Unsympathetic Magic

by Laura Resnick

He followed his sister out the door.

  “Hi, Biko,” Jeff said. “Bye, Biko.”

  “Max,” I said. “Are we really going to attend a ceremony where someone who might be an evil bokor is raising spirits? Doesn’t that seem a little dangerous?”

  “Our adversary is secretive,” Max said. “And secrecy is the usual nature of a bokor. If Mambo Celeste is the guilty party, she will not risk revealing that identity to her community by doing anything untoward at a public ceremony. I believe her behavior at the ceremony will be exemplary, either because she is innocent, or else because she is determined to seem so.”

  “All right.” I resigned myself to it. “I guess we might as well go downstairs now.” I took Max’s arm and exited the room. On our way out the door, we greeted Jeff.

  Following us, he said, “I’m getting the impression that I’ve missed a lot.”

  “You have. But do you really want to know what?” I said.

  “Come to think of it, no.” He obviously had other things on his mind. “I wonder if Mike Nolan has talked to the casting director about me yet?”

  I didn’t feel like talking about that right now, so I ignored the implied question.

  When we reached the lobby, I stumbled to a halt and stared in surprise. “Lopez?”

  He saw me and walked over to us. “I thought you would be here.”

  He wore khaki slacks, sandals, and a white cotton shirt, open at the neck. He looked nice, but more casual than usual.

  “You’re not on duty?” I guessed.

  “Not officially.”

  “Greetings, detective!” Max beamed at him.

  “Hi, Max.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Well, on a quiet Friday afternoon, there was a bloody riot in the lobby of this building,” Lopez said.

  “I have missed a lot,” said Jeff.

  “So when Dr. Livingston told me that people here today would be invoking the spirits, communing with the ancestors, and drinking rum, I thought it might be a good idea to come keep an eye on things.”

  Jeff stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Jeffrey Clark. And you must be Detective Lopez.”

  Lopez frowned thoughtfully as they shook hands. “Have we met before?”

  Jeff shook his head. “No, I’d remember a name like Connor Lopez.”

  “You look familiar,” said Lopez.

  “I’m an actor. Maybe you’ve seen me in something?”

  “Oh.” Lopez nodded. “Maybe.”

  “If you guys will excuse me, I’m going to go find Puma,” said Jeff.

  “We’ll come downstairs shortly,” Max said to him.

  Lopez asked me, “What are you wearing around your neck?”

  “I could explain, but then we’d wind up in a long digression that would just give you a headache.”

  “I withdraw the question.”

  I asked him, “Did you get my message?”

  “Yes. I thought I’d tell you in person. Frank Johnson is alive and well.” He paused. “Or, he’s alive, anyhow. I’m not so sure about well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He didn’t answer his phone or return my calls,” Lopez said. “And because of what you and I talked about, I thought he might be dead. So I got his address and went to his apartment today.”

  “And?”

  “He was home, but he wouldn’t open the door. I wound up getting the superintendent to let me into his apartment.” Lopez looked puzzled. “He was the same man depicted on his driver’s license, and he confirmed that he was Frank Johnson. He was also scared out of his wits.”

  Max and I exchanged a glance. Lopez noticed.

  “What frightened him?” Max asked.

  “I have no idea,” Lopez said. “I couldn’t get anything that made sense out of him.”

  Thinking we should go talk to him, I asked Lopez for his address.

  “Sorry, Esther. He’s unlisted. I’m not supposed to give out that information. And based on the way he was behaving today, I think he’d sue the department if I did.”

  “We understand, detective.” Max sighed in disappointment. “But I do wish Mr. Johnson would at least answer his phone.”

  “Why do you want to talk to him?” Lopez asked Max.

  “The ceremony is about to start,” I said quickly. “Shall we go downstairs?”

  Lopez eyed me. “Fine.”

  We began descending the stairs to the hounfour. Lopez put his hand on my arm so that we slowed down and wound up following Max.

  “What’s going on?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Frank Johnson was behaving strangely the last time anyone saw him,” I said carefully. “Max is concerned about his well-being and wants to help him.”

