river there's the new International Trade Mart. All the big hotel chains have new buildings here—Hilton, Hyatt, Marriott. We also have high-rise apartments and condominiums. Yes, New Orleans has a skyline now."
"I hope they didn't destroy all the old things to make way for the new," Irena said.
"Oh, no, the city is still a mixture of the old and the new. Tomorrow I'll take you on a tour of Downtown and show you some really old New Orleans. The Vieux Carre, the Old Square."
"Is that the French Quarter?"
"Right. Founded in 1718 by Sieur de Bienville. I guarantee you'll get your fill of local history there."
"I'll enjoy that." Irena looked off to her right. "What's that huge thing? The one that looks like a grounded flying saucer?"
"That's the Superdome, home of the Sugar Bowl. Someday we hope to have a professional football team to put in it. Until then we have to make do with the Saints."
Irena looked blank.
"Local joke," Paul explained.
They drove in on broad, busy Canal Street, lined with office buildings and hotels. In minutes they had left the modern, bustling city and were cruising along St. Charles Avenue, between the elegant old houses set back on sweeping lawns. The late-aftemoon sun dappled the graceful mansions as it filtered through stately elm trees.
"What a lovely street," Irena said.
"Our house isn't quite as impressive as these," Paul said, "but it's a whole lot better than living in a trailer."
After another mile Paul brought the car to a stop. Across the sidewalk from them was a tall, spiked iron fence. Beyond the fence, partially hidden by untrimmed elm trees, stood a two-story brick house with a pillared portico at the end of a short walk. A balcony with a wrought-iron railing extended across the entire upper floor. The windows Irena could see were clouded. The yard needed tending. The place had a remote, lonely look, as though nobody lived there.
"Does the old place stir any memories?" Paul asked.
Irena shook her head. "I guess I was too young to form memories. It does look like something I've seen in my dreams, though."
"Maybe that's the same thing."
They got out of the car, Paul once again effortlessly lifting the heavy bag. He held the gate for her and they walked through the fence and up the path to the front door.
Paul reached past her and pushed the heavy oak door open. Irena walked in and stood looking around. The high-ceilinged entrance hall with the filtered sunlight made her think of a cathedral. There was a musty, old smell to the place, and beneath that something else. Something raw.
"What do you think?" Paul said, startling Irena out of her reverie.
"It's ... impressive. You don't live here alone, do you?"
"Oh, no. In fact, sometimes I feel like I'm just a boarder here, the way Femolly takes charge of things."
"Femolly?"
"Unless I'm mistaken, you're about to meet her."
Somewhere in the rear of the big house a door opened and closed. Paul nudged Irena and turned expectantly in that direction. Through the archway leading to the dining room came a tall, regal woman wearing a long, full skirt, a silk blouse, and a colorful scarf on her head. Her skin was a flawless caffe au lait, her eyes black and shiny. She stopped in front of them, planted her hands on her hips, and examined Irena from head to foot.
"So! Here's the little girl come home at last. Only not so little any more, hah?"
Paul said, "Femolly, this is my sister, Irena."
"Who else could it be?" the tall woman demanded. "With those eyes—those Gallier eyes. You are your mother all over again, child. Only prettier, I think. Yes, definitely prettier."
"Thank you." Irena said, feeling uncomfortable under the woman's scrutiny.
"Femolly doesn't fit the usual image of the faithful family retainer, does she?" Paul said.
Irena smiled but couldn't think of anything to say.
"Just don't let her start bossing you around, or she'll be insufferable."
"Don't you listen to that brother of yours, child," Femolly said. "He's
"I hope they didn't destroy all the old things to make way for the new," Irena said.
"Oh, no, the city is still a mixture of the old and the new. Tomorrow I'll take you on a tour of Downtown and show you some really old New Orleans. The Vieux Carre, the Old Square."
"Is that the French Quarter?"
"Right. Founded in 1718 by Sieur de Bienville. I guarantee you'll get your fill of local history there."
"I'll enjoy that." Irena looked off to her right. "What's that huge thing? The one that looks like a grounded flying saucer?"
"That's the Superdome, home of the Sugar Bowl. Someday we hope to have a professional football team to put in it. Until then we have to make do with the Saints."
Irena looked blank.
"Local joke," Paul explained.
They drove in on broad, busy Canal Street, lined with office buildings and hotels. In minutes they had left the modern, bustling city and were cruising along St. Charles Avenue, between the elegant old houses set back on sweeping lawns. The late-aftemoon sun dappled the graceful mansions as it filtered through stately elm trees.
"What a lovely street," Irena said.
"Our house isn't quite as impressive as these," Paul said, "but it's a whole lot better than living in a trailer."
After another mile Paul brought the car to a stop. Across the sidewalk from them was a tall, spiked iron fence. Beyond the fence, partially hidden by untrimmed elm trees, stood a two-story brick house with a pillared portico at the end of a short walk. A balcony with a wrought-iron railing extended across the entire upper floor. The windows Irena could see were clouded. The yard needed tending. The place had a remote, lonely look, as though nobody lived there.
"Does the old place stir any memories?" Paul asked.
Irena shook her head. "I guess I was too young to form memories. It does look like something I've seen in my dreams, though."
"Maybe that's the same thing."
They got out of the car, Paul once again effortlessly lifting the heavy bag. He held the gate for her and they walked through the fence and up the path to the front door.
Paul reached past her and pushed the heavy oak door open. Irena walked in and stood looking around. The high-ceilinged entrance hall with the filtered sunlight made her think of a cathedral. There was a musty, old smell to the place, and beneath that something else. Something raw.
"What do you think?" Paul said, startling Irena out of her reverie.
"It's ... impressive. You don't live here alone, do you?"
"Oh, no. In fact, sometimes I feel like I'm just a boarder here, the way Femolly takes charge of things."
"Femolly?"
"Unless I'm mistaken, you're about to meet her."
Somewhere in the rear of the big house a door opened and closed. Paul nudged Irena and turned expectantly in that direction. Through the archway leading to the dining room came a tall, regal woman wearing a long, full skirt, a silk blouse, and a colorful scarf on her head. Her skin was a flawless caffe au lait, her eyes black and shiny. She stopped in front of them, planted her hands on her hips, and examined Irena from head to foot.
"So! Here's the little girl come home at last. Only not so little any more, hah?"
Paul said, "Femolly, this is my sister, Irena."
"Who else could it be?" the tall woman demanded. "With those eyes—those Gallier eyes. You are your mother all over again, child. Only prettier, I think. Yes, definitely prettier."
"Thank you." Irena said, feeling uncomfortable under the woman's scrutiny.
"Femolly doesn't fit the usual image of the faithful family retainer, does she?" Paul said.
Irena smiled but couldn't think of anything to say.
"Just don't let her start bossing you around, or she'll be insufferable."
"Don't you listen to that brother of yours, child," Femolly said. "He's
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