The stage was simply the side of someone’s house, and the occasion seemingly nothing more than a few open bottles of Jicarra. The happy performers were free blacks who were ‘done up’ in fine clothes and writhing to a perfectly delightful rhythm set forth from drum, violin, and a third instrument consisting of a simple serving spoon and a metal washboard. The movements of the women required no small talent for gymnastics as they heaved and contorted their bodies in answer to the music. Throughout the dance, or conujaille, the bosom is thrust out or moved from side to side in a most provocative manner, and one young lady’s lascivious hip movements upended a nearby stool and knocked it into the orchestra. The bystanders laughed and shouted, “Layotte, cessez le feu” and “Layotte, quitter vous habit.”22
The woman smiled and covered her full lips with the tips of her fingers but did not miss a single beat. The dancing seemed to intensify, and her thin cotton top began to soak through with perspiration and cling to her well formed breasts. At this point, one of the drummers stood and sang along with the music.
I dun hunt dis settlement
all the way ‘roun fum Pierre Sonait
Never see a yalla gal w’at kin
‘Gin to lay ‘longside sweet Layotte
Nevva see nothin’ lak dis all day
Layotte she move in a sinful way
Yalla gal dance the conujaille
Yalla gal dance, bon ton roulet!
I been meet up wid John Bayou
Say to him, John Bayou, my son,
Yalla gal nevva meet yo’ view
Got a face lak dat chahmin one.
Gullah Jack he know de way
an’ Marie Laveau know what to say,
Layotte she love conujaille
Layotte tell the boys, ‘bon ton roulet!
The music ended with a flourish from the orchestra and the dancers collapsed into each other’s arms laughing and sighing in contented exhaustion. I could not resist introducing myself to the one called Layotte. She was pinching the front of her wet blouse away from her moist body and fanning herself by moving the adhering garment back and forth from her chest. I greeted her in French and told her how much I enjoyed her dancing. She was suspicious at first but eventually responded with a polite nod and an announcement that she spoke perfect English.
Without letting my eyes off her I then asked if we could go somewhere and talk. She turned her head and looked at me sideways, as if asking what a country tramp such as myself could possibly want to discuss with a freeborn, urbane sophisticate the likes of Layotte. I looked as if I had been sleeping rough for a fortnight, which was in fact the truth of the matter, and before that a slave’s life in a Tunican village afforded little in the way of proper toilet. The matter of appearance was complicated by the large sack I carried over my shoulder which seemed to hold all my worldly goods.
“Please excuse my appearance, Madame, recent misfortune has dictated my present situation and I assure you this is but a temporary condition. The reason I wish to speak with you is that I have business with Marie Laveau. I heard her name mentioned in the song just now and I thought that you might perhaps be able to direct me to her.”
After hearing this, Layotte grew very suspicious and began edging away from me. I begged her to wait for a moment and began rummaging through the bag for one of Kwomo’s jars. “I have this for her,” I said proudly, and the look that crossed her face when she laid eyes on the jar I think almost caused her to faint.
“Turn dat thing from my face,” she yelled and covered her eyes. “I don’t want to see it no mo.” After I replaced the jar she peered through her fingers to make sure it was once again safe to take a full look in my direction. “Where did you ever git such a thing? Do you know what such a thing is for?” I told her I had a good idea of what purpose such items played in local religious ceremonies and reminded her that what I had was for Marie Laveau.
“Well, I do not think your juju is enough for Marie Laveau, and if you mean to try and lay a trick on her, you will be the dead one, not her.”
“No, please, I do not wish to hoodoo Marie Laveau, I bring these jars and luck balls as gifts. They are for her to use as she wishes. I bring her no bad juju, I only want to give her these in exchange for some help. She will look favorably on anyone who directs me to her, I am certain of that. I will also reward anyone who helps me make this delivery to the proper person.”
