by Otto Penzler
He shook his head, feeling foolish and more than a little frightened. There was nothing for him to do but go back into the deserted house. He couldn’t just stand outside in the middle of the Haitian wasteland after sunset and be eaten alive by mosquitoes.
Weber stepped inside again and heard something strange: as though fingernails were being scraped against smooth wood, over and over.
“Hello?”
Still there was no response.
Weber stalked the sound, heart pounding. Was it an animal? A hillside spirit? Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself.
In the farthest room of the house a single candle burned. Weber drew closer and closer to its feeble light and the scratching grew louder.
He entered the room and saw the source of the noise.
A thin black man in a stained shirt sat with his back to the door, oblivious to his surroundings, painting steadily upon a stretched canvas propped against the wall. Under his brush a peculiar scene was taking shape: a great eye floated in the center of a blue-black sky, casting a golden searchlight upon kneeling figures below. To the right and left of the floating eye were red-gowned angels, their golden wings and halos glowing brightly. The colors were bold, the style assured and masterful. The painting seemed three-quarters finished. The patient hand of the artist painted on, and the long brush scratched against canvas.
“Ti Malice?”
He didn’t move, didn’t even nod to acknowledge Weber. In fact, aside from the hand holding the brush, there was a curious stillness about his entire body, as though he were meditating and painting at the same time.
“Excuse me,” Weber said loudly. “I’m looking for Ti Malice.”
Still the painter painted.
“Hello?”
The man was ignoring him. His arrogance inflamed Weber.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” He grabbed Ti Malice by the shoulder and spun him around.
Eyeballs rolled up in their sockets until the white showed. The slack mouth drooled a ribbon of saliva.
“What the hell?” Weber dropped his hand and stepped back, aghast.
A low, guttural moan came forth from the loose, wet lips, and then Ti Malice turned slowly, blindly, back to the canvas. The emaciated hand which had never dropped the brush dipped once again into the paint upon his palette and rose to the canvas once more.
Weber made it out of the room, out of the house, but just barely. He bent over, retching noisily between two hibiscus bushes in the yard.
When he was finished, Weber found Sarah waiting for him. She looked at the traces of vomit on his chin and smiled. “Have you found what you were looking for? The great Ti Malice?”
Weber straightened up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s wrong with him?” he said. “Is he retarded? Some sort of an idiot savant?”
“No. He’s a zombie.”
Weber’s stomach spasmed again but he managed to control it. “That’s not possible. There are no zombies.”
She waggled a finger at him in reproach. “Who says? You’re not in Los Angeles anymore, Mr. Weber. This is Haiti. He is Ti Malice—and Ti Malice is a zombie.”
“Oh, come off it. You don’t really believe it, do you?”
Sarah gazed at him gravely but said nothing.
“Okay, so you say he’s a zombie,” Weber said. “Then why haven’t you at least told Mrs. Dewey about it? That way she could stop wearing her smelly old magic bag.”
Another shrug. “I tried. But she won’t believe me. And I can’t bring her here: she can’t walk anymore.” Sarah gave him a sly look. “I’ve done what you asked, blanc. Brought you to see Ti Malice. You must pay me now.”
It was too easy to imagine her melting away into the jungle with his money in her pocket, leaving him here with a drooling, vacant-eyed idiot. “I’ll pay you when we’re back in town.”
Sarah frowned. “Now.”
“Half now,” Weber said. He handed her some bills. “You get the rest after we’re safe in Port-au-Prince.”
Reluctantly she nodded.
“Let’s go.” Weber was eager to get away, to be out of the jungle, far from the sound of that awful scratching brush. He imagined he could still hear it even though he was outside of the house.
As they walked, Weber began to feel better. Soon the house was out of sight and they were most of the way down the hill which led back to town.
Drums, primal and compelling, began to pound from nearby.
“What’s that?”
“Vodou,” Sarah said. “A petro. Blood sacrifice. I might be able to get you in—for a price.”
“No!” Weber could imagine the ghastly rites only too well.
“Nothing bad will happen to you. It won’t be very expensive. Good price.”
