Marie Laveau Page 6

  “Did she?”

  “No idea. She thought it might be somebody nursing a grudge from her dancing days. So we checked it out. I put a bright new penny in her hand and named every soul ever lived in New Orleans. That penny should’ve turned black when I named the right one. But it stayed so bright, she could’ve been polishing it all that time.

  “I looked hard in my mirror, trying to see the spirit of the person who fixed her. But all I saw was the face looking at you now. I set my whole mind on it. But my mind stayed as empty as this teacup.”

  “Maybe it’s not a spell. Maybe they’re just sick.”

  “I know bad magic when I see it. That’s what I told your mama. ‘Miss Delphine,’ I said. ‘Whoever put this fix on you, his magic’s a lot stronger than mine. I don’t know what to do. Maybe you should try that new doctor everyone’s talking about—that Doctor John on Lepers’ Row. Maybe he can figure it out.’

  “I certainly hope your mama does that. Otherwise she and your daddy will waste away. I’ve seen bad spells. I know what they can do. This one will kill them, baby. I know what I’m talking about.”

  Marie Saloppe knew what she was talking about.

  One morning Victor and Delphine failed to come down for breakfast. After she’d called them ten times, Venus sent Marie up to look. Marie knocked, then entered their room.

  Victor and Delphine lay on their backs, as motionless as they’d lain in her dreams. This time Marie knew they were dead.

  She walked slowly through the house, stopping the clocks, turning the mirrors toward the wall, closing the doors and windows. As she locked the basement door, she hesitated a moment, listening to the shrill laughter of the man beneath the water.

  CHAPTER VI

  Yesterday morning New Orleans mourned the loss of one of its most respected citizens, Victor Laveau, who died Friday of unknown causes.

  M. Laveau was born in Santo Domingo, where he suffered great losses in the 1785 slave rebellion. After his arrival in Louisiana he recovered his fortune through a series of wise investments. He led a quiet life and will be missed by the entire Creole community.

  Two hundred mourners attended his funeral at St. Louis Cathedral. A deputy governor and two vice-presidents of the State Bank were among the pallbearers. The cortege included fifteen black carriages drawn by purebred black stallions.

  M. Leveau is survived by his loving widow Virginie.

  The editors of the New Orleans Mirror were scrupulous men who believed that the rich had earned their privacy. In the fall of 1812, the British War was providing enough exciting copy to afford them the luxury of their scruples.

  So, though all New Orleans knew the sordid details of Victor’s death, his friends and relations were spared the humiliation of seeing them in print. No one reported that his bastard daughter had found him in his colored mistress’s arms, nor that he’d left the little bastard a house and three thousand dollars. There was never any mention of the incident at the graveyard when Virginie, in-the first rebellious act of her life, ordered the masons to construct a wall through the center of the family crypt. “If this is for eternity,” she’d insisted, “I’d rather sleep alone.”

  Delphine’s funeral—held the next day in another section of the cemetery—wasn’t a very newsworthy event. Father Antoine performed the graveside ceremony for a handful of mourners: Venus, Old Marinette and her granddaughter. Two suitors from Delphine’s dancing days put in a sentimental appearance on the pretext of visiting their own family plots. By the time Marie Laveau, Marie Saloppe, and Helen arrived, Father Antoine was halfway through the eulogy.

  “Delphine was a modem Mary Magdalene,” he said. “An example to us all. Now the Lord has called her to that special comer of heaven reserved for His favorite angels ...”

  “The Lord had nothing to do with it!” cried Marie Saloppe so loudly that the two suitors came scurrying back from their mothers’ crypts. “That woman was fixed. She was rooted. Somebody turned the loas against her and fixed her good. Isn’t that right?” she demanded, poking Marie Laveau in the ribs.

  The girl stared off into space. “She’s been spooked since Friday,” Marie Saloppe told Helen. “It’s only natural—her mama and papa going at once, finding them herself. She needs a couple days to recover. She’ll be all right.”

