Louis Collins: A Post-American Odyssey

By evening, they were back on the official schedule. Nothing that had happened behind Gladice’s door showed on him. That, Louis thought as he adjusted his cuff in the mirror, was the lesson of New Orleans: the surface of things stayed smooth even when the currents underneath ran rough. He still had not sorted out what he felt, but the schedule required him to look composed. His dark jacket and white shirt were perfectly pressed, and his tie sat straight. From a distance, he was recognizable again.

Below, somewhere beyond the sealed quiet of the hotel perimeter, the city was still protesting. He could not hear the words from this height, but every now and then a rhythm rose far enough through the glass to become more than traffic. Then it flattened again into distance.

He buttoned his jacket.

The invitation described the evening as a small formal dinner hosted by Mayor Simington. Small, Louis had learned, was the word powerful people used for gatherings where every face mattered and no one could later claim surprise at who had been there. It would be a brightly lit room crowded with members of old local families, military officers, business leaders, and cultural figures. It was the kind of place where Louis was expected to make no mistakes and everyone else was expected to know exactly who he was before he spoke.

Someone knocked softly. Louis opened the door. Angelique stood outside in a purple dress. Its neckline sat just below her collarbones. Her hair was pulled back and pinned. A single pearl hung at each ear.

“You look presentable,” she said.

He glanced down at himself and then back to her. “I think that’s a compliment.”

“It’s an observation.” She reached up and straightened his collar. “You look less tired.”

He let out a breath through his nose. “I took a nap.”

She kept looking at him, but her expression did not change. Then she lowered her hand.

“We should go,” she said. “My mother is already waiting.”

He nodded and stepped into the corridor. Just as they reached the elevator, Gladice appeared at the far end of the corridor. She wore a long dark-blue dress that fit closely through her waist and hips. Diamonds rested at her throat and wrists. Her dark hair fell loosely around her face. Gladice looked at Angelique first, then at Louis, and then back at Angelique. Her mouth curved slightly before she looked away.

“Well,” she said as she approached, “don’t we look like the future.”

Angelique pressed the elevator button before Louis could. “I hope we’re not that predictable.”

Gladice laughed. “Predictable is useful. It lets people underestimate you until it’s too late.” She smiled at Louis. “I like your tie.”

“Thank you.” He did not meet her eyes for more than a second.

The elevator arrived. They descended together.

The ballroom level had been turned into political theater. The main receiving room stretched along the river side of the hotel. Polished wood and dark glass reflected the gold light from the ceiling. Servers carried drinks between small groups of guests. Music came from a small jazz trio near the far wall.

Within minutes, Constantine was surrounded by port operators, infrastructure financiers, insurance representatives, media owners, and tech-security intermediaries. They laughed quickly, leaned closer when he spoke, and avoided staring at him for too long. To Louis, their professional warmth looked like equal parts admiration and self-interest. His father made it look effortless. Louis could never tell how much of it was talent and how much was practice. Constantine greeted each person as though he had come to the dinner specifically to meet them.

On the opposite side of the room, the preservation commissioner and the archdiocesan liaison greeted the visitors more formally. The cultural delegates, parish heads, museum board members, neighborhood patrons, and minority organizers from the river wards offered exactly as much politeness as the occasion required. They received the Dominion with the civility one extended to dangerous weather. It had to be acknowledged, but no one was required to admire it.

Maria entered those circles more easily than Constantine did. To Louis’s immediate irritation, Angelique did too. An older woman from the preservation board greeted her in lightly accented Cajun French. A few minutes later, Angelique had joined a younger group whose conversation moved between French and English. Louis understood each change half a beat too late.

Gladice noticed him watching Angelique.

“Go stand by your father if you want to feel important,” she murmured as a server passed with a tray of champagne. “Or stay here and feel miserable. Your choice.”

He took a glass from the tray. “You have a way with encouragement.”

She smiled and sipped her drink. “You’re welcome.” She glanced past him at Angelique, who was answering someone in French, then looked back at Louis. “She’s more comfortable there than you are.”

Before Louis could answer, David came up beside Gladice.

“Gladice,” he said. “There are several people who would appreciate a moment of your time.”

Gladice gave an exaggerated sigh. “Of course they would. I’ll be over in a minute.”

The corner of David’s mouth lifted briefly. Then he looked at Louis. “Mr. Collins.”

“Sir.”

“New Orleans can be overeager in making visitors feel watched. I hope you’re managing.”

Louis inclined his head. “It’s a very memorable city.”

David gave a short nod. “The river has that effect on people.” He glanced toward the cultural delegates on the other side of the room, then back at Louis. “I’m sure you’ll find the evening interesting.” He turned to his daughter again. “Don’t linger too long, Gladice.”

A port authority chair stopped him a few steps away.

“His version of a warning,” Gladice said. “Which means he approves of you so far.”

Louis laughed once. “Or he just doesn’t trust me alone with you.”

Gladice swirled her glass and smiled. “Can he be blamed?”

People shifted across the room and gave Louis a clear view of the man beside Angelique. He had not realized until then that he had been looking for him. The man stood with the preservation group near the river windows, holding a glass as he spoke to Angelique. He looked about thirty, with dark hair and a black tie. He might have been merely handsome elsewhere. Here, among people who knew him, his confidence made him more irritating. He looked like a man who belonged precisely where he stood.

