The Snap Beans Ain’t Salty

The heavy tropical heat that hung over New Orleans did nothing to douse the city’s energy. The French Quarter was packed with people spilling in and out of bars, on a collective quest for sex, danger, cheap liquor, and every other vice their hearts desired. It was only three in the afternoon.

 

Marcel strolled up Bourbon Street, weaving in and out of the revellers until he reached Jackson Square. He sat on a bench and watched the endless mob of tourists that lined up, some for hours, outside Café Du Monde for their beignets and café au lait. Marcel wondered how much time they could’ve saved by walking a couple of blocks and picking up the same food at a less crowded joint like Gerties. The service was quicker, the coffee was hotter, and the beignets were better.

Then again you’d have to be a local to know that and Marcel couldn’t blame any of the people in the queue for being drawn to a place with the reputation and history of Café Du Monde. It was an experience. A venue for falling in love with the Crescent City and that was something he encouraged. On some level, Marcel felt a twinge of envy for the folks who were experiencing the city for the first time.

“Wherever you’ve gone, it’s sure left a dumbass look on your face.” A voice shook Marcel from his contemplation, and he looked up to see the grinning face of his friend and bandmate, Reggie.

“That’s funny. ’Cause I figured you carried all the stupid with you,” Marcel said.

“All I’m carrying right now is the greatest food in the world, mon ami.” Reggie held out a brown bag of fresh beignets and a coffee from Gerties.

Marcel thanked him and took the coffee, sipping it gently. He savoured the chicory flavour and bit into a beignet, getting punched in the mouth with an explosion of grease and sweetness. Marcel finished it quickly, going for another, but Reggie kept the bag out of reach.

“You wanna save some for tonight and be able to ride that sugar high. That way you’ll sound good on the sax and we’ll finally get signed.”

“We’ll get signed as soon as you learn how to play bass. I’d say it sounds worse than a drowning cat but that’d be a slap in the face to drowning cats everywhere.” Marcel slipped into the easy banter of musicians taking shots at each other. Reggie might have seen himself as the second coming of Wooten but that didn’t mean everyone else did.

“Everyone knows bass is for real artists. All you do is suck and blow.”

“That’s gotta be the lamest sax joke I’ve ever heard. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Merci.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“So, how’s Clara? She ask about me?”

“Same as always. Being a family girl.”

“She can be more than one thing. Tell her to come down later.”

“Not happening.”

As the afternoon marched on, Marcel and Reggie continued to shoot the shit, eating and making plans for the day like they were touring the world as a famous band. It was all they’d dreamed of doing since they were kids and started the Lougarouxs.

Over the years they’d built up a decent reputation in the city for their mixture of jazz, zydeco, and hip hop, but had yet to break through in a meaningful way. All of that was going to change tonight.

After saying his goodbyes to Reggie, Marcel took a streetcar north into Mid-City. He passed the time by staring idly out the window, catching a glimpse of a shelled-out row of houses. A decade on, the shadow of Katrina still loomed over the city. Uncomfortable memories clouded his mind and Marcel felt a heaviness in his chest. He closed his eyes and counted backwards from one hundred, growing calmer as the numbers dropped.

He got off near Armstrong Park, walked for a couple of blocks, and entered a store with an old wooden sign proclaiming: Mojo Hand — Voodoo, Witchcraft, and Occult. As Marcel entered the shop the aroma of incense, candles, and smoke hit him in the face, causing him to wrinkle his nose. The store was packed with trinkets designed to catch the eyes of tourists looking for a “traditional” souvenir.

But if you wandered deeper, the cheap voodoo dolls and commemorative shirts slowly gave way to dark corners full of dried leaves, railroad spikes, tar water, and other supplies that local practitioners of the occult arts sought. Marcel walked towards the back of the store, passed an altar dedicated to Papa Legba, god of the crossroads, and tried not to bump into shelves stacked with oils and religious figures. He almost knocked over a passport mask perched on the edge of a desk.

“Anyone home?”

The beaded curtains at the end of the room parted and Clara poked her head out. “You break something, you buy it.”

“You should really consider cleaning some of this junk out, petite. It’s a safety hazard.” Marcel wrapped his arms around her for a tight hug.

