by Ishmael Reed
Their patients were flocking to his methods. Irene Castle, in a book, had seemingly given 1 of his techniques her endorsement:
Nowadays we dance morning, noon and night. What is more, we are unconsciously, while we dance, warring not only against unnatural lines of figures and gowns, but we are warring against fat, against sickness, and against nervous troubles. For we are exercising. We are making ourselves lithe and slim and healthy, and these are things that all reformers in the world could not do for us.*
This had saved him at 1st. This endorsement by Irene Castle, a woman whose personal fetish was that of dressing as a nun.
After her endorsement the vicious campaign aimed at him had abated. The harassment from the bulls, the constant inspections of his Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral by the Fire Department, the reviews of his tax records.
Irene Castle’s clients were tycoons and captains of industry—Harriman Astor Vanderbilt she taught for 100 dollars an hour to do a diluted version of Jes Grew, during the day they paid blue-nosed deference to the Atonist creeds. Somehow like the Haitian elite pays homage to Catholicism but keeps a houngan tucked away in the background.
At night they would wallow up to their bankbooks in the Charleston at Irene’s Caves. No ordinary gin mills but high hat joints where they danced to Jim Europe’s “Black Devils,” the first jazz band to play on 5th Ave.
With such powerful backing, PaPa LaBas had been able to stave off their attacks—the attacks of the Manhattan Atonists. Many of their “patients” were relatives of these tycoons and they couldn’t risk a dollar by irritating someone whose techniques had been endorsed by Irene Castle.
But recently she had moved to the right of Jes Grew and was consulting the Government on the Epidemic. The hostility had been renewed. PaPa LaBas knew the fate of those who threatened the Atonist Path. They would receive the wrath of its backbone: the Wallflower Order which attends to the Dirty Work.
Their writings were banished, added to the Index of Forbidden Books or sprinkled with typos as a way of undermining their credibility, and when they sent letters complaining of this whole lines were deleted without the points of ellipses. An establishment which had been in operation for 2,000 years had developed some pretty clever techniques. Their enemies, apostates and heretics were placed in dungeons, hanged or exiled or ostracized occasionally by their own people who, due to the domination of their senses by Atonism, were robbed of any concerns other than mundane ones. PaPa LaBas did not proselytize. Not even those who worked with him, Earline, Charlotte; all he requested was that they feed the loas. A debt be owed to their influence upon his experience. A precaution.
The clerk interrupted his thoughts by calling his case. He is summoned and asked to swear upon the only book the judge will allow in “his court.” PaPa LaBas won’t dare touch the accursed thing. He demands the right to his own idols and books. It reminds PaPa LaBas of the familiar epigram: “Orthodoxy is my Doxy, Heterodoxy is the other fellow’s Doxy.”
The late Teens and early 1920s are a bad time for civil liberties. In Bisbee Arizona, 1917, 1,100 members of the Industrial Workers of the World (Wobblies) are subjected to the tortures of a vigilante mob. January 23, 1920, 5,000 “Reds” are routed from their beds, imprisoned or deported. At the beginning of the Jazz Age, February 20th, 1919, in Hammond Indiana, after deliberating for 2 minutes a jury of his peers acquits Frank Petroni who had murdered in cold blood a man who yelled “To Hell with the United States.”
Fear stalks the land. (As usual; so what else is new?)
While PaPa LaBas has been haggling with the judge the prosecutor has been conferring with the bull. The prosecutor requests to approach the bench. After a short conference, the judge dismisses the case.
They really don’t want him in jail. They want to wear him down, pique him, enthrall him, tie him up by burdening him with petty court appearances so that he won’t have time for Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral.
Outside PaPa LaBas climbs into the back seat of his 1915, 2-passenger Town Coupe Locomobile. It is a car designed to accommodate the philosophy “small numbers make for distinction, quantity destroys” and its production is limited to 4 per day. He reaches into 1 of the wooden vanity cases and removes a sky blue colored cigarette. His own brand, Mumbos.
His driver T Malice, so-called as a result of his penchant for the practical joke, is a tall lanky youth pursuing a degree in librarian-ship at Lincoln University.
