<0023 A Dress Rehearsal for Mardi Gras>
The black Lincoln Continental traveled along the private road through the Devillis family’s estate north of the lake.
Cynthia watched the scenery slip quietly past her window. Neatly trimmed lawns, a long driveway, old oaks draped with swaying Spanish moss, a low wall—all slowly receding behind them.
Once they passed through the security gate and the road widened, the surroundings began to look a little more ordinary.
Gas stations, drugstores, coffee shops, pickup trucks, families heading out for the weekend.
Even this ordinary scenery, though, was nothing like the streets of her native Brooklyn, etched so deeply into her mind.
Everything was low and spread out. It looked as though you could not get anywhere without a car.
Then the Lincoln drove onto the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway.
An immense gray lake, where salt water from the Gulf of Mexico mingled with fresh water from rivers and wetlands. Beneath the thick clouds, the boundary between water and sky was indistinct, and the morning light broke faintly over the ripples.
She had missed all of this yesterday, having fallen helplessly asleep.
Without realizing it, Cynthia leaned a little closer to the window.
“This bridge is really long,” she said softly.
Louise answered quietly.
“Everyone feels that way the first time.”
Cynthia nodded.
To her, New York’s bridges were city streets that happened to spend a little time over water.
This one seemed less like a city street than a gateway from one world to another.
Traffic grew heavier as they crossed the lake and approached New Orleans.
An SUV that looked like a tourist’s rental, a van loaded with festival equipment, a work pickup—all passed the Lincoln.
Temporary signs and orange cones lined the roadside. A road maintenance truck moved slowly along, and a police cruiser passed beneath a sign pointing toward the Superdome.
The festival crowds had yet to arrive, but the city was already warming up to welcome its guests.
As they headed toward St. Claude Avenue, the colors of Mardi Gras were the first thing Cynthia noticed.
Purple, green, and gold decorations were beginning to appear in the windows of small shops. A bakery had posted a sign taking king cake preorders.
Cases of beer were stacked outside a bar that had not yet opened. With the shutter halfway up, an employee was hosing down the damp sidewalk.
Then she saw a police cruiser angled across the lane at the intersection ahead.
The Lincoln came to a gentle stop.
Mr. Whitaker looked ahead, his hands resting lightly on the wheel.
“There’s a temporary closure up ahead on St. Claude.”
Louise nodded without surprise.
“There usually is at this time of year.”
Cynthia peered through the windshield.
…What’s going on?
The emergency lights revolved slowly in the gray winter morning.
A Black officer was holding up a gloved hand to stop the cars.
His partner, a white officer with a radio in his hand, turned toward the procession crossing the intersection and scanned the surroundings.
Mr. Whitaker lowered his window and addressed the Black officer politely.
“Officer, how long will the closure last?”
The officer glanced back at the procession, checked his watch, and answered calmly.
“About ten minutes. We’ll open it right up once the last group is through.”
Mr. Whitaker raised a hand in acknowledgment and gave a brief nod. Then he turned slightly toward the back seat.
“Shall we go around?”
Louise spoke quietly.
“No. I’d like Cindy to see this.”
“What?”
Before Cynthia could ask anything more, Louise leaned toward the driver’s seat.
“Mr. Whitaker. We’re going to step out and watch for a moment.”
“Of course, miss.”
The officer pointed to a temporary pull-off beside the cruiser.
Mr. Whitaker moved the Lincoln over and parked safely at the curb.
Louise opened the door.
“Cindy. Come with me for a moment.”
Before Cynthia quite knew what was happening, Louise had taken her by the wrist and led her out of the car.
The officer raised a hand, beckoning them over.
Louise guided Cynthia toward the pedestrian access he indicated.
It took them around the blocked roadway and toward the people gathered on the sidewalk.
They passed the temporary barricade and worked their way to the curb, where spectators stood in a line.
Cynthia still looked as though she had not quite caught up with the situation.
“Weren’t we… on our way to work at the rehearsal studio?”
Louise answered as though nothing could be more ordinary.
“Take ten minutes and enjoy the view.”
Cynthia looked where Louise was pointing.
A brass band was making its way down the middle of the street, trumpets, trombones, and sousaphones sounding together in a vigorous chorus.
“Oh. Is this a Mardi Gras parade?” Cynthia asked.
Louise watched the procession.
“Not one of the regular parades, exactly… The neighborhood is getting a little warm-up in.”
It was a small, permitted Carnival kickoff procession organized by a local walking krewe and the neighborhood merchants’ association. Less a full parade than a preview of the festivities to come.
Men and women in cheerleading outfits and feathered wings stamped their feet to a short refrain from the brass band.
White boots struck the asphalt. Gold fringe swayed and caught the muted light. Behind them, residents dressed as pirates ran along brandishing foam swords.
A man dressed as Peter Pan fled with exaggerated desperation, pursued by a middle-aged man in a Captain Hook hat. Neither seemed to have any intention of actually fighting.
