Muriel's at Jackson Square Part I

NEW ORLEANS

1814

The night air is alive with the sounds of talk, laughter and the clinking of glasses. A gentle wave of cigar smoke pours out of the many french doors leading out onto Chartres Street. The salty, sticky air rolls in from the Mississippi River and the softest breeze brings in feelings of comfort. You look around at your guests, throwing their heads back in billows of laughter, drinks spilling from overly full glasses and you couldn't feel more proud. You've done it. You've helped save a city from hell, from the fiery inferno that threatened to destroy the entire Quarter. Rebuilding this mansion was not easy but you loved every minute of it. You poured over all the details, watched over every minute of the reconstruction to ensure that it was done according to your vision. Every inch of this home holds a part of you. Your favorite part though, is the praise and attention you receive for its grandeur.

"Pierre, the doors are to die for! Absolutely beautiful!" and "Well done, Jourdan! You've really done it!", they say to you over and over again. Not a single soul could deny it's splendor.

Each night, after an always boring dinner with your family, you prepare for your guests. The tables are moved, the linens brought out and the games are set up. You see, perhaps more than loving this house, you love gambling. The thrill and the excitement, not to mention the winnings! You rarely lose, something that has certainly inflated you. However, you are not unkind to your guests and allow them to play the night away before you sit down to challenge the most successful player of the night. It's always quite the spectacle when Pierre Antoine Lepardi Jourdan sits down at a table! No one has ever beaten you and the guests love to watch the sport of someone trying. It's the culminating event of any night.

Tonight was turning out no different than any other. An evening of fine drink, food and games ended by the losing of a brave challenger. You smile and shake hands, "If only he knew the truth", you think to yourself. If any of them found out, you would be ruined. You think of your shy and faithful wife and are grateful. Only she knows the real story of famous Pierre Jourdan.

The crowd slowly dwindles away, ladies and gentlemen stagger out into the New Orleans night, the laughter and singing fading into the dark. Only a few of your closest friends remain and you all decide to play one last game. The air has become thick and heavy and as you play, you drink more and more until the room begins to spin and you start seeing double.

It's all a blur of smoke and cards and the talking seems to echo in your mind, your hear the other men laughing and telling stories but you can't tell who is saying what. You hear something that catches your attention.

"Bet? You want to bet? How much do you want to bet that Jourdan has paid off his opponents so that he never loses?! Haha! That's only way you keep winning, isn't it?!"

"That must be it!" said another voice,"Surely you aren't truly that lucky!!" The men take turns teasing you and your blood begins to boil. You're seeing double, no triple, and you can't make out shapes or sounds for what they really are. The more they go on, the angrier you get until you shout,"Damn you all! I'm not lucky, you bastards! I'm smart and cunning, that's why I win! Deal the damn cards and I'll show you!"

The men erupt in cheers and you can hear the scooting of chairs returning to the table. Cards start landing in front of you, one after the other. You hear sounds of astonishment and look up to see why. One of the men has thrown down a large sum of money as the starting bet. You take a deep breath. They obviously don't know how little money you truly have. They don't know that you've squandered it all away. They don't know that after each party, you have very little money left to feed your own family. They don't know that you survive on your winnings every single night. They don't know and they never will.

The man next to you sees the bet and raises it, a sweat starts to form on your brow but you can't let them see, you must keep your cool. You know they they're all expecting you to raise the bet and you don't let them down. Thankfully, the man to your left sees you and holds. Whew, you think to yourself. You haven't even looked down at your cards yet. You've been so worried about the money. One by one, the hands turn over and your heart sinks. You won't win this round and you can't think they got the best of you. Placing your cigar in your mouth, you stretch back in your chair, folding your hands behind your head. The men don't look surprised, they think you've won again. As you glance around at each of them, you slowly reach down and fold your hand. The men are furious. They jump from the table, yelling.

"What are you playing at, Jourdan?!" one says.

"Dammit, man! You consider us fools!" says another.

Just the reaction you wanted. You address your opponents, "Now, now gentlemen! I do not take you for fools nor do I play any other game than that which is on the table. I assure you, no trickery is afoot here. Please sit, enjoy another drink and let's continue."

They accept your suggestion, pulling chairs up once again. You were in the clear but now have truly no option to win. Your money is all but gone and it's only taken one round. One bad round was all it took to take down the famous Pierre Antoine Lepardi Jourdan!

You take a deep breath to collect your thoughts, you must outsmart them. Winning isn't about luck or strategy, it's about the show. If you bet high, so high that no one can raise it, so high that they wouldn't think to question your hand, surely they will fold. They already think you have something up your sleeve after losing, they think that you're teasing them, giving them hope only to crush it by taking all the winnings. Your opponents believe they are more vulnerable than they really are.