People are running in the direction of Wall Street.
What’s up? PaPa LaBas asks, picking up the tab to read.
Seems that the Sarge of Yorktown sent some of his Torpedoes to take Buddy Jackson but failed. Buddy and his woman weren’t touched. What happened with your case?
They dismissed it again. Another stalling action. We’ll probably find a fire inspector when we reach the Kathedral. Since Irene condemned The Work, the Department of Public Health has also been hassling us. The lies put out about the place by these men with degrees from the Atonist cause. Whenever sophistry and rhetoric fail they send in their poor White goons. They don’t have the guts of real gangsters. The letters after their names are their tommy guns and those universities where they pour over syllables in the many cubicles, their Big House.
Well, you know how these fagingy-fagades are, pop. Mr. Eddy’s very screwy these days.
Fagingy-fagade? What’s that?
White people, pop. Ofays.
PaPa LaBas, conscious of the contemporary since Berbelang’s attack, writes this into his black notebook. He asks T Malice to repeat it several times so that he can ascertain the correct spelling, having become a student of auditory phonetics. The big car moves from 100 Center Street toward uptown. They detour to make room for ambulances arriving at the scene of the explosion.
The Locomobile with the 2 men and dog occupants moves toward the vicinity of the explosion. When they reach it they see people milling about. The fire trucks, police and cars are parked haphazardly about the street. PaPa LaBas notices an object that has been blown to the pavement. He emerges from the car after signaling T Malice to halt. It’s the brokers “ugly” fetish: a wood-carving of Ghede. Isn’t that strange, PaPa LaBas thinks. PaPa LaBas re-enters the auto. Desiring privacy as he examines the Ghede, he pulls down the backseat’s silk roller shades. It is an easy ride; the rear of the car contains 50-inch springs.
PaPa LaBas’ Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral is located at 119 West 136th St. The dog at his heels, PaPa LaBas climbs the steps of the Town house. He moves from room to room: the Dark Tower Room the Weary Blues Room the Groove Bang and Jive Around Room the Aswelay Room. In the Groove Bang and Jive Around Room people are rubberlegging for dear life; bending over backwards to admit their loa. In the Dark Tower Room, artists using cornmeal and water are drawing veves. Markings which were invitations to new loas for New Art. The room is decorated in black red and gold.
A piano recording plays Jelly Roll Morton’s “Pearls,” haunting, melancholy. In the Aswelay Room the drums sleep after they’ve been baptized. A guard attendant stands by so that they won’t get up and walk all over the place. PaPa LaBas opens his hollow obeah stick and gives the drums a drink of bootlegged whiskey. Stunned by Berbelang’s attack upon him as an “anachronism,” he has introduced some Yoga techniques. In 1 main room, people are doing the Cobra the Fish the Lion the Lotus the Tree the Voyeurs Pose the Adepts Pose the Wheel Pose the Crows Pose and many others. There is a room PaPa LaBas calls the Mango Room, so named to honor the great purifying plant. On a long maple table covered with splendid white linen cloth rest 21 trays filled with such delectable items as liqueurs, sweets, rum, baked chicken, and beef. The table is adorned with vases containing many types of roses. This room is the dining hall of the loas, and LaBas demands that the trays be refreshed after the Ka-food has been eaten. His assistants make sure that this is done. The room is illuminated by candles of many colors. On the tables sky-blue candles are burning. In the other main room attendants have been guided through exercises. Once in a while 1 is posses
sed by a loa. The loa is not a daimon in the Freudian sense, a hysteric; no, the loa is known by its signs and is fed, celebrated, drummed to until it deserts the horse and govi of its host and goes on about its business. The attendants are experienced and know the names, knowledge the West lost when the Atonists wiped out the Greek mysteries. The last thing these attendants would think of doing to a loa’s host is electrifying it lobotomizing it or removing its clitoris, which was a pre-Freudian technique for “curing” hysteria. No, they don’t wish it ill, they welcome it. When a client is handled by an especially vigorous loa the others stand around this person and give it encouragement. Smiling PaPa and T see that everything is really Jake.
