Marie Laveau

by Francine Prose

  Seeing a familiar face, Marie moved through the clusters of angels. Some had pears and oranges in their hands, white flowers tangled in their filigree wings.

  At last she spotted the spirits of Mother Therese and Father Antoine, side by side. Their faces were unmistakable, still shaped by their earthly characters. But they’d changed. The angry lines were gone from the comers of Mother Therese’s mouth, the furrows from Father Antoine’s forehead. They seemed peaceful—glowing like young lovers on a warm Sunday afternoon.

  Creeping up behind them, Marie heard them talking about her. “Isn’t it too bad about Marie Laveau?” said Mother Therese, not in the sarcastic way she’d had at school, but with genuine concern. “I remember how she loved pretty smells—I caught her wearing her mama’s perfume. How terrible to imagine her spending eternity in that stinking cesspool.”

  “I miss her company,” said Father Antoine.

  Marie reached out to tap his shoulder. The motion threw her off balance. She fell as she did in dreams—tumbling through endless space. The meadow disappeared, the pale blue sky turned purple, then red. Marie was;,back in the bayou, facing Doctor John. The soles of her feet ached as if she’d actually fallen a distance. “Whoa,” she said, shaking out her legs. “I don’t know.”

  “Give up?”

  Marie turned around. The vision was gone—there was nothing in the clearing but Franklin Midnight’s shack. She clutched her stomach in pain—the pain of awakening from a good dream, the pain of the damned whose tortures seem easier than the pain of their distance from heaven. “I don’t know,” she repeated.

  “You better know. You better give up. There’s still time—maybe that little vision can save you.”

  “Save me?”

  “Sure. Repent and be saved. You know. I hear that’s what happened when a Spanish magician-friend of mine showed Father Antoine a Jesus-illusion on his way to Barcelona.”

  That was the extra thrust which no student of Bastile across her breasts to her neck. “Lissssten.” Its hiss cut through the mist. “Ssstand up.”

  Somehow Marie stood. Her vision cleared enough to see the cobra’s head arched back beside her own as it fixed its red eyes on Doctor John ... who was still staring, locked in the same game, except that now Marie was standing back and watching the snake save her.

  The cobra had the odds on its side. It was starting fresh; Doctor John had been fighting for hours. It had the ruby—three red lights against Doctor John’s two.

  The snake’s entry violated every rule of fair dueling. But the struggle was too fierce for Doctor John to bother with the rules. He was determined to win—to stare Marie and her cobra into the ground.

  The grim fight continued. But Marie knew it was over. Doctor John couldn’t hold out against the snake. It was just a matter of time.

  It was a matter of three hours before Marie saw the first signs: Doctor John was holding his stomach. His legs were shaking. Panting, he turned from the snake and bent over. As his weight shifted, Marie saw him talking to the parrot behind him.

  The parrot shrieked and flew into the air. Claws outstretched, it dived, raking at Marie’s face. Marie threw her arms over her head. Talons ripped the backs of her hands.

  She felt the cobra slip down and away. The parrot flew off after the green light crisscrossing the clearing. The snake had almost reached the safe spot under the shack when the parrot got it. It pounced, tearing and gouging like a fighting cock.

  By the time Marie ran over, the violent flurry had subsided. The parrot spat out a mouthful of blood and shredded skin.

  Marie kicked at the parrot, which ruffled its feathers and returned to Doctor John. Kneeling down, she dipped a finger in the snake’s blood. Its body was severed in a dozen oozing pieces. Cradling its battered head, she felt something heavy drop in her lap.

  The ruby. Turning it over, she read the words engraved beneath the jewel:

  MY NAME WAS MARIE SALOPPE

  MY NAME WAS DOCTOR JOHN.

  MY NAME WAS GOOD ANGEL. MOJO HAND.

  NOW MY NAME IS MARIE LAVEAU.

  Marie put the ruby in the velvet bag with her caul and promised the snake a proper burial. She faced Doctor John—his arms akimbo, head thrown back, proud as David after beating Goliath—but she was looking at the parrot on his shoulder. Then she turned and focused hard on Franklin Midnight’s dark wall. Concentrating, she prayed to the loas with all her power.