“Sarah, if you don’t take me back to town right now, I won’t pay you the rest of the money.”
She stared at him in surprise. “But most blancs want to see the vodou.”
“I came here for art, not magic.”
“It’s a religion, not magic.”
“Call it what you want. Just take me back.”
“All right, blanc. But you’ll pay me what you owe me.”
WEBER AWAKENED TO find sunlight streaming in the open window of his hotel room. The faded drapes danced gently in the breeze, sending motes of dust dancing into the air. A breezy morning to dispel the ugly phantoms of the night. The image of Ti Malice’s slack face came into his mind and he shuddered.
A zombie, he thought. The best artist in Haiti is some sort of undead thing that just drools and paints. It made him shiver despite the sunshine and warm breeze, and for a moment he wanted to pack his bags and take the next plane back home. But nobody would believe him in L.A. They would just laugh.
Well, at least it’ll make a good story.
Weber dressed carelessly, and didn’t bother with breakfast, save for coffee. As he toyed with his half-empty cup, he wondered if he should call somebody about Ti Malice. But who? And tell them what? He didn’t even know where that cabin was.
But it’s a man’s life—an artist—at stake. What should I do?
By nine o’clock he was on the street in the already searing heat, dodging piles of garbage and wondering where to go.
Jean Saint-Mery, that’s who he should go see. Yes, he thought, Saint-Mery knew Haiti—hell, he was a native. Besides, Weber didn’t know where else to turn.
He passed a green park where a dozen gray geese grazed serenely between the red bougainvillea and pink crape myrtle, but he didn’t see them. He passed a group of women singing and swaying in slow rhythm and never heard them. He had but one thought, one goal: find Jean Saint-Mery and do whatever Saint-Mery told him to do.
Rue Charpentier was a narrow street filled with houses shuttered against the hot sunshine. But Weber was in luck: Jean Saint-Mery was just unlocking his gallery door. The dealer, a trim light-skinned black man with a pencil moustache and goatee, gave him a courteous but remote greeting, as though somehow he sensed trouble.
“Can I help you?”
“My name’s Weber. I’m a dealer from Los Angeles. I need to talk to you.”
Saint-Mery raised a thin eyebrow as he looked him over. “Come in, Mr. Weber,” he said, just a beat or two too late.
The gallery was cool, with a scrubbed pine floor and white-washed walls. To Weber it was a welcome shelter from the merciless morning sunlight.
Saint-Mery settled himself in a padded swivel chair behind a broad oak desk and lit a cigarette. “I’d heard an American dealer was in town,” he said. “Why didn’t you come to see me right away?”
“I tried calling, but I couldn’t get through.”
“The famous Haitian phone system.” Saint-Mery nodded and blew a cloud of smoke away from Weber. His expression warmed a bit. “Normally, I would be in France by now. But I decided to stay on in Haiti a while longer this year. Sit down. Would you care for some coffee?”
“Please.”
Saint-Mery
gestured carelessly to a boy lingering in the doorway of the shop. “Deux cafés au lait. Vite.”
The child nodded and slinked off out of sight.
“So how is the art market in Los Angeles?”
“Volatile, as always. I have a few regular buyers. Thank God for the movie business and its newly rich who decide they need a big house and art to cover its blank walls.”
“Thank all the gods,” Saint-Mery said.
The coffee arrived on a wooden tray, bowl-sized cups filled with steaming golden brown liquid. Saint-Mery ground his cigarette butt into half of a coconut shell, handed the boy a coin, and shooed him away.
“You said you had something urgent to discuss?”
“Well, I’m worried about an artist here.”
“Who?”
“Ti Malice.”
Saint-Mery stared at him as though astonished. “Ah, Ti Malice. Yes. But why would you be worried about him in particular?”
“I saw him, and he’s in terrible shape.”
“He is?”
“He’s been drugged.” Weber shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know what’s going on. Someone told me he was, well, a zombie.” He half-expected Saint-Mery to laugh at him. But the dealer merely nodded.