Clara furrowed her brow. “Quit calling me that. You know I hate it. And you best not let momma hear you saying that either.”

“That’s exactly why I like saying it, little sister,” Marcel fixed her with a mischievous smile.

“Momma’s here?”

“She’s in the back with a customer.”

“Well, tell her I came by and dropped off some money,” Marcel said as he dug into his pocket and placed $100 down near the cash register. It wasn’t much, but he believed every little bit helped when it came to supporting his family.

Clara rubbed her elbow, uncomfortable, though she nodded her head in acceptance. “You’re not staying?”

“Got the Tipitina’s gig to prepare for. Should have some time to hang on the weekend though.”

“Yeah, I heard. Reggie told me it’s going to be your ticket out of this hellhole.” She folded her arms and Marcel recognised the hurt in her voice. He made a mental note to punch Reggie in the mouth for filling her head with nonsense.

“No one takes what that fool says seriously. He shoots his mouth off about everything. Even if it all goes to plan it doesn’t mean I’m leaving home.”

“That’s not the point,” Clara muttered. “I’m glad you two are following your dreams. What gets me is that I’ve got to hear it from him and not you. Makes me feel like you don’t want me around it. Like you need to hide something that makes you happy from your own family.”

Marcel sighed and rubbed the back of his head. “That’s not how I wanted to make you feel. It’s just that…well, there’s a lot of creeps that hang around the kind of joints that I play in.”

“We’ve talked about this already. It’s sweet that you wanna be my protector but it isn’t your job to fight off all the Toms, Dicks, and Harrys of the world for me.”

“You’ll find that to be the definition of what being a big brother is all about. Says so in the dictionary.”

Clara snorted. “Sure it does. I’m a big girl, okay. I’ve been fighting my own battles for a long time. Now tell me what time the gig starts and I’ll see you there.”

Marcel puckered his forehead, seeing a fight he couldn’t win. She was as stubborn as he was when she’d made up her mind about something. That was why he loved her. “Nine. But you’ll want to get there earlier so you can get a good view of me owning the stage.”

“First time for everything.” Clara grinned and they hugged again, just as the beads leading to the back of the shop parted and a tall, dark man wearing a broad-brimmed hat wandered into the open. Seeing them, the man doffed his hat and left. He was followed by the bright colours of their mother’s tignon flashing in the beams of sunlight that managed to penetrate the darkness of the shop.

Rachelle de Marigny had made it her mission in life to make sure her children grew up knowing where they came from. Stories of Haiti, Vodou, and great-grandpa Emmanuel and his houngan ways had played over and over in the family home, the broken record of Marcel and Clara’s childhood.

When Momma wasn’t waxing lyrical about the old country it was about how much of a deadbeat their father Jacque was and how he’d loved claiming he was a descendent of the famous French Creole writer and nobleman Bernard de Marigny, when he was actually a grifter and street hustler.

According to her, they’d only been married for a second and she’d kept his name as a reminder that the Loa worked in mysterious ways. Marcel barely remembered him. He was a face that had been and gone and maybe there were some unresolved feelings there but at least he had music as an outlet. It was enough.

Momma had her store and her religion but he wondered if she’d ever really got over Dad leaving. Marcel got the feeling that whenever she looked at him, she saw Dad. Just another layabout wiling away his time on fruitless dreams, lost causes, and dead-end jobs. So, she’d put all her energy into ‘saving’ Clara, preparing her to follow in the footsteps of three generations of mambos.

“Clara. Get upstairs. There’s some ingredients I need put together for a gris-gris.” Rachelle said.

“Sure, momma.” Clara bowed her head, giving Marcel a look before she disappeared behind the curtain.

“Hey, momma,” Marcel said, staring at a mural of a winged serpent with the head of a man on the far wall. “Never seen that picture. It…goes well with the store.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to recognize Damballah. He only went and created the world.” Rachelle sniffed, her back turned while she rummaged around the shelves.

Marcel fought the urge to roll his eyes at her piety. He’d learned that the best way to avoid an argument was to simply give her the space to express her feelings and to swallow his pride. As much for his sake as Clara’s. Searching for a way to fill the awkward silence, he said, “Business looks like it’s picked up since I was last here.”

