Marie Laveau

by Francine Prose

  “Thank you,” she said as Ti-Marie stood up to give her room to finish crying. She dried her eyes and smiled. “What do I owe you?”

  “You don’t owe me a thing,” said Ti-Marie. “But you can give me something—a plan. A way.”

  “I do have a plan,” said Marie, smiling again. “I have a plan that will make everything all right.”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  A STORM WAS brewing. A hurricane from the Gulf. A taste of salt in the air like sweat on the night’s hot back. Thunder breaking the eerie stillness, rolling in the distance, growling as near as the pit of your stomach.

  Hurricane warnings in effect: Nail down the roofs. Board up doors and windows. Take all animals inside. Lash down all heavy objects. Move to higher ground. Take all children and valuables. Help is needed on the levees. Bring sandbags.

  All over New Orleans, people heard distant drums loud as thunder, steady background beneath the gathering storm. The drums issued their own warnings, their own call: Your presence is required at Bayou St. John.

  Marie was lighting candles in Franklin Midnight’s shack. Rows and rows of candles in every rainbow color, each before an image—saints, loas, Jesus, Mary, Freda-Erzili.

  It was hard to keep the candles burning. Whistling in through cracks in the wall, the wind kept extinguishing them. Marie was constantly on the move, lighting and relighting, too busy for prayer.

  The only candles which didn’t die were the red All-Purpose Wonder Candles beneath the image of John the Baptist. At last Marie picked up his picture. “All right,” she told St. John. “It’s your birthday. Have yourself a party. But if you’re still sober enough to hear, I’m begging your help. I was going to ask for the strength to dance. But now I’m asking something else: Let the dancers beat the storm out here.”

  Marie heard St. John’s voice in a low growl of thunder.

  “It isn’t raining yet,” said John the Baptist.

  Brighter than any moon, the drumbeat lit the way. Dancers and musicians followed it into their clothes—pure white cotton, bright scarves and ribbons, good-weather clothes—and out of their houses, out of every caste and neighborhood in town. The drums drew them through the humid black streets, gas lamps extinguished for safety, over the swollen canal and onto levees swarming like beehives.

  Bucking the instinct to run from bad weather, the party goers left the city. The drumbeat marshaled them like an army, whipped them into an unbroken chain leading out in the wet air towards the thunder.

  Closer and closer to the storm.

  Through the drizzle and gathering winds, bonfires burned brightly, blazing patches on the dark curtain of fog. The fires were stronger than the storm, the drums louder than thunder.

  On the beach, hundreds were already dancing. Grasping the nearest pair of hips, dancers snaked slowly up the shore. They lost and found themselves in the dance, sang, bobbed their heads, clapped their hands in sharp syncopation. Lightning cracked the sky. The line shuddered as if it had been struck. But the dancers kept on. Someone stoked the fires. The musicians played.

  They had stopped awaiting the storm. Now they awaited Marie.

  Marie was in the shack awaiting word from John the Baptist.

  “Is this it?” she asked his picture. “This storm? Am I going to get hit by lightning like Mother Therese predicted?” More curious than afraid, she thought how strange it would be if the nun’s threat came true after so long.

  Her answer was a wordless growl of thunder.

  “You can’t be angry yet,” she told St. John. “It’s too early. You’re not supposed to be drinking.”

  “I haven’t started,” sounded John the Baptist’s thunder voice. “I’m just warming up. Now get out there and dance at my party.”

  A gust of wind blew all the candles out at once. Except for the glowing wicks, the room was dark.

  It was a five-minute walk down the bayou. But the storm stretched it out. Marie bent double against the wind, each step bringing her closer to the center of the storm.

  At last she reached the beach. The dancers were shuffling along now in some deep, peaceful trance. Wind plastered their hair to their faces and whipped their white shirts against their chests; their bright ribbons flapped like pennants. The winds were cold but no one shivered. The salt burned their red-rimmed eyes, which squinted in the bonfires’ glare.

  Marie caught Sunny King’s eye, and the drums began their hypnotic climb. The line twisted so everyone could see Marie. She was dressed in her best clothes, in every bit of jewelry she owned. Her eyes were redder than ever. The wetness frizzed her hair into a black halo five feet wide.

