“Well, if she comes here, I’ll let you know. Better go down on Canal Street. Yes, I think if I were a lady with a dog I’d be down on Canal Street. Women love to mask; it means they can unmask.”
Johnny stood up. “How do I get to Canal Street?”
“Straight through Central City past the opera house, then turn right at the Rose Bowl. Be careful then, for you pass through the Nebraska section with Ak-Sar-Ben in full sway. Anything could happen. After that, Calaveras County-Mind the frogs!-then Canal Street.”
“Thank you so much.” He followed the directions, keeping an eye out for the lady with a dog. Nevertheless he stared with wonder at the things he saw as he threaded through the gay crowds. He did see a dog, but it was a seeing-eye dog-and that was a great wonder, too, for the live clear eyes of the dog’s master could and did see anything that was going on around him, yet the man and the dog traveled together with the man letting the dog direct their way, as if no other way of travel were conceivable, or desired, by either one.
He found himself in Canal Street presently and the illusion was so complete that it was hard to believe that he had not been transported to New Orleans. Carnival was at height; it was Fat Tuesday here; the crowds were masked. He got a mask from a street vendor and went on.
The hunt seemed hopeless. The street was choked by merry-makers watching the parade of the Krewe of Venus. It was hard to breathe, much harder to move and search. He eased into Bourbon Street-the entire French Quarter had been reproduced-when he saw the dog.
He was sure it was the dog. It was wearing a clown suit and a little peaked hat, but it looked like his dog. He corrected himself; it looked like Bindlestiff.
And it accepted one of the frankfurters gratefully. “Where is she, old fellow?” The dog woofed once, then darted away into the crowd. He tried to follow, but could not; he required more clearance. But he was not downhearted; he had found the dog once, he would find him again. Besides, it had been at a masked ball that he had first met Martha, she a graceful Pierrette, he a fat Pierrot. They had watched the dawn come up after the ball and before the sun had set again they had agreed to marry.
He watched the crowd for Pierrettes, sure somehow that the dog’s mistress would costume so.
Everything about this fair made him think even more about Martha, if that were possible. How she had traveled his territory with him, how it had been their habit to start out, anywhere, whenever a vacation came along. Chuck the Duncan Hines guide and some bags in the car and be off. Martha . . . sitting beside him with the open highway a broad ribbon before them . . . singing their road song America the Beautiful and keeping him on key: “-thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears-”
Once she had said to him, while they were bowling along through-where was it? The Black Hills? The Ozarks? The Poconos? No matter. She had said, “Johnny, you’ll never be President and I’ll never be First Lady, but I’ll bet we know more about the United States than any President ever has. Those busy, useful people never have time to see it, not really.”
“It’s a wonderful country, darling.”
“It is, it is indeed. I could spend all eternity just traveling around in it-traveling in elephants, Johnny, with you.”
He had reached over and patted her knee; he remembered how it felt.
The revelers in the mock French Quarter were thinning out; they had drifted away while he daydreamed. He stopped a red devil. “Where is everyone going?”
“To the parade, of course.”
“The Big Parade?”
“Yes, it’s forming now.” The red devil moved on, he followed.
His own sleeve was plucked. “Did you find her?” It was Mrs. Evans, slightly disguised by a black domino and clinging to the arm of a tall and elderly Uncle Sam.
“Eh? Why, hello, Mrs. Evans! What do you mean?”