“There’s never been a lack of folk who’re looking to be healed. The righteous ones anyway. Helping them come to their senses is what I do best.”

Marcel caught the familiar accusatory tone she used whenever she was about to get up on her soapbox and chew him out for choosing to beat to the sound of his own drum instead of following the path she’d laid out for him. He didn’t have the energy for it.

“Well, all the same, I’ve left a little money in the register.”

“We didn’t ask for your charity.” Rachelle faced him, hands on her hips.

“It’s me wanting to give back to my family, momma. If it helps, think of it as an offering at the altar of self-improvement,” Marcel said, more glibly than he’d intended. “Don’t you sass me,” Rachelle hissed. “You’ve never been serious about anything in your life. Get it from your daddy’s side. I said I don’t want your money.”

“Good talk, momma. Nice seeing you.” Marcel felt the onset of a tirade coming and the trick was to get out of the way before it hit. He left the shop, the sound of his mother’s righteous anger dogging each step. He needed to clear his head. He needed music.

Marcel got on another streetcar and headed back to his apartment on Tulane Avenue. He ate a quick stir fry, showered, changed, grabbed his saxophone, and went out again. He got to Tipitina’s at 7 pm and, as soon as he entered the venue, it felt like he was home. The club had been set up in 1977 by a group of music fans called the Fabulous Fourteen to honour blues singer Henry ‘Professor Longhair’ Byrd.

Named after one of his most famous songs, Tipitina’s had solidified Professor Longhair’s legacy and it continued to be a paradise for folk who wanted to let their hair down and be a part of history. People from all over the world flocked to Tipitina’s to worship at the shrine of jazz, boogie-woogie, and blues. This was Marcel’s church. This was where he came to honour the gods of music.

He spotted Reggie near the stage, tuning his guitar, alongside their drummer Sinead. She looked like she was listening as Reggie got carried away with telling her how a bass guitar was designed. Marcel could tell she was far more interested in her instrument.

“You should try putting that energy into playing rather than shooting your mouth off,” Marcel said.

“It’s called warming up the vocals. Isn’t that right, Sinead?”

“I’d call it boring me to death,” Sinead grunted. “Before Marcel turned up, I was this close to slamming the drums loud enough to deafen myself. At least then I’d have been able to concentrate.”

Marcel laughed and got onto the stage, surveying the empty chairs and tables. He hoped every seat was going to be filled tonight and that the talent scout from K.B Records was going to show up.

Ever since Reggie had told him they were playing in front of a scout, he’d tried to act cool, to not get himself too worked up about the possibility that Reggie was bullshitting. Now that he was on stage, everything felt real. They went through the set they’d come up with, practising a couple of songs.

At 8:30 pm the doors opened and people piled inside. Those who couldn’t find a table propped themselves up at the bar or mingled at the back of the room. The air was charged with expectation, stoking the flames that burned in Marcel’s gut. From behind the curtain, he scanned the club, trying to spot his sister but it was too crowded to make out individual faces.

When the curtains came down, Marcel took his position on the left side of the stage and Reggie took the right side. A cheer came out of the audience and Marcel took another moment to view the crowd. It didn’t matter whether they were here to see The Lougarouxs or just wanted to escape from the grind of daily life for a couple of hours. He’d give them a show to remember.

They launched into the set, kicking off with the classic Jazz song ‘Tiger Rag.’ Marcel imagined what it must have been like for innovators like Jelly Roll Morton and Louis Armstrong in those early days of jazz, NOLA boys who’d taken the Big Easy’s music to the bordellos, nightclubs, and honkey-tonks of Chicago, New York, and beyond.

Who’d carried hurricanes and squalls in their instruments and unleashed them into the world, changing the landscape of music forever. He channelled that attitude, releasing his storm into the room in a symphony of arpeggios and growls.

Sinead’s rock n’ roll drumming style gave him a springboard to leap off, his notes rising higher, the pace more frenetic. He slowed down in between Reggie’s chords, letting the notes from his saxophone stretch out the noise, segueing into the next song, ‘The Snap Beans Ain’t Salty.’

The song described hard times, about an empty larder and being so poor that you couldn’t even afford salt pork to spice up beans. It was a song that reminded Marcel of where he came from and he belted out a string of high notes that morphed into a solo.