  Marie saw them all: Sister Delilah, Bastile Croquere, Lucie Raphael, the Nedermeyers, customers and clients she hadn’t seen for years. Everyone she knew was there—even Christophe. Everyone but Ti-Marie.

  The dancers were oblivious to the approaching hurricane. They weren’t counting on Marie to save them from the flood. They were counting on her to keep them so safe that no saving would be necessary. Their trust made Marie forget the storm. Their courage fixed her.

  Her feet began to tap. “Welcome,” she shouted above the thunder. “Marie Laveau welcomes you. John the Baptist welcomes you. Now let’s get this party started. Let’s dance.”

  Marie and everyone in the line behind her were dancing as if they’d never danced before. The dance was newborn that moment, too young for a name—a quick-stepping line, men and women joined by breasts, backs, groins, acrobats somersaulting into the air, plenty of room for staggering, double-stepping, whirling. It was the easiest dance in the world. The drums called the steps clearer than any voice. The dancers and drums worked like partners. No learning was required. No one had trouble.

  Marie felt the familiar numbness in her left leg, a pleasant giddiness in her head. Still dancing, she leaned on the drumbeat, floated on the waters in her trance. Then something pulled her back. A heavy pressure sliding from her leg to her breasts, brushing her ear.

  “Keep on dancccccing,” hissed the snake.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Marie.

  “I’m just beneath the surface. When the waters rise high, I can slide out on land.”

  “They’re rising, aren’t they?”

  “Yessss,” hissed the cobra. “Keep dancing.”

  Nobody noticed the rain starting. The bonfires didn’t sputter. The dancers didn’t flinch when drops splashed in their wide-open eyes. The drummers brushed the water off their drumheads and slapped the skin with wet palms.

  Soon they were soaking wet. Water streamed down their eyelashes and nostrils, over their chins. Their clothes dripped. Marie’s drenched skirts dragged from her hips—but the weight didn’t stop her. No one stopped dancing to greet the storm.

  John the Baptist took a swallow of honey wiskey and knocked on the door.

  A wall of water slammed against the beach. The storm announced its presence.

  Some saw a wave from the lake, others a wet wind smashing down. Some smelled the liquor on St. John’s breath. And some felt the hand of God—the same fingers which had shaped the Creation, now seizing His ruined work to remold it in the Last Judgment. These last were the first to stop dancing and start wailing, gnashing their teeth in the darkness.

  The bonfires and the drums were drowned out. The frightened crowd milled around Marie. Lightning and water drove the dancers down toward the river of mud rushing into the lake.

  “The party’s over,” said Marie, louder than the screaming and thunder. “Let’s go.”

  She led them single file up the path. Moving too fast for fear, they stopped shrieking and ran, instinct like a tailwind at their backs. The dance of the army in retreat.

  The storm followed close behind. The whole crowd shared a memory: Children out late feel the presence of something evil at their backs: Don’t make a sound. Run home fast as you can.

  Marie knew where she was running. She stopped near Franklin Midnight’s shack. “Goon,” she told the crowd. “Thr
ee hundred yards to the other edge of the clearing. You’ll be safe. I’ll stay here and see to it.”

  No one had to be told twice. People paused for Marie’s kiss, hurried past her. She kissed the foreheads of clients she’d fixed and unfixed, friends, lovers she’d cradled in her arms.

  “That’s right,” said the snake hiding in her wet hair. “Kisss them nice, ssspecial for each one. Keep them safe.”

  Marie kissed them as if she had forever, though in fact she could see the edge of the storm now, hard as a sheet flapping in the wind. At last they’d all gone by. They stopped behind the clearing, looking back for reassurance and confirmation. Marie nodded. They could stay there. The storm wouldn’t touch them there.

  Holding the snake tight around her neck, Marie walked into the empty shack.

  The shack wasn’t empty. The room was lit by hundreds of candles. Four people sat at a round wooden table: John the Baptist. The loup garou. Madame Henriette. Makandal—or was it Samson Moses Charles?

