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Romain had known visions since he was a child, had learned to read them, they were like a language of their own for him, one only he could understand and decipher, but this one... it appeared again and again, fixed to a certain hour, always when the moon was unusually clear over the marshes, silvery and overly bright in its light, not hidden behind steaming fog. And that was exactly when it hit him, again and again. It usually began inconspicuously, a barely noticeable tug at the back of his head, like the pressure of a strange hand opening a door just a crack. Romain knew this feeling, but what appeared to him did not match the usual cries of the dead, not the silenced lamentations that usually demanded redemption through him. He saw a man, always the same, always in the same place, always in the same state. A narrow table, barely more than a dark outline somewhere in the void, and the man sat there as if he had not found a better place in ages. His body seemed more solid than any ghost, but not tangible enough to be alive. No one else seemed to notice him. No shadow was visible, no loa roamed curiously through his image.
Even the dead, who usually pounced on anything that was different, showed no reaction. What disturbed him was not the apparition itself, visions could be grotesque, cruel, or desperate, something he had long become accustomed to. But this one was silent, it did not ask to be heard, it did not lure him into its habits, and it gave no clue as to why it constantly haunted him, clinging to his mind. The more often the vision came, the more suspicion crept up in him.. things that repeated themselves had meaning, things that anchored themselves wanted something. Romain didn’t ask himself who this man was, nor what he wanted, nor whether he even existed... he just wondered what this vision was trying to tell him, but he didn’t find the answer in rituals or wandering through the world of the dead. He tried to numb himself, to distract himself to keep his mind open for those who needed his help and for whom he had ultimately been created. He didn’t succeed... but eventually he became stubborn enough to wipe away any of these visions whenever they reached him.
By November, New Orleans smelled more and more intensely of transition to Romain, of something dying and something being born. The damp wood of the buildings gave off a sweet, foul odor, especially at night, when the cold crept in and opened the pores of the boards. Oil lamps burned in the open markets, spreading a greasy smoke that soaked into the fabric of his clothes. The days were still mild, but as soon as the sun sank, a cool heaviness crept up from the Mississippi, through the alleys, over the porches, into the cracks of the crooked houses. The city changed, it became fresher, less sweet but no less intense. It got darker faster, and you felt like the shadows haunted you longer than they did during the hot summer days. Romain preferred the fall, even if it was filled with hunger and cold. In summer, New Orleans was a steaming cesspool of sin, but autumn stripped the excess flesh from the city, drained the damp heat from its bones and exposed what lay beneath, making people quieter and more cautious. This was more pleasant for Romain,he could read people better because they wore fewer masks, and he could avoid them more easily and become one with the darkness that always followed him like a faithful companion.
He visited the city because he was doing work there that very few people dared to do, work that was never in demand but had to be done. For him, it was an act of respect to bring even the poor deceased into the ground, to hand their bodies over to the earth and help their souls find the passage if they so wished. He received no gratitude for this.. sometimes he was even ostracized and avoided when he walked through the streets still covered in dirt. Death clung to him like a perfume you could never wash off and yet he smelled of nothing, which subconsciously gave people a strange feeling they couldn’t interpret. It was fine with him, he didn’t want to mingle with people he couldn’t identify with anyway. He didn’t want to belong to them, because his roots were in the swamps with his own, with those he had grown up with. Only a few of the town’s inhabitants dared to greet him, and there were only a few stores and saloons that let him in, accepted him, and took care of him.
One of the few saloons where he was welcome belonged to an old man named Jaque. He had known Romain for years, had taken him in when others preferred to pretend he hadn’t even stepped through the door. He appreciated him because he was one of the few who didn’t come with pretenses, a man who took what he needed, paid what he owed, and left. When his work was done, Romain liked to stop in, sit down at his usual table and enjoy a rye whiskey, accompanied by a small glass filled with absinthe, diluted with water and a sugar cube. He wanted nothing more than to shake off the hard work, find himself, and let the evening fade until he returned to his usual surroundings. In that respect he was very particular, he always went the same way, always crossed the saloon the same way, and he hated it when his habits and rituals were disturbed.
That evening, apparently, that was exactly what was going to happen. He entered Jaque’s saloon as usual, nodded briefly to the landlord and headed for his table. As usual, there wasn’t much going on, usually only regulars gathered at Jaque’s, hardly any strangers came to his place because those were drawn to more popular locations. But this time he spotted the silhouette of a man at his table, who could have chosen any other damn place, and the sight alone made him waver for a moment. Instead of looking for another table himself, he continued on his way, noisily pulled out a wooden chair, and sat down opposite the stranger. The face looked familiar and when he realized this man wore the face of those damned visions, he narrowed his eyes, scrutinized him closely, and let the moment sink in. He wasn’t afraid, but he accepted that he was now doomed to discover this secret.
"Who are you... I’ve never seen you here before. You don’t seem like a local."
His voice sounded dark and rough, he didn’t use it often, especially not to address strangers in a saloon.
"And yet you look familiar, the way you're sitting here... at the silence of the table that only I usually choose..."
The photo of Alexander was kindly provided by his author for the banner