She returned to the group of musicians and dancers, where there followed much whispered conversation and glances back at yours truly. I was re-approached after about ten minutes. “Alright Blanc, Layotte will show you the way and we will settle before the Queen; but I warn you, if there’s any goddamn mojo goin’ on it will be your skin.”
We walked through a row of shanty shacks along the Rue Royale and on to a wide avenue named for either the rulers of France or, depending on one’s pronunciation, the drink which seems to float this entire nation—Bourbon Street. Here at number 739, Layotte began making a series of polite knocks on a somewhat nondescript black door. She hid behind me when an elderly woman dressed in white answered and asked our business.
“I have merchandise for Madame Laveau from Booster and the Indians.” The old woman glanced into the sack I opened before her then told me to come in and wait in the vestibule. Layotte did not wish to enter but was not shy about asking payment for bringing me to this address. The old woman scowled and took a few coins from the pocket of her dress. She dropped them into Layotte’s hand and drove her off with an incomprehensible concoction of languages that would challenge the abilities of the greatest philologist. The best anyone might guess regarding the mix of this broadside would have to include words from the languages of Africa, England, France, Spain, and India; although Portuguese, Hindoo, Russian, and Chinese may be added with no surprise.
When the door closed behind me I found myself in a room filled with even a stranger and more varied assortment of items than tongues contained in the old woman’s dismissal. Candles of differing sizes and shapes burned everywhere and illuminated both crucifix and dolls made of feathers which were wound with black thread. Unintelligible hoodoo markings on the walls appear to have been made with blood. There were human skulls and carved representations of the phallic Fon god Legba from Dahomey. Wooden images of Roman Catholic saints stood with offerings of what looked like cat bones piled around their base, and there were enough jars of powders and oils to fill a dozen British apothecaries. The old woman had slipped away without me noticing and in her absence I could not resist a closer examination of the labels on the many jars around the room. I took out a small notebook and began recording the fascinating titles:
BENDOVER MASTER LOVE OIL, POLICE STAY AWAY POWDER, MONEY OIL, GIT YOUR MAN OIL, GAMBLIN LUCK OIL, AUNT GINNY’S ZUM ZUM PENETRATION SPRINKLE, FIRE OF THE LOVE SNAKE ROOT, YOHIMBE KOOCHIE BARK, BABIES GRAVE DIRT, CONFUSION CANDLE WAX, DEAD MAN’S SKULL POWDER, WEASEL BONE, CHAMBER LYE STOOP WASH, WAR WATER, and DEVIL’S DUST.
I was startled when a tall woman dressed in black entered the room and said, “I see you have taken an interest in my preparations, Captain Burton.”
“Why, yes,” I cleared my throat. “I have … ah?”
“Madame Marie Laveau, Captain Burton.” She extended a long gracious hand. “How good of you to visit my home; and what a lovely collection of gifts you have brought for me. Je vous remercie beaucoup.” As I bent to touch my lips to the top of her hand, I looked up and saw her admiring one of Kwomo’s hex jars which she held in front of her face and rotated with her other hand. I never did reach her distinctive hand for I could not tear my eyes away from one of the most interesting creatures I had ever seen in my life. She was a quadroon with green eyes, a long neck, and very high cheekbones. There was no doubt Indian blood mixed with the black and white, for her skin was vermillion. Her English was flawless and with just a twinge of French accent. Her age was an enigma. She may be an extraordinarily handsome forty years old, but an exceptionally well-preserved sixty would not be
out of the question either. No man could accurately guess. Her dark hair was parted in the middle with two blazoned streaks of gray descending down either side of her head. But it was the look in those green eyes and her very mysterious demeanor which set her apart.
“Excuse me, Madame Laveau, but I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I am puzzled how you know my name for I am certain we have never met before.”
“Ha, Captain, of course, how thoughtless of me. You see I was recommended to a friend of yours, who asked for my help in locating you. He is a physician, from Switzerland I believe.”
