Gloomy Sunday

He woke sometime later sitting up against an old crypt back in Lafayette Cemetery Number 1; his head was pounding and he shook it lightly to clear the muddle. Memories of the afternoon came rushing in and he hurried to his feet. There was no sign of Eva so he called her name a few times before he started laughing. Obviously he'd had entirely too much to drink and passed out in a grave yard and the beautiful Eva was just a product of his drunken, horny man brain... one hell of a wet dream, he thought walking to the gated entrance. The sun was close to setting but instead of heading directly to St. Charles for the trolley he walked a few blocks up Magazine where he had followed his ghostly lover in his alcohol induced hallucination. When he arrived at the home where they had made love he was overcome with confusion as it was the exact same house as in his dream, yet a bit more dilapidated then it had appeared before. He had to know if she was in there so he opened the squeaking gate, up the few steps to the porch and knocked. He peeked through the dirty glass panes alongside the front door; the house was desolate and devoid of any furnishings and yet he recognized the ancient wall paper now pulling away from the walls in the foyer and the grand staircase just beyond. He knocked again and waited; praying that she would answer the door.

"Eva?" he said softly and peered through the glass again; it looked as if no one had been there in years. He was kind of sick to his stomach but tried to laugh off the events... maybe he was right it had just been a dream or one hell of a hangover. Chapter 3

Joseph left New Orleans the next morning and swore he'd never return. Work occupied most of his time, plus he was single, wealthy and handsome so he had plenty of ladies to keep him busy. But none could compare, none of them were the beautiful nightingale, the woman his heart and body craved. He never forgot that afternoon with his imagined lover, his beautiful Eva, but he worked hard at trying to fill the emptiness he'd felt since that day.

When he returned home from the trip she was all he could think about, he was obsessed with the bizarre events, the pieces of the puzzle didn't fit, it had been too real to be a dream and it nearly drove him insane. He'd spent countless hours scouring the internet for something, anything that might make sense of what happened to him but the only solid piece of information he'd been able to attach to the day was the song. It had taken him hours of searching but he had finally found it while searching a song lyric database. It was called "Gloomy Sunday" and sung by Billie Holiday but it was loosely based on a song infamously known as The Hungarian Suicide song by Rezső Seress, who jumped to his death from his apartment and created what would become an urban legend about it inspiring hundreds of suicides and being banned from being played or sung in public. He listened to it over and over and each time he relived that day with Eva, it had seemed so real, he could still vividly recall the smell of magnolias, the smoothness of her flesh, the curves of her body and the taste of her kiss. He finally had to stop listening to it for fear that he would become another statistic to further fuel the song's dark reputation. He searched for a way to push it all to the recesses of his brain and try to return to normal. His most recent feminine pursuit had been able to finally ease some of his torment by fucking him whenever and however he wanted until he was too tired to dream.

Now, three years later business would take Joseph back to New Orleans and once the trip had been set he was back in that place where his heart was ripped open, his mind a mess and his body aching with a need only one woman could ease.

After a few days and countless hours of business meetings Joseph wandered around post Hurricane Katrina New Orleans on a warm and drizzling Sunday morning. He was amazed at the restorations, the French Quarter no longer smelled of booze and decay; even the dives along Bourbon Street had been lovingly refurbished. He thought he was just drifting around aimlessly but found himself heading towards that dank, dirty pub where he'd first heard the strains of that song. Music and people poured out of every door, the streets filled with rowdy revelers and yet when he neared that corner everything faded away as he heard the melody that had haunted him for three years.

Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless,

Dearest the shadows I live with are numberless.

His steps quickened as he pushed through the crowd.

Little white flowers will never awaken you

Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you

He stopped just outside, filled with fear that this would be just another product of his imagination. He closed his eyes as the tune continued the sultry sound of her voice exactly as he remembered.

Angels have no thoughts of ever returning you

Wouldn't they be angry if I thought of joining you?