  Father Antoine rushed through the rest of his speech. He hadn’t heard a word of Marie Saloppe’s outburst—he was too busy worrying about his goddaughter. Suddenly she’d become his responsibility, and he didn’t like that faraway stare. He shut the prayerbook, signaled the masons, then approached Marie.

  “Come with me,” he said, steering her away from Marie Saloppe. “We have important matters to discuss.”

  Marie followed him like a zombie summoned from beneath the water. “It’s been months since your last confession,” he said, leading her into his cottage. “Remember, confession’s a mirror to help us wash our souls. When our souls are clean ...”

  “I don’t want to hear about mirrors!” cried Marie. “Next you’ll be babbling about spirits and curses and other worlds.”

  “You’re the one who’s babbling,” said Father Antoine. “I’m just trying to help.”

  Marie looked at him for a long time. “All right,” she said. “Help me.” She told him everything—the dream, the breakfast, her parents’ decline. Father Antoine let her finish. Then he whistled—a low, ghostly sound like winter breezes in the sycamores. “Why did you do it? How much did you know?”

  “About what?” she asked.

  “About Victor and Delphine?”

  “Well ... I knew there’d been a duel. I knew Victor killed a man. The little man underwater sounded like the one. I always felt death in that house, looking in the windows, waiting beneath the floors. I wanted them to know I knew. But Marie Saloppe told me it was common gossip—I didn’t think gossip could kill them.”

  “Is that all you knew—what Marie Saloppe told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was more to it.” Father Antoine sighed. “If you knew the truth, you’d realize what a terrible thing you’ve done.”

  “What is the truth?”

  “I can’t tell you. Your mother confessed in the holy ...”

  “You’ve got to tell me. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.”

  “God will never forgive me if I do.”

  “Please! Tell me.”

  “No.”

  At that moment Marie understood the power which came from hearing people’s secrets. For the first time she realized that Father Antoine had more power over her than any friend or father or teacher. He held the power of her secret past. Suddenly his face looked different. She thought: Victor was right. He does resemble an ape—a hideous pouting gorilla. She stood and headed for the door.

  “Wait a minute!” shouted the priest. “Come back!” Marie had never heard him shout. Stunned into obedience, she sat down.

  “Forget about the past,” he said. “You’ve got a future. What will you do with it?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m doing first—leaving that house. There’s death in there. I can’t stand it another night.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “Victor left me a fortune. I can sell the house and buy another.”

  “I’ve always admired your intelligence,” said Father Antoine, clutching his rosary. “But now I’m thinking that a few good slaps might have taught you more than all Mother Therese’s lessons. You’re a sixteen-year-old girl from a good family. You can’t live without a chaperone. The scandal would ruin your life.”

  “I’ve been on my own since I was five.”

  “You’re not five any more. We’ve got to find you some guardians, good people to adopt you—”

  “No more parents!” cried Marie. “I’d sooner die. I’ll run away. I’ll burn their house down. I’ll jinx them worse than I jinxed Victor and Delphine.”

  “Come now ...” Father Antoine crossed himself.

  “I mean it, F
ather. You know I mean it.”

  “Yes. I know.” Father Antoine rolled his eyes toward heaven. “Have it your way,” he said at last.

  “God protect you, it’s the only way you’ll have it.” He thought for a while. “One of my parishioners is selling a cottage on Royal and St. Ann. I’ll speak to him about buying it in your name, as your legal guardian. But you’ve got to promise me, Marie. On your honor.

  Marie jumped up and kissed him on both cheeks. “I swear it on Damballah’s beard,” she said.

  Father Antoine laughed. It always made him proud to hear her joke about the time he’d taken her education in hand and saved her soul. “Marie,” he said. “You forget something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You forgot to ask me what your mother left you.”

  “Her clothes and the things she got from Madame Henriette, right? What else?”

  “Delphine left you all her stubbornness,” said Father Antoine. “And all her pride.”

  Marie Saloppe knew what Marie’s mother had left her.

  “I don’t care what you do with the stuff in that house,” she said. “I’d appreciate something of Madame Henriette’s for old time’s sake. You can throw the rest in the gutter for all I care. But there’s one thing you’ve got to keep. I don’t know where your mama hid it, but you go find it. Find it and take it with you, understand?”

