It ain't all pizzas and cream: April 23, 2011. That Old Black Magic

It is a tiny storefront on a quiet street in the French Quarter, with a tall slim wooden door and one grime-clouded window. If not for the handful of books stacked on the marble step, I’d hardly have noticed it is a shop. Inside, the proprietor sits quietly amid canyons of books. Poetry, literature, history, psychology. When large numbers of old books are stored together, there is a smell to the place: a mixture of wool hats and irises, steamship tickets and creosote, lampshades and leather suitcases. If you haven’t smelled it, it’s hard to explain. If you have, it’s hard to escape. The only cat I’ve seen since arriving in New Orleans dozes quietly in a box, atop a hip-high stack of books. I let him be. Cats and I understand each other. The proprietor and I exchange nods of greeting and I ask for the poetry section. “It starts here,” he says, gesturing to a nearby case, “and wraps around there.” I’ve just located a title by John Ciardi when I hear the shop door open. I glance up to see a woman, mid 50s, dressed as if she’d survived being struck by a bangle truck.

“I’m looking for a book,” she announces in an unfortunate New York accent that reminds me of a cathedral pillaged by drunken linebackers. “My son said it would be here.”

“Here, in my shop?” asks the proprietor.

“No,” says the woman, “here in New Orleans.”

“Then it must be here,” says the proprietor. “What’s it called?”

“The Black Pullet.”

“Bullet?”

“No, pullet.”

“Oh, like a chicken.”

“Yes, a chicken. My son said it would be here. It’s about black magic.”

The proprietor falls into silence, finally, with finger to chin, announcing, “Can’t say I’ve heard of it. But there are other book stores in New Orleans.”

Then she notices the cat. “Can I pet him?” she asks.

“What time is it?” asks the proprietor.

“Excuse me.”

“Well, he becomes progressively more irritable as the day goes on, so if it’s afternoon, I’d have to say no.”

The woman moves a hand toward the cat, who opens his golden eyes, raises his head, and hisses.

“See,” says the proprietor, “must be afternoon.”

With a pfft of annoyance, the woman leaves. The proprietor turns to me. “Are you ready?” he says. I nod, pay for my purchase, and wish him a good day.

I imagine him at day’s end, locking up for the night, and retiring to the back room, where he will carefully take a black hen from its cage, and with one swift stroke, cut its throat.