  A bright spot of light appeared on the wall. Before Doctor John could stop it, the parrot flew towards the light, drawn like a moth to flame, like a gull towards the lighthouse lamp.

  The parrot smashed into the wall and fell to the ground. Doctor John walked over and picked up the dead bird, which twitched in his hands as he wrapped it in the soft cloak yanked down from its branch. “Good trick.'’ he said bitterly. “Now you’re forcing me. You’re making me show my hand. All right, Miss Marie. That’s what I’ll do.”

  He reached up into the tree—just above the branch which had supported his cloak. Now, another cloak appeared in his hand. He twirled it in the air, snapped it, then slung it around his shoulders. The cloak was made of fur—matted gray with gaping mange spots and thick oily streaks. Just as Marie was wondering how Doctor John could bear to put it on his body, his body began to change.

  The cloak grew down his torso. Fur covered his legs. Still glaring at Marie, he crouched down on all fours. Gray hairs grew from his face, pointed ears sprouted from his head, webbed wings from his shoulders. Blood-stained yellow teeth protruded from his grinning mouth. Only his redrimmed eyes stayed the same.

  “Now do you know me?” asked the loup garou in Doctor John’s familiar voice. “You saw me at your window.”

  “I know,” said Marie, recognizing the werewolf who’d stolen her from Victor and Delphine in her childhood dreams. “But this time you won’t get me so easy.”

  The loup garou grinned again. Then it leaped up and flew above the clearing where it hovered like a monstrous bat. Its luminous trail was a bloodier red than the sky. Then it sprang down toward Marie.

  She watched it leap at her, quick and grim, ears back, teeth bared. In one of those dream-seconds which last forever, she observed helplessly, rooted, her mind blank of all knowledge, secrets, experience, unable to summon her own name, drained of everything ... but the power which suddenly welled up inside her, forcing her hand out to grab the wolf’s left front paw, the strength to hold it, digging her fingers into the tight gray sinews, to swing the snarling wolf downward, smashing it into the ground, to wrench the leg in its socket and hold on, to force the energy out through her fingertips, the dark mirror-image of the healing power, the power of ruin and destruction, jumping away from the gnashing teeth until she felt the legbone crack in her hand and still she held on ... until the power left her and she fell to the wet ground.

  She awoke to find Doctor John beside her in the dirt. Cursing softly, he rubbed his left ankle. The fur cloak had vanished, revealing his tom coat and stained shirt. His dark glasses lay near him on the ground. His redrimmed eyes were swollen and he was gasping for air.

  He stood up, hopping with pain when he tried to put weight on his ankle, brushed himself off, extended an arm to help Marie up and shook her hand.

  “Congratulations,” he said hoarsely. “I’m all out. This show’s over. You took it.” He pointed to his ankle. “I’m hurt bad. You win.”

  He put on his hat and limped across the swamp in the direction from which he’d come. After a while, he stopped and scanned the red-black sky.

  Marie felt something heavy swing against her thigh. The ruby in the velvet bag. She remembered the snake. “You gambling?” she called after him. “You stargazing? Well, you better be gambling. You better win a couple Grand Jackpots to get yourself out of town.”

  “I ain’t gambling,” Doctor John called back weakly. “But I am stargazing. I’ll be up among those stars pretty soon. And I’ll need to know my way around.”

  Doctor John staggered of
f, leaving Marie alone with the deserted shack, the silent bayou, the dead snake, and the blood-red moon. A strong wind blew in off the Gulf, dispersing the mist, the red light, Doctor John’s defeated smell. Marie raised the hood of her cloak and started home.

  CHAPTER XXV

  PEOPLE HAD A hundred and one different reasons for doing business with Marie Laveau:

  Help me get pregnant.

  Make it a boy.

  Make it an easy labor.

  Straighten my baby’s spine.

  Make my baby’s ghost leave that cradle.

  Make him stop wetting his bed.

  Fix my little girl’s buck teeth.

  Make him good in school.

