Unsympathetic Magic

by Laura Resnick

  “I’m fine, too, thanks,” Jeff said sourly. “But you should stop carrying that damn snake around the building, Celeste. People get startled, go figure.”

  “Mambo Celeste,” she corrected him coldly. “And I did not know there were strangers here.”

  “I’m not a stranger,” Jeff said, “and I don’t like bumping into that thing. Neither do half my students.”

  Mambo Celeste’s eyes flashed. “Napoleon is not a thing. And if people are afraid of him, it is only because they do not understand.”

  Jeffrey scowled. “What I don’t understand—”

  “Jeffrey,” Catherine said anxiously.

  “—and what my aching sacroiliac doesn’t understand . . .” He rubbed the recently-insulted portion of his anatomy. “. . . is how you can think it’s a good idea to have a reptile that’s taller than I am on the loose in a building that’s always full of kids!”

  “Jeffrey, this isn’t the time—”

  “For God’s sake, Catherine, what if that thing suddenly gets hungry? Or feels threatened?”

  The snake turned its head and looked at Jeff. He noticed and, perhaps as creeped out by this as I was, seemed to lose his train of thought.

  Max sought to ease the tension with a polite question. “Your pet appears to be a boa constrictor, I believe?”

  “He is not a pet.” Mambo Celeste seemed determined to be disagreeable.

  “He is a servant of Damballah,” Catherine said, giving Jeff an admonishing glance, “and, as such, should be treated with reverence.”

  “Who’s Damballah?” I asked, gingerly probing my scalp.

  Catherine, who was about to answer, looked surprised when Max said, “Ah! He is perhaps the most powerful of the Vodou loa, and his origins are very ancient, going all the way back to the Great Serpent whose seven thousand coils brought forth Creation. Damballah is earthly and very wise. His wife is Ayida-Wedo, the Rainbow, a goddess of the sky. Like Damballah, she is also represented by a snake.” He smiled courteously at Mambo Celeste. “Is my summary correct?”

  “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I beg your pardon!” He removed his straw hat. “In all the commotion, we skipped introductions, didn’t we?”

  Jeff said to Catherine, “This is Dr. Max Zadok, a friend of Esther’s.”

  I said to Max, “This is Dr. Catherine Livingston. My new boss, I guess.”

  Max nodded to her. “My pleasure, Dr. Livingston.”

  “What is your field, Dr. Zadok?”

  “I studied science and theology at Oxford University,” he said, wisely omitting the awkward detail that he had graduated more than three hundred years ago. “And what is your field, doctor?”

  “Cultural anthropology, religion, and folklore,” Catherine replied. Which perhaps explained her verbal incontinence over the old piece of cloth decorating her couch.

  Looking at me with open distaste, Mambo Celeste said to Jeff, “And who is this . . . woman you have brought here?”

  “Esther Diamond,” I said. “I’m a new workshop teacher here. Temporarily, anyhow. I hope we’ll be friends.”

  Her expression suggested that she’d rather weave kente cloth with her toes than befriend me.

  “Mambo Celeste—er, a mambo is a Vodou priestess,” Catherine said, addressing me, the ignorant one. “Mambo Celeste honors us here at the foundation by teaching Vodou practices and by leading rituals. I direct the foundation’s programs in traditional cultures and syncretic religions, which educate young African-Americans about their rich heritage. As with our programs in music, drama, literature, and art, we encourage our students—whether children, teens, or adults—to explore forms of self-expression beyond the commercialized contemporary pop culture that’s already familiar to them.”

  I said, “What’s a syn . . . syncret . . .”

  “A syncretic faith,” Catherine said, “is one that combines and adapts two or more existing religions into a single new one. Syncretic religions were the focus of my Ph.D. research—which is also how I originally got involved in the Livingston Foundation.”

  “Is that how you met your husband?” I asked. “When you started working here?”

