Emilie awoke with a pounding headache and a sense of impending doom. Memories of the previous night flashed through her mind, followed by pangs of mortification and guilt. The shock on the diners’ faces, the look of betrayal on her parents’ faces, the horrible end to the evening was a crushing blow. When Lucien had dragged her into the house screaming like a madman that she had betrayed him with another man, her parents looked stricken. Her mother’s face turned white, and her father looked as if he’d been slapped in public. Their shock and horror were palpable. Emilie was so heartbroken and humiliated, she was filled with a blind rage toward Lucien. And when she saw the pain he caused Da Rosette by dashing all her hopes while all Emilie could do was stand by helplessly, her soul was crushed. When the old woman crossed herself and whispered a prayer, Emilie’s heart broke. She ran upstairs to her room, where she passed the night tossing and turning, hating herself for causing everyone so much pain. She was overcome with worry, fearing that Lucien would turn his vengeance on Rémy. That fear sent paralyzing waves throughout her body, leaving her frantic and numb.
The next morning when she woke, the first thought that popped into her mind was that she had lost the respect and love of her beloved nanny. The next thought was that she would never see Rémy again. Both notions gave her tremendous pain. And there was the additional likelihood that Lucien would use her betrayal as an excuse to abuse her for the rest of her life. She had seen the way he abused his servants with a callous eye and a cruel mouth. He ordered them around like slaves, tormenting them with his sarcasm and arrogance. He used his position to torment anyone he considered beneath him. And now he would certainly consider Emilie beneath him—indeed, beneath contempt. She shuddered. The queasiness in her stomach would not go away. In fact, it was getting worse. When she could no longer stand it, she dashed for the porcelain washbasin and vomited into it. And then she sobbed.
Out came all the fear, anguish, pain, and agony that had been festering inside of her like a cancer. She collapsed on the floor and sobbed. Dear Lord, please save me from Lucien’s wrath! Please don’t let him harm Denis. She closed her eyes and felt the anguish flooding her body. She sobbed as she had never sobbed before. Lucien was insanely jealous. He was cruel enough to kill the both of them to salvage his dubious honor. She didn’t doubt for a minute he would try. She knew from personal experience that Lucien was incapable of feeling any remorse for his victims. He was cold and ruthless, lacking any human empathy. And now she was his enemy, deserving of all his rage and hatred.
Emilie slumped on the bed with hunched shoulders and swollen eyes. She forced herself to drink the cup of coffee that Da Rosette had brought for her. The sight of her beloved nurse left Emilie reeling. She had never seen Da Rosette looking so hurt and tormented. Putting on a brave face, the old woman sat down and rubbed Emilie’s back.
“Doudou, what happened to you? Why did you run away like that?” Da Rosette’s arms were so thin and bony. She had aged terribly these past few months. For the first time, Emilie realized how old and feeble her nurse was. She was little more than skin and bone, her once-beautiful face a picture of sadness, her eyes mirrors of her wretchedness.
Emilie clung to the old woman’s shawl and sobbed. She never meant to cause everyone so much pain, but she had to face the truth: she was in love with Lieutenant Rémy. Hopelessly and utterly in love. She could never go back to Lucien now. And for the first time in her life, she was happy. Meeting Lieutenant Rémy was the best thing that ever happened to her. It changed her life. He showed her what true love and affection could feel like. The feeling was overwhelming, like the cross between a gushing waterfall and a quiet stream. It was like nothing she ever felt before. And for the first time in her life, she had experienced true happiness. She tried to squeeze back the tears, but they gushed like a hurricane. Why did it have to come to this? Why did her love for Denis Rémy have to bring ruin to her family? And worst of all, why did it have to cause her beloved nanny so much pain?
Later, when Emilie went searching for her father, she found him in his office with his nose buried deep in his ledger book, his brow furrowed with worry.
“Papa, about last night—” she said.
Georges Dujon looked up suddenly. His face was red and bloated from rum and lack of sleep; his eyes were full of rage. Emilie winced at the sight of him.
“What about it?” he said. He got up from his chair and stalked over to the window to gaze out. “You caused us a great deal of trouble, young lady. Your mother is taking it very hard. Her melancholy came back. She won’t leave the bedroom . . .” His voice broke as he turned to face her with scorn-filled eyes. Emilie took a step backward. “How could you do it? What were you thinking? Do you hate us so much?”