PaPa LaBas walks into his office. His lamp glows. Incense is burning. Sandalwood, myrrh and many other formulas which survived the ban when the Catholic Church decreed that only frankincense be used in ceremonies. He inspects a rejected manuscript from London, the editor says he liked his article on “lost liturgies in New Orleans” but feels “it doesn’t fit in with our format.” PaPa LaBas reviews the editorial board. Just as he expected. All Atonists. He looks down the hall. Earline is emerging from 1 of the rooms. Strange. He never noticed that before, her walk. She is serpentine and her hips move tantalizingly under the thin, white short dress.
Thanks for inviting me to your party, Earline. I hope I didn’t upset your guests like that, the argument between me and Abdul. It occurred after you left but I’m sure you heard about it.
O we’re accustomed to Abdul’s bunk. He gets on his soapbox and goes on for hours. I have heard that he is receiving money from the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan.
PaPa LaBas reflects. I rather like him though, at least he has his own flag, not like these Black Marxists who merely mimic the words of the “Internationale,” somebody else’s thought, and somebody else’s song. Abdul is just an irritated lyricist who can’t seem to get his music sung. I am eager to read his book when it’s out.
Charlotte wants to see you.
She does? I thought it strange that she wasn’t giving you assistance out there.
I can manage. I think she’s quitting. What’s up?
I don’t know, you’d better ask her.
PaPa LaBas walks into Charlotte’s office and finds her sitting on her desk. She is dressed quite spiffy. A black-felt hat adorned with ostrich feathers. Pearls, a black suit with flapper skirt. She raises her eyes from the magazine Vanity Fair when she sees LaBas. She is inhaling from a Fatima Turkish cigarette held in an ivory holder.
What’s wrong, Charlotte?
O pop, I don’t want to hurt you but I’m leaving. You know Berbelang had some good points; after he left the clientele, his followers dropped off. He influenced your approach, which at 1st I thought was O.K. but, pop, you know you developed a cultish thing about this New HooDoo therapy, I mean, I have learned all of the dances and everything…I feel…
You mean you’ve gotten an offer…
Well yes, I am going on the stage, the Plantation House wants me to star in their new review The Witches’ Pick. I tried out a few months ago and have gone back on amateur nights. Now they want me for a long run. I’m gaining quite a following.
Congratulations. That’s good news.
O you mean you approve? She asks in her characteristically sultry voice.
Yes of course, if you have a break like that, just so you don’t become 1 of those Gold Diggers as Irene did.
She glances at the floor.
There’s more?
The manager wants me to entertain some of the selective clientele. The diamond stickpin trade. You know, teach them diluted versions of the dances I have observed here.
Charlotte, you shouldn’t attempt to use any aspect of The Work for profit.
Why not? I helped translate the French works and took Berbelang’s place when you were short of help, pop. Pop, you can’t keep something as wonderful as your techniques a secret. They will benefit the world.
Charlotte, I think we should be careful. I don’t know the extent to which the Haitian aspects of The Work can be translated here. Suppose the loas have followed the features of their work I have borrowed. This means that they have to be appeased. That’s why I require that the 22 trays be fed just in case. The 22 trays dedicated to the Haitian loa. I know you all think it’s silly but we have to observe these precautions. People didn’t believe me when I warned of the Jes Grew epidemic; but now here it is.
O pop, they just invented that to sell the tabs, you know how outrageous the newspapers are getting to be.
I still think you ought to wait, Charlotte. It might be dangerous. Upset a loa’s Petro and you will be visited by troubles you never could have imagined.
Charlotte rises from the desk, walks over to LaBas and puts her arms around his neck.
Look, pop, I want to take the benefits of all of the beautiful things you and Earline and Berbelang have taught me and give it to everyone.
PaPa LaBas pauses for a moment.
I hate to let you go but I guess you know what you’re doing.
Charlotte picks up her things and walks toward the door. She turns, kisses LaBas goodbye and walks out. LaBas hears her conversing with Earline outside the door.
