Marie Laveau

by Francine Prose

  Right on cue, Doctor John strode out of the back room. He was carrying his cane, wearing his top hat and evening coat, reeking of Jockey Club Cologne. Marie wondered how he could wear those smoked glasses inside the dark house.

  “I been expecting you,” he said, tipping his hat and grinning. “I know why you’ve come. Let’s go in my office and talk.”

  Doctor John’s office was darker than the main room—pitch-black except for one candle. Marie was obliged to take his hand and let him guide her into a chair.

  “Growing things love the darkness,” he said, sitting down on the other side of a low table. “Anyhow, it’s cheaper than decorating the place.” He laughed. “I been cutting the cards on you,” he said. “And here’s what came up.”

  Reaching behind Him, he lifted the candle. Light shone down on a piece of cardboard painted with a crude watercolor of a tropical beach.

  “What’s that?” asked Marie.

  “A postcard from your friend Marie Saloppe.”

  “What? From where?”

  “From Santo Domingo. Where else?”

  “What does she say?”

  “She says she’s doing fine, lying on the beach and letting the sweet fruit drop into her mouth. She says she’s using that medicine on herself. She sends her love and regards from Helen, Grandpa Joel, Dr. Brown, and some mutual friends on the island.”

  “I didn’t know you two were so close.”

  “You might say we were blood relations. The same blood as you. I always had a warm place in my heart for Marie Saloppe. If she’d just been a little smarter, she wouldn’t have had to wait her whole life to get back to Santo Domingo as a freewoman. She wouldn’t have had to work so hard. But she was dumb. Her heart was too soft and she was a gambling fool. That’s why I never told her my secrets. I knew she couldn’t be trusted. I knew—I was the one she came to for help.

  “She came to me a while back to tell me your man had left. ‘Doctor John,’ she said, ‘you know what’s happened: Freda-Erzili made up her mind to marry that boy. You know the loas called him and there’s no way Freda-Erzili will ever let him go. You know he won’t come back.’

  “ ‘You should’ve known,’ I told her. ‘That boy was Marie’s double. My daddy taught me: A man and his double should laugh at each other and move along quick. You should’ve told Marie that.’

  “ ‘I did tell her,’ said Marie Saloppe. ‘But you know Marie. She never listens. Now how can I tell her there’s no use trying to get him back?’

  “ ‘Marie Saloppe,’ I said, ‘you been dumb all your life. It’s time you got smart as you look. Do you or don’t you want to go to Santo Domingo?’

  “ ‘You know I do.’

  “ ‘Then string her along. Tell her you’ll help. Get her to tell you her dreams. Maybe that system’ll work for you. And it won’t hurt her. It’ll keep her spirits up for a couple weeks.’

  “Now from the look of this little postcard,” said Doctor John, “I guess she took my advice.”

  “Why did you do it?” asked Marie after a long while.

  “Marie Saloppe’s an old lady. She needed to retire someplace warm. And you’re still young. You’ll survive without her or Jacques Paris. Besides, she was a bad teacher. She knew some things, maybe, but she couldn’t make you listen. You shouldn’t have messed with your double. It made the loas pay attention. And you know Freda-Erzili can’t pay attention to a handsome boy without wanting to marry him herself. There was nothing you could do. The spirit was calling him. And when the spirit calls, you listen.”

  He paused. “But you wouldn’t hear none of it from Marie Saloppe. So I had to get her out of New Orleans. You were never going to learn from her. As a matter of fact you got yourself a talent for picking bad teachers. You’re a real poor judge of character—you must have some Aries in you somewhere. You’re just lucky the spirits wanted you bad enough to send me.”

  “If you know so much, then tell me: Where’s Jacques?”

  “In Freda-Erzili’s arms,” said Doctor John. “Where on this earth is anyone’s guess.”

  An eerie silence fell over the dark room. Doctor John took off his glasses. Marie watched in amazement as his steady gaze bent the candle flame in half. Sparks crackled against the skin of her face. There was a low hum in the air which reminded her of the times Jacques had made her soul leave her body. But it wasn’t lust—she couldn’t imagine being Doctor John’s lover. The current flowing between them was stronger than lust.

  “What have you got to teach me?” she said.

  “Power,” he said. “Magic. Roots. Herbs. Names. Numbers. Secrets. Snakes. Hoodoo.”

  “I’m not sure I want it.”

  “That’s what you been saying all along. And you never knew what you were talking about. I’m talking about real power—the power to rule this city if you want it. And I know you do. You want the power and you got the potential. All the ladies in your family had the potential. But none of them had the sense to use it. I don’t have to tell you your mama’s story. And your grandma was almost as bad—”

  “You knew Madame Henriette?”

  “Like my own sister.”

  “You’re not old enough.”

  “You mixed bloods,” he said. “You never can tell black men’s age. I’m two hundred years old. I told you that last time we met. But I’m aging real slow—ask Sweet Medicine.

