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xii-- List of Illustrations SIGNATURE FIVE -- BETWEEN PAGE 182 AND PAGE 183 A Cajun Oysterman of Barataria with his Oyster Tongs A Cajun Fisherman's Family in their Bayou Home Cajun Girls of the Bayou Country Old Cajun Woman Shrimp Fleet Waiting To Be Blessed The Archbishop on the Way To Bless the Shrimp Fleet

SIGNATURE SIX -- BETWEEN PAGE 246 AND PAGE 247 Statue of Mother Catherine Mother Catherine's Statue of Jehovah Mother Maude Shannon, Leader of aPopular Cult of Today When the 'Mother of a Cult Dies She Is Often Buried with a Crown on her Head

SIGNATURE SEVEN -- BETWEEN PAGE 278 AND PAGE 279 A Haunted Summer House at 'The Shadows' in New Iberia The Strange Old LePrete House Has Many Ghostly Legends Fort Livingstone and Grande Isle, Once the Haunt of Lafitte's Pirates Madame Perrin Who Claims That Napoelon, John Paul Jones and Pirate Lafitte Are Buried in the Same Grave

DRAWINGS BY CAROLINE DURIEUX -- BETWEEN PAGE 310 AND PAGE 311

SIGNATURE NINE -- BETWEEN PAGE 342 AND PAGE 343 'Skeletons,' a Painting by Edward Schoenberger, Inspired by New Orleans Cemeteries 'The Devil in a Cemetery,' Painting by John McCrady The Mausoleum of Michael the Archangel Old Tomb, Girod Cemetery Charity Hospital Cemetery, the Potter's Field St. Louis Cemeteries List Burial Prices

List of Illustrations - xiii SIGNATURE TEN -- BETWEEN PAGE 406 AND PAGE 407 Part of the Ceremony That Precedes All Saints' Day All Saints' Day in St. Vincent de Paul Cemetery On All Saints' Day Refreshments and Souvenirs Are Sold at the Cemetery Gates 'Banjo Annie,' One of the Gayer Characters of the Vieux Carre New Orleans Chimney Sweeps

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Chapter 1

Kings, Baby Dolls, Zulus, and Queens

EVERY NIGHT IS LIKE SATURDAY NIGHT IN PERdido Street, wild and fast and hot with sin. But the night before Mardi Gras blazed to a new height. The darkness outside the bars was broken only by yellow rectangles of light, spreading over the banquette, then quickly vanishing, each time saloon doors opened and closed. Music boxes blased from every lighted doorway. Black men swaggered or staggered past, hats and caps pulled low over their eyes, which meant they were tough, or set rakishly over one ear, which meant they were sports. There were the smells: stale wine and beer, whiskey, urine, perfume, sweating armpits. In one dimly lighted place couples milled about the floor, hugging each other tightly, goig through sensuous motions to the music. Drug addicts, prostitutes, beggars and workingmen, they were having themselves a time. A fat girl danced alone, snapping her fingers. Young black women tried to itnerest men, ,who sagged over the bars, their eyelids heavy from liquor and 'reefers.' One woman screamed above the din: 'I'll do it for twenty cents, Hot Papa. I can't dance with no dry throat. I want twenty cents

2 --- Gumbo Ya-Ya to buy me some wine.' She did a little trucking step, raised her dress, 'showed her linen.' Harry entered. Somebody shouted: 'Shut off that damn music box. Come on Harry. Put it on, son!' Harry, a lean brown boy in a red silk shirt and green trousers, held a tambourine high, beat out an infectious tom-tom tempo with one fist, huskily sang words that had no meaning, but in a rhythmn that was a drug. His greasy cap low over one ear, thick lips drawn back from large white teeth, he performed a wild dance, shoulders hunched, scrawny hips undulating. Hock-a-lee-hock-a-lee-weeoo! Hock-a-lee-hock-a-lee-weeoo! We-le-he-hela-wa-le-he-weeoo-oo! There were comments. 'Man, those Indians gonna step high tomorrow.' Harry's chant was one of the Indians' songs. A small girl shoved her way through the crowd around the singer. 'Wait'll you see us Baby Dolls tomorrow,' she promised. 'Is we gonna wiggle our tails!' A man threw an arm around her neck; drew her away, over to where they could do some 'corner loving.' In the back room was the real man of the night. His face a trifle blank from whiskey, his eyes sleepy, King Zulu held court. This was his royal reception. Just now the King was pretty tired. The Queen rose suddenly and moved away from the table, her hips shaking angrily. If the old fool wants to go to sleep, let him. She'll find herself somebody who can keep his eyes open and lieks some fun. She's a queen, and a queen has to have her fun. Nobody ever goes to bed on this night. Ain't tomorrow the big day? Not until morning do they ever go home, and then only to array themselves in costumed splendor. But there is never any weariness about King Zulu on Carnival Day. With his royal raiment, he magically dons fresh energy. A few shots of whiskey and the trick is done. His head is up, his posture majestic -- at least in the beginning of the day. Later he may droop a bit. Strongarmed bodyguards and shiny black limousines, rented