I have to say, I wasn’t thrilled about going out that night.  I was having a horrible day at the office.  I wasn’t in the mood.  But Vivienne kept e-mailing me.

    “Leda, if you don’t go to Kevin’s opening, I will no longer be available for tennis on Saturday mornings.”

    And two hours later: “Leda, forget about me going to the Tulane chamber music series with you . . . unless, of course, you’ll go to Kevin’s opening.”

    And, again, ten minutes later: “Leda, if you ever want to see Tracy again, you’ll go with me to the opening tonight.”

    To which, I rapidly replied: “Vivienne, how dare you threaten to abduct Tracy!  You’ve stooped about as low as a person can go.  Therefore, I’ll be happy to accompany you tonight.”

    To which, Vivienne responded: “I’ll swing by your place at 7.”

    Back then, I was living in the Warehouse District of New Orleans, about three blocks from my office on Poydras Street.  Even though my apartment was small, the view was excellent.  Every evening at sunset, I used to sit on my balcony and watch the bridge begin to sparkle like a constellation as the Mississippi River turned from slate grey to an oily black.  Tracy loved the balcony too, but I suppose all cats love high places. 

    That evening I arrived home at my usual time, got out of my work clothes, and fixed myself a scotch and water.   Tracy followed me to the balcony.  We each took a chair, Tracy sitting up like a little lady, watching the birds circling the parking lot.  And me, slouched down in my chair, taking tentative sips and then large gulps of my scotch.   As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky turned the most brilliant red I’d ever seen.  I think painters call that color cadmium red. Tracy hopped out of her chair and into my lap as if on cue.  It was one of those rare moments when I felt like everything was all right, like the world made sense.  And, of course, at that very moment, the doorbell rang.  It was Vivienne.

    “You’re early,” I said as I unbolted the door.

    “I know, I know,” she said, “but I’m dying of hunger.  I’ve got to have sushi or I’m literally going to die.”   She was dressed from head to toe in black leather, except for the tie-dyed tote she always carried.  Her hair was cropped shorter than usual but when she turned I saw that it had been cut only on one side. 

    “Nice haircut,” I said, frowning. “Did you go to Jean-Luc again?”

    “Don’t start in on me, okay?  He’s finishing it tomorrow.  I’m about to faint.  I mean, look at me.  If we don’t get to Chalet Saki on the double, I’m going to pass out.  I’m totally serious.” She held out a shaky hand for me to inspect.

    “Okay,” I said.  “ Let me get my bag and we’ll go.”

    We walked toward the river to a group of low warehouses fronting Tchoupitoulas Street.  It was a cool night but the humidity hung heavy in the air, an invisible oppressiveness.   The “I” in Chalet Saki’s neon
“SUSHI” sign was out, leaving only “SUSH” flashing in the mist.  I wondered if there was some hidden meaning there.  Was “SUSH” an order, a warning, an expletive?  I had a bad feeling.  I knew something was going to happen.  It was in the air, and it was in the blinking and mysterious “SUSH.”

    I glanced at Vivienne.  I was about to make some joke about the sushi sign.  The words caught in my throat.  Vivienne was wearing a long blond wig that looked like it was made of the same acrylic material used in Barbie doll hair. 

    I must have made a sound because Vivienne turned her head sharply toward me, swinging her doll hair behind her shoulder.  She narrowed her eyes.  “What?” she demanded.

    I tried not to laugh.  I really did.  But my eyes started to water, and a cackling sound started in the upper part of my throat.  I couldn’t control it.  I doubled over with laughter.  I had to sit down on the curb in front of Chalet Saki. 

    “What?” Vivienne demanded again.  She stood over me, her doll hair shimmering in the street light.

    “When did you put that on?” I finally managed.

    “While we were walking over.  Right after we left your place.  Why?”

    “It looks ridiculous.  You look like Barbie.  Like art party Barbie or something.”

    “Look, Leda, you don’t expect me to go to Kevin’s opening with my hair butchered.  Jean-Luc gave me this wig.  And besides, I totally love it.”

    “It just looks so fake,” I said.

    “That’s the point.” Vivienne rolled her eyes.  “I swear, you are so uncool sometimes.”

