Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

by John Berendt

Williams was gaining stature in Savannah, to the irritation of certain blue bloods. “How does it feel to be nouveau riche?” he was asked on one occasion. “It’s the riche that counts,” Williams answered.

That’s pure Savannah. And that’s what I mean by cheap. You mustn’t be taken in by the moonlight and magnolias. There’s more to Savannah than that. Things can get very murky.”

“You know I have two Christmas parties, not just one. Both are black-tie. The first party is the famous one. It’s the one that gets written up in the newspapers, the one the high and mighty of Savannah come to. The second party is the next night. It’s the one the papers never write about. It’s … for gentlemen only. Which party would you like to be invited to?” “The one,” I said, “least likely to involve gunfire.”

It stood aloof on the Georgia coast—dignified, sedate, refined—looking down its nose at Atlanta, which was then a twenty-year-old frontier town three hundred miles inland. From Atlanta’s point of view, specifically through the eyes of the young Scarlett O’Hara, Savannah and Charleston were “like aged grandmothers fanning themselves placidly in the sun.”

These, then, were the images in my mental gazetteer of Savannah: rum-drinking pirates, strong-willed women, courtly manners, eccentric behavior, gentle words, and lovely music. That and the beauty of the name itself: Savannah.

We have a saying: If you go to Atlanta, the first question people ask you is, ‘What’s your business?’ In Macon they ask, ‘Where do you go to church?’ In Augusta they ask your grandmother’s maiden name. But in Savannah the first question people ask you is ‘What would you like to drink?’”

At times, I came to think of myself as living in Savannah. I found myself involved in an adventure peopled by an unusual assortment of characters and enlivened by a series of strange events, up to and including murder. But first things first. I went to the telephone and dialed “bedroom.”

Many of its once-great houses fell into disrepair. Lady Astor, passing through in 1946, remarked that Savannah was like “a beautiful woman with a dirty face.”

In 1964, Martin Luther King declared Savannah “the most desegregated city in the South.” In 1980, the population of Savannah was half white and half black.

basic rules though. “Rule number one: Always stick around for one more drink. That’s when things happen. That’s when you find out everything you want to know.”

“Rule number three: Observe the high holidays—Saint Patrick’s Day and the day of the Georgia-Florida football game.

The whole point, I finally realized, was that I would never know.

‘When you play songs, you can bring back people’s memories of when they fell in love. That’s where the power lies.’”

‘Two tears in a bucket. Motherfuck it.’ That’s Mama, she’s a okay girl.”

“Good, ’Cause if you ever see anything in my panties, child, you tell me. You say, ‘Girl, your Kotex is showin!’ and I will shift her, honey, ’Cause I cannot take that! That is a ugly sight! That is a nasty-lookin’ thing, honey, to be out there all painted with your dick showin’!”

“If you liked the show,” she said, “thank you from the bottom of my heart and just remember my name, The Lady Chablis. If you did not like the show, honey, my name is Nancy Reagan and go fuck yourself.”

“Do you know what the saying for the day is?” he asked. “‘It ain’t braggin’ if y’really done it!’” He gave me a meaningful glance over the top of his glasses, as if to say: Never mind all the backbiting you’ve been hearing. It’s sour grapes.

them. On and on. In the minds of most Americans, Savannah and Charleston were sister cities. If so, the sisters were barely on speaking terms.