  “I knew your grandma back on Santo Domingo. We had people in common, so to speak. Makandal loved her. He called her his high priestess—told people she had magic powers, that every hair on her head was stronger than ten white soldiers. His people treated her like their queen.

  “I think he believed it, too. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent her to the city right before the rebellion, five months pregnant like she was. He knew she’d get caught the minute she set foot in town. He wanted her to set an example for his army. He must’ve believed nothing could touch her.

  “But the French soldiers knew they could touch her as much as they liked. They put their hands all over her. They trussed her like a chicken and dragged her off to their general who ordered all the slaves in the capital out into the main square.

  “ ‘Here’s your magic priestess,’ he said, poking your grandma with his bayonet. ‘Here’s your voodoo messiah’s woman. Ask her to chant a spell for you. She won’t even talk. Ask her to fly through the air. We’ve got her wings tied tight. Ask her to save you. She can’t move. Ask her magic hair to strangle your masters.’

  “The general signaled one of his soldiers, who came forward with a pair of sheep shears. Grabbing your grandma’s hair, he yanked her towards him. She didn’t flinch—she didn’t even look at him. Three snips sheared her to the scalp. Her beautiful long black hair lay in a heap at her feet.

  “ ‘This is the magic hair,’ said the general. ‘This is the power of Makandal, the man who wants you to fight for him.’

  “The slaves couldn’t look at her. They bowed their heads and followed their masters home. The story came back to Makandal’s camp without your grandma. We knew she was too ashamed to return.

  “Nobody saw her again until the night of the blood feast. Usually Madame Henriette was right by Makandal all through the ceremony. She was the one who danced with the machete: Sometimes she was the one who slit the bull’s throat. But that night Makandal told Marinette to bring him the machete—”

  “Old Marinette the hairdresser?”

  “That’s the one—but then she was just Marinette, heavy in love with Makandal. She did the dance ’cause no one knew Madame Henriette had slipped into the crowd. We were mighty surprised to see her waiting in line like an ordinary soldier, going up to take the pledge.

  “We watched her drink from the blood bowl. We watched them talk. Then everyone saw her run off into the jungle. But only the mindreaders knew what they’d said:

  “ ‘Who are you?’ asked Makandal.

  “ ‘Your high priestess,” said Madame Henriette. She couldn’t look at him.


  “ ‘That’s not your name,’ he said. ‘High yellow. That’s your name, that’s your color. I should’ve known the color of cowards. Why did you let them catch you? Why didn’t you use your power?’

  “ ‘I never had the power.’

  “ ‘You did.’

  “ ‘I didn’t. I told you. You wouldn’t believe me.’

  “ ‘You’re not fit to be my soldier,’ said your grandma’s voodoo man.

  “ ‘I thought you loved me,’ she said.

  “ ‘I did,’ he said. ‘But I love this island more.’

  “Madame Henriette began to cry. She ran toward the black jungle. Her belly shook like pudding. Finally her cropped head disappeared beyond the torchlight. Then Makandal’s orange parrot took off from his shoulder and flew straight after her.

  “The next day she charmed a French sea captain into smuggling her onto a ship bound for Louisiana. As they sailed out of Santo Domingo she looked back at the black smoke rising into the calm blue sky. She looked back at the rebellion, but she was too far away to see. She was its heroine. Her flight into the jungle with Makandal’s parrot had inspired the people, more than any magic powers, to take what was rightfully theirs.

  “Makandal came around. After they caught him, after he escaped from the flames, he returned to the hills and tried to start again. But nothing went right. One night around the campfire, he confided to his lieutenants that Madame Henriette had been his lucky charm.

  “I wanted her to know. Years later, here in New Orleans, I tried to tell her. But she wouldn’t let me in her door. ‘I lead a quiet life,’ she told me. ‘I’m nobody’s high priestess now.’ But she could’ve been if she hadn’t let Makandal break her with one mean look.”

  “I’ve dreamed that look,” said Marie.

  “I bet you have. You’re Madame Henriette’s granddaughter. You’ll go the same way if you don’t watch out. You’re showing signs already—carrying on over that poor boy who couldn’t help but answer when the spirits called. He’s made your soul sick. You’re lucky I came along to heal you.”

  “Heal me?” The room was hot and close but Doctor John’s story had given her the chills.

  “Come here. ” Doctor John pushed his chair around until their knees touched. “Lean forward.” He put his hands on her temples. The gentle pressure of his fingertips felt warm and soothing.

  He began to chant in a low voice. “In the name of Jesus Jesus Moses Amos everything in the name of Freda-Erzili Damballah Weda Agwe Baron Cemetery all right in the name of Michael Gabriel Raphael Uriel everything in the name of Elohim Adonai Sadai Melech Eloha Tetragrammaton everything will be all right ...”

  Marie heard the words, but the words didn’t matter. What mattered was the pulsing, steady chant, the healing current flowing between Doctor John’s fingertips, reaching down into her heart, erasing the memory of Jacques, Victor, Delphine, sucking out her pain, calming her ...

  