    “Well.” I stopped myself.  I was going to tell Vivienne that she was the weirdest person I knew.  But she would have taken it as a compliment.  She prided herself on being innovative.  I’d known her since we were both high school students at Ben Franklin.  When I met her, she told me her name was Cyndi, as in Cyndi Lauper.  She was going to be famous someday, she said.  It hadn’t happen, at least not yet.  She started working in a resale boutique on Magazine Street after college, and she never left.  She was an expert costumer, occasionally appearing at my door dressed as the 1920’s film star Clara Bow or in some other equally bizarre get-up.

    She extended her hand.  I took it and she pulled me up from the curb. 

    “I’ve got to eat now,” she said.  “No more fooling around.  I’m seriously shaky.”

    I followed her through the door of Chalet Saki.  We sat at the sushi bar.  Hiro was working.  Vivienne and I exchanged approving glances.  Hiro was our favorite sushi chef.  He always made us something extra for free.  Something exotic.   

    Hiro was talking to a customer at the other end of the bar.  “Hi, Hiro,” Vivienne called. 

    Hiro looked at us, puzzled, and walked over.  “You brought a friend with you tonight, Leda?”

    “Well, yes, I have,” I replied.  Vivienne was grinning.  She looked pleased with herself.  Hiro burst into laughter.

    “This Ken’s girlfriend?” he asked, feigning seriousness.   Then, he roared with laughter again.

    “No, this is not Ken’s girlfriend,” Vivienne sputtered.  “I don’t know why you guys have to make fun of me like this.  Jean-Luc said I looked gorgeous in this wig.”

    “Get them two hot sakes,” Hiro told the waitress.  “You need an order of yellowtail, Vivienne.  That will make you feel happy again.  No more sour puss, huh?”

    “I told Leda I was about to pass out.  I’m so hungry and freaked out.  Help.”   She was using her squeaky voice.  It always amazed me how she never failed to garner sympathy with it.  I found it irritating.

    “Vivienne,” I hissed, leaning toward her, “don’t use the Voice.”

    “Shut up,” she hissed back.

    “Hiro,” she squeaked, “do you have any barbecued eel?  I’ve been dreaming about the eel we had last time.”

    “You like it, huh?  No one makes barbecued eel like me.”

    “You’re the best, Hiro.  Absolutely.”

    “I’ll make you something else too, something very special.” I watched Hiro slice and chop.  He wasn’t even looking at his hands.  He was looking at Vivienne.

    “Oh, what?” Vivienne squeaked.

    “My favorite breakfast when I was a boy in Japan.   You wait.  I’m going to fix you up good.”

    I sank my teeth into one of Hiro’s crunchy rolls.  Instantly, I felt the same as I had earlier on the balcony.  Everything was okay.  Everything was right in the world.  I chewed slowly, savoring the flavors.  I looked at Vivienne who was stuffing a piece of yellowtail in her mouth and trying to talk at the same time.

    “Was caw, dis ting ur mapin?” she asked.

    “Vivienne, please!” I said.  “That’s disgusting.”

    Vivienne swallowed hard.  “What?” She looked at me with genuine curiosity.
   
    “Talking with your mouth full,” I said.  “Don’t do that.”
   
    Vivienne rolled her eyes and turned back to Hiro.  “The breakfast food you’re making, Hiro.  What’s it called?”
   
    “Natto,” Hiro said.  Vivienne shrugged.
   
    “What’s in it?” I asked.  Hiro had removed a bowl from the cooler and was stirring it.  He transferred the contents to two smaller bowls.
   
    “Fermented soybeans,” he said, handing us the two bowls.  “Enjoy.”
   
    We both eyed the bowls hesitantly.  The soybeans, suspended in a stringy, glutinous substance, looked like flies caught in a spider web.   With my chopsticks, I pulled out a wad of soybeans.  It smelled vaguely spoiled.  Slowly, I placed the chopsticks in my mouth.  Not bad, I thought.  It tasted good, with just the slightest hint of fermentation.  I smiled at Hiro.
   
    “Good, huh?” he said.
   
    “It’s different,” I said.  “But good.”
   
    “Oh, Hiro,” Vivienne moaned.  “How could you eat this for breakfast?”
   
