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Grandmere Catherine finished making the roux. It was one of the first things a young Cajun girl learned to make. Roux was simply flour browned in butter, oil, or animal fat and cooked to a nutty brown shade without letting it turn so hot that it burned black. After it was prepared, seafood or chicken, sometimes duck, goose, or guinea hen, and sometimes wild game with sausage or oysters was mixed in to make the gumbo. During Lent Grandmere made a green gumbo that was roux mixed only with vegetables rather than meat.
Grandmere was right. We began to get customers much earlier than we usually did. Some of the people who dropped by were friends of hers or other Cajun folk who had learned about the couchemal and wanted to hear Grandmere tell the story. A few of her older friends sat around and recalled similar tales they had heard from their parents and grand-parents.
Just before noon, we were surprised to see a silver gray limousine, fancy and long, going by. Suddenly, it came to an abrupt stop -and was then backed up very quickly until it stopped again in front of our stall. The rear door was thrown open and a tall, lanky, olive-skinned man with gray-brown hair stepped out, the laughter of a woman lingering behind him within the limousine.
"Quiet down," he said, then turned and smiled at me.
An attractive blond lady with heavily made-up eyes, thick rouge, and gobs of lipstick, poked her head out the open door. A long pearl necklace dangled from her neck. She wore a blouse of bright pink silk. The first several buttons were not done so I couldn't help but notice that her breasts were quite exposed.
"Hurry up, Dominique. I expect to have dinner at Arnaud's tonight," she cried petulantly.
"Relax. We'll have plenty of time," he said without looking back at her. His attention was fixed on my paintings. "Who did these?" he demanded.
"I did, sir," I said. He was dressed expensively in a white shirt of the snowiest, softest-looking cotton and a beautifully tailored suit in dark charcoal gray.
"Really?"
I nodded and he stepped closer to take the picture of the heron into his hands. He held it at arm's length and nodded. "You have instinct," he said. "Still primitive, but rather remarkable. Did you take any lessons?"
"Just a little at school and what I learned from reading some old art magazines," I replied.
"Remarkable."
"Dominique!"
"Hold your water, will you." He smirked at me again as if to say, "Don't mind her," and then he looked at two more of my paintings. I had five out for sale. "How much are you asking for your paintings?" he asked.
I looked at Grandmere Catherine who was standing with Mrs. Thibodeau, their conversation on hold while the limousine remained. Grandmere Catherine had a strange look in her eyes. She was peering as though she were looking deeply into this handsome, well-to-do stranger, searching for something that would tell her he was more than a simple tourist amusing himself with local color.
"I'm asking five dollars apiece," I said.
"Five dollars!" He laughed. "Firstly, you shouldn't ask the same amount for each," he lectured. "This one, the heron, obviously took more work. It's five times the painting the others are," he declared assuredly, turning to address Grandmere Catherine and Mrs. Thibodeau as if they were his students. He turned back to me. "Why, look at the detail . . the way you've captured the water and the movement in the heron's wings." His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips as he looked at the paintings and nodded to himself. "I'll give you fifty dollars for the five of them as a down payment," he announced.
"Fifty dollars, but--"
"What do you mean, as a down payment?" Grandmere Catherine asked, stepping toward us.
"Oh, I'm sorry," the gentleman said. "I should have introduced myself properly. My name is Dominique LeGrand. I own an art gallery in the French Quarter, simply called Dominique's. Here," he said, reaching in and taking a business card from a pocket in his pants. Grandmere took the