Falling Angel

by William Hjortsberg

“Spirits. Manifestations of God. Many, many loa. Rada loa, petro loa: good and evil. Damballa is a loa. Bade is the loa of the wind; Sogbo, the lightning loa; Baron Samedi, the keeper of the cemetery, lord of sex and passion; Papa Legba watches over homes and meeting places, gates and fences. Maître Carrefour is the guardian of all crossroads.”

  “He must be my patron loa,” I said.

  “He is the protector of sorcerers.”

  The New Temple of Hope on 144th Street had at one time been a movie house. The old marquee hung out over the sidewalk with EL ÇIFR in foot-high letters on all three sides. I parked further down the block and took Epiphany’s arm as we walked back toward the bright lights.

  “What’re you interested in Çifr for?” she asked.

  “He’s the magician in my dreams.”

  “Çifr?”

  “The good Doctor Cipher himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This swami business is just one of several roles I’ve seen him play. He’s like a chameleon.”

  Epiphany’s grip tightened on my arm. “Be careful, Harry, please.”

  “I try to be,” I said.

  “Don’t joke. If this man is what you say, he must have plenty power. He is no one to fool with.”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  A life-sized cardboard cutout of Louis Cyphre in his sheik’s outfit stood by the empty ticket booth, beckoning the faithful with an outstretched arm. The lobby was a gilded plaster pagoda, a movie-palace pleasure dome. In place of popcorn and candy, the refreshment stand carried a complete line of inspirational literature.

  We found seats off the side aisle. An organ murmured behind the closed red-and-gold curtains. The orchestra and balcony filled to capacity. No one but me seemed to notice that I was the only Caucasian in sight.

  “What denomination is this?” I whispered.

  “Basic Baptist, with frills.” Epiphany folded her gloved hands in her lap. “This is the Reverend Love’s church. Don’t tell me you haven’t ever heard of him?”

  I confessed my ignorance.

  “Well, his car is about five times bigger than your office,” she said.

  The houselights dimmed, the organ music swelled, and the curtain parted to reveal a one-hundred-voice choir grouped in the shape of a cross. The congregation rose to their feet, singing “Jesus Was a Fisherman.” I joined in the hand clapping and bestowed my smile upon Epiphany who surveyed the proceedings with the stern detachment of a true believer among the barbarians.

  As the music reached a crescendo, a small brown man dressed in white satin appeared on stage. Diamonds flashed on both hands. The choir broke ranks as he stood there, marching with drill-team precision, and formed around him in white-robed rows, like rays of light reflecting from the risen moon.

  I caught Epiphany’s eye and mouthed the question, “Reverend Love?”

  She nodded.

  “Please be seated, brothers and sisters,” Reverend Love spoke from center stage. His voice was comically high and shrill. He sounded like the emcee at Birdland.

  “Brothers and sisters, I welcome you with love to the New Temple of Hope. I rejoice in the happy sound you make. Tonight, as you know, is not one of our regular meetings. We are honored to have with us this evening a very holy man, the illustrious el Çifr. Although not of our faith, this is a man I respect, a man of great wisdom with much to teach. It will profit us all to listen closely to the words of our esteemed guest, el Çifr.”

  Reverend Love turned and held out his open arms toward the wings. The choir broke into a chorus of “A New Day Is Dawning.” The congregation clapped their hands as Louis Cyphre swirled onto the stage like a sultan.

  I rummaged in my attaché case for the ten-power Tri-novids. Wrapped in his embroidered robes and crowned by a turban, el Çifr might well have been another man, but when I brought his features into focus through the binoculars, it was unmistakably my client in blackface. “It is the Moor, I know his trumpet,” I whispered to Epiphany.

  “What?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “?”

  El Çifr greeted his audience with a fancy salaam. “May prosperity smile upon you all,” he said, bowing low. “Is it not written that Paradise is open to those who dare but enter?”

  A smattering of “Amens” rippled through the congregation.

  “The world belongs to the strong, not the meek. Is this not so? The lion devours the fold; the falcon feasts on the blood of the sparrow. Who denies this denies the order of the universe.”