Both were putting far more effort into it than necessary.
Behind them rolled a pirate-ship float, slowly towed by a pickup truck.
People of all ages, apparently from the neighborhood, stood aboard it. They waved to the spectators and tossed things into the crowd.
A white-haired grandmother on the float called out.
“Where y’all from, baby?”
A plastic crown sat crookedly on her head, and she held a large plastic bag in one hand.
Before the out-of-towners at the curb could answer, little chocolate bars no bigger than a pinkie finger went flying.
One struck a tourist’s hat and fell. Another bounced lightly off the hood of the police cruiser.
The police saw it happen and said nothing.
Other people on the float threw cheap, shiny plastic bead necklaces in gold, green, and purple, along with little bags of snacks.
A miniature bag of potato chips hit a man square in the chest with a whump. He caught it and laughed.
“Welcome to New Orleans!”
The woman who had thrown it shouted the greeting.
Cynthia hesitated, unsure whether to laugh or look astonished.
Yet there was an easy hospitality in the disorder, a welcome that did not shut visitors out for being strangers.
The grandmother who had thrown the chocolate bars now scooped up a handful of shiny, coinlike objects.
“Doubloons! Get your doubloons, baby!”
Thin tokens colored purple and gold flashed faintly in the gray light as they fell onto the asphalt. Children along the curb ducked down in a scramble to collect them.
Almost without thinking, Cynthia picked up one that had struck her sneaker.
She blinked.
“Doubloons? Is this money?”
Louise gave a small shake of her head.
“No. They’re Mardi Gras souvenirs. But some people go after them harder than they would money.”
Cynthia tilted the doubloon in the dim light. It was a thin piece of aluminum colored purple, gold, and green.
The edge was a little rough, like a cheap toy. A fleur-de-lis and the words Happy Mardi Gras were stamped on its face.
She murmured, deflated,
“This is… completely useless.”
Louise smiled faintly.
“That’s why you get to keep it.”
“What?”
“Useful things eventually get used. You eat food, spend money, wear out good things by using them. But something like that has no use, so it stays. In a drawer, or an old cookie tin, or an old ashtray.”
Louise turned back toward the procession.
“And when you find it again, all that’s left is a memory. Even if you can’t quite remember when you got it.”
Cynthia studied the doubloon for a moment, then slipped it into her pocket.
The little procession passed, and they returned to the black Lincoln Continental.
“Did you enjoy yourselves?”
Mr. Whitaker looked at Cynthia in the rearview mirror with a gentle smile.
“Oh, yes… A little.”
The road reopened, and the car began to move.
A few fat raindrops struck the windshield.
Then the rain stopped almost as soon as it had begun.
Cynthia looked out the window again. A string of plastic beads hung from an overhead wire, swaying.
It was still morning. The main stretch of parade season had not even begun.
Yet here were people throwing snacks and calling out to strangers, asking where they were from.
New Orleans seemed to be a city that turned even a rehearsal for a festival into a festival.
Cynthia pressed a fingertip against the thin doubloon in her pocket.
<0024 Get Your Passport Ready>
11:48 a.m.
The black Lincoln stopped outside a single-story building in the St. Claude neighborhood. It was the rehearsal studio Satin Crescent was renting.
Mr. Whitaker opened the door, and Cynthia and Louise stepped out.
They waved him goodbye as he drove away.
Lydia’s red C7 Corvette was already parked at the curb.
Katty’s green classic Fiat 500, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Louise let out a small sigh and turned to Cynthia.
“It looks as though Kat is running late. We’ll have to get started without her.”
They were just about to enter the studio when an engine buzzed urgently behind them.
Not a car engine.
Katty came riding up on an orange Vespa and stopped outside the building.
“Morning, you two! I’m not late, right? Right?”
Louise checked her watch and answered evenly.
“…Eleven forty-eight. No, you’re not late.”
Katty switched off the scooter and removed her helmet.
Her white hair sprang out in every direction. She ran her fingers through it in a cursory attempt to smooth it down.
Her expression was that of a woman who had won a great victory.
She was not late.
“The Vespa is a glorious machine. On days like today, when the Fiat refuses to start, this little thing is a hero.”
Louise looked at the orange Vespa, then at Katty.
“You’re not late, that’s true. But your hair appears to have overslept.”
“No, this is fashion.”
“Ah. I see.”
Cynthia smiled awkwardly at their exchange.
She still had trouble telling how much of the band members’ teasing was serious and how much was a joke.
She had worked out one thing, though.
The calmer Louise sounded, the more squarely her punches landed on Katty.
When the three of them entered the studio, Lydia was already seated on the lounge sofa.
On the table were takeout coffee, a laptop, a schedule, copies of several performance contracts, and an open calendar marked with highlighter.
Lydia looked up at them.
“Everyone’s here.”
Katty spread both hands proudly.
“I’m not late today.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”
Lydia chuckled and took a sip of coffee.
Louise asked quietly,
“You’re going over the schedule before we rehearse?”
