The Lost Book of Adana Moreau by Michael Zapata

Author:Michael Zapata
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Published: 2019-11-21T16:39:12+00:00

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When they got back to the car, Javier said he had to meet up with a colleague. They drove to a bar called Molly’s in the French Quarter. The bar was long, dark. On the bar and at each table, there were candles burning. There were six other people, none of whom, thought Saul, were Maxwell Moreau. On a bar stool near the front doors, Javier saw his colleague. They shook hands and then he introduced himself to Saul.

The photojournalist’s name was Roberto Herrera and he was originally from Santa Fe, but hadn’t been back in some time. For the foreseeable future, he would be staying in New Orleans. It was a welcome change of pace. His previous assignment had been to follow troops fighting insurgents in the Euphrates River valley in Iraq. The photojournalist’s face was thin and long, his short black beard giving him a serious look, yet he was dressed like a tourist who was taking a hiatus from a very serious life.

Over beers, Javier and Roberto talked about a colleague of theirs who was stuck in an impossible situation in Mosul. When they were all finished, they went outside and unloaded the supplies from the Cadillac to Roberto’s jeep parked out front. Afterward, the photojournalist took out a cigarette and handed one to Javier, who lit it with a small lighter. Saul couldn’t remember just then if Javier smoked or not. When the photojournalist tried to hand one to Saul, he shook his head and said, no thank you. Then the photojournalist lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings, bluish nimbuses that dissolved in the fading yellow light of that long colonial street. I have to quit this shit, he said to Saul and raised his hand in a gesture of surrender. Then at some point Javier told Roberto that they should get going if they were going to drop off the supplies and get a little work done before the curfew. They both got into the jeep and Javier said, alright, pana, we’ll be back in a few hours, then we’ll call it a day. The jeep sped down the street and Saul spent a few seconds gazing after it, thinking the whole time that he should’ve taken the cigarette from the photojournalist, then, later, as he sat at the candlelit bar reading an old, yellowed copy of the Times-Picayune, the words, at times, floating weightlessly above the pages like a hologram of granulated ash, thinking that it actually didn’t matter one way or another.

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