  Catherine ignored the personal question in favor of lecturing me some more. “Examples of syncretic faiths in the New World include Santería, which emerged in Cuba; Candomblé, which is an Afro-Brazilian religion; Shango and Brujería, which respectively developed in—”

  “And I guess voodoo is the best known of these?” I interrupted, sensing that I could be in for another lengthy monologue if I wasn’t careful.

  “Vodou is the more proper traditional term,” she said. “It developed in Haiti, arising out of various traditional West African religions that came to the New World with captive slaves, combined with the Roman Catholicism of the slaves’ French masters.”

  “The loa whom I mentioned,” Max said to me, “are Vodou spirits who correspond loosely to Catholic saints. And you will perhaps have observed that the mambo wears a Christian cross.”

  “So you’re loosely Catholic?” I said to her.

  Mambo Celeste looked at me as if my skirt were up around my waist again. Jeff looked heavenward, as if seeking forgiveness from his Maker for having brought me here.

  Max cleared his throat. “We were admiring the beautiful drapeaux in the hallway. Did those come from Haiti?”

  “No, they were made by members of Mambo Celeste’s spiritual community.” Glancing at the snake-draped woman with a smile that struck me as slightly patronizing, Catherine added, “The mambo serves a devoted group of followers.”

  “What are they following?” I asked, watching Napoleon’s head rise and fall sinuously in front of Mambo Celeste’s face as his tongue flicked in and out a few times. I wished he would take a nap or something.

  “They follow the rituals.” Mambo Celeste eyed me with disdain. “They serve the loa.”

  “Vodou worship involves propitiating and invoking the favor of the loa,” Max said to me, “which is a pantheon of spirits that includes ancestors, natural forces, and representatives of human nature. Worshippers make appropriate gifts of food, beverages, shelter, and money, and they pay homage with respect, deference, and love.” He gestured to Mambo Celeste and her twining reptile. “A mambo or a houngan—er, a priest—is an accomplished intermediary who can intercede with the loa on behalf of the community. A mambo is someone who has trained with dedication, studied devoutly, and made great personal sacrifices to be closer to the spirits.”

  Looking rather pleased with this description of herself, Mambo Celeste looked curiously at Max. “Are you a servant of the loa?”

  “I am a respectful friend of all faiths,” Max said. “And an eager student of anyone willing to share wisdom and knowledge.”

  Mambo Celeste smiled a little, and for a moment, she almost didn’t look unfriendly. “Perhaps you would like to join my community in a ritual one day?”

  “I would be most honored to do so!” Max beamed at her.

  She glanced at me with distaste, then said to him, “I suppose you may bring your friend, if you wish. But she must dress with more respect.”

  “Er, I’m standing right here,” I pointed out.

  “Hmph.”

  While I gently explored the sore spot on my scalp again, Catherine said, “Were you coming to see me about something, Mambo Celeste?”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  Catherine said to me, “Well, as you can see, I have other matters to attend to. And your students are probably waiting for you downstairs.”

  Since Napoleon seemed to be getting restless, I was only too happy to vacate the room. “Jeff?”

  “Right.” His eyes were also on the snake. “Let’s go teach a class.”

  “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Zadok,” Catherine said, dismissively. “Perhaps you’ll come to one of the foundation’s art exhibitions or public lectures someday.”

  “I look forward to it.” He added to Mambo Celeste, “And to m
eeting you again, I hope.”

  Once we were out in the hallway with the door closed behind us, Jeff said quietly to Max, “Well, you’ve certainly got hidden talent. I never saw that old witch warm up to anyone so fast—let alone a white person.”

  “Hmm.” Max paused to study Darius’ photo again, then followed us to the stairs. “I certainly agree with your concerns about her roaming this building with an unrestrained boa constrictor. But a mambo is a learned and powerful woman, and that merits our respect.”

  “She’s pretentious and nasty,” Jeff said dismissively as we started down the stairs. “That Creole accent she talks with? Please. Her family emigrated here from Haiti when she was a teenager, fleeing Duvalier. She’s been in New York for nearly forty years. You can’t tell me that ‘authentic’ accent isn’t put on—or at least consciously retained.”