  A bottle of honey whiskey circled among them like the hand of a clock. They downed big gulps, sipped Garden of Gilead tea as a chaser. All four glanced up when Marie entered.

  John the Baptist, a big hairy-chested grizzled man, barefoot, with a dirty towel wrapped around his waist, just like his holy picture, was the first to speak. “Welcome to the real party,” he said in his deep thunder-roll. “The party in my back room.” Laughing, he held a bottle toward her.

  “Thanks,” said Marie. The sweet liquor tasted faintly of cloves. She handed the bottle to the loup garou, who drank briefly, then passed it on. Makandal-Samson Moses took a long easy swig. Marie couldn’t stop staring, wondering which one he was. Catching her eye, the wild-haired black man looked up.

  “Did you bring it?” he asked.

  “W—what?” stammered Marie.

  “Your name.”

  Marie looked blank. Madame Henriette, who’d just gotten the bottle, took a drink and chased it with a sip of tea. “The caul,” she prompted, like any grandmother wanting her granddaughter to shine.

  “It’s in the pouch,” said Marie.

  “That’s my guest list,” said John the Baptist. “Let’s hear it.”

  Marie reached inside the blue velvet bag. She found the frayed tissue easily—it seemed to have grown bigger, sturdier. As she pulled it out, she felt it change in her hand. The thin sheet of tissue became thicker, like butcher’s paper, then more like a roll than a single folded sheet... She drew it from the bag like a magician producing an endless string of scarves from a hat. A river of paper curled to the floor.

  “Call it!” ordered John the Baptist, his windy shout filling the air with whiskey. “Start anywhere.”

  Marie looked closer. On the paper was a list of names hand-printed in black ink in a clear round script she couldn’t place.

  “Call it!”

  She began with the names directly beneath her thumb. “Marie Saloppe,” she read. “Doctor John.” She stopped and looked up. The four people at the table were drinking and waiting. “Father Antoine,” she read. “Mother Therese.”

  The door of the shack blew open, admitting a cold gust of wind and rain. The candles didn’t flicker.

  “Welcome!” shouted John the Baptist.

  Marie Saloppe walked in. Dressed in her familiar kerchief, housedress and apron, soaked now with rain, Marie Saloppe was panting and wheezing. She waddled over to Marie and, careful not to step on the long roll of paper, hugged her tightly. Marie suddenly became aware of her own wet clothes, yet by the time they stepped apart, they were both as warm as sun-dried linen. It took Marie Saloppe a while longer to catch her breath. “Whew,” she said. “I had to swim all the way.” She smiled; her gold-crowned tooth flashed.

  “I’m glad you came,” said Marie.

  “My pleasure, baby,” said Marie Saloppe. One more quick hug and she’d lumbered past Marie to the table, where she moved from Madame Henriette to Makandal to the loup garou to John the Baptist, hugging them all.

  “Then you know...?” Marie heard herself say idiotically, a hostess attempting introductions at someone else’s party.

  “Beneath the waters,” said Marie Saloppe, “everyone’s old friends. And here’s a couple more...”

  Marie turned to see Doctor John enter the shack, followed by Father Antoine and Mother Therese. All three stood near the door, arms around each other’s shoulders, like guests who’ve started drinking together on their leisurely way to the party. Mother Therese and the priest seemed absurdly short beside Doctor John. Father Antoine—looking as he had in his prime, before he’d started that slow shrinking—ran back and shut the door, then rejoined his friends. Doctor John wasn’t wearing his dark glasses. Tipping his top hat, he winked; the tattooed cobra coiled and uncoiled at the corner of his eye. Smiling like angels in holy pictures, Father Antoine and Mother Therese raised their hands in blessing.

  “Welcome,” said Marie, then stopped, unable to go on.

  “Don’t be rude,” shouted John the Baptist. “Offer your friends some whiskey.”

  Marie reached for the bottle on the table, then saw it was nearly empty. Uncertain, she faced John the Baptist. He laughed—another strong whiskey wind—pointed to the bottle and snapped his fingers.

  Instantly the tabletop was covered with full bottles. “I’m expecting a crowd,” he said.

