“Where are we going?” Ibby managed to ask.
“To see old Madame Doussan,” Fannie said as her gray hair swirled around from the open car window. “In the French Quarter.”
“Oh,” Ibby replied.
No one had mentioned a Madame Doussan. She’d never heard anyone referred to as a Madame before. What kind of a place was Fannie taking her to?
Fannie drove through an older part of town called the Garden District, known for the canopies of oaks that lined the streets and the grand mansions hidden behind them. This soon gave way to the tall buildings of the downtown district. Once they crossed Canal Street, they were in the French Quarter, where the streets narrowed and the buildings were only two or three stories high. Most were of brick covered in plaster, with intricate ironwork balconies gracing the upper floors. With few exceptions, the ground floors had multiple sets of French doors, many of which were open onto the street this morning, giving Ibby a glimpse of life in this grand old part of the city, where the aroma of stewpots and wet cement left from the passing street cleaners mingled together in a strange but pleasant way.
Fannie pulled the car up to a shop on Royal Street with a vast display of tin soldiers in the window. There must have been hundreds of them, lined up three and four deep on glass shelves, as if on parade. Ibby got out of the car to admire them.
Fannie came up beside Ibby. “Your father used to love this shop.”
“Is this where Madame Doussan lives, above the tin soldier shop?” Ibby asked.
“No, dear. Madame Doussan lives around the corner on Chartres Street.”
Ibby looked up at Fannie, not realizing until now how tall a woman she was. She could see some of her daddy in Fannie, especially the way she always seemed to be thinking about something she wanted to keep to herself. But there was a difference. Based on their conversation in the dining room this morning, Fannie was far more direct than her father had ever been. That part scared her a little.
“For years, all Graham wanted were tin soldiers to add to his collection,” Fannie went on. “I bet they’re still in his room. I’d forgotten about this shop until now. Brings back memories.”
Ibby could see Fannie’s reflection in the window. She remembered what Queenie told her to do when Fannie started talking about the past.
Rule Number Two. Fannie talks about her past, don’t ask questions.
Fannie started down the street, swinging her pocketbook and tapping the large umbrella she was carrying on the sidewalk as if it were a walking stick. They passed a handful of colored boys, no more than eight or nine years old, who were tap-dancing and singing in the street. When Ibby stopped to listen, one of the boys came over to her.
“I bet you a dollar I can tell you where you got them shoes,” he said, pointing at her red sneakers.
Fannie turned back around and grabbed Ibby’s hand. “Come on, dear. That’s the oldest one in the book.”
“I bet you a dollar,” the boy repeated, still pointing.
“Where?” Ibby asked.
“On your feet, on Royal Street,” he said as he stuck his hand out and grinned.
Fannie shook her head and handed the boy a dollar. She turned to Ibby. “If anyone else stops you, just keep walking, okay? Otherwise, we’ll never get to Madame Doussan’s.”
On the way, they passed a man painted silver from head to toe. Fannie explained that the man was a pantomime who went from corner to corner, standing on a washbasin, pretending to be a statue.
“Why?” Ibby asked.
“For money, dear. They all do it for money.”
Just up the street, Ibby spotted a heavyset man wearing a kilt talking to two women in bunny costumes. In the next block, a young boy carrying a tuba bigger than he was began playing near a food stand that looked like a giant hot dog. The man standing beside the stand yelled over to them.
“Lucky Dog for the little lady?”
“Not today.” Fannie waved him off.
Ibby glanced up at the sky, which was covered in a blanket of white. New Orleans was certainly a different kind of place, she was thinking. The people, the food, even the sky was different. Where she was from, you barely noticed the clouds. They were thin and gauzy and high in the sky. Here, the clouds were everywhere. They rolled in from the river, jostling up against each other, hovering so low Ibby felt she might be able to reach up and touch them.
“Is it going to rain?” Ibby asked as she watched the clouds glide by, one after another.
“This time of year, you never know. It could rain this block and not the next. I always carry an umbrella just in case. Now come on, dear.”
They turned the corner, went up another block, then stopped in front of a shop on Chartres Street with fancy gold letters stenciled on the window.