You stand up as the men shift in their chairs, light fresh cigars and refill their glasses. You stumble to another room, a small study where a solid oak french bureau stands. You open one of the ornately inlaid drawers and pull it open. Inside, among papers and photographs, lies the deed to your home. Your fortune, your life, your family, everything you hold dear, on one small piece of parchment.

You stare at it, considering the great risk you are about to take. Surely no man in that room would be willing to let you lose your home, you think to yourself. You take a deep breath, grab the deed and return to playing room.

The smoke is much thicker now, the air sticky and stifling. You feel your throat tightening and your chest pounding. You have no choice anymore, you must win. You must win.

You lay the deed down in the middle of the table and the men fall silent. Several stand up as they realize what has just been wagered.

"Jourdan, that is surely not the deed to your home."

The room and all the faces are a blur, you can't tell who is speaking. You feel a hand on your shoulder.

"Pierre, I cannot let you do this."

You cannot give into their pity, you cannot allow any weakness to show. You turn to look at the man that just spoke to you, at least you think it was him. You blink, trying to focus your gaze. Once your eyes meet you force yourself into the loudest burst of laughter you can muster.

"Hahaha! Gentlemen! You must know that I wouldn't dare lay down such a hefty wager if I wasn't sure to win! You are damned fools! Now, sit!"

You are the first to return to your seat, the men looking at each other, shaking their heads. You didn't hear any laughter aside from your own, you can feel their unease but you won't break. You won't let them know the truth.

You grow heavier with each card that's dealt. Your hands are shaking and you're fighting tears. There's hushed whispers and low chuckles as you sway in your seat. They're laughing at you, Jourdan. They're laughing at your drunk stupidity, at how you've flaunted your life for long enough. They're whispering about what an ass you are and how you'll get what you deserve in the end. You feel their hatred swirling around you like violent storm and your blood begins to boil.

The men look confused at you. You have no idea how much time has passed since the cards were fully dealt and they appear to be waiting for you. You haven't even looked at them. You hate them, you hate the whole damn game. You hate what the cards have done to you and you hate the people that let it happen.

"Jourdan...you cards?"

My cards. Yes, my cards.

You flip the hand over, too drunk and too sloppy to even line them up nicely. Your eyelids are heavy and you just want this awful night to be over. You stare at them without even knowing what you're looking at. How many cards are on the table? Do I have the right amount? Are the other hands turned over? Did anyone even bet? The hours have disappeared from your memory and you have no recollection of what's happened.

A man across the table stands up but you can't even lift you head to see you. You hear him speaking.

"You are a good-for-nothing fool, Jourdan. You are nothing but a penniless drunk who's too stupid to deserve good fortune."

Good fortune? Did I win?

You see the man's hand reach across the table and pick up the deed. You hear his voice but cannot make out the words.

The deed. He's taking the deed.

"Get your hands off that, you bastard!! I've won! It's mine!". You jump out of your seat, scrambling to gain your footing as you scream, flinging spit all over the table. You lock into your target and charge after him, flipping the card table out of the way as you land on him.

This man is cheating! Cheaters deserve to die!

You reach for the small knife you have hidden underneath the folds of your clothes and lunge at him but something stops your hand. The men are pulling you off while you scream, kick and swing at anything that's trying to stop you.

"Pierre!!"

You look up to see who dares to call you by your first name but before you can make any focus you are knocked out by one swift punch.

Emptiness. Blackness. No words, no thoughts, nothing. You are suddenly aware of the pain all over your body and the worse pain in your head. You strain to open your eyes, blinking to gain focus. The room is empty. A soft breeze is blowing and the smoke has begun to clear. You sit up, slowly, afraid of vomiting. You look down to realize that you already have.

My home. The deed!

Looking around you see that the table and all of its contents now lay scattered. You must find the deed. You start crawling through the mess, moving ashes and broken glass, desperately searching for paper.

It's gone. I've lost my home. I've lost. My family...my wife...my home. I've nothing. It's all gone.

The tears are streaming down your face and your choking down the urge to scream in agony.

What am I going to do? How will I explain this? How will I ever be able to face anyone again?

You slowly rise to your feet and with the heaviest of steps, make your way out of the room.

I can't. I can't.

You're muttering through your sobs as you make your way upstairs. You know what you have to do, they've left you no other choice. They did this to you.

You've reached the upstairs study, your sanctuary. You sit down at your desk and look around the room.

You look down at the rope in your hands. You don't know how it's gotten there, no recollection of where it came from. You climb on top of your desk, taking care not to scuff the top with your shoes. It was easy to find a place sturdy enough to attach the rope, as if it was meant to happen all along. You wrap the other end around your neck several times and tie it off. The rope is itchy and harsh against your skin. You blink several times through your tears.

It's my fault. I've done this. I cheated my friends. I cheated my family and I cheated myself. Cheaters deserve to die.

You take a step off of your desk.

Read more in Part II of Muriel's at Jackson's Square....