Gloomy Sunday

He stepped through the door to find a bright and beautifully restored pub, not the dark derelict mess it had been before. His eyes adjusted to the lighting and he scanned the room searching for the face that matched the voice and there she was on stage sitting behind a keyboard and microphone at the back of the bar. He made his way through the throng and his knees nearly buckled as their eyes met. Her face registered surprise but she kept singing watching as he made his way towards her.

Gloomy is Sunday, with shadows I spend it all

My heart and I have decided to end it all

Her beautiful hair was loose and swept down past her waist, her emerald eyes sparkled beneath long lashes, she was more beautiful than he'd remembered but she was without a doubt the woman he'd fallen in love with in the Lafayette Cemetery that day. Her denim skirt and tight tank top were the only things that seemed truly different, a distinct contrast to the vintage black taffeta dress she'd been wearing that day.

Soon there'll be candles and prayers that are said I know

Let them not weep let them know that I'm glad to go

Death is no dream, for in death I'm caressin' you

With the last breath of my soul I'll be blessin' you

Gloomy Sunday

The crowd burst into cheers as the final notes faded but for the two of them there was nothing and no one else in that room. She walked to the edge of the platform where he was standing and gently cupped his face with her small hands; with her bottom lip held between her teeth she searched his visage; her brow creased and a tear rolled down her cheek as she explored the angles and planes of his face.

"Joseph?" she barely whispered.

"Eva!" he said as he pulled her to him, his face pressed against her belly and his eyes burning with tears just as they had that day. He reached up and lifted her into his arms, holding her against his body while she wrapped hers around his neck, legs dangling a foot from the ground; eye to eye, face to face, tear to tear as their lips met; he felt that jolt of electricity just as he did before, he could tell she did too.

Sweeping his other arm under her knees he carried her out of the noisy bar to a chorus of catcalls and whistles. They didn't speak as he carried her through the now pouring rain but he would stop every few steps to squeeze and kiss her to convince himself she was really there. The door man and the entire lobby stared as the soaked man sloshed across the marble floor with his precious package. He set her down once inside the elevator but crushed her to him and kissed her deeply; both were breathless by the time the doors opened on his floor.

Hand in hand they made their way to his suite; the squeak of their wet shoes echoed down the long hall. He held the door for her, never once letting go of her hand and he stopped as he stepped through the entrance but didn't close the door. She turned to face him, shivering as they stood there dripping.

"I don't understand..." she said quietly

"Neither do I, but we can discuss it as soon as we get you dry and warm." He was so nervous; the woman he'd been dreaming about for three years was real and in his suite. She didn't seem afraid at all, none the less he hesitated; perhaps it was a subconscious attempt at propriety, reminiscent of when he kissed her knuckles that day.

"I... um... do you..." he cleared his throat and fidgeted "What I mean is; are you ok with me closing the door?"

She tilted her head to the side and smiled as if that was a silly question.

"What a perfect gentleman." Her voice, with that sexy lilting southern drawl, was like fine scotch smoldering in his belly on a cold day. "Of course, Joseph, I know I'm safe with you."

Chapter 4

He pulled a plush robe from the closet and led her to the bathroom. He didn't want to let go of her hand or even to lose sight of her but he stepped back and closed the door to allow her privacy. He quickly shed his wet clothes, pulled on a pair of jeans and nervously combed his hands through his hair.

He was lighting a fire when she walked up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. The familiar scent of magnolia engulfed him and he inhaled deeply, intoxicated by her scent.

"We need to talk." He said before standing.

"Yeah, that's an understatement."

"Can I get you something to drink? The bar is fully stocked." He felt awkward; he fought the urge to touch her and turned for the kitchenette.

"Scotch, if you've got it." He faltered a bit.

"Certainly, how do you take it? Straight, mixed, on the rocks?"

"Chilled is my usual preference," he stopped short "but under the circumstances, whichever is the quickest is probably best. I'm freaking out right now so you might want to bring the whole bottle." She added with a nervous laugh.

He returned a moment later with a cold bottle of Glenfiddich's Vintage Reserve, two chilled glasses and two bottles of water.