  “That’s true, that’s true,” an impassioned voice called from the balcony.

  “Sounds like the flip side of the Sermon on the Mount,” Epiphany quipped out of the side of her mouth.

  El Çifr paced the apron of the stage. He held his palms together like a supplicant, but his eyes were ablaze with raw fury. “It is the hand holding the whip that drives the wagon. The rider’s flesh does not feel the sting of the spurs. To be strong in this life requires an act of will. Choose to be a wolf, not a gazelle.”

  The congregation responded to his every suggestion, clapping and shouting agreement. His words were chorused like Scripture. “Be a wolf … be a wolf …” they called.

  “Look about you here on these crowded streets. Do not the strong rule?”

  “They do. They do.”

  “And the meek suffer in silence!”

  “Amen. They surely suffer.”

  “It is a wilderness out there, and only the strong shall survive.”

  “Only the strong …”

  “Be like the lion and the wolf, not the lamb. Let other throats be exit. Do not obey the herd-instinct of cowardice. Steep your hearts in bold deeds. If there can be but one winner, let it be you!”

  “One winner … bold deeds … be a lion …”

  He had them eating out of his hand. He whirled on the stage like a dervish, robes billowing, his melodic voice exhorting the faithful: “Be strong. Be bold. Know the urge to attack as well as the wisdom of retreat. When opportunity comes, seize it, as a lion seizes the fawn. Tear success out of defeat; rip it free; devour it. You are the most dangerous beast on the planet. What is there to be afraid of?”

  He danced and chanted, ranting of power and strength. The congregation howled a frenzied litany. Even members of the choir shouted angry responses and shook their fists in the air.

  I found myself daydreaming, not paying attention to the rhetoric, when suddenly my client said something out of left field that brought me up short.

  “If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out,” el Çifr said, looking, or so it seemed, straight at me. “That is a fine quotation, but I say also, if anyone’s eye offend you, rip it out. Claw it out! Shoot it out! An eye for an eye!”

  His words shot through me like a spasm of pain. I sat forward in my seat, alert as I could be.

  “Why turn the other cheek?” he continued. “Why be hit at all? If hearts are steeped against you, cut them out. Don’t wait to be the victim. Strike first at your enemies. If their eyes offend you, blow them out. If their hearts offend you, rip them out. If any member offends you, cut it off and shove it down their throats.”

  El Çifr was shrieking above the roars of his audience. I felt numb, transfixed. Was I imagining it all or had Louis Cyphre just described three murders?

  At last, el Çifr thrust both hands above his head in a victory salute. “Be strong,” he yelled. “Promise me to be strong!”

  The audience was frantic. “We will … we promise,” they screamed. El Çifr disappeared into the wings as the choir regrouped onstage and burst into a lusty arrangement of “The Strong Arm of the Lord.”

  I grabbed Epiphany’s hand and pulled her with me into the aisle. There were others ahead of us, and I hauled her along, shouldering past with a murmured “Excuse me, please.” We hurried on through the lobby and out onto the street.

  The silver-grey Rolls waited at the curb. I recognized the uniformed chauffeur lounging against the front fender
. He jumped to attention as a door marked FIRE EXIT opened and a rectangular carpet of light reached across the pavement. Two Negroes in three-button suits and dark glasses stepped out and surveyed the situation. They looked as solid as the Great Wall of China.

  El Çifr joined them on the sidewalk, and they started for the car, flanked by another pair of heavyweights. “Just a minute,” I called, and made my move. I was immediately strong-armed by the lead bodyguard.

  “Don’t go be doin’ nothin’ you’re likely to regret,” he said, blocking my path.

  I didn’t argue. A return trip to the hospital was not on the agenda. As the chauffeur opened the rear door, I caught the eye of the man in the turban. Louis Cyphre stared at me without expression. He lifted the hem of his robes and climbed into the Rolls. The chauffeur closed the door.

  I watched them drive off from around the bodyguard’s bulk. He stood there, impassive as an Easter Island statue, waiting for me to try something. Epiphany came up from behind and linked her arm through mine. “Let’s go home and build a fire,” she said.

