The House of the Rising Sun

The House of the Rising Sun

More than anything, it was the quiet bamboo clacking of the shishi odoshi, in my Japanese garden out back, that let me know that I was really home again. Of course, in the taxi on the way home, I had phoned ahead, to signal the automated systems of my impending arrival. As usual, the house security system had a full pot of fresh coffee on the counter, a roaring fire going in the virtual fireplace, and dozens of other small details had been attended to – it was the house's way of welcoming me back home. It had set me back a pretty penny to have so many custom touches added to the basic security/automation package, but it was worth it for the peace of mind. Besides, with my latest Ruby Alsace novel still hovering near the top of the best-seller list, I could finally afford a few of the creature comforts.

The trip that the house was so diligently welcoming me back from was my book-signing tour for my latest thriller, Ruby Alsace: Intrigue in the Outback. Together with Ruby Alsace and the Kimberlite Cathedral, and Ruby Alsace: Emeralds and Empire, this little gem of a novel had paid for the house, the gardens, and all the little security-system automation gadgets that had made my life a lot more comfortable in recent years. I had just settled in and started to unwind from the trip. Don't get me wrong, I love those little book-signing tours and talk show promos, they had helped get me where I am today; but being back in front of the hearth, with a decent cup of java, was definitely inspiration for writing yet more stories concerning our favorite international jewel thief.

I had no more than settled in and started to think of some possible settings for Ruby's next adventure, when one of my butler-bots had startled me back to reality by bringing me a packet of my accumulated mail. It's funny to think in this electronic age, that I was still getting so much dead-tree snail-mail. After all, my bills were all electronic, and even my latest novel was selling more briskly as an e-book rather than in hardcover or paperback. Still, it was often amusing to look through the junk mail pitches for such must-have items as the Salad Shooter 3000. Besides, all that paper made good scratch paper to doodle on, before throwing the whole lot into the recycle bins. I guess Ruby's save-the-planet conservation attitude was inherited from me after all.

As I suspected, the whole packet of snail-mail, save the penultimate piece, was pure advertising hype that would have made Billy Mays proud. I almost didn't notice the letter before I pitched the whole mess in the blue bin. It was only one letter, but it made all the difference. I opened the letter, and quickly discovered it was from Ruby Alsace herself, that is to say,it was from the real-life lady who had been my influence for developing the Alsace character nearly five years ago. When I saw who I was hearing from, I set the rest of the snail-mail aside. Just to be on the safe side, I instructed one of the nearby butler-bots to put any meetings or phone calls that might be on the schedule, on hold for at least the next hour.

I settled in to read Ruby's letter, for Ruby is what I'll call her throughout this tale, as I had promised long ago, to never reveal my contacts real name, not even in my private journals. So, as I said, I started to read Ruby's letter. She was all excited about some event or tour. At first, I thought Ruby was talking about one of those murder-mystery dinner-theaters; you know, one of those entertainments where you and your fellow literati can sit down to a world-class seven course meal, and some where between the appetizers and the digestif, one of your fellow dinner guests will be discovered to have been “murdered.” You spend the rest of the evening, at one of these shindigs, trying to piece together clues to the murderer's identity. Of course you still sit there chowing down on the dinner; at these prices, nobody's going to walk away from world-class cuisine just because there's a faux killer on the loose.

So anyway, after reading a little farther, Ruby's letter was not about one of those murder-mystery dinners; she was talking about a Magdalene tour, looking at real estate that had once been, shall we say, a House of Ill Fame. Ruby was inviting me to go on the Magdalene tour with her, and not just to any brothel, but the world famous mother-of-all-brothels, The House of the Rising Sun. For those of you who may not be familiar with the property of which I speak, allow me to regale you a little further concerning the history of the place.

Imagine, if you will, being back in the era of the post Civil War reconstruction. Furthermore, we find ourselves in the French Quarter of New Orleans, talking to a gentleman named Reuben Green, who is trying to establish a business in that locale. Our Mr. Green is hampered with not only being a damned Yankee, but he is also completely of that social class known politely as “New Money.” In other words, our Mr. Green is a carpet-bagger, who has swept down from the North, to make easy profits during the fast-flowing money era of the Southern Reconstruction. Our Mr. Green is further saddled with a Boston accent, no knowledge of French what-so-ever, and not even a shirt-tail relative who would give him ties to the land in this Parish.

Reuben Green being nobody's fool, quickly surmises that he needs to lend credibility to himself and his dreams of business prosperity, and as quickly as possible. So he gathers what capital he can get his hands on, and builds a respectable-sized town-house in the heart of the French Quarter, at 1614 Esplanade Avenue. Green lays out his town-house in the manner common at the time; a store-front on the first floor, private offices on the mezzanine, and living quarters on the top floor. Using his charisma, and a passably-faked accent, Green convinces a few established businessmen to invest in him, to open a store for imported ladies' clothing on the store-front. Using some of the investor's money, Green imports some fashionable furniture from Europe, a few convincing fake paintings, and Voila', our Mr. Green's riche suddenly doesn't seem quiet so nouveau any more.