“Papa, I can explain . . .”
“Save your words. You’ve made a mess of things, but that’s the least of my problems.” He rubbed his forehead. “We’re not going to make the sailing date. This was our last chance, and we lost it. We’re going to lose everything—the house, the farm . . .” His voice broke as he watched the rain drenching the fields through the open shutters. “Half the workers didn’t show up today on account of the ash and the rumbling. The rest are complaining about their salary. They’re demanding a raise to come back to work. I’ve already taken out bank loans to pay them what I owe them from last month, but I can’t manage . . . It’s hopeless . . .utterly hopeless.”
He buried his face in his hands. To Emilie’s horror, she thought she detected tears gliding down his cheeks. She drew back, aghast.
“Papa, I’m so sorry . . .please . . .”
“Save your words,” he said. “What’s broken can’t be mended. Your marriage to Lucien was our last hope of saving our sorry situation, and now that’s gone. We’re finished.” His face was a mask of wretchedness.
Emilie felt the blood draining from her head. She reeled from shock and remorse. Her father’s ire now unleashed, he pounded the desk with his fist and uttered a curse that sent a chill up her spine. Emilie let out a cry like a wounded animal, then turned and fled.
Thinking quickly, she grabbed her purse and headed out to the stable. She instructed the stableboy to prepare a carriage, and without another word, she headed down to Saint-Pierre and went straight to 25, rue Longchamps, the herbal shop of M. Gaston Faustin Jacquet. As much as she hated the idea of returning to the quimboiseur for advice, she felt she had no other choice. Her situation was now intolerable, and she needed the power of quimbois to regain control. Everything was falling apart like a house of cards. What irony! The primitive superstitions she had grown up fearing and detesting were starting to take control of her life.
Saint-Pierre was unusually quiet. The streets were empty of passersby, and the marketplace was shut down. The sidewalks were muddy from the wet ash and cinders. The rain was running down from the corrugated roofs and flooding the gutters. Ships in the harbor bobbed like dark, empty hulks, and the Figuier Quarter, with its tiered rows of warehouses, was all but deserted. Even the normally ebullient fishermen were gone. The rumbling volcano probably scared the fish away, she thought. It certainly wasn’t a day to brave the seas; the skies were dark and ominous from the ash clouds that were rising from the lower crater of Mount Pelée, blocking out the sun. There was a whiff of death in the air.
A sudden loud explosion detonated on the summit of Mount Pelée, shattering the quiet. Gasping in fright, Emilie sought shelter in a doorway and watched with fearful eyes as huge projectiles shot out of the crater. The sight was terrifying. Turbaned women stopped and stared at the spectacle, their voices shrill and their eyes as wide as saucers. Emilie took flight, and when she reached the shop of M. Jacquet, she tied the horse to a hitching post, then pressed her nose to the glass and looked inside. The shop was dark and quiet. The front door was locked. Seeing no alternative, she banged on the door and called out, “Hello! Is anybody there? Please open up!”
A light went on, and a pair of feline eyes belonging to an attractive mulâtresse
peered out through the glass window.
“What do you want?” said the woman, eyeing her suspiciously.
“I have to see M. Jacquet.”
“What is your business with him?” said the woman.
“I have to see him right now. It’s urgent.”
Reluctantly, the woman retreated to the back of the store and then reappeared a few minutes later and opened the door. With an air of suspicion, she ushered Emilie inside and locked the door behind them. The woman was young, perhaps no more than thirty, and she wore an expensive blue madras dress over a cotton chemise that was trimmed at the neck and wrists in expensive lace. It must have cost a small fortune in addition to the necklaces of gold beads that glittered around her neck. The woman was charmingly seductive and had a coquettish air about her. She moved in sinewy waves, with her hips swaying side to side rhythmically. Emilie assumed the woman was the servant girl everyone talked about since his wife had disappeared. With slender fingers the woman lit a match and used it to illuminate the chandelier with the six black candles that hung over M. Jacquet’s desk. The light cast eerie shadows on the makeshift voodoo altar in the corner, giving a flicker of life to the grinning skull and statues of saints that stood in a semicircle around it. The cloying scent of incense mixed with traces of rum, chicken feathers, and burnt candles wafted through the room, causing Emilie to gag. How ironic it was that now she was utterly at the Grand Zamy’s mercy!