  FORTY-THREE

  Palm Sunday was slumberous and sensual, the novelty of waking up beside Epiphany compounded by finding myself on the floor, nestled among couch cushions and tangled blankets. Only a single charred fragment remained in the fireplace. I started a pot of coffee and brought the Sunday papers in off the doormat. Epiphany was awake before I finished the comics.

  “Sleep well?” she whispered, curling in my lap. “No bad dreams?”

  “No dreams at all.” I ran my hand over her smooth brown flank.

  “That’s good.”

  “Maybe the spell is broken?”

  “Maybe.” Her warm breath fanned my neck. “It was me dreamed about him last night.”

  “Who? Cipher?”

  “Cipher, Çifr, whatever you want to call him. I dreamed I was at the circus and he was the ringmaster. You were one of the clowns.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing much. It was a nice dream.” She sat up straight. “Harry? What has he got to do with Johnny Favorite?”

  “I’m not sure. I seem to be mixed up in some sort of struggle between two magicians.”

  “Is Çifr the man who wants you to find my father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Harry, be careful. Don’t trust him.”

  Can I trust you, I thought, hugging her slender shoulders. “I’ll be all right.”

  “I love you. I don’t want anything bad to happen now.”

  I choked back the urge to echo her words, to say I love you over and over again. “It’s just a schoolgirl crush,” I said, heart racing.

  “I’m not a child.” She stared deep into my eyes. “I gave my virginity at twelve as an offering to Baka.”

  “Baka?”

  “An evil loa; very dangerous and bad.”

  “Your mother let this happen?”

  “It was an honor. The most powerful houngan in Harlem performed the rite. And he was older than you by twenty years, so don’t tell me I’m too young.”

  “I like your eyes when you get mad,” I said. “They glow like embers.”

  “How’m I supposed to get mad at someone sweet as you?” She kissed me. I kissed her back, and we made love sitting in the overstuffed armchair surrounded by the Sunday funnies.

  Later, after breakfast, I carried the stack of library books into the bedroom and stretched out with my homework. Epiphany kneeled beside me on the bed, wearing my bathrobe and her reading glasses. “Don’t waste time looking at pictures,” she said, taking the book from my hands and closing it. “Here.” She handed me another, not much heavier than a dictionary. “The chapter I marked is all about the Black Mass. The liturgy is described in detail, everything from the backwards Latin to the virgin deflowered on the altar.”

  “Sounds like what happened to you.”

  “Yes. There are similarities. Sacrifice. The dancing. Violent passions are aroused, same as Obeah. The difference is between appeasing the force of evil and encouraging it.”

  “Do you really believe there’s such a thing as the force of evil?”

  Epiphany smiled. “Sometimes I think you’re the child. Can’t you feel it in your sleep at night, when Çifr haunts your dreams?”

  “I’d rather feel you,” I said, reaching for her supple waist.

  “Be serious, Harry, these aren’t just another bunch of crooks. They are men of power, demonic power. If you can’t defend yourself, you’re lost.”

  “You hinting it’s time to tackle the books?”

  “It’s nice to know what you’re up against.” Epiphany tapped the open page with her forefinger. “Read this chapter and the next one on invocations. Then in Crowley’s book I’ve marked some interesting spots. The Reginald Scott you might as well skip.” She stacked the books in order of importance, a hierarchy of hell, and left me to my studies.

  I read until it grew dark, a do-it-yourself course in the satanic sciences. Epiphany built a fire and declined an invitation to dine at Cavanaugh’s, magically reincarnating a bouillabaisse she made while I was in the hospital. We ate by firelight, shadows shifting like imps on the walls around us. There wasn’t much talk; her eyes said it all. They were the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.

  Even the nicest times have to end. About seven-thirty, I started getting ready for work. I dressed in jeans, a navy blue turtleneck, and a stout pair of lace-top, rubber-soled hiking boots. I loaded my black-bodied Leica with Tri-X and got the .38 out of my raincoat pocket. Epiphany, tousle-headed, watched in silence, wrapped in a blanket before the fire.