  “What is it?”

  “A little blue bag—dark blue velvet like the sky at night.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “A piece of tissue paper.”

  “What’s so important about a bag with some tissue in it?”

  “That tissue’s your caul, baby. Someday when you need it most, you’ll look at that tissue paper and see something that’ll save your life.”

  “Voodoo crap,” said Marie. Still she was intrigued enough to search for the velvet bag which she finally found in the secret compartment of Delphine’s writing table, together with three gold coins stamped with the seal of the Santo Domingan governor. Reaching inside the bag, she felt the thin paper scrap. The edges crumbled between her fingers.

  She tied the bag to the waistband of her petticoat. Then she picked up the coins and put them in an enormous wooden birdcage decorated with domes and minarets in the style of a Turkish mosque.

  She took the cage to Marie Saloppe, who thanked her tearfully. “Hey, Dr. Brown,” she whispered to her toad. “You’re about to move into a palace.”

  On the morning of her sixteenth birthday, Marie gave the Conti Street house to the Sisters of Charity and began her new life on the comer of Royal and St. Ann.

  CHAPTER VII

  THE SPELL OF Marie’s first night alone in her new house was broken by the knock on her door.

  That morning she’d fired Venus. “My mother couldn’t have lived without you,” she said. “But lean do my own cooking.”

  “Good riddance,” said Venus. “If you want my advice, you’ll cook up some crow and eat a double helping. Your mama and daddy, rest in peace, treated you like some rare bird. But you’re not so rare. You’re a regular little canary, a stuck-up spoiled yellow bird.”

  That afternoon she’d come home to an empty house. Shutting the door, she’d shut out her classmates’ giggles and Mother Therese’s endless drone.

  She loved the solitude. The new house didn’t echo with her parents’ voices or the tossing of the dead man beneath the floor. It was as soothing as Garden of Gilead tea. The only sounds were her own slow breathing and the softly ticking clock. Dusk came quickly, then evening. As the rainy night wore on, Marie lit a candle and sat in a soft yellow chair, listening to the clock, to the muffled voices outside and the hoofbeats on the wet streets.

  Then the knocking on her door. The knocking of someone who intended to get in.

  Marie was annoyed. “It’s probably Father Antoine,” she thought. “Checking up on me.” Then she reminded herself that he’d helped her get the house. Lighting the lamps on her way to the door, she tried to decide how to thank him . . .

  Standing in the doorway was a seven-foot black giant. He was thin, broad-shouldered, witj^ long arms and legs in shabby but still-beautiful black evening clothes. He wore a ruffled white shirt, a purple carnation in his lapel, a gold hoop through his left ear. Around his neck hung dozens of cords and chains, bones, rotten teeth, dried snake heads, cowrie shells, skulls as big as fists. A slight forward stoop gave his high black top hat a rakish tilt which displayed its snakeskin band.

  It was hard to see his face through the heavy tattoos. Three thick welts crossed each cheek. A leopard crouched on his forehead. The coiled tail of a red snake rested on his chin; its body curled up along his nose to a spot near his left eye where it waited, fangs bared. His eyes were hidden by a pair of dark smoked spectacles.

  Marie had seen him before. Seven-foot black men didn’t go unnoticed m the Quarter. “He’s got a little practice on Lepers’ Row,” Marie Saloppe had told her. “He’ll be a good doctor someday if he keeps working on his magic.” But Marie didn’t want a doctor now—all she wanted was her solitude.

  “Good evening, Miss Marie Laveau.” He tipped his hat and bowed, emitting a powerful perfume smell—Jockey Club Cologne, the kind Marie Saloppe used in her gris-gris.

  Marie felt an old fear: I don’t want this stranger knowing my name.