The import market for ladies' garments really takes off, and Green starts making money hand over fist. In order to really seal the deal, Green decides to go personally on his next import trip to Paris, with the intention of bringing home a cultured French beauty as his blushing bride-to-be. Green succeeds on both counts; the latest Paris fashions stun the folks back home, and Green courts and wins the heart of a mademoiselle Marianne LeSoleil. Green's Miss Marianne turns out to be his ticket to the cream of New Orleans society. Not only is is the young (some would say too young) woman a stunning beauty with a charming wit, she is also well educated in the subjects a lady of culture should be: wine, cuisine, art, music, poetry. Not only that, but the LeSoleil maiden name hinted at a possible tie to Louis XIV, the Sun King. Speculation at the time was that Marianne was perhaps a great-great-grand-daughter, although not legitimately recognized of course.

Having made all the right moves, Green's life goes on auto-pilot. He enjoys business success, his lovely wife, his social status, and eventually, a house full of young daughters, all equally as beautiful as their mother. But, the one constant in life is change. Soon, the fickle whims of ladies fashion start to change faster than Green can import new merchandise. Green ends up with warehouses full of garments that are all too passe' to wear. Green can't make enough sales to cover the costs of his useless inventory, and secretly, he starts to go heavily into debt. At first, Green gets a brainstorm; he has Marianne and his daughters alter the clothing to suit the current rage. After all, remove a few bits of lace here, sew on some ostrich feathers there, and who can tell the difference ?

Green's fashion juggling act works for a while, but soon, the fashion whims are just too different from the clothes he has in stock. Sales fall, debts pile up, and Green is out of fresh ideas. They say that to drink as a result of bad business is unfortunate, to gamble is fool-hearty, but to do both is disastrous. Green develops a taste for the then-fashionable Absinthe, and soon starts to get drunk every night. Encouraged by the Absinthe euphoria, Green starts to gamble heavily in an attempt to win enough money to turn his business around. Well, if the old carpet-bagger Yankee ever had any poker skills, the Absinthe madness robbed him of them. Green's bar tabs mount up, his gambling debts mount up, and he even foolishly tries to keep a mistress or two on the side. Green's business, lavish home, and social climbing are all supported by a financial house of cards. One angry partner, calling in a note, was all it would take to bring it all crashing down.

Being a man of noble persuasions, and not much real moral conviction, Green takes the easy way out; he is found dead in his private office, the apparent victim of a “gun-cleaning accident.” Ms. Marianne LeSoleil (who had kept her maiden name at Green's request, due to the “Sun King” connotations) quickly composes herself in her grief, and sets about to save her and her daughters from being put out into the streets. Madame LeSoleil changes her name to LeSoleil-Levant, or “Rising Sun.” The implication being, that like the legendary Phoenix, she and her household would rise out of the ashes triumphant. So, the town-house at 1614 Esplanade Avenue, in the heart of French Quarter New Orleans, became know as Chateau de LeSoleil-Levant, or the House of the Rising Sun.

Ms. Marianne makes inquiries about her dearly-departed husband's debts. She manages to sell the dress inventory at fire-sale prices, and sells the warehouse as well. She auctions off some of the art-work and furniture, and manages to pay off the mortgage on the house. By playing the grieving widow part to the hilt, Madame LeSoleil-Levant convinces most of Green's creditors to either forgive the debts, or extend her more favorable terms. She seeks out letters-of-credit, so she can start fresh, and perhaps seek proper suitors for her now marrying-aged daughters. She gets only one letter-of-credit, but that one letter made all the difference. Green's first investor takes pity on Ms. Marianne, and finances suitable dowries for the of-age daughters. He also provides some fine jewelry for Ms. Marianne, for which she was suitably appreciative to be sure.

Madame LeSoleil-Levant instructs her young brides-to-be in the finer arts of entertaining gentlemen callers, and sees to it that young men of suitable upbringing (and bank accounts) become properly introduced to her lovely daughters. Unfortunately, the young men of the day were loathe to leap into untested waters, as it were. There were plenty of evenings entertaining gentlemen callers, but scarce few proposals of a matrimonial nature were produced by such efforts. Eventually, Madame LeSoleil-Levant took it upon herself to inform the young gentlemen, discretely of course, that flowers and candy could be left at home, for young ladies of culture appreciated more substantial tokens of affection. She even went so far as to instruct, on more than one occasion, that young men who were confused as to what to offer their young lady, could whisper in Madame's ear what “exercise” they had in mind for the evening, and they would be instructed as to appropriate objects of endearment to provide.

