The Singing Rain

First of a series of stories based on the legends of New Orleans.

The sound of a lonely violin rang throughout the Square. It's solemn notes echoed off the wet stones, off the iron gate, off the series of shops that used to be the writers' apartment. The violinist played on, standing relatively dry under a white canopy he set up and took down every day. He played through the humidity of summer and the rain and wind of hurricane season. By now all the other performance artists, painters and tarot readers were gone. The rains were too heavy for many of the regulars to make decent money for their time. Harry, however, needed anything he could get. The dampness wasn't good for his violin's life, but every day lost was another day the rent wouldn't get paid.

That thought in mind, he played a little louder, drawing the bowstrings along the stringers harshly. His lazy melody turned faster, catchier. There was no one out in the Quarter today besides the locals, and even they, with their southern hospitality and ease were rushing to complete their daily chores. Harry doubted he'd make much of anything today, just a bit of change, but he had to try. “Come on, Harry. You can't give up now. You just got here. C'mon.”

“Come on, Harry.” Everyday, sometimes every hour and occasionally every few minutes Harry would repeat his chant. Sometimes he muttered it aloud, and that garnered looks from the community around him, but he knew he wasn't the oddest character in Jackson Square. New Orleans drew all kinds.

He dragged the bow across the strings, very staccato. It kept his spirits up in the gloom. A few more locals passed, one or two tossing him a sympathetic glance from under umbrellas and soggy newspapers. Then there was no sign of the living for minutes. Growing tired, getting ever-wetter, Harry let his aching fingers leave the strings, e, a, d, g, one by one. The music stopped and left the rain to take its place. He sighed and looked at his watch. 6:32. On any other night this place would be hopping with foot traffic. Uneducated tourists hid in their hotels until evening, even during the rainy season. Now was about the time they'd be venturing out to find classic New Orleans fine dining.

Harry, however, was headed for cheap and easy Cafe du Monde, a staple and landmark in the New Orleans community. He put away his lovely cherry wood Vera, and laid an open umbrella over the case. As fast as he could, Harry deconstructed the canopy and showed it into its bag. Umbrella in hand, violin under his arm and canopy slung across his back, Harry marched along the wet sidewalk. Loud music poured out from every bar and pub along the way, doing anything and everything to lure in potential customers. Harry kept walking, occasionally nodding his head to the locals he passed. Just up ahead were two of his favourite people in the Quarter. Adrian was twelve going on sixty. He wore blazers and bowlers and was rarely seen without his cane. He loved history and fantasy, and usually combined the two. Lisa was a newcomer to the Quarter. She'd only been there a few months, but was adapting. New Orleans suited her, and she it. Harry stopped for a quick “good evening.” They were discussing Lisa being a time traveler and what London in 1492 would have looked like. Harry had to laugh. The stories they came up with...

When he finally made it across the streets, Harry set his violin on a table under the wide awning and shook out his umbrella. The canopy landed in an adjacent chair with a thud.

A smiling girl with dark hair in a bun and slightly-off teeth walked over to greet him.

“What can I get you?” She asked in an accent Harry placed as slightly Russian.

“Chicory and beignets,” Harry answered.

“Coming right up, Harry,” she said, and wound her way through the maze of tables and inside.

“Thanks,” he muttered after her. The staff here were finally getting to know him. Maybe soon he's have a usual.

Harry rested his elbows on the table and let his eyes wander over the street. There were only one or two people out now. It was suppertime for everyone in the city. He doubted he'd get any more listeners tonight. After his warmup he'd catch the trolley back to Freret.

“Well, don't you look terrible!” Harry looked up at the grinning girl. She set the plate of pastries and powdered sugar in front of him, and handed him the steaming cup directly.

Harry gave her a tired smile. “Just a slow day, that's all.” He took the cup and inhaled deeply. There was nothing quite like coffee with chicory.

“You going to make rent?” She stuck out a hip and rested a hand on it.

He ducked his head with a sheepish smile. “I really hope so.”

“You'll get it, Harry. Speaking of...”

“Oh! Right.” Harry dug into his violin case. “6.80, right?” He pulled out a few dollar bills and dropped them on the metal table.

“Y'know what? It's on me.”

“What? Marie, you're an angel!”

She laughed. “I'm no angel. You owe me one.”

“Anything you want, just name it.”

“Oh I'll remember that!” She winked and walked back to her station.

Harry sighed and brought the cup to his lips. He took a long drink, wincing when the molten liquid hit the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and lowered the cup, letting the warmth flood his stomach. His hands were heating up, too, and he couldn't help but smile just a little.

He heard a familiar noise and glanced to his left. A shopping cart piled with now-sopping clothing and cardboard being pushed by an equally sopping wet older man rolled under the patio awning. Harry raised his coffee and nodded in greeting. The man he'd seen before, he thought his name was Larry, half-hobbled to the takeaway window. By the time he reached it, Mama, one of the older ladies at the cafe, was already out the door and shouting.

“Don't you be comin' back here, Larry! You know we told you last time not to be comin' back lookin' for handouts! Get out!” Her hands waved wildly in the air in front of her.

“What, Mama? It's cold! I jus' wanna get dry!” Larry complained.

“I told you last time not be showin' your face here without no money!”

Harry watched the exchange from behind his coffee. Mama eventually got Larry to leave, and the old man pushed his cart back out into the downpour. Harry glanced down at the bills lying on the table. He stared at them a long moment, brown eyes unblinking. He let out a breath, downed his last beignet and raced after Larry.

“Hey, wait!” He shouted.

The man stopped his cart and looked behind him. “Whatchu want?”

“Here,” Harry pushed the money into Larry's hand. “Go get some coffee. It's freezing out here.”

Larry looked at him skeptically. “You sure?”

“Very sure. Go tell Mama what's what.”

The old man grinned and slapped Harry on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “God bless ya! There are still good people out here!”

Both men walked back to Cafe du Monde together. Larry went straight to the counter and ordered. A new very wet Harry went back to his table and gathered his things. He silently apologized to Vera for leaving her. On his way back down Dumaine, it hit him. Sure, he may have helped Larry, but now his rent would most certainly not be paid. Again. The landlady wouldn't take his excuses this time.

Harry heaved a heavy sigh. A few more hours in the square wouldn't hurt. Maybe the rain'd let up and he'd get some listeners. Weary arms hoisted the canopy back up. Cold fingers retuned. For the next three hours the rain never slowed. No one stopped to listen to Harry's music. At ten, shivering, damp and defeated, Harry packed up again and started for home and the coming eviction notice.

The rain had just begun to lighten by the time harry had walked halfway through Pere Antoine Alley. He never really cared which alley he took to pass the Cathedral, Pere Antoine or Pirates, but tonight his feet kept to the right.

Harry was dwelling on his rent and excuses for his landlady when he heard it. At first he figured the bars were playing louder, but the music wasn't rock and roll. He stopped and looked behind him. Maybe the shops in back of the... no. They were closed. It got louder. Slowly. It was a man singing, definitely. Harry, however, couldn't find the source.

He was alone in the alley.

The singing gradually grew louder. Harry recognized it as the Kyrie the Priest sang in mass in St. Louis. The words washed over him. In between the stringing cold raindrops was warmth and calm. Harry felt himself relax, felt the heat throughout his limbs. The singing was on top of him, surrounding him.

And then, just as it had crescendo'd, the singing faded into the alley. The warmth receded, but left some residual in Harry's heart. He knew what had just happened. He restarted his walk down the alley and toward home with a new determination. If Pere Dagobert was looking out for him, he'd not only survive New Orleans, but thrive there.