  “Let me introduce myself,” he continued with an insolent flick of the ebony cane which was carved and twisted like a serpent with a large ruby set in the middle of its forehead. “And that’s not easy. I’ve got as many names as the teeth in your head. Some call me Doctor John Bayou, some Bayou John, some John Bayou. Some call me Daddy Snakelegs, Johnny Buzzard, Doctor Dogface Rattlesnake, King Turkey, John Red-Eye, Mr. Needle, Master Crocodile, Lord Firefly, Old Tortoise, Baron Blood. Some call me John the Conqueror, some Lord High John the Conqueror. ...”

  “You’re Doctor John,” said Marie. “What do you want?”

  “Tsk tsk,” said Doctor John. “So rude. When all I’m here for is to deliver a message from a nice young fellow who’d got the present misfortune to be living under some cold water. And I know how downhearted he'll be when I tell him you were so rude.”

  Marie’s hand tightened around the doorknob. “Come on in,” she said.

  Crossing the dim foyer, Doctor John took off his glasses. His eyes looked oddly familiar, like those of some relative unseen since childhood. Then Marie noticed that his lids were redder than hers. A spasmodic squint buried the tattooed cobra in a furrow of skin.

  He sat in the brown leather armchair and bit the end off a cigar. “Brandy?” he said, lighting his smoke.

  “No, thank you,” said Marie.

  “Do you have any brandy?”

  “No.”

  Shrugging impatiently, Doctor John took a flask from the armpit of his coat and tilted his head back for a long drink. “Let me finish introducing myself,” he said. “Let me tell you who I am. It’s a long story, Miss Marie—Doctor John remembers everything, every face he ever saw, every word he ever heard, every drop of brandy he ever tasted. Telling my life would take as long as living it. By the time I finished you’d be an old lady and I’d be dead.” He chuckled. “So I’ll make it short.”

  Yawning, Marie settled into her favorite chair. She was tired, in no mood to hear Doctor John’s life story. But that reference to the man beneath the water had scared her.

  “I know you want me to leave you be,” he said, taking another leisurely drink, “but you’re dying for that message. And you know I’ll never tell unless I can start from the start and take it slow. So just lay back and listen.

  “Now there’s one thing I want you to understand right off: I’m not like you quadroons, you octoroons, griffes, mulattoes, half-breeds. A couple generations on this island, a couple on that, and you turn into white folks little by little. You people don’t belong to any race—not the white, the black, not any. I’m not like you. I’m pureblood black straight from the root. From Africa. I’v
e come the whole way by myself from Dahomey to Cuba to Santo Domingo to New Orleans. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” lied Marie.

  “You’re lying,” said Doctor John. “But at least you’re being polite. Now let me ask you: You ever hear about that Portuguese fool who got himself killed getting jewels on the Ivory Coast?”

  “Francesco Sabato?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Marie nodded. Victor had told her the story a hundred times to teach her that blacks had no respect for human life or female virtue. Sabato had been dead eighty years, but white Creole men kept his memory alive as another excuse for slavery.

  “There were twenty brave Portuguese men,” Victor used to say, “who sailed to Africa on the Sao Tome. Docking in a sheltered cove, they were met by a band of savages with bones in their ears and pig rings in their noses. Captain Sabato ordered his beautiful young wife to step back. Then he greeted the native chief and told him they’d come for jewels. No sooner had he spoken than the chief opened his hand and showed them a fistful of emeralds and diamonds.

  “The sailors couldn’t believe their luck. They followed the blacks through the jungle to their village. The rest of the tribe came out of their huts and surrounded them. Suddenly the chief opened his hand again and laughed a terrifying laugh. There was nothing in his hand but a heap of white sand and pale green dust.

  “Raising their spears, the savages ordered the white men to disrobe. Hopelessly outnumbered, the sailors obeyed. Weeping softly, the captain’s wife unhooked her dress. Then, with her own shaking hands, she dug a trench in the center of the village. She lay down and covered herself with dirt until nothing showed but her stiff little fingers. That was how pure she was—she preferred that hideous death to the shame of exposing herself to those godless heathens.

  “The captain couldn’t stand it. He lunged for his gun. That was how the massacre began. Before it ended the savages had butchered every white man but one—who escaped to tell the bloodcurdling tale.”