Hotel

He checked the impulse, though reluctantly. In the same self-chastening vein, he reminded himself that all his adult life, so far, the immediacy of women had clouded his own judgment, precipitating indiscretions.

Marsha glanced sideways, diverting her attention from the traffic ahead.

"What were you thinking about just then?"

"History," he lied. "Where do we start?"

"The old St. Louis Cemetery. You haven't been there?"

Peter shook his head. "I've never put cemeteries high on my list of things to do."

"In New Orleans you should."

It was a short drive to Basin Street. Marsha parked neatly on the south side and they crossed the boulevard to the walled cemetery - St. Louis number one - with its ancient pillared entrance.

"A lot of history begins here," Marsha said, taking Peter's arm. "In the early 1700s, when New Orleans was founded by the French, the land was mostly swamp. It would still be swamp, even now, if it weren't for the levees which keep the river out."

"I know it's a wet city underneath," he agreed. "In the hotel basement, twenty-four hours a day, we pump our waste water up, not down, to meet the city sewers."

"It used to be a whole lot wetter. Even in dry places water was just three feet down, so when a grave was dug it flooded before anyone could put a coffin in. There are stories that gravediggers used to stand on coffins to force them down. Sometimes they punched holes in the wood to make the coffin sink. People used to say, if you weren't really dead, you'd drown."

"Sounds like a horror movie."

"Some books say the smell of dead bodies used to seep into the drinking water." She made a grimace of distaste. "Anyway, later on there was a law that all burials had to be above the ground."

They began to walk between rows of uniquely constructed tombs. The cemetery was unlike any other Peter had ever seen. Marsha gestured around them. "This is what happened after the law was passed. In New Orleans we call these places cities of the dead."

"I can understand why."

It was like a city, he thought. The streets irregular, with tombs in the style of miniature houses, brick and stuccoed, some with ironwork balconies and narrow sidewalks. The houses had several floors or levels. An absence of windows was the only consistent feature, but in their place were countless tiny doorways. He pointed. "They're like apartment entrances."

"They are apartments, really. And most on short leases."

He looked at her curiously.

"The tombs are divided into sections," Marsha explained. "The ordinary family tombs have two to six sections, the bigger ones more. Each section has its own little door. When there's to be a funeral, ahead of time one of the doorways is opened up. The coffin already inside is emptied, and the remains from it pushed to the back where they fall through a slot into the ground. The old coffin is burned and the new one put in. It's left for a year, then the same thing happens."

"Just a year?"

A voice behind said, "It's all it needs. 'Times, though, it's longer - if the next to go ain't in a hurry. Cockroaches help some."

They turned. An elderly, barrel-shaped man in stained denim coveralls regarded them cheerfully. Removing an ancient straw hat, he mopped his bald head with a red silk handkerchief. "Hot, ain't it? Lot cooler in there." He slapped his hand familiarly against a tomb.

"If it's all one to you," Peter said, "I'll settle for the heat."

The other chuckled. "Git y' anyhow in th' end. Howdy, Miss Preyscott."

"Hullo, Mr. Collodi," Marsha said. "This is Mr. McDermott."

The sexton nodded agreeably. "Takin' a look at the family snuggery?"

"We were going to," Marsha said.

"This way, then." Over his shoulder he called out. "We cleaned 'er up, week or two back. Lookin' mighty good now."

As they threaded their way through the narrow, makebelieve streets, Peter had an impression of ancient dates and names. Their guide pointed to a smoldering pile of rubble in an open space. "Havin' a bit of a burn-up." Peter could see portions of coffin amid the smoke.

They stopped before a six-sectioned tomb, built like a traditional Creole house. It was painted white and in better repair than most around it. On weathered marble tablets were many names, mostly of Preyscotts. "We're an old family," Marsha said. "It must be getting crowded down among the dust."

Sunshine slanted brightly on the tomb.

"Purty, ain't it?" The sexton stood back admiringly, then pointed to a doorway near the top. "That's the next one for opening, Miss Preyscott.

Your daddy'll go in there." He touched another in a second tier. "That the one to be for you. Doubt, though, I'll be the one to put you in." He stopped, then added contemplatively, "Comes sooner than we want for all of us. Don't do, neither, to waste no time; no sir!" Mopping his head once more, he ambled off.

Despite the heat of the day, Peter shivered. The thought of earmarking a place of death for someone so young as Marsha troubled him.