  “Oh, an accent can be a hard thing to shed,” Max said. “It’s just the way a person learned to speak a language. It feels familiar.”

  Jeff paused on the steps as he listened to Max’s accented voice. “Sorry, Max. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just don’t like her.”

  As we reached the ground floor, I said, “And I gather she doesn’t like white people?”

  “Hell, no. Catherine’s the only white person I’ve ever seen her be at all friendly to—until Max turned her up sweet, that is.” Jeff gave Max an amused glance, then continued, “And, actually, it took a long time for her to accept Catherine.”

  “What do you mean, ‘accept’? Catherine’s the boss,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, she’s only the boss since the old man died. Here, this way.” Jeff led us to a set of swinging double doors and pushed them open.

  “The old man? You mean Martin Livingston?”

  We followed him into a hallway that had classrooms on either side of it. The foundation was obviously a busy place in summer. We passed an art class, a tribal drumming class, and a room full of women who seemed to be planning an event. Fortunately, the drumming class seemed to be wrapping up.

  Jeff was saying, “Yeah. Martin was a lot older than Catherine. It was a May-December thing. Also his third marriage.” He glanced at me. “But maybe you knew that already? You seem to know a lot about Darius, after all.”

  We stopped outside the doorway of a room that had about fifteen teenagers in it. I heard one of them say, “Hey, there he is now,” and realized this must be our class.

  “What’s going on, Esther?” Jeff looked puzzled. “Did you know Darius? Why did you come here today? And why were you asking Catherine all those questions about him?”

  “I’ll explain after class.” I exchanged a look with Max. “And we’ll have some questions about Frank as well as about Darius.”

  Max asked, “Who’s Frank?”

  Jeff said, “The guy who was filling in for me before Esther.”

  “Ah,” said Max. “Of course.”

  Jeff frowned, looking even more puzzled. “Why do you have questions about Frank? And what’s he got to do with Darius?”

  “Later,” I said. “The students are waiting.” And punctuality was a cardinal virtue of our profession. I was once ninety seconds late for a rehearsal on my first Equity job. The producer took me aside and gave me a memorably stern lecture about it. Ever since then, I had been religiously punctual as an actress; and I didn’t like starting off on the wrong foot with these kids by showing up late for my first session with them.

  Jeff nodded and entered the room ahead of me. “Sorry, folks! I had to take my new coteacher upstairs to sign some paperwork before we could get started today.”

  I realized I would indeed have to go back upstairs to sign paperwork at some point, now that I was working here. But not today. Catherine Livingston and I had already spent enough time together for one day.

  “This is Esther Diamond, and, as you can see . . .” Jeff gestured to me, bulging out of my low-cut leopard-print top and barely covered by my tiny red skirt. “She’s very shy and modest.”

  The kids laughed and I rolled my eyes. Then Jeff explained that, actually, I was wearing my D30 costume, having come straight here from filming, and they looked suitably impressed. Apart from all being African-American teenagers, they were an eclectic-looking group. A few of them were dressed in well-pressed preppy summer cottons, several were in Afro- Caribbean ethnic wear, some of them wore gangsta drag (and how anyone could possibly think those sagging trousers and baggy shirts looked cool would forever baffle me), and some dressed exactly like the kids that Jeff and I had each grown up with in the Midwest.

  Jeff also introduced Max, who took off his hat and gave a little bow to the group. “I am neither an actor nor an acting teacher, but since I have accompanied Esther here, may I remain and serve as your audience today?”

  “What is he, then?” one of the baggy-clothes boys asked me with a bold grin. “Your pimp?”

  “Down, Jamal,” Jeff said mildly.

  “He’s my bodyguard,” I said. “In case any young men make disrespectful comments to me while I’m dressed like this.”

  The rest of the kids enjoyed this noisily, and Jamal laughed, too. They seemed like a nice group.

  Jeff suggested that Max take a seat. Then, rubbing his lower back again, he asked if any of the kids had any painkillers with them. A girl named Shondolyn had a jumbo-sized bottle of ibuprofen, and I cadged a couple of pills, too, since my head still hurt. And then we got down to work.