    Hiro started to respond, but the restaurant door was thrown open and a humid draft swept across us.  We turned around on our bar stools.  A stocky woman with a pageboy haircut and a long, horsy face careened toward a table near the bar.  Two smaller women accompanied her.  They fell into their chairs.  A waitress approached them warily.
   
    “We want some hamburgers,” the stocky woman said in slurred speech.
   
    “We don’t serve hamburgers, ma’am.  This is a sushi restaurant.”
   
    “Oh,” the woman said, twisting her head up and crossing her eyes.  “Something cooked, no raw stuff.” The woman’s eyes uncrossed.  She was staring at us.  Her placid, drunk demeanor turned into an expression of recognition and then a scowl.
   
    “That’s her,” she bellowed, pointing at Vivienne.  She shoved her chair back and stood shakily.  The two other women giggled drunkenly and turned to look at us.  “She stole my boyfriend.”
   
    “Veronica,” one of her friends said, “that’s not Missy Duval.  That’s some girl in a blonde wig.”
   
    “She does kind of look like Missy,” the other friend conceded before bursting into giggles.
   
    Veronica charged towards Vivienne.  “You stole my boyfriend,” she screamed in Vivienne’s face.
   
    “I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I didn’t steal your boyfriend.  I don’t even know him.” Vivienne slid off her stool and tried to slip around Veronica.  I jumped off my stool to intervene.  When I did, I noticed a queasy feeling in my stomach.  Something bad was going to happen.  We should have never gone out, I thought.
   
    With two large hands, Veronica grabbed Vivienne by her jacket and shook her violently.  “I’m gonna kick your ass!” she screamed, jostling the fine, perfectly coifed acrylic fibers of Vivienne’s hair. 
   
    “Stop it!” I yelled.  “Help, someone.” I tried to pull Vivienne away, but Veronica held on tight.  Vivienne’s hairline began to recede as the wig slipped off revealing her short black hair.  Veronica stopped shaking Vivienne and stared at her as if she’d morphed into an alien.     
   
    At that moment and without warning, the queasy feeling surged in my stomach.  The taste of fermented soybeans filled my mouth again.  In one forceful convulsion, my dinner came spewing out of my mouth all over Veronica.  She looked at me with bloodshot eyes.  Her nose started to twitch.  She looked like an overgrown rabbit.  Then, the color drained out of her large ruddy face and she let out a loud groan.  She ran for the door.  I could hear her heaving on the sidewalk.  Her two friends, still sitting at their table, were in hysterics. 
   
    Vivienne looked like she’d been in an accident.  “I’m so sorry,” I muttered.  She nodded slowly, her eyes dull.
   
    “Out!  Out!” Someone was pushing us.  “No fighting in Chalet Saki!” Mrs. Tanaka, the elderly lady who owned and managed the restaurant, shoved Vivienne and me toward the door.  “You no longer welcome,” she said.
   
    “But we didn’t start it, Mrs. T,” Vivienne pleaded.
   
    “No matter,” Mrs. Tanaka said.  “We have rules.  Customers who fight don’t come back.” She pushed us outside.  “Next time, I call NOPD on you,” she said ominously.
   
    “Don’t worry,” Vivienne said in her best defiant tone, “there won’t be a next time.”
   
    I looked through the window one last time at the best sushi bar in New Orleans.  Hiro waved at me, shrugged his shoulders, and then shook his head sadly.  A waitress scurried from the back of the restaurant with a mop and bucket and began to clean the mess we’d left.  I felt horrible. 
   
    Vivienne and I stood on the sidewalk, the flashing neon SUSH sign bathing us in red and then white light and then red again.  Vivienne started to cry.  “What are we going to do without Chalet Saki, Leda?” she sobbed.   “We’ll never eat that barbecued eel again.”
   
    “I don’t know, I don’t know.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

    We walked down the sidewalk.  Half a block from the restaurant, we found Veronica passed out, face up, on top of a pile of garbage bags.  Vivienne placed the wig on her head.   We took my camera out of my bag and snapped a picture. 
   
    Neither of us felt well enough to go to the opening.  We went back to my apartment and sat on the balcony, sipping diet Sprite and watching the barges and the ships and the riverboats move silently through the black water.