"I come baring essential liquid provisions." He tried to appear at ease and casual even though he was about to burst. "I was surprised by your request for scotch but, I must say, I was taken aback by your preference for chilled scotch."

"And why is that?" she said with a toss of her hair "Do I look like a fruity frozen drink kind of girl? I can probably drink you under the table!" He laughed and responded

"No! No, that's not what I meant. I've just never met anyone else who likes their scotch chilled, like me, let alone one that knows enough not to order it on the rocks, because a real scotch lover..."

"...would never allow ice to water down a glass of thirty year old perfection." She finished the sentence for him and they both laughed while he poured them each a snifter. They sat facing one another on the rug in front of the fire, each unsure what to say or how to begin.

"Well, here's a toast..." he said to break the ice " a toast to... "

"Scotch!" she added

"To Scotch, indeed!" they both downed the first glass, wanting the delicious burn to warm their bellies; plus they needed the liquid courage immediately and neither was patient enough to sip. She poured the next round while he began with the questions.

"So, how do you know me?"

"I've dreamt of you." She whispered

"When?"

"Always." She looked down at her glass

"What happens in your dreams?"

"There's only one dream; it's always the same dream. I've never told anyone, not even my mother."

"Can you tell me?" he whispered

"You're the only one I can tell, Joseph. You're the only one who will understand it." She tipped her glass before continuing "I'm standing in the rain outside Lafayette Cemetery watching as the grand funeral parade flows in through the gates. I'm the last one in because I don't want to watch them put the casket in the crypt." She looks into the fire as tears well and overflow.

"I stay in the back as the grieving family and friends sing hymns, and I'm angry, really angry because they were praising God when I was cursing him for taking... " she stopped abruptly.

"For taking who, Eva?"

"My husband... he had been killed in the Second World War." The tears flowed down her cheek, the reflection of the fire dancing in each drop. "Joseph, it was you in that casket and I couldn't let you go!" she flung herself into his arms and he rocked her gently as sobs wracked her body. He was more confused than ever, something was still missing.

"What else, Eva? Is there more?" he whispered as she continued to shudder and cry. She nodded slowly and covered her face as she pulled back from him. "Please, Eva, I need to know."

"After everyone left and the gates closed I forced myself to get closer until I was sitting on the steps to the vault. You...HE loved to hear me sing and so I sang to him... only, in the dream, I'm singing in Hungarian." She looked up at him "I don't speak Hungarian, Joseph, but my Grandparents did."

"What was the song?" He could hardly breathe as he recalled what he had learned about the song's origins.

"The one I was singing tonight when you came into the bar. It's called Gloomy Sunday, well Billie Holiday's version is, but it's based on a piece known as..."

"The Hungarian Suicide song by Rezső Seress." Their eyes met and both knew the song was of immense importance. "Go on."

"Well... I'm sitting on the steps of the vault in the pouring rain watching numbly as the blood spills from the slices I made in my wrists."

"Oh my God, Eva!" he pulled her closer, wiped the tears from her cheek and tucked her under his chin. "How long have you been having this dream?"

"I don't know. Since I was about 12 I guess." She shrugged. He held her there for a few minutes; she could feel his heart beating beneath her cheek; his thick arms and chest gave her the sense that she was safe, that he somehow made her whole.

"Now, what about you, how do you know me?" She asked and reluctantly pulled out of his embrace.

"Well, this is really going to sound crazy." He paused and shifted uncomfortably "I'm not even sure this is happening."

"What do you mean?" she asked, her head tilted to the side.

"I... uh... I guess I think I'm going to wake up in the morning and this is all going to be just a crazy dream... or a figment of my imagination." He looked down and added quietly "Just like the last time."

"What happened last time?"

"Something I've never told anyone, either." He began to tell her about his previous visit to New Orleans, even the sounds and the melody that bound him there. When he told of the woman he raised his face to gauge her reaction "It was you, Eva. My God, I even remember the way you smelled and the clothes you were wearing..."