  I laid everything out on the dining table: camera, two extra rolls of film, revolver, the handcuffs from my attaché case, and my indispensable twirls. I added Howard Nussbaum’s submaster to the key ring. In the bedroom I found a box of cartridges under my shirts and tied five extra shells in the corner of the handkerchief. I hung the Leica around my neck and pulled on a leather aviator’s jacket I’d had since the war. All the service patches were removed. Nothing flashy to catch the light. It was lined with shearling and just the thing to wear on cold winter stake-outs. The Smith & Wesson went into the righthand pocket with the extra rounds; the cuffs, film, and keys went into the left.

  “You forgot your invitation,” Epiphany said as I reached under the blanket and pulled her close one last time.

  “Don’t need one. I’m crashing this party.”

  “What about your wallet? Think you’ll need that?”

  She was right. I’d left it in my jacket from the night before. We started laughing and kissing at the same time, but she broke away with a shiver and hugged the blanket tight. “Go away,” she said. “Sooner you go, sooner you’ll be back.”

  “Try not to worry,” I said.

  She smiled to show me everything was okay, but her eyes were large and wet. “Take care of yourself.”

  “That’s my motto.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Keep the chain on the door.” I got my wallet and a knitted navy watch cap. “Time to go.”

  Epiphany ran down the hall, shedding the blanket like an emerging nymph. She kissed me long and deeply at the door. “Here,” she said, pressing a small object into my hand. “Keep this with you always.” It was a leather disk with a crudely drawn tree flanked by zigzag lightning bolts inked on the suede side.

  “What’s this?”

  “A hand, a trick, a mojo; people call it different things. A charm. The talisman is the symbol of Gran Bois, a loa of great power. He overcomes all bad luck.”

  “You once said I needed all the help I can get.”

  “You still do.”

  I pocketed the charm, and we kissed again, somewhat chastely. Nothing more was said. I heard the chain slide into place as I started for the elevator. Why didn’t I tell her I loved her when I had the chance?

  I took the Eighth Avenue IND downtown to 14th Street where I caught the BMT over to Union Square and hurried down the iron stairs t
o the IRT platform, just missing an uptown local. I had time to eat a penny’s worth of peanuts before the next train. The car was nearly empty, but I didn’t take a seat. I leaned against the closed double doors watching the dirty white tiles slide by as we left the station.

  The lights blinked off and on when the train rounded a bend after entering the tunnel. The metal wheels screamed like wounded eagles against the rails. I gripped a pole for balance and stared out into blackness. We gathered speed and a moment later it was there.

  You had to look close to see it. Only the lights of our passing train reflecting on the soot-covered tiles revealed the ghostly presence of the abandoned 18th Street station. Most passengers, making this same trip twice every working day of their lives, probably never noticed it. According to the official subway map, it didn’t exist.

  I could make out the mosaic numerals decorating each tile column and saw a shadowy stack of trash cans against the wall. Then, we were back in the tunnel, and it was gone, like a dream you no longer remember.

  I got off at the next stop, 23rd Street. I climbed the stairs, crossed the avenue, descended, and shelled out fifteen cents for another token. There were several people on the platform waiting for the downtown train, so I stood around admiring the new Miss Rheingold who had a ballpoint mustache and SUPPORT MENTAL HEALTH penciled across her forehead.

  A train marked “Brooklyn Bridge” pulled in, and everyone got on except me and an old woman loitering at the end of the platform. I strolled along in her direction looking at wall posters, pretending to be interested in the smiling man who got his job through the New York Times and the cute Chinese kid munching a slice of rye bread.

  The old woman ignored me. She wore a shabby black overcoat with several buttons missing and carried a shopping bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her climb up on the wooden bench, reach above her head to open the wire cage around the light, and quickly unscrew the bulb.

  She was off the bench and had the lightbulb in her shopping bag by the time I strolled up. I smiled at her. “Save your strength,” I said. “Those bulbs won’t do you any good. They’ve all got a left-hand thread.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.