“John! Ahh God, how good it is to hear a reference to his name. Dear Steinhaeuser. Is he here, and where may I find him?”
“All in good time, Captain.”
“I am astonished at my good luck, Madame Laveau, but I still must ask, how did you know the stranger at your door was me?”
“There was a description, of course,” she demurred, “and as part of my method in such matters I always ask to touch something belonging to the person in question.” At this point she reached out and stroked the side of my face. The feeling of her cool slender fingers on my flesh was positively scintillating. Her eyes seemed to look inside me.
Still admiring one of the horrid hex jars she said, “From the wonderful presents you have brought me, I can tell that you have had some recent dealings with the Tunica, yes?”
I proceeded to tell her of my fortnight of captivity, and through a process I cannot even begin to explain, my story began to include long passages that included the intimate details of my most inner feelings—thoughts that I have held dear for some time, secret thoughts I had no plans of telling anyone. I had to fight to pull myself away, inshalla, from this sudden and powerful compulsion. I cleared my head and looked over at my host. “I am sorry, Madame Laveau. I do not know what came over me.”
“That is entirely acceptable, Captain. You see, I have developed quite a taste for men’s souls. Yours is a very delicious one indeed and I look forward to dining at that table again very soon. But first we have to attend to some business. I would like to help you rejoin your friend, and I can make this happen very soon. But first I would like to beg a favour. I have asked my daughter to assist me by performing a small task, and I would feel much better if she enjoyed the company of an escort as she sets about this business. If you will do this, I would be very grateful.”
“Of course, Madame, it would be my great pleasure to assist in any way I can.”
“Very well then Captain, I will call my daughter. Her name is also Marie.”
A moment later the positively stunning Marie II entered the room and immediately relegated her mother to the status of being the second most interesting creature I had ever seen in my life.
She was an almost exact copy of Marie I, except that her English was not as good. She was also fuller in the places desired by every woman and perhaps a bit more muscular. Her age was no enigma. Even Jack Speke would notice that she was not a day over twenty-one and shockingly beautiful. Like her mother it was her eyes, in this case bluish green eyes, that were sui generis, comparable only to those of Laibon Mbatiany, and haunting in a different way that was beyond belief.
Every inch of her was sex itself—all of femininity throughout the ages and in all races combined in one magnificent and mystifying package. She was the darkness of Africa, the mystery of the Orient, a naughty angel, a sainted demon, an Indian, and French and Black and Carib, and all of womanhood at once. My biology was excited the instant I saw her and remained so each and every second I was in her presence. She sat between us and allowed an introduction, all the while smiling and not letting go of my gaze.
Suddenly, I began feeling very heady, almost intoxicated, and the conversation in the room dimmed to a background murmur. For some unexplained reason I had thoughts of being in a graveyard at night and then a surge of erotica rushed through my body like a sheet of summer lightning and caused a noticeable quivering in my loins. This jolted me back to my senses. I rejoined my present surroundings by hearing the sound of Marie II’s voice asking if I was alright.
“Yes, quite alright,” I muttered. “Although I must admit to experiencing the most peculiar reverie.”
Marie II looked at her mother before she spoke. “De mind command strange powers, Mr. Burton. D’ose with a strong sense can move with dere mind and go places forbidden to others. You can take a fearful trip to de other side of yesterday or reach into de uncertain luck of tomorrow.” She paused for a moment and said knowingly, “Sometimes it is the powers of de one you are with that do the moving.”
“Marie is right, Captain,” said Marie Laveau. “The powers can come over a man from the outside, so it is important to choose your partners carefully—or pay very close attention when they choose you.” She leaned over to me, placed her mouth against one side of my head and her hand on the other. She seemed to whisper in my ear, I distinctly heard the words but her lips did not move. “Normally I would have you for myself,” she cooed, “but my daughter is very dear to me and I try to allow her what she desires.”