  “Max should stay away from him.”

  “Since we don’t know how to find him and he won’t answer his phone, Max probably will stay away from him.”

  Going down the stairs jostled my gris-gris charm, which made me sneeze again.

  Seeing red dust floating out of the pouch, Lopez asked, “No, really. What are you wearing?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Fine. Have it your way. This is a gris-gris bag made to protect me from a voodoo curse by an evil bokor. It contains about thirty ingredients. After cayenne pepper, dried lizard gizzard, tobacco, chicken feathers, and frog’s toes, I asked Max to stop listing the ingredients for me. Happy now?”

  “Okay, you were right the first time,” he said. “Now my head hurts.”

  We walked the rest of the way in silence.

  I had never been to the basement before. It was more attractive than I had pictured it. The hounfour was a large open space. The walls were painted a soothing blue and decorated with murals of the Virgin Mary and various Vodou loa.

  The only feature marring the scene was Napoleon in his cage. Lopez was right; the snake’s cage was nicer than many people’s apartments. There was a big tree branch, which the boa was currently coiled around. Beneath the branch, there was a grassy area, some pebbles, and a boulder with a big indentation for a private little pond. Napoleon’s head was moving restlessly, and his tongued flicked repeatedly in and out of his mouth.

  I looked away, determined to focus on anything but the mambo’s pet.

  The ritual already seemed to be under way, though this was evidently more organic than organized. There were some people drumming, a few other people were singing and dancing, and there was an open brazier in the center of the space full of glowing coals.

  “That can’t be legal,” Lopez muttered. “We’re in a basement.”

  “You’re just here to observe and prevent trouble,” I reminded him.

  There was long iron rod stuck into the brazier, its tip glowing red hot in the burning coals.

  I looked at the big altar along the far wall. It was crowded with ritual objects: bottles, candles, dolls representing the loa, spirit masks, a statue of the Virgin, a coffin with a cross on it, a skull, seashells, feathers, flowers, silk scarves, and pictures of Catholic saints. There were dishes of food on the altar, as well as what appeared to be an ample supply of tobacco.

  There were a lot of people present in the hounfour, and more were still arriving. Max, Lopez, and I seemed to be the only attendees who weren’t African- American. This probably made it easy for Jeff to spot us, despite how crowded the space was by now. He made his way over to us.

  “Where’s Biko?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know. Too many people. I can’t find Puma, either,” he said over the noise of the drumming. “I think she must be getting ready to participate.”

  “How often do they do this?” Lopez asked me.

  I shrugged and shook my head, indicating I didn’t know.

  Jeff said, “They’re doing it now to raise luck and ward off black magic.” When Lopez looked at him, he shrugged. “That’s what Puma told me.”

  I explained to Lopez who Puma was. Then, as the volume in the room continued rising, I asked, “How was your field trip wit
h your mom?”

  “Don’t remind me,” he said. “I’m a cop. I’ve seen a lot of things. I thought I was hardened to depravity. But then yesterday . . . I saw where filthy rich people buy their food, and I felt innocent and shocked.”

  “Were the men really naked?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard.

  Jeff heard the word naked and, naturally, leaned closer to hear more. Max was absorbed in observing preparations for the ritual.

  “Not as naked my mom would have liked, since she obviously looked forward to telling my dad about it. More naked than I would have liked since, oh, I was there with my mother.” He smiled wryly. “For that same reason, I scarcely even looked at the mostly-naked women. A missed opportunity.”

  “What is this place?” I asked him. “What’s it called? I might have to check it out.”

  “What are we talking about?” Jeff asked, leaning closer.

  “Someplace Lopez went yesterday,” I said. “Full of scantily clad store clerks selling expensive food.”

  “It’s called the Imperial Food Forum,” Lopez said. “The whole place has a Roman Bacchanalia theme. Food, décor, clothing, music, everything. I think I might have enjoyed if I’d been drunk. And younger. And not accompanying my mom.”