His heart jumped into his throat, gushing through his horn, spiralling into a wave of bluesy catharsis, his tone clear and perfect. Marcel heard the crowd whoop and holler and he fed off their energy, using it to power through original material like ‘Bayou Born,’ ‘Riverboat,’ and ‘Rolling Down To Baton Rouge.’

At the end of the performance, Marcel was covered in sweat, the roar of the audience ringing in his ears. He soaked in the moment for as long as he could and it was only after he’d come off stage, gone backstage, and the adrenaline started to wear off that he realized it was the biggest crowd they’d ever played in front of.

“Did you hear that reaction? That was insane.” Reggie slapped him on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

“It was something,” Marcel agreed, taking a swig of water to cool his throat.

“Not to put a downer on anything, lads. But I didn’t see anyone out there wearing a K.B Records badge.” Sinead twirled a drumstick through her fingers. Of the three of them, she was the practical, logical one and Marcel got what she was saying.

He hadn’t seen anyone who looked like a talent scout either, but then he had no idea what a talent scout looked like.

“Hard to see anyone when you sell the joint out. I’ll bet there’s more than one agent out there getting ready to sign us on the spot,” Reggie said, his optimism unquenchable. “All we’ve got to do is wait and let them come to us. Now, who wants a beer?”

Marcel opted for a ginger ale. His phone buzzed and he went outside to talk to Clara, who rang to tell him it was an amazing show but that she was on her way home because she had to open the store early tomorrow. They spent a few minutes chatting and Marcel said they’d catch up properly over the weekend.

He was about to go back inside when a tall man stepped into the alleyway and leaned against the wall, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He blew out a stream of smoke and Marcel got the feeling that he’d seen him somewhere before.

“Great show. You got the crowd jumping tonight.” The man spoke in a deep baritone.

“Thanks. That was the plan,” Marcel said.

“I mean it, man. Haven’t seen someone play the sax like that in a long ass time. It was like watching someone fuck in musical form. That takes me back.” The man seemed to drift off somewhere. “How long have you been jamming?”

“All my life.”

“Course there’s always room for improvement. Give me a call and we’ll set something up.” The man produced a card from his coat pocket and handed it over. “Good meeting you again.”

“You know me?” Marcel stared at the card. When he looked up, the man had disappeared. He considered throwing the card away. There was something eccentric about the guy that’d rubbed him the wrong way. Then he took a second look at the card and was hit by a wave of exhilaration. He returned to Reggie and Sinead, showed them the card that had the K.B Records label on it and they all hugged each other.

The next day, Marcel went to work feeling too distracted to concentrate on anything beyond the events of last night. He got a couple of coffee orders wrong and when he was reamed out by his manager, he made a show of being apologetic, even though his mind was elsewhere. After work, he met up with Sinead and Reggie at Central Grocery for muffulettas and to discuss their next move. They’d agreed to be together when Marcel called the talent scout.

“Hey, is this Joey Atibon?”

“Who’s asking?” A gravelly voice came over the phone.

“It’s Marcel de Marigny. You gave me your card last night.”

“Was expecting to hear from you. You down for giving another performance like that?”

“Sounds real good, Mister Atibon. Me and the guys are excited to show you what we can do.”

“You better be. I’m gonna put you on the map. Here’s what I want you to do…” Hours later, Marcel was sitting in Sinead’s car, the city fading away to be replaced by cypress trees and the endless stillness of the Mississippi. Atibon had said he’d meet them for a private tryout at midnight outside of West Bank in Jefferson Parish. They arrived fifteen minutes early at a crossroad that stretched into the bayou, the only light coming from the faint glow of the half-moon and the high beams from the car.

“Yeah. No way this isn’t dodgy,” Sinead muttered, getting out and leaning against the hood to stretch her arms.

“We’ve played in worse places,” Reggie said, fetching his guitar from the trunk. “You know the moonlight brings out the loveliness in your eyes, chere.”

“Still not interested, salaud,” Sinead rebuked good-naturedly.

Marcel left them to banter, walking further down the road to see if he could get a signal on his phone. The connection kept breaking up and he didn’t want to miss a call if Atibon planned on being late. When it didn’t work, he walked back to the car to find Sinead and Reggie slumped on the ground, unmoving.