Thus, after a time, The House of the Rising Sun became the most famous, and some would say the classiest house of ill fame in the entire French Quarter, and its legend would be one day be celebrated in the song of the same name, nearly a century later.

So, that is how Ruby ended up asking me to New Orleans, on the Magdalene Society tour of one of the most famous brothels of modern history. Of course I said yes, if no other reason than to perhaps gain some inspiration for the next Ruby Alsace novel. We exchanged a few e-mails, checked some travel web sites, and soon our trip to New Orleans was all set. We took in some of the more famous sites, then worked our way in to the French Quarter. Ruby surprised me, by being able to get us seated for luncheon at Antoine's on such short notice.

After the Oysters Rockefeller, a Caesar Salad, and warm baguettes, we finally decided to make our way to Esplanade Avenue. After some searching up and down, we found the house at 1614.

True to its origins, The House of the Rising Sun still had a plate glass store-front windows, only now the name of the place was emblazoned in red electric lights, the penultimate letter of which, appeared to have been sans neon for quite some time. The gingerbread decorations of the house were still intact or recently restored, but the color scheme of the paint was no longer in keeping with the fashions of its original heyday. We were pleased to know that the current owner still lived on the top floor, had offices below, and ran a business on the street level. The street-level establishment appeared to be a bar of some sort, which was disappointing, since the place would likely be empty for several hours, so we would have to do other sight-seeing then come back in order to catch the full ambiance.

Ruby and I had started to go, when to our surprise, people from the neighborhood started to file into the street-level establishment. We watched from across the street, until a good number of folks had entered, then we decided to go in as well. The bar was dimly lit, but smoke free, and there was a grill area, specializing in “Po' Boy” sandwiches and local seafood. The clientele, for the most part, all seemed to know each other and all of the wait staff. Many folks ordered “the usual”, and the waiters knew what each person meant by that. Most of the patrons had lead-crystal high-ball glasses in hand, and all the seating faced a stage of some sort. The locals munched on the deep-fried fare common to the locale, and many gentlemen could be heard calling for “another round for the whole table.”

Suddenly, the neons and rope lights were brightened, and the house lights were brought down to a dull twilight. The owner of the establishment, a young man barely in his mid-twenties, took the stage. He offered up a short prayer, almost like saying grace, except that half the entrees were already well tuckered into. Then a spot-light was shone on the young man, and he started to sign. The old familiar sound of an electric organ, just like how the rock-group The Animals used it in 1964, started to belt out the tune of The House of the Rising Sun. The younger singer, in a soft voice surprisingly gravely for his slender frame, began to sing:

There is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun.

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God I know I'm one.

My mother was a tailor --

She sewed my new bluejeans;

My father was a gamblin' man

Way down in New Orleans.

Now the only thing a gambler needs

Is a suitcase and a gun;

And the only time he feels alive

Is when he's on the run.

Yes, my Momma was a liar --

My Daddy was a thief;

This is a house of sinners, Lord

Of who, I know, I'm chief

Oh mothers tell your children

Not to do what I have done;

Don't waste your lives in sin and misery

In the House of the Rising Sun.

Well, I got one foot on the platform

The other foot's al--ready on the train;

I'm goin' back down to New Orleans

Tear down that house of pain.

Well, there is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God I know I'm one.

After the soulful rendition of the song, almost like a hymn, the young motioned to someone offstage. He said, “here is someone we thought we had lost completely to the streets, in fact, we thought he might be dead. I am pleased to welcome to you tonight, here all the way from Chicago to tell you his story in his own words, my Little Brother . . . . . .”

The emcee's introduction was interrupted by thunderous applause when the crowd saw who was walking onstage from the wings. The new face on the stage was the spitting-image of the emcee, except for about six inches shorter. The younger boy, barely out of his teens, toe-headed, pale with freckles, lanky and thin; was dressed in a suit two sizes too big for him. His shoes, though worn-out, had been carefully polished with about twenty coats of Parade Gloss, until they sparkled like mirrors. The lad had the tell-tale look of someone recently snatched off the streets, his pale skin had red blotches, like someone who had soaked in a scalding hot bath to get rid of the street-funk. Slowly, the lad reached out for the microphone, and spoke, barely audible at first: “Hello, My name is Cyle, and I'm an Alchoholic . . . . . . .”

Suddenly, it dawned on me, all the details I had noticed about the place, I had interpreted it all wrong. This place, this once famous house of ill repute, stuff of legend and song, had not been changed into a bar. This was an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting house, and probably a church rescue mission as well. The brown drinks in the heavy high-ball glasses was just iced tea. Even the red neon sign in the window, when properly lit, could be seen to read “The House of the Rising Son.” It was only one letter, but it had made all the difference. I leaned over to my travel companion and whispered, “I think we have the setting for the next Ruby Alsace novel.” She replied, “yes we do,” as she started dialing the number for the taxi to take us back to the airport.

The End.