  Marie smiled back. “I thought that was Jesus’ trick.”

  “On the other side of the mirror,” said St. John, “we all know it. It’s as easy as picking your nose.”

  Marie took four bottles and gave one each to Marie Saloppe, Doctor John, Mother Therese and Father Antoine—who accepted them gratefully and began to drink. Marie took a long swallow herself and offered some to the snake around her shoulders. Just then, John the Baptist’s shout rang out again. “Call it! Let’s hear those names!”

  Marie had forgotten the paper. Now as she looked down it became the roll from the Ursuline School. Marie read out the names she’d heard Mother Therese call every morning: “Blanche Adrian. Clarisse Beaulieu. Philomene Caudet ...”

  The convent girls trooped in—older now, Marie’s age, but arranged once more in order of height, shortest first, moving with all the grace and awkwardness of their convent days.

  Clarisse Beaulieu Recamier—Marie’s former hairdressing client—skipped up to her as if they were playing in the schoolyard. “Remember?” she said in her little-girl voice. “Remember when you called that thunderstorm down on us your first day at school?”

  “I do remember,” said Marie. She could hear the wind howling outside the cabin. Somewhere a tree bent and snapped. Water gushed in through chinks in the walls and fell to the ground where it immediately evaporated. The room stayed dry.

  Marie peered out through a crack in the boards and saw a thick curtain of blackness and rain. Then, by the lightning that suddenly popped overhead, she could see: the shack was only a few hundred yards inside the edge of the storm. Beyond the clearing it wasn’t even raining. Lightning flashed again. Marie saw the dancers still standing in the woods, looking back and watching the storm. The drummers were setting up their instruments.

  “Call it!” shouted John the Baptist. “Let’sget some people worth drinking with!”

  The roll book from the Ursulines changed to a program card engraved with the seal of the St. Philip Street Ballroom. Marie read the names of her partners: “Gaston Rigaud. Ramon Echeverria. Alejandro Echever-ria ...”

  “Call it!” cried St. John before she could even greet them. She read on: “Victor and Virginie Laveau. Delphine Michel. Angel Rosal.” The door blew open again, admitting Victor, Delphine, a skinny Creole woman dressed in black, and the dead man from the Conti Street cellar. Victor allowed the women and the little man to precede him into the room. Then Delphine and Virginie waited while Victor approached Marie, the Spaniard trailing close behind.

  Victor Laveau—the charming young man with whom Delphine had first fallen in love—bowed low. “How good to
see you,” he told his daughter with the formality he assumed whenever he was uncomfortable or deeply moved. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Virginie Laveau.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Marie.

  The woman curtseyed and bowed her head, presenting Marie with a smooth helmet of graying mouse-brown hair. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she whispered shyly. “Beneath the waters, I think of you as my own daughter ...”

  “And my friend,” continued Victor, “Angel Rosal.”

  The little man stepped toward Marie with a slight swagger and none of the edginess she remembered from her dream.

  “I believe we’ve met,” said Marie.

  “I believe so.” Angel Rosal kissed her hand. “But now I wish to beg the senorita’s pardon for causing so much trouble. If only I’d known what I know now: All duels end beneath the waters. There’s no need for revenge.”

  “So I hear,” said Marie, smiling her warmest smile. At last Delphine squeezed Victor’s hand and approached her. Looking young and very beautiful in a yellow silk gown miraculously unspoiled by the storm, Delphine kissed Marie’s forehead, then touched the paper in her hand. “Now you know,” she said.

  “Know what?”

  “Your secret name. The name I gave you fifty-five years ago. It’s all our names, all their names. It’s not Marie the Egyptian like Doctor John told you. I named you after every one of us. Everyone in the world.”

  “I thought it was supposed to save me,” said Marie, feeling the effects of the whiskey, struggling to stay clear.

  “It is saving you,” said Delphine. “Saving and damning you ...”

  “Call it!” interrupted John the Baptist.

  Marie returned to her list: “Pinhead Helen. Grandpa Joel. Dr. Brown. Captain Jean Michel. Sweet Medicine. The Astounding Avila. Ti-Bud Corvo ...”