  I turned to Jeff. “I think it’s a creative idea for a first date, Jeff. Maybe Puma would like . . .” I stopped speaking as I realized he was staring at Lopez with an expression of dawning horror.

  “There was also . . . I don’t know, I guess you could call it performance art,” Lopez said. “A girl with a lute, a guy reciting from the Aeneid, a couple of gladiators fighting. And then there was this . . .” He stopped speaking and his gaze flew to Jeff. “Gladiators fighting! That’s where I’ve seen you. You were working there.”

  Jeff started shaking his head. “No . . . No, no, no.”

  I looked at Jeff in astonishment. “That’s your gladiator role? Entertaining shoppers at the Imperial Food Forum?”

  “You were good with that sword,” Lopez said, apparently oblivious to the humiliation he had just caused. He really didn’t know actors.

  Jeff looked at me, as if wondering whether he could brazen it out, and then his shoulders sagged in defeat. He said to Lopez, “Thanks, man. Glad you enjoyed the show.”

  “You must have been cold, though,” said Lopez.

  “Jeff?” I said.

  My ex-boyfriend looked heavenward. “Please, Lord. Take me now.”

  “Why did you give up the acting workshops at the foundation to—”

  “Can we talk about this later?” said Jeff.

  Max said, “I believe the ceremony is commencing!”

  The drumbeats suddenly got so loud it wasn’t possible to hold a conversation. My questions would have to wait until there was a chance of Jeff actually hearing them.

  The drums ceased, and a man dressed in simple clothing walked to the center of the hounfour and began reciting verses in French. I recognized the language, but didn’t understand it well enough to have any idea what he was saying. After a couple of minutes, Lopez whispered to me, “He’s reciting Catholic prayers.”

  I supposed he recognized it from the Spanish, or maybe the Latin.

  I heard a rattle shaking and looked around. I saw Mambo Celeste. She had a gourd-shaped rattle in her hand. It reminded me of the one I had seen in Puma’s shop—the one stuffed with snake vertebrae. How fitting, I thought.

  The Catholic prayers and the rattling went on for a while. Then the man retreated into the crowd, and the mambo took center stage. To be fair, she made quite an impression. Dressed in a colorful gown and headdress, she had great theatrical style and a level of stage presence and charisma that many professional actors would envy. There were some ritual libations, saluting of the spirits, and more prayers. Then the drumming began again, and about a dozen young women paraded into the ceremonial space, each of them carrying a colorful drapeau. I recognized a few of the traditional designs by now. Among the loa represented by the flags were Papa Legba, Ogoun, Damballah, Ayida-Wedo, and Baron Samedi.

  I didn’t recognize any of the young women, though, and I wondered where Puma was.

  Someone carried a live rooster into the center of the hounfour and whirled around with it before moving on. I had a feeling I knew what the bird was for. However, according to my reading, sacrifices occurred much later in the ceremony. I was frankly hoping to leave before then, since the ritual would last well into the night.

  Now there was a lot of chanting in Creole, and the mambo poured libations with rum, paid obeisance to the drapeaux, and started drawing vévé on the floor, creating the complex designs from memory and by sprinkling talcum powder delicately from her fingers. Mambo Celeste began by invoking Papa Legba and asking him to open the gates to the spirit world. Then she moved on to invoking other loa. The rum pouring, vévé drawing, invoking, and chanting went on for quite a while.

  Lopez muttered to me, “I vow I will never again complain about how long High Mass takes.”

  The celebrants and worshippers were all vibrantly engaged in the proceedings, which followed a sort of organized chaos. I noticed that Max was deeply absorbed and seemed to be enjoying himself.

  I saw Baron Samedi prowling around—or, rather, a man dressed up like the Lord of Death. He wore a frock coat with tails, striped trousers, sunglasses, and a formal top hat. His face was painted like a skull, and seeing him wandering around, popping up here and there, made me uneasy enough that I was very glad Lopez was with me.