"Vintage black Tea Gown and a funny hat? Like something out of the 40's?" she asked softly, he nodded. Somehow, his vision was interrelated with her dream. "This doesn't make any sense. There's got to be more."

Joseph related the remainder of the story about the house, the staircase, the old Victrola; he stuttered and stammered as he reached the more intimate parts but by this time they both knew what transpired in that room.

"Will you come somewhere with me?"

"Sure, but where?"

"Just come with me, ok?"

He nodded and pulled on a shirt as she slipped her still damp clothes on in the bathroom. They were both disheveled and for all outward appearances everyone in the lobby, including the door man, assumed she was a prostitute and he her john, but Joseph gripped her hand firmly and led her back out into the pouring rain where he hailed a cab.

"Where to?" he asked Eva

"Lafayette Cemetery Number 1."

Chapter 5

The rain had slowed to a drizzle and as they stood in front of the familiar iron gates both were trembling.

"I'm going to go where I'm standing in my dream; you go where you saw me, ok?" he nodded and waited a moment before moving ahead.

He had run around in circles that day so it took him a few minutes to find the right area; he came around the last vault and there she stood exactly where he found her that day. He walked towards her as they both cried, the emotions he'd felt on that fateful day came rushing back.

The clouds started to clear and the full moon brightened the area where they stood. Both turned towards the vault they were standing in front of and could read the brass inscription plate clearly:

Joseph William Edwards and Eva Nikolet Vastag- Edwards

Together in life, love and death.

Sunday January 11, 1942.

He stood there for a moment in shock before he spoke.

"That's my name."

"And I'm Eva Nikolet; I was named after my grandmother."

He staggered a bit.

"Are you telling me this is your grandparents vault?"

"Yes. And today is Sunday January 11^th."

"Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on here?" he began to pace and run his hands through his hair as he tried to make sense of everything.

"Joseph, there's more." She told him an abbreviated history of the grandparents she never knew and how her mother, Marta, had been left an 11 year old orphan when Eva killed herself that day. Marta lived a difficult life being passed from orphanages to foster homes and back again. She hated her mother for being so selfish, however, a letter addressed to her had been found and when she was old enough to comprehend it she learned the depth of love the original Eva and James shared. She no longer hated her mother but came to admire her bravery and her devotion to the man she loved; Marta had even gone so far as to have the date of her mother's death changed on the plaque to match her father's. As young Eva grew, her mother told her stories of her grandparents and how their love had been the greatest love the world had known; a legacy of love and passion passed from one generation to the next. They would visit their tomb often and her mother would sing that sad Hungarian refrain before walking by the grand house that had once been their home. She swore one day she would buy the house; it was where she had been born and where the memories of her parents were the strongest and she wanted to raise Eva there. But Marta died in an automobile accident when Eva was 14, leaving a grieving husband and yet another broken child.

Joseph enveloped her in his arms as tears streamed down her face and she gave in for a moment, just resting there against his strength before taking a deep breath and stepping back.

"Now, take me to the house."

She looked straight ahead when he stopped, she didn't need to look at the house.

"This is my house, Joseph. It was also my grandparent's home." Her words rocked him and he swayed slightly on his feet catching himself with the iron gate.

"It had always been my mother's dream to bring it back into the family and restore it. I was finally able to buy her back after Katrina."

She opened the gate but it no longer protested and as he followed Eva up the path to the porch, her image flickered back and forth in his mind; one moment she was in the black taffeta dress, the next in her wet mini skirt. He couldn't wrap his mind around what was happening so for the moment he concentrated on watching her bottom sway as she climbed the steps and unlocked the door. Once inside he stood stock still, the house was as he remembered with a few updates here and there. Eva had done a beautiful job restoring the home; she was able to find the antique wallpaper, the wooden floors gleamed as did the railings leading up the stairs. His heart hammered as he remembered the last time he scaled that staircase, the scene played out as his eyes counted each tread; the scent of magnolia's surrounded him and he was lost in reverie until Eva took his hand. His snapped to attention and nearly yelped with surprise.