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apartment section, the house came to a right angle and ran directly
opposite the gate at which I was standing until it came to an abrupt end. At
that point the house was adjoined to a plain, short building, most likely the
slave quarters originally, by ramps joining it to the main house. An archway
barely revealed a portion of these ramps and the plain wooden staircase leading
to the second and third floors; the rest was hidden in shadows.
    A luscious fragrance wafted toward me from the
dripping blossoms of the wisteria vines that clung to the house, embracing it
tightly. Picking up my bags, I walked over to the sliding glass door, unlocked
it and let myself in. After only a bit of fumbling, I found the inside light
switch and turned it on. Not previously having seen any photos of the apartment
interior, I was rather disappointed. In complete contrast to and disregard for
the charm, grace and romantic majesty of the home’s exterior, the apartment
itself was sadly low-rent. It looked like a eccentric cross between a passable
vacation beach condominium and a room in a rent-by-the-hour motel with a
broken, flashing “vacancy” sign. Eclectically decorated in mixed styles that
were popular from the 1940’s through the 1980’s, it was cheerful enough not to
be depressing and strange enough not to be cheerful. Wicker furniture, lively
tropical print wallpaper and a glass and chrome dining table reminiscent of the
early 1980’s lived side by side with a ceiling-to-floor corner lamp from the
fifties. A cheery flowered sofa in the same room’s tiny “living area” was
flanked by a distressed World War II era end table topped with a large ashtray
in the popular kidney-shaped style that went out with the Eisenhower
administration, a plastic palm plant and a small table lamp that would have
looked at home in an old Havana nightclub. The crowning glory for me, though,
was the surprisingly well-preserved and clean looking wall-to-wall shag
carpeting held over from the late sixties in a bizarre bright burnt orange, a
peculiar shade whose popularity had not survived the decade. The haphazard furnishings,
the fact that so much reconstruction had been done on the rest of the building
and none here, combined with Rochere’s repellent attitude only to validate my
theory that vacation renters were, in her eyes, viewed as lower life forms.
    “Well, at least it’s different,” I said to myself.
    I peeked into the kitchenette. It looked efficient
and clean. It was nice to see that the stove and refrigerator were white and
not the avocado green or harvest gold that I was expecting. Then I walked into
the bedroom and checked it out. Shag carpeting aside, it looked much more
predictable than the dining and living areas, containing only plain, generic
motel furniture. Two double beds occupied it, along with a large dresser, an
armless chair and an end table holding a lamp, phone and clock that was placed
between the beds. A sliding closet door ran parallel to one of the beds and a
door leading into the bathroom was at the opposing wall near the other bed. I
kicked off my shoes, put my purse on the chair and put my bags down on the bed
nearest the closet, opening up my suitcase and unzipping my carry-on. I would
take the bed closest to the bathroom, I decided, keeping with my usual
rationale that it was more simply more convenient. Grudgingly, however, I had
to admit that having to sleep in a bed by a closet still, to this day, gave me
the heebie-jeebies, a hold-over from the horrible nightmares of my childhood.
    I went into the bathroom to use the facilities and
to wash up from the trip. Standing at the sink, I was shocked at my reflection.
I had talked myself into thinking that what happened in Rochere’s office had
been some kind of severe and bizarre psychotropic allergic reaction, for all
the major symptoms disappeared as soon as that strange odor was gone. While still
profoundly exhausted, I thought the worst was over now. The mirror