  It was an improvisation class, so we mostly played various theater games for the next ninety minutes, exploring different ways of doing each exercise and solving new problems, and then discussing how to apply what we had just learned to other acting situations—including scripted work.

  Since my outfit so boldly proclaimed the profession of the character I was portraying on D30, we played with that a lot, mostly by using it as a communication-challenge exercise. In some of the games, I picked a different reason, other than the obvious one, that I would be dressed like this, and the students playing the scene with me had to figure out—without my telling them, just based on our interaction—what that reason was and behave accordingly. For example, in one scene, I was a cocktail waitress, in another, I was wearing the worst-ever bridesmaid’s dress. Then we reversed the game, so that the students playing scenes with me had to give me enough clues, in our interaction, for me to figure out what rationale they had selected for me to be dressed this way (in one scenario, I turned out to be a lion tamer).

  Most of them were enthusiastic, engaged kids, and we had a lot of fun. So I was really glad that Jeff had offered me this opportunity.

  After we wrapped up the class, Jeff and I stayed behind to answer a few students’ questions while most of them drifted out of the room, laughing and chatting. Max waited for us by the open door. I was by now feeling ravenous and hoped we were going to question Jeff over a (very) late lunch, rather than set off immediately for the spot where I had seen Darius attacked by gargoyles. I was about to ask Jeff if he had time for a meal, when Max gave a startled cry.

  “Esther! The huntsman!”

  “What?”

  I looked over at Max and saw that he was pointing down the hallway, in the direction from which we had come earlier.

  Jeff said, “Huntsman?”

  Max cried, “A young man armed with a sword!” And he set off at a run.

  8

  I set off after Max.

  Jeff followed me. “What’s going on?”

  “Max!” I cried. “Stop!”

  The sword-wielding young man hadn’t threatened me last night, but that didn’t mean I thought it was a good idea to run after him and jump on top of him. Which seemed to be Max’s plan.

  Shoving past startled students, Max disappeared through the swinging double doors at the end of the hall. I ran after him, apologizing to students as I pushed them out of the way, then I plunged through the double doors, too, letting them slap shut in my wake. Right behind me, I heard Jeff give a howl of pain.

  Max r
an across the lobby of the building. The man at the reception desk who had initially welcomed us here today looked worried now. As Max disappeared through another set of swinging doors on the other side of the lobby, the man called out, “Is there a problem?”

  Behind me, Jeff cried, “I don’t know! Esther! What’s going on?”

  I dashed after Max and through the double doors, hoping that Jeff, hot on my heels, would be more cautious this time.

  Directly ahead of me, Max cried, “Halt!” and seized his quarry by the shoulder. They were the only two people in this corridor.

  I caught up to Max and found him wrestling with . . . a boy who looked about twelve years old. The kid was wearing a white fencing jacket and carrying a French foil with a protective rubber tip on its point.

  The boy looked more startled than alarmed by this sudden seizure. He was wrestling with Max and saying, “Whoa! What is your problem?”

  Jeff caught up to us. “What are you doing?”

  Max said to the boy, “In the interests of safe and rational discourse, I must ask you to lay down your weapon.”

  “Max!” Jeff said. “Let him go!”

  “Max, let go,” I urged, putting a hand on his arm. “This isn’t the huntsman.”

  “What huntsman?” Jeff snapped.

  A young man came through the doorway of a nearby room. I suddenly realized that I heard the click and clash of metal blades coming from that room—the sound of swords hitting each other.

  The young man’s face registered surprised recognition when he saw me. “What are you doing here?” Like the boy, he wore a white fencing jacket. He carried a rapier in his hand.

  Startled, I pointed at him in dumb silence.

  Max looked at him. “The huntsman?”

  I nodded.

  The young man, who was athletically lithe with a stern face, close-cropped black hair, and mocha skin, said to me, “You can’t come in here dressed like that! What’s the matter with you?”