“Sit here, mam’selle; I will fetch the proprietor,” said the woman through sensuous lips. Emilie did as she was told and sat alone in the voodoo shop, feeling vulnerable and afraid, tortured by the fear of being found out, and riddled with shame and guilt at betraying her religious upbringing. She imagined Da Rosette’s horror at finding out what she was doing. She fixed her gaze on the makeshift altar and was repulsed by the sight of a necklace made of snake vertebra lying beside a goat skull that still had flesh clinging to it. Behind the ritual objects was a fresco containing bizarre images, such as interlocking serpents, monsters with blazing eyes, bizarre humanoid plants, and ships in the middle of a raging storm pursued by ravenous sharks. The message was clear: where man and nature intersect, there is a brutal struggle for survival, and only voodoo has the power to overcome disaster. Emilie was struck with the notion that she was like one of those helpless fishermen alone in a raging sea of confusion and doubt. This helped alleviate her guilt, but only a little.
She heard a door open and a pair of heavy footsteps plodding down the hall. Despite his age, the Grand Zamy walked with swift, forceful steps, as if he was twenty years younger. As usual he was dressed in an elegant suit and waistcoat, and his gold watch chain glinted in the light of the chandelier. With calculated precision, he sat down behind his desk and fixed his eyes on Emilie. A hint of a smile formed at the corner of his lips that sent a chill up her spine. She was suddenly at a loss for words.
“Bonjour, mam’selle,” he said. “My assistant tells me you have urgent business.”
Emilie squirmed in her chair. “Oui, monsieur, I’m afraid I need your help again. I’m in a dire predicament.”
“Fixing problems is my specialty,” he said, grinning. “Can you explain the matter to me?”
“Yes. You see, my fiancé, the gentleman I was trying to get rid of, caught me with another man, and now he wants to kill us both. I’m in great fear for my life.”
The Grand Zamy’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “That sounds serious, indeed, mam’selle. But perhaps it’s not beyond hope. Let’s see what the cards have to say.”
He pulled out a deck of tarot cards and chanted, “Spirits, I invoke you, tell me how I can solve this young woman’s problem.”
Once again a black candle on the chandelier snuffed out, leaving a thin wisp of smoke rising to the ceiling. The Grand Zamy shuffled the cards with great concentration and then handed the deck to Emilie and asked her to cut them. He spread them on his desk in the shape of a cross and meditated over the results.
“I see mental anguish and despair, fear, sleepless nights, great worry.” His face took on a look of paternal concern. “This is shown by the nine of wands.” He pulled up the card and showed it to her. “I also see combativeness, hot tempers, a great struggle or a great competition between two potential suitors. This is shown in the five of wands.” He pointed to the card with utmost gravity. “Over here I see a young woman in shackles who is tied up against her will. She’s in bondage, despairing and hopeless. This is the devil card.” He lifted up an ominous-looking card that showed a winged devil with goat horns seated on a throne to which a young man and woman were shackled. The figures were naked, helpless, and the devil had an insidious control over them with eyes like empty sockets of fire. Emilie’s eyes went wide with terror.
The Grand Zamy locked eyes with her. “Focus on the young woman. Do you see yourself here?” Emilie stared at the card and nodded. “The card represents Lucifer, Mephistopheles, Satan, the Prince of Darkness, or whatever you choose to call him, but they all symbolize evil. We try to vanquish the evil in our lives so good can prevail, but in fact, good and evil cannot be separated, just as one cannot separate a shadow from its source. Darkness is merely the absence of light and is caused when truth is obscured. From this card I see that forces outside of your control are forcing you into a perilous situation. You feel tied down against your will, controlled. To escape your shackles, you must untie the bonds that are keeping you in this bad situation. Only you hold the key to your own freedom. And only you can find the key.” He put the card down and studied the remaining cards. “I also see a religious figure, one who has a great love or a deep passion for you and with whom you share a deep bond or a joining of the spirits; that is the hierophant.” He paused for a moment, scrutinizing the final card with unblinking eyes. “I also see a duel and a raging fire . . .”