  Tell me who I’ll marry.

  Make that boy notice me.

  Make that girl love me.

  Make her come to me.

  Make him stay with me.

  Make my daughter marry rich.

  Make her keep away from mulattoes.

  Make me graceful.

  Make her marry me and not that other boy.

  Make his other woman leave town.

  Make him dream about me.

  Make him ask me to marry him.

  Make my wedding day be sunny.

  Make it rain on her wedding day.

  Get the ghost out of our new house.

  Help me get a job.

  Make me lucky at gambling.

  Stop my bad dreams.

  Cure this skin rash.

  Make him like my cooking.

  Take her fix off me.

  Keep her from finding out about my other woman.

  Make her forget her other man.

  Fix my bill collector.

  Help me find my lost brother.

  Teach me how to find lost money.

  Fix his itchy feet.

  Make him spend all his money on me.

  Read my palm.

  Make the grocer stop cheating me.

  Help me choose.

  Fix my boss so he’ll give me a raise.

  Fix my master so he’ll free me.

  Help me win this lawsuit.

  Tell me where he hides his paycheck.

  Make my sister write to me.

  Tell me who stole my diamond ring.

  Cast my horoscope.

  Fix my father-in-law so he’ll move out.

  Fix my mother-in-law so she’ll leave me alone.

  Make him faithful.

  Make him quit drinking.

  Keep me from getting pregnant.

  Make her give me one more chance.

  Make my hair stop falling out.

  Make her stop gambling.

  Make my neighbor stop gossiping.

  Make Daisy win in the fifth race.

  Make her return that brooch she stole.

  Make the judge reduce my fine.

  Make my daughter come back to Jesus.

  Make my son come back for Christmas.

  Make the city give me a liquor license.

  Make the price of sugar go down.

  Make my number come up.

  Make them give my son a pardon.

  Help me lose weight.

  Help me make that deal.

  Make my man come back.

  Make my competitors go out of business.

  Fix him so he’ll give me back those I.O.U’s.

  Make my wife’s ghost leave my bed.

  Keep that boy from getting my job.

  Fix my neighbors so they’ll stop those loud parties.

  Fix my boss so he won’t fire me.

  Fix my stomach so I can eat hot peppers.

  Fix that surveyor.

  Make him remember me.

  Help me forget that girl I used to know.

  Help me get that pension.

  Make my periods start again.

  Make my children stop fighting.

  Make them ask me to live in their house.

  Fix them so they’ll treat me with respect.

  Fix my grandson’s stutter.

  Make my son go back to his wife.

  Make my grandchildren love me.

  Help me find my glasses.

  Cure my dizzy spells.

  Heal my mother.

  Make my man come back before I die.

  Tell me who put this death fix on me.

  Make my teeth work.

  Make me stop pissing frogs.

  Take the lizards out of my throat.

  Cure this pain in my stomach.

  Help me breathe.

  Help me get to heaven.

  Make it a painless death.

  Make them give me a nice burial.

  Fix my master so he’ll free me in his will.

  Fix my father so he’ll leave me everything.

  Make my great-great-grandchildren remember me when I’m gone.

  Every reason held two secrets. Every secret unlocked three stories. Every story spun out the web through neighborhoods, families, generations. Trapped in the sticky web, love letters, doctor bills, signed confessions, and whorehouse account books toppled toward its center, the white stucco cottage at Royal and St. Ann.

  No lawyer got results like Marie Laveau. No foreman argued a grievance like Marie Laveau. No priest fixed a broken marriage like Marie Laveau.

  Despite government upheavals, market crashes, even hurricanes, Marie’s clients lined up at her door from dawn till nightfall—when she broke for a quick dinner before her first “special” appointments: rich folks paying extra to visit her under cover of darkness.

  Sunday was her day off. After early mass, she spent the morning with the prisoners, went home at noon to dress, then off to lead the dances in Congo Square. Sunday evenings she drank with the musicians at a waterfront tavern. Sometimes she’d catch a banjo-pick-er’s or a dancer’s eye. Likely as not, he’d come home to her bed and they’d make each other happy until he’d leave in time for her to wash her face and drink a glass of water before starting work.

