the casual acceptance of a horrific practice, that he now knew as a monstrous weight. The karma of it dragging him down, down, down, into the depths of his forever translucent despair.
He drifted further down toward Elysian Fields Avenue, past a building proclaiming itself a “Deja Voodoo Spiritual Temple,” next to a Cuban Rum Daiquiris shop. He who had dabbled in a little fortune telling himself, primarily as a ruse to gain advantage at a game of piquet cards or crap (weaknesses he readily still admits),despite blaming his losses on bad luck instead of his own recklessness, He felt a flicker of curiosity. He’d always been a man of diverse interests.
However, even that thrill was a bygone sack of regret. The gambling, the extravagances, the reckless pursuit of cardinal pleasures – all had contributed to his karmic downfall. Both financial and moral failures loomed large. He was trapped now within his own self-made swirling orb. Condemned to witness the consequences of his actions, the vibrant, chaotic world that had sprung up in the place of his carefully ordered plantation.
Again the music! Oh, the irony of the music! Now a man with a saxophone wailed a bluesy tune that tugged on Bernard’s heartstrings. People were dancing, not the elegant minuettes he was accustomed to, but frenetic, hip-shaking. His eyes betrayed him in understanding their street performance movements.
He saw a couple, the man with a beard that had beads in it that would make a Poitou goat envious. The woman with some kind of writing on her arms. Holding hands in public? On his land? The audacity! Here he was, Bernard de Marigny, seeing himself now as the one who squandered his fortune on bad bets and worse investments. Owning the fact that he had alienated friends and family with his arrogance.
Did he envy the diverse connections, the acceptance of others being different, lives that seemed to have more compassion and less self-interest? He was feeling a pang of something unfamiliar. He floated past a building with a rainbow flag hanging proudly. Men dressed in clothes that Bernard couldn’t even begin to describe were laughing and embracing. He stopped. His specter form swirling faster, faster, faster.
He was about to comment on the unconventional nature of their clothing when he noticed a sign that read, “Drag Queen Story Hour.” Then he realized no one could hear him anyway, his voice had been left in the past.
It was then that the Fantôme Bernard de Marigny, a complex ghost of a man, once a visionary developer, the flawed aristocrat, the slave owner, the gambler, the prisoner of his own karma – could only spin silently out of sight and mind. This was a world he no longer belonged to, one he could never have imagined, one that he helped create.
He was perpetually a ghost in a time warp cage. Forever bound to Louisiana, on a land he once owned, forever paying the price for the kind of life he lived. One without compassion, without responsibility, without true freedom.
Our tales are inspired by real Louisiana and New Orleans history, but some details may have been spiced up for a good story. While we've respected the truth, a bit of creative license could have been used. Please note that all characters may be based on real people, but their identities in some cases have been Avatar masked for privacy. Others are fictional characters with connections to Louisiana.
A Word of Wisdom:
As you read, remember history and real life is a complex mix of joy, sorrow, triumph, and tragedy. While we may have (or not) added a bit of fiction, the core message remains: the human spirit's power to endure, adapt, and overcome.
© Jerilee Wei 2024 All Rights Reserved.
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