“All this is true. Ti Malice is a zombie. The houngan Coicou made him one.”
Weber’s jaw worked for a moment as though he were searching for a word. “So you know, too?”
“Everybody knows.”
“And done nothing?”
“What’s to be done?” The dealer seemed genuinely confused.
Weber wanted to put his head down upon the polished surface of the desk and weep. He felt like a ticket-holder who had missed the first act of a play and therefore can’t understand anything that follows. “Am I the only person in Haiti who cares that a great artist has become some drug victim? There’s nothing supernatural about this. He’s not a zombie—he’s stoned out of his mind.”
“My dear Weber, calm yourself, please.” Saint-Mery’s voice held a note of pity. “Ti Malice was a strutting peacock, a braggart, a drunkard, and a troublemaker. He gloried in creating difficulties. Many people, myself included, feel he got no more than he deserved.” The art dealer nodded sanctimoniously. “Please, drink your coffee before it cools.”
“No one, no matter what kind of bastard he is, deserves to be treated that way.”
“You mustn’t judge unfamiliar things too harshly.”
“Do you actually believe in voodoo? In zombies?”
Saint-Mery looked at him as if he were simpleminded. “Of course. I couldn’t live here otherwise.”
“Do the police believe in it, too?”
“Everybody who lives here believes. And visitors are well-advised not to worry about things they don’t understand.” The dealer’s tone was polite but final. Despite his genial expression his dark eyes were cold, and in them Weber saw the rebuttal of every argument or appeal he might make.
“I’m pleased you came to see me,” Saint-Mery continued. “How long will you be staying in Haiti?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Ah. A short visit. Often the best. Why don’t you examine my inventory while you’re here? I’d be honored to assist you in any way I can.”
Dutifully, feeling a bit numb, Weber leafed through the nearest stack of paintings leaning against the wall. “Who’s the blue one by?”
“A new artist, quite a fine talent—Henri Damian.”
“He’s not a zombie?”
Saint-Mery gave a hearty bellow of false laughter. “No, no. The rest of my artists are all quite alive.”
After much negotiation and hand-shaking, Weber left Saint-Mery’s shop with two small paintings for which he had paid twice as much as they were worth. The acrylics were lively and he would make some sort of profit on them, but they were nothing compared with Ti Malice’s work. Not that he would be bringing home any of Ti Malice’s paintings, the way things were shaping up.
But the longer he thought about it the less good Weber felt about taking Saint-Mery’s advice.
It’s a horror, he thought, not just party talk. A life is being destroyed here. And Saint-Mery just condones the whole thing because he makes a profit out of it. But meanwhile Ti Malice slaves away, drugged and half-dead. He can’t be a zombie—he’s just in some drugged state induced by . . . I don’t know what. Toad sweat and puffer fish venom and stuff like that. Eye of newt. Lark’s tongue. Goddamn Haiti. Goddamn voodoo.
He stumbled out of Rue Charpentier and up the wide main street that led to the Iron Market. The putrid smell of sewage was appalling, but Weber barely noticed. The street bustled with people hawking their wares and shopping. Despite the din, Weber was oblivious to the merchants and their sagging tires, rusty tin cans, moldy rice, and cheap bright cotton cloth.
“Mister, you want?”
“Look here, mister. Here.”
“Here, mister, look. You like?”
Their repeated cries finally broke through Weber’s fog. He gazed in amazement at the welter of stuff being sold: an entire economy built upon the theory of recycling and contraband. You could buy anything here. Cigarettes. Bottle caps. Pieces of string. Parts of old cars.
Weber froze. You could buy anything you wanted here, he thought. What about a man’s freedom?
Oh, right, he told himself. And you’ll come riding up with the cavalry, to save him? Come off it. You’re no hero. You’re a gallery owner in a strange place.
But there’s a life at stake.
He rubbed his jaw, feeling sheepish but oddly determined. If he were to try and save Ti Malice, how would he do it? Pay ransom? To whom, Coicou? No. He couldn’t imagine negotiating with him.