“A fire? What kind of fire?”
“A fire that will consume everything in its path,” he said with great solemnity. “Like a fiery furnace. There will be utter and complete destruction, a natural disaster of some sort, an upheaval. This is the Tower card.” He held up a card that showed a blazing tower with people dying all around. “I also see death, tremendous death—a massacre.” At the last word, the Grand Zamy looked up abruptly, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Mam’selle, I think you are in a great deal of trouble,” he said. “I have never seen such a bleak reading, but I do not believe your situation is beyond hope. With the right incantations and potions, I’m certain I can fix your problem. I will make your fiancé disappear for a price, and no one will be the wiser. No one will be implicated in the crime, and you will be free. He will simply vanish without a trace.”
A cold fright came over Emilie, the implication of his words too chilling to contemplate, like a noose around her neck. “Isn’t that rather extreme?”
“It depends on how badly you want to solve your problem,” he said, regarding her with his cool, unblinking orbs. “Based on the reading, I would say you are facing a severe crisis. A vision of death. But in your case, perhaps we can solve your problem without having to resort to such violence. The price, however, will be steep for such a job.”
She could feel her stomach clenching. “How much exactly?”
“Ten thousand francs,” said the quimboiseur.
Emilie’s heart stopped. “Ten thous—”
That was impossible! The amount he was asking was extortionary, completely out of the question. Even if she had the money, she could never hand it to him in good conscience. It was like paying off the devil. There was something unholy about it. She dropped her purse on the floor. The quimboiseur stared at her with cold, malicious eyes, his expression never wavering, never displaying an ounce of emotion. Emilie felt as if she was suffocating. Her blood ran cold in her veins, and her palms broke out in a sweat. It was simply not possible. He was demanding a fortune! He was using her distressing situation to extort vast sums of money out of her—exactly as Rémy had predicted. She felt the blood
rushing from her head, leaving her dizzy and light-headed. The Grand Zamy pulled out a ledger book and began to leaf through the pages. When he came to a particular column, he marked it with a long, yellow fingernail and fixed his eyes on her.
“Yes, that is correct. It will cost you ten thousand francs,” he repeated. “For this amount I can solve any problem, no matter how complicated, no matter how dangerous, no matter the risk. And I give you my word, the gendarmes won’t come snooping around your house asking difficult questions. I have ways of making them—shall we say, blind?” He roared with laughter, causing Emilie to almost fall off her seat. “And rest assured, your hands will be as white as snow. You’ll have no fear of going to jail.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, shaking with fear. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
The Grand Zamy rested his elbows on the desk and scrutinized her face. “That is no problem, mam’selle. I can put you on a payment plan. My clients come from all walks of life. We aim to please every customer no matter what his financial situation by offering a wide variety of options.” He grinned like a jackal, exposing a full set of white teeth, while his eyes took on an almost seductive quality. “And when a customer such as you cannot make his payments, we put him on a special program. But that is used only in rare cases. I hope it will not be necessary in your case. Mam’selle, do you know what a gagé is?”
Emilie’s throat went dry. “No,” she croaked. “I mean, not exactly. I’ve heard of them, but I don’t really know . . .”
“Then allow me to explain. A gagé is a person who has made a special pact with the devil,” he said, smiling maliciously. “When a person cannot pay his debts, he sells his soul to the devil until he can collect the full amount, at which point he can buy his soul back. It’s all very simple and quite legitimate. I’ve handled quite a few cases myself. However, I’m sure that in your case, we won’t have to resort to such extreme measures. You’re in good hands. I have hundreds of satisfied customers all over Martinique and as far away as Trinidad, Dominica, Guadeloupe, and Saint Lucia. People come to see me for every sort of problem. I’m the doctor that makes their problems go away . . .forever.” Again he erupted in a house-shaking laughter that caused Emilie to almost jump out of her chair. Trembling like a leaf, Emilie watched the Grand Zamy pull out a huge file containing hundreds of yellowing contracts written in elegant longhand and sealed in blood, which he waved under the glowing candles.
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