  It was easy for Marie’s lovers to be kind—the stakes were low. Marie was too busy for true love. And no man was vain enough to risk any serious involvement with a voodoo queen. So Marie and her lovers took their pleasure and thanked each other.

  “Voodoo queens never sleep,” the men boasted to their friends. “That’s how she gets those red eyes.”

  “Marie slept as little as possible. Asleep, she dreamed that Doctor John was dead, in a coffin floating suspended beneath the surface of a murky lagoon. She dreamed he came back to life and knocked on her door. She awoke red-eyed and got up. But Doctor John wasn’t at her door.

  He wasn’t anywyere. No one had seen him since the night of the duel. Sweet Medicine had gone on a Scandinavian freighter. His other wives and his children had moved away and the cottage on Lepers’ Row was boarded shut.

  His former clients were convinced: there was nothing to fear from Doctor John. So they took their business to Marie. She was even approached by an elderly maid and a cook who claimed to have been in Doctor John’s service and offered to sell their priceless blackmail secrets.

  “The saints are in my service—why should I need you?” Marie told them, purposely rude so they’d leave before her own service arrived.

  Sister Delilah brought gossip from the few well-swept corners untouched by Marie’s web. Regaining her old business had cooled Sister Delilah’s rage, but it hadn’t restored their friendship. It was strictly a business arrangement: Marie paid Sifter Delilah fifteen a week for hairdressing gossip and knew that neither love nor money would ever buy her trust.

  Except for Sister Delilah’s good faith, though, Marie had everything she wanted. She had money, friends among her clients and the prisoners, lovers who treated her with kindness. She had power and respect. The mayor tipped his hat to her on Royal Street. The police never touched her. Politicians succumbed to her fixes. Her healings were referred to as miracles. Good Catholics called her a saint.

  Marie had all the power she’d ever wanted. But one morning, two years after her due
l with Doctor John, she looked into the mirror.

  The red rash around her eyes had been gone for three months. Her business was failing.

  It started gradually: Nights she didn’t dream. Mornings she awoke with her eyes bright and clear. A husband who should have come back and didn’t. Toothaches which refused to disappear.

  The big cures in Congo Square were still working. But sometimes in her office she’d grab an old man’s arthritic arm and feel the healing power stuck in her chest. She told her client it was a slow cure: Burn a candle to St. Peter and come back next week.

  Only Marie knew the signs, but the signs were everywhere. Her kitchen fire wouldn’t light. The pump broke down. She cut her hand on a broken bottle and ruined a good half-ounce of valerian.

  Maybe someone was hoodooing her—but who could be strong enough? She asked her divining mirror and her new pennies. But no faces appeared in the mirror and her pennies stayed bright.

  Late one night as she was pacing the parlor, she imagined a pool of green light on the floor. Sinking down into a chair, she thought: Things haven’t been the same since the snake died.

  She'd been too busy to grieve. Now she knew how much she’d been missing it. That snake had been closer to her than any human. She missed its company and its magic. It had taught her more than anyone, saved her in the duel. And now it was gone.

  She’d bought another snake from an Indian sailor—a defanged green cobra, ten feet long, a prop for the dances and healings. No one suspected that the magic snake was now an ordinary serpent with no voice and no magic, content to eat whatever Marie fed it and sleep all day in a cramped glass case.

  Marie dreamed that the cobra was back in its old spot. “Don’t you remember?” it whispered, its ruby flashing angrily. “Don’t you ssssseee? The wheel keeps turning. Magic comes and goes. Now go get your magic back ...”

  “How?” cried Marie. But the mists of the dream swirled around her, hiding the snake. She opened her eyes. It was dawn. In a few minutes clients would be arriving, demanding the cures which wouldn’t work ... Marie shut her eyes and fell asleep again.

  She dreamed Marie Saloppe came to visit. Her dress and kerchief were dripping wet. She was panting as if she’d been swimming a long way. “Nice spread,” she said. “Not as nice as the beach. But nice.”