“Right.”
Lydia tapped the calendar with a finger.
“First up, next month. February. The Super Bowl is here in New Orleans, so the whole city is going to turn upside down.”
She pointed to February 9.
SUPER BOWL LIX was written in the square.
“We’ll mostly be rehearsing and playing smaller shows rather than the big stages, so that part shouldn’t be too difficult. Traffic will be the problem. We’ll need to plan our routes carefully. Super Bowl weekend, whether we’re going to a hotel, a club, or an event venue, we’ll be sitting in traffic.”
Cynthia looked up.
“And Mardi Gras comes after that?”
Lydia nodded.
“A few parade dates were adjusted because of the Super Bowl, but Mardi Gras season itself has already started. We’re in it now.”
She turned the calendar page.
“The first week of March, when Mardi Gras reaches its peak this year, we’ve got bookings one after another. Two jazz clubs. One gala in a hotel lounge. One live studio session for a local radio station. Two private corporate parties. And a set on a parade float with a brass band.”
Cynthia stared at the highlighted lines on the calendar.
It looked less like a schedule than deployment orders.
“Cynthia.”
“Yes?”
“Think you can keep up?”
Cynthia straightened her back without thinking.
“Yes, ma’am. I can.”
The answer was so prompt and precise that Katty had to suppress a laugh.
“Cindy. You don’t have to report for duty.”
“Ah, sorry, ma’am.”
“Even your apologies are military.”
“And now, something that really matters for our careers.”
Lydia turned the laptop so the three of them could see.
An email was open on the screen.
Cynthia tried to skim the message. An unfamiliar name caught her eye first.
Montreux Jazz Festival 2025.
Lydia spoke.
“Montreux Jazz Festival. July. We still have the final contract to take care of, but we’ve received an email confirming the booking. Which means we’re almost certainly going to Switzerland to perform.”
For a moment, the studio fell quiet.
Katty broke the silence with a whistle.
“Oh. Seriously? Because of how we did in Florida last year?”
“Yes. We made a good impression on the people from the main festival who saw us in Miami, and that led to this booking in Switzerland. The lineup hasn’t been announced yet, so keep it to yourselves. Especially you, Kat.”
Lydia pointed a stern finger at Katty.
Katty raised both hands.
“Why are you looking at me?”
“You know so many musicians that word gets around fast.”
“I resent that, but I can’t argue.”
Louise studied the screen for a moment, then smiled quietly.
“That’s wonderful news.”
Cynthia’s eyes were still fixed on the email.
“Mon… treux?”
She tried the unfamiliar sound under her breath.
Beside her, Louise began to explain.
“The Montreux Jazz Festival. You know it’s a major European jazz festival held in Switzerland?”
“Oh… Yes. I’ve heard of it.”
“The American edition, Montreux Jazz Festival Miami, was held for the first time last year. We played there, and that’s what led to us performing in Montreux, Switzerland, this year.”
Lydia looked at Cynthia.
“Cindy. Get your passport ready.”
“Oh, um… I don’t have one yet. I’ve never been abroad….”
Passports. International flights. Checked instruments and equipment. Switzerland.
The words all rushed into Cynthia’s head at once.
She had barely managed to stammer out her answer.
“That’s why I’m telling you to get one. It’s a hassle if you leave it until the last minute. Let your parents know ahead of time, too. July may sound far off, but we need to start preparing now… You should be on summer break, but check your school schedule.”
Cynthia stared at Lydia, her mouth slightly open.
“I’m… going with you?”
Katty shrugged.
“If you don’t, who’s going to play bass?”
Louise gave a soft laugh.
“You are our bassist, Cindy.”
Lydia met Cynthia’s eyes and spoke clearly.
“You’re coming with us. To Switzerland.”
She did not say it loudly.
Cynthia nodded, barely managing to settle her astonishment.
“Yes. I’ll get one. A passport.”
“Good. That’s it for the schedule.”
Lydia smiled and patted Cynthia’s shoulder.
Katty raised a hand.
“So, what’s for lunch to celebrate our youngest going international?”
Louise spoke.
“Kat. It’s only twelve twelve.”
“A world-class musician plans lunch ahead.”
Lydia closed the laptop.
“We eat at one. Rehearsal first.”
Katty let her shoulders sag theatrically.
“This band has no humanity.”
Inside the soundproofed rehearsal room, Cynthia picked up her bass case.
The instrument inside suddenly felt heavier than before.
But not too heavy to carry.
“All right, let’s go over what we’re working on today. Three medley arrangements for Mardi Gras, two live reference tracks to send to Montreux. We’ll also start working more solo passages into Cynthia’s bass parts….”
As Lydia spoke, Cynthia took her fretless bass out of its case.
She attached the strap, slung it over her shoulder, and plugged her cable into the amp.
Then she took a deep breath.
Let’s do this. Let’s go. Even if I don’t know how far I can make it.
For the first time, she felt she was really beginning to find a place of her own among these chaotic adults.