I’ll free him, Weber thought wildly. Yes, I’ll break down the door of that hut and bring Ti Malice down from the mountainside to the Albert Schweitzer Clinic. That place was run by Americans. Surely they’ll be able to cure him, regardless of the poison Coicou used against him. To keep an artist of his caliber in mindless servitude like that—it was criminal.
It was easier than Weber could have imagined. He told the clerk at his hotel that he wanted to hire a group of strong young men for one night.
The clerk smiled knowingly and nodded. “Twenty dollars,” he said.
Sarah wanted twenty-five to lead him back to Ti Malice.
“Your price has gone up,” said Weber.
“It’s another trip, yes? And you pay me first this time.”
THE CABIN SAT in its pool of light. The tin can lantern still hung by the door.
“Here we are,” said Weber. “Inside, quickly.”
Ti Malice sat on his pallet in the back room, painting, endlessly painting. The brush and the scenes that sprang into being beneath it were alive, vibrant and glowing. Every stroke painted was confident, even compelling.
“Grab him and let’s go.”
His assistants stared at one another and, for a moment, Weber feared they would all refuse to help him. But one made a face, another shrugged, and they reached for Ti Malice’s arm.
The zombified artist turned slowly, neither resisting nor helping his would-be liberators. He was a dead weight in their arms, motionless save for the hand that held the brush and went on painting upon the open air.
“Hey, he’s going to be painting my shirt next,” one of the men whispered.
“If he does, save it,” said another. “You’ll be able to sell it and retire.”
It was slow work to carry Ti Malice through the hut and out the door. They had gone perhaps a dozen steps toward a thick stand of palms when a voice rang out.
“Don’t move.” The voice spoke in Creole and was so coolly authoritative that even Weber froze in his tracks.
A searchlight pinned down each member of the party in turn.
“Coicou,” one of the men gasped.
Weber heard the thump of a heavy burden hitting the ground, and the sound of running feet, but he was blinded by the light in his eyes. It too
k a moment for his vision to clear and another after that to ascertain that he was alone, with Ti Malice, and Coicou. Even Sarah had deserted him.
Coicou’s broad face was impassive. Light from his electric torch glinted off the round lenses of his eyeglasses and the brutal barrel of his handgun. “Take Ti Malice back,” he said to two of the men with him. “Blanc, you come with me.”
Weber’s heart began pounding madly. “Where?”
“Back to town, of course. Or would you like to stay out here all night?”
“You can’t do this.”
“I’m not doing anything. Please, lower your voice. People are sleeping nearby.”
Coicou led him downhill through scrub brush and thickets of palms, past ghostly huts and shanties, and into a neighborhood filled with well-tended houses and gardens. Expensive cars sat in every driveway.
“Where are we going?” Weber demanded.
“To my house.”
Coicou’s dwelling was a two-story building with a thatched roof and graceful wrought-iron supports for his balcony. A lantern glowed beside every window, and the path to the front door was lit by torches hanging from curving metal poles.
“Inside, please, Mr. Weber,” Coicou said. “The rest of you wait here.”
Weber and Coicou were alone in the house. Weber looked around, half expecting to see shrunken heads and animal parts strewn across the floor. Instead, he saw a blue velvet couch, two padded wing chairs, and a glass-topped coffee table upon which sat a marble bust of a Roman emperor. The witch doctor’s living room looked like something out of an interior decorator’s magazine.
“Look,” Weber said. “This is really just a misunderstanding. Can’t we talk about it?”
“Sit down,” said Coicou. “Would you like a drink?”
Weber badly wanted something to drink, but he eyed the dusty bottle that Coicou held out to him with suspicion. “No.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a first-rate rum. Take it. You look like you need a hit of alcohol.”
A glass was thrust into his hand, half-full of rich amber liquid. Weber took a sip. It tasted like rum, all right. He took a gulp, and another. A small glow kindled in his stomach. He sank down onto the soft cushions of the sofa.
Coicou sat opposite him in one of the wing chairs. He raised his glass in mock salute, and took a generous swallow. “I see you’re interested in zombies.”