  Finally, we reached the point in the ceremony where almost everyone in the room starting dancing, singing, and chanting; the rum was flowing pretty freely by now. This was the part of the ritual where people lost themselves in dance and awaited possession by a spirit. To be possessed was a mark of favor and a great blessing, a form of religious ecstasy.

  However, since I didn’t know the language or really understand what was going on, I started to feel restless and ready to leave. Especially since I knew this could go on a while. Max seemed so enchanted by the service, though, that I didn’t have the heart to ask him to come with me. But I thought Jamal’s warning was well worth heeding: It would be evening by now, and although it wasn’t totally dark outside, I still didn’t want to leave the building by myself.

  So I said to Lopez, “Will you come with me to get a cab?”

  “Sure.” He turned away from the ceremony with me and put his hand on my back—but then a small explosion behind us made him turn back to the action.

  I saw that the mambo was throwing powder into the brazier, and it was creating small explosions.

  “Jesus, I think that’s gunpowder,” Lopez said. “Hang on. I think I’d better deal with this.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  As Lopez maneuvered his way through the dancing throng, heading toward the mambo, Max came up to me.

  “What is she doing?” I asked him as another explosion made my head start to ache.

  “She’s asking Ogoun to join us,” he said. “ He’s the loa of—”

  “War, fire, and male fertility,” I said, remembering what Catherine had told me.

  It suddenly occurred to me that the anthropologist wasn’t here. That surprised me. I’d have expected to see her hovering nearby, taking notes.

  Then again, maybe after you’ve done that at a few hundred rituals, the fun starts to wear off. Perhaps she had decided to stay home with a good book tonight.

  Lopez was approaching the brazier as the mambo threw another handful of gunpowder into it. He fell back a step and looked a little dizzy for a moment, as if the resultant explosion had affected him.

  “What’s he doing?” a familiar voice asked me.

  I turned to see Jeff by my side. I said, “There you are. You disappeared for a while.”

  “Should he be that close to the brazier?” asked Jeff.

  I looked again. Lopez was standing still in front of the mambo now. Not talking, not making her put down the gunpowder . . . Not doing any
thing.

  Jeff said to me, “He doesn’t act like a guy who dumped you.”

  I had no idea why Lopez was just standing there. He seemed to be swaying a little.

  “He didn’t dump me,” I said. “He gave me up.”

  “He acts more like a guy who’s cutting you out of the herd and putting up a fence to keep the other stallions away from you.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ve been in this room since, oh, a different geological era, I think,” Jeff said. “And this is the first time he’s moved more than eight inches away from you.”

  I turned to face Jeff. “Tell me about the Imperial Food Forum. I don’t understand why you lied to me about it.”

  “I didn’t lie. I just . . . omitted a lot of information and let you think whatever you wanted to think.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him I really hadn’t thought about it. So I said, “I assumed you were in a play.”

  “I was broke when I came back from LA, and another actor I know—Frank Johnson, in fact—told me about a job that was available. He said he wasn’t right for it, but maybe I might be, since I’d been keeping fit out in LA.”

  “And?”

  “And it was full-time work, and the money was pretty good.” He shrugged. “And if the floor show keeps going well, we’ll do some TV commercials. And that’ll be better money.”

  “We all do things to pay the bills, Jeff,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, you’ve got a part on a great TV show. I’m wearing a thong and playacting with a sword in a glorified supermarket.” He made an awkward gesture. “So maybe you can understand why I didn’t just come out and tell you.”

  “D-Thirty is the only work I’ve had all summer,” I pointed out. “I’ve been waiting tables most of the year.”

  “Singing and waiting tables,” he said with a teasing smile.

  “Do you get cold in your thong?”

  He gave me a mock punch on the chin, then he put his arms around me, and we hugged. As we pulled apart, Jeff peered over the heads of the crowd and looked into the center of the hounfour again. His expression changed so abruptly that I turned to look, too.

  Jeff said, “Holy shit!”

  I cried, “No!”

  Lopez has stripped off his shirt. Bare-chested and gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat, he knelt before the brazier and plunged his hands into the pile of glowing red coals.