She had been hired as a translator. Sometimes, the mail being so slow, she would be his messenger. Taking packages to his clients on her way home. He was worried about her. There was always the precaution he had developed because he had “been called” and awarded himself the Asson which was as good as inheriting the ability to Work. But he felt obligated to warn his technicians of malevolent side effects of the field lest they pick up a loa they didn’t want. If this was considered conservatism or orthodoxy then that’s what it would have to be.
He phoned the florist. He would send Charlotte a mixed bunch of roses. She could choose the variety she wanted. She liked to choose.
* The Conquest of Epidemic Disease—Charles Edward Amory.
* No one called him an anti-Negro vulgarian, however.
* Castles in the Air—Irene Castle.
13
EARLINE IS QUITE CHEERFUL when she arrives home. She has bought this marvelous scarf which bears a design of a stylized heart pierced by a dagger. She amuses herself by thinking this an apt metaphor for her present affair of the heart. She removes the mail from the box. She then picks up the New York Sun which lies on the doormat. The headline is about Haiti. VooDoo generals. Something about Marines. She has heard PaPa LaBas speak of Haiti. He wanted to visit there but wasn’t able to. PaPa LaBas had quipped, If I don’t visit Haiti perhaps Haiti will come to me. Earline enters the apartment and goes into the living room. She undresses for a bath. She takes a luxurious bath in basil leaves and strange aromas. Her black skin glistens like a glazed piece of pottery. It affects the touch like satin. She lies in the tub, the folded newspaper in her hand. What was this about doughboy zombies? The tabs were becoming outrageous; as if the scandals of Hollywood weren’t enough they were playing up this matter on Haiti. Recently 1 of the reporters had sneaked into a big house chamber and emerged with a picture of a woman undergoing execution—ghastly but fun. The picture showed a zombie Marine surrounded by men in white coats. The door opens.
Hi.
Looking through the open bathroom door into the other room, she sees Berbelang. Hi? You’ve been gone for 3 days, all you got to say is hi? Hello.
Berbelang, what is happening to you?
Berbelang opens the refrigerator and takes out a piece of barbecue from a bowl. He removes the wrapping and eats a short rib.
O I’ve been busy, you know, hanging out.
He wears a black hat featuring a white silk headband decorated with black scarabs and a long woolen black frock coat which hugs him about the ankles. He wears these impeccably shined high black boots of blunt-toed Civil War style. A very fat knotted and hand-painted tie under a white vest decorated with black orchid designs. It isn’t new but he’s clean and he wears the stuff well. He is known by the fellows as a Lounge Li
zard for his way with women. But he doesn’t pursue it. He isn’t 1 of these Drugstore Cowboys or Creepers who hang out, ogling every Jazz Baby who walks by. Berbelang is serious.
Look baby, soon I will be through and able to tell you everything but now, sugar, you have to trust me.
Earline stands in the doorway with an elaborately decorated towel covering her body.
Berbelang glances at the painting on the wall. It was done by J. B. Bottex, a Haitian. A Black Mary Magdalene and Jesus. The 1st thing you see is the woman’s effulgent rump covered by a lime dress. She wears pearls, a string around her neck, and her hair is tied in a bun. She is watching a procession, some Haitians following Christ…Christ has eyes for her. He has stopped and is staring at her as she leans over the banister of her porch.
Berbelang’s trousers sag a bit at the knees. He removes his coat and hat and tosses them across the table. Earline has moved over to the bed and, legs crossed, is sitting on its edge.
What’s that pretty thing lying next to you?
A scarf I bought today.
Berbelang approaches the bed and handles the scarf. Fondles the silk in his hand and smiles.
Some very serious things are happening baby, Berbelang confides, King down next to her. You will see that Jes Grew is no dream of an old man but…dynamic, engrossing—
Earline rises, supports herself by leaning on her hands. She starts to defend PaPa LaBas.
O Berbelang, he admires you so, why can’t you be—
But Berbelang has other ideas. He puts his hands about her waist and they begin some furious necking. He switches off the lights so that only the Fire of Love Brand Oil candles burn. Sputtering candles whose poles have been anointed.
At 3:00 in the morning Earline awakes. She feels warm under the covers, a contentment like bathing in the rich soap, the basil leaves. She turns to her lover. The pillow shows the imprint of where his head once was.