Marie sat back and resumed her original position in the chair. “Take good care of my Marie, Captain. The task I have set forth for the two of you is not a very difficult one. When it is complete, Marie will lead you to a reunion with your friend John and you can continue on your way.” She looked over at a strangely coquettish Marie II, “If that is what you still wish to do.”
After this I was led to a room in the house containing a bed, a table with a basin and water pitcher on it and a fresh change of clothes. Although it was only four in the afternoon, I felt exhausted mentally and can think of no reason for this other than my brief hour encounter with those two very powerful women. I walked over to the table, splashed some water on my face, and when I looked up to the mirror on the wall in front of me, I saw a peculiar red mark near my temple. On closer examination it resembled one of the hoodoo symbols on the living room wall that had been made in blood. Marie must have placed it there while her haunting voice whispered in my ear. I let out an audible groan, stumbled over to the bed and fell into a deep sleep which held many frightful dreams.
It was just past eleven when Marie II entered the room and gently pushed at my arm. “Get up now, Captain Burton. It is time to begin our business.” I questioned her about the time and commented that it was well past usual business hours. “Our business is not of de usual sort,” she said. “Now is de time best suited to our needs.”
After dressing, I met with Marie II in the living room of the house. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor with flickering candles and various jars of her mother’s oils and powders all around her. She was mixing the various ingredients on a piece of paper and carefully transferring this amalgamation to a small red bag. Once this was accomplished we left the house through the back door and slipped into the night.
Our destination was a dilapidated shack just off the Rue Royale, the home of Mr. Geek Baby Jem, a notorious Negro, who, Marie II said, had caused, “much damn hullabaloo” by his transgressions against his many former girlfriends. It seems that after trading stories of his outrageous lies and infidelities, the girls had pooled their money and approached Marie Laveau to exact a measure of hoodoo revenge. The old queen decided that a younger woman should redress the honour of that particular age group, and who better qualified than her own talented young daughter, already a social consort of the offended parties and as such, someone extremely familiar with the many sexual depravations associated with Geek Baby Jem.
As might be expected, the attack was directed at diminishing, or probably eliminating, Jem’s ample sexual powers, and to this end I learned that some of his semen (obtained I do not know how) had already been placed into a vat containing fighting vinegar, saltpeter, and twenty-five cents worth of mercury. Just in case this was not enough, Marie and I were dispatched with a secondary assault potion. We silently approached the three stairs leading to Jem’s front door and Marie proceeded to cover t
he entire landing with the contents from the red bag. She had just begun making signs in the dust when a series of grunts and thumpings came from within. These were quickly followed by a staccato of high-pitched female shriek and a loud coupled groan of finality. Marie looked up from her work and cursed, “De bastard is at it again, but we fix him up real good dis time.”
As soon as she finished, we ran from the steps down the darkened street and didn’t stop until we were quite out of breath. “Well,” I said panting, “I suppose that will take care of that. I do not want to get that close again. Like the man says, “Never get between a dog and his meat.” From the look she gave me I could tell that this was not the best choice of terms, and I think I would rather face an angry flagrante delicto Geek Baby Jem than even one more of Marie’s devastating glances. It was at this point I was informed that five visits to Jem’s house on five different nights carrying five different mixtures would be necessary to complete the cure.
By the end of the fourth night word arrived that Jem’s ‘nature’ was beginning to be affected. He had consulted a lesser hoodoo doctor concerning an unprecedented three consecutive nights of performance problems and had spent his entire last paycheck on HIGH JOHN THE CONQUEROR ROOT and WHAMBAM DO RIGHT OIL. Nothing seemed to be working.
As so often happens when a man and a woman share an adventure, Marie and I started to become close. Our familiarity grew with each visit to the shack off the Rue Royale, no doubt aided heavily by the excitement which was attendant to our task. She had guessed our victim had suspicions that a hoodoo hex was coming over him and the dangerous possibility that we would be caught by an ever emasculating and desperate Mr. Jem made for a very cozy situation between us.
Ruffian Dick Page 13