Angelique said something, and he laughed without looking away from her. Two people nearby turned toward him at the sound.

Gladice followed Louis’s gaze.

“Julian Vautrin,” she said. “Son of Jean-Paul Vautrin. Cultural preservation, architecture, and the family’s civic patronage. Went to school in Paris. Thinks that makes him European.” She sipped her drink. “Also very good at smiling at beautiful women who speak French.”

Louis kept his face neutral. “Do I need to be concerned?”

“Only if you think he’s more interesting than you.” She smiled. “He runs one of the city’s heritage-and-recovery foundations, sits on two continuity councils, shows up on every tourism feed whenever New Orleans needs a handsome man to explain itself to tourists, and has a quietly obvious reputation for knowing how to keep a woman satisfied.”

“Seems like you know him well.” Louis took a sip. “What do you think of him?”

“He was one of my suitors before I joined the army.” Gladice glanced toward her father. “My dad wanted me to marry him.”

“What happened?” Louis looked at her.

“I said no.” Gladice smiled.

“Why?”

She rolled her eyes. “I hate French.”

Louis laughed under his breath.

Gladice continued. “So if you’re asking if Angelique will go to bed with him: probably, if she feels like it.” She tilted her head. “What did you expect? You can’t have all the power and none of the competition.”

Louis did not answer. He watched Julian lean closer while Angelique answered him. Her shoulders were relaxed, and she kept her face turned toward him. They had fallen into an easy conversation within minutes. Louis rarely managed that with her even in English. He saw it at once and hated that he had noticed.

Gladice looked at him. “Well,” she said, “now you know what to think about.” She left him and crossed toward the group around her father.

A woman from a local museum board approached Louis and asked about the Houston memorial, the Dominion’s school curriculum, and whether post-American children learned catastrophe as history or inheritance. He responded the way he had been trained. He spoke calmly and gave her enough detail to sound thoughtful without revealing what he actually believed. As he spoke, Angelique’s voice reached him from across the room. He could recognize the French but not follow the conversation. He caught only a few words. mémoire. ville. liturgie.

By the time Louis left the conversation, the guests were already gathering near the center of the room. He crossed toward the windows. Angelique saw him before he reached her. Julian noticed him at the same time. Up close, Julian was even more irritating. He was tall, his shirt fit perfectly, and he stood straight without looking stiff. His expression was open and welcoming, which gave Louis nothing obvious to object to.

“Mr. Collins,” he said. “Welcome to New Orleans. I’m Julian Vautrin.” He offered his hand.

Louis shook it. Julian’s grip was firm.

“Mr. Vautrin.”

“Please, Julian.” He glanced at Angelique. “Miss Bourbon was being generous enough to educate me on the finer points of Navarrese architecture versus our own efforts here. I’m afraid I may have been a poor student.”

The corner of Angelique’s mouth lifted. “You were attentive enough.”

“Only because the teacher was compelling.” He turned back to Louis. “I hope you’ve found your first day in the Free City interesting.”

“It’s been memorable.”

Julian smiled. “That’s kind of you. We pride ourselves on making strong impressions. Particularly on visitors from the Dominion.”

Louis could not tell whether it was an observation or a challenge. He kept his voice even. “I didn’t realize the Free City defined itself in opposition to us.”

“Only occasionally,” Julian said. “You see, your father has admirers here, of course. But I confess it’s your minister’s family and your own young delegation who interest some of us more. The future is always more stimulating than the past.”

Louis looked at him. “Then I hope we haven’t disappointed.”

Julian lifted one hand. “On the contrary. My family has long believed that the future should be argued with rather than ignored.”

Before Louis could decide whether Julian’s remark had been a challenge, Angelique answered him in French. Julian turned to her and replied in the same language. Louis could follow them, but only if he concentrated. He understood enough to follow the conversation, but not enough to join it easily. They spoke about old Catholic processions, Navarrese village rites, and how rituals survived political upheaval by becoming smaller and more private. He could hear how natural Julian sounded. He waited for an opening and added a sentence of his own. His French was correct, but the effort showed. Julian answered him politely in French, a little faster than before. Angelique glanced at Louis. He understood the sentence after it was already over.

He answered in English.

“Some things survive because people decide to preserve them. Not because they’re naturally sacred.”

Julian switched back to English without pause. “Of course. Though who decides what to preserve, and for how long, is always the question.” He looked at Angelique as he spoke. “We find ourselves now in a world where the old arguments no longer mean what they once did.”

Angelique said, very quietly, “Then perhaps new arguments are needed.”

Julian nodded once.

A hotel chime sounded near the main doors. Conversations ended, and the guests began moving toward the dining room. Jessamine Simington came up to the group, smiling.

“Forgive me,” she said. “If I leave our guests in philosophical hands any longer, David will accuse me of trying to start a second dinner without him. Shall we move in?”

Julian stepped aside at once. “Miss Bourbon.”

He offered Angelique his arm. She took it. Louis stepped aside and caught her perfume as she passed. She glanced at him. Louis was sure she had noticed how badly the exchange had bothered him. They joined the guests heading through the double doors. Gladice came up beside Louis as the line began moving.

“You’re pressing your thumb too hard into the stem,” she murmured.

He looked down. Without changing his expression, he loosened his grip.

“Better,” she said. “Try to look like you’re not planning to choke anyone during dinner.”

Gladice moved ahead with the others. Louis followed, the champagne flat on his tongue.