A lump welled in his throat; his heartbeat quickened. What the hell was going on? He tried calling their names, tried waking them up but neither stirred. He called 911. No answer. Marcel could feel himself starting to panic. The bayou suddenly felt a lot smaller, the darkness closing in around him.

“I wouldn’t worry about them. They’re taking a rest.” Atibon swaggered out of the swamp, an instrument case slung over his shoulder.

“What the hell are you talking about? We need to get them to a hospital,” Marcel said, a spasm of apprehension churning in his stomach. He started counting down from one hundred and touched Reggie’s forearm, finding the pulse.

“Like I said, they’re just sleeping. Only need two for a duet.” Atibon took a flask out of his pocket, taking a swig. “You want some rum? Oh, yeah. That’s right. You’re not a drinker. Don’t want to go down the same road as your old man. Wise choice.”

Marcel flinched, bad memories coming to the surface. “Don’t know how you know my dad. Doesn’t matter. I’m getting my friends out of here.”

“Didn’t know him personally. But he met me at the crossroads all the same. Maybe you weren’t so different.” Atibon shrugged, taking another pull and putting the flask away. “Relax. You haven’t got anything to fear from me. I’m here to help.” He made a gesture with his hand, as if doffing an invisible hat, and Marcel recognised him.

“You were at the shop the other day.”

“That I was. Your momma’s a gracious host. Loyal. A good trait in a devotee. I can see you take after her.”

Marcel rubbed his head, feeling foolish. “So…what? My mom put you up to it. Had you follow me around and pretend to be some hotshot record producer to teach me some kind of lesson?”

“All she did was pray to me. I’m the one who chose to answer.” Atibon set down his case and rolled his broad shoulders.

“Uh-huh. Now you’re just talking in riddles for the hell of it,” Marcel grumbled, his patience running thin.

“I never pretend to be anything but what I am. A patron of the musical arts with a good eye for talent. You came here for a jam session and that’s what’s happening, young blood.” Atibon lifted a silver saxophone out of the case. It was the most beautiful instrument that Marcel had ever seen. Lithe and elegant, it glittered in the darkness with such brilliance that it looked like it was made from starlight.

“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” Atibon quipped, noting the twinkle of admiration in Marcel’s eyes. “I don’t bring her out for every fool who thinks he can play. Here’s the deal. We have ourselves a duet and you may find yourself becoming a little richer for the experience. Hell, if you won’t do it for fame and fortune do it for your companions. Otherwise, they’re going to keep on snoozing.”

Marcel glanced at the comatose bodies of Sinead and Reggie and furrowed his brow. He got his saxophone out of the car. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

“Excellent. Now, we’ll start with something simple like Giant Steps. Follow my lead.” Atibon put his lips to the mouthpiece, blasting one of Coltrane’s most famous songs and Marcel was swept away on a wave of musicality. The way Atibon played was unreal, stacking notes with the precision of a chess player who was already several steps ahead of his opponent. The style was brash and goading.

Marcel launched into his rendition, recalling the feeling of freedom he had at Tipitina’s. The fire in his belly spread through his saxophone, scorching the air. Atibon winked at him and shifted into Oliver Nelson’s Stolen Moments, slowing the tempo. When Marcel matched him note for note, he pivoted effortlessly into Speedball by Lee Morgan.

High energy slammed into Marcel with the power of a freight train, almost knocking him to the floor, but he dug his feet in, playing at his own feverish pace, and as he played he stepped outside of himself, seeing strange things happening to Atibon.

His face kept changing, as free-flowing as the music that shook the earth. One minute he appeared to be a shabby guy wearing a straw hat. The next he was a bent-backed old man leaning on a crutch. Other times Marcel saw a powerful man in a top hat and tuxedo with a skeletal face, eyes the color of burning coal.

Marcel couldn’t say how long they played. But there came a point where his throat finally cracked under the pressure and he stopped to breathe. He sat in the mud, exhaustion weighing him down. As the glow of dawn flickered in the distance and Reggie and Sinead moved, he squinted, trying to see Atibon. He was nowhere to be found. All that remained was his saxophone that glittered like starlight and whispered of songs yet to be sung.

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