Madeleine's Ghost

“THE NARRATIVE ZINGS ALONG … I've never been sure what a beach book is, but there's a good chance
Madeleine's Ghost
is one. It is so freshly observed that the sound of surf won't distract you. When you laugh out loud, nobody will complain.”

—The New York Times Book Review

“[AN] ATMOSPHERIC, SWEET-NATURED FIRST NOVEL about the miraculous power of love … filled with a rich cast of supporting characters.”      —
San Francisco Chronicle

“[GIRARDI] WEAVES A TALE THAT KEEPS YOU ON THE EDGE WELL INTO THE NIGHT … After you pick this one up you'll be waiting for more.”      —
New York Post

“HAUNTING … AN ENGROSSING, FAST-PACED DEBUT that moves almost effortlessly between New York, New Orleans and the 19th-century South … Mr. Girardi deserves a round of applause for pulling off the incredible ending. Potentially unbelievable, in the writer's capable hands, it is a sterling example of tight, finely honed storytelling.”      —
The Washington Times

“Readers have waited too long for Robert Girardi's peculiar, mesmerizing genius. With the publication of
Madeleine's Ghost
, they may now experience his penchant for the grit and history of cities, for the beguiling passions that bind men and women, and, above all, for the hauntedness in all of us.”

—Colin Harrison, author of
Bodies Electric
^*

“PROVOCATIVE … GIRARDI ACHIEVES A NEW FLAWLESS RHYTHM as the narrative moves between places from the decay of Brooklyn's slums to the sensually rendered atmosphere of New Orleans.… It's a compelling tale with a radiantly polished finish.”      —
Booklist

“A spirited debut deftly mingling past, present, and the vastly different worldviews of New Orleans and New York.… Entrancing scenes and characters, exquisite timing, and a mausoleum full of plot twists make for a fluid and truly memorable delight.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“A ghost story complete with an inexhaustible panoply of sensational effects … 
Madeleine's Ghost
entertains mightily.”

—New York Newsday

“A FIRST NOVEL OF ASTONISHING ACCOMPLISHMENT … with startlingly few slips and a shimmering style … [Girardi] drives his tale along with sensuous prose.” —   
Publishers Weekly

“[Madeleine's Ghost]
draws us back to the bar of light at the foot of the closed door in the dark house in the dead of night, and then reminds us why we are standing there. Reading this prose, you begin to think that if you kicked open that door, there, in upholstered chairs, would be Nabokov, Faulkner and Thomas Wolfe reading Girardi's book as well.” —    Don Snyder, author of
From the Point

A Delta Book
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036

Copyright © 1995 by Robert Girardi

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Delacorte Press, New York, New York.

The trademark Delta® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

eISBN: 978-0-440-33399-9

Published simultaneously in Canada

v3.1

This book is for my father—

SAM H. GIRARDI

1917–1992

—WHO TOLD ME STORIES.

I
t is history that teaches us to hope.

—R
OBERT
E. L
EE

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Epilogue

S
tones are falling from the ceiling of my apartment. First one, then two, then dozens. I take refuge beneath the kitchen table as they bounce and dance across every surface, denting the toaster, gouging into the old linoleum of the floor. The falling stones are like a rain of hail, but so absurd in this setting that I want to laugh.

The first stone hit five minutes ago with a solid thump on the arm of the orange Naugahyde easy chair in the living room, then rolled into my lap. It was egg-shaped and smooth and wet, as if it had just been dredged up from the bottom of the river. A second hit the television and fell behind the gas heater in the fireplace. I counted five more like warning drumbeats; then I ran for the table. Now they bounce and roll all over, making quite a racket. They don't seem to come from anywhere. There are no holes in the ceiling. The stones flash into air just below the tin egg-and-anchor molding and fall as if they are falling from a great height.

The whole manifestation lasts about ten minutes. I wait fifteen minutes more before emerging carefully into the daylight from beneath the table. The smooth stones lie in piles in the kitchen, in the living room across the rug, on the couch, and on the television set, which appears undamaged. There are no stones in the bathroom or in my bedroom, but I find the largest pile heaped up on the bare floor in Molesworth's old room when I push open the door.

I take about an hour and a half to remove all the stones to the garden. The job requires five trips with a full suitcase, which I empty in the corner of the yard under the dry-rotted grape trellis. There is quite a little mound out here now, enough to pave a short walkway. I kick at it in frustration before I go back upstairs to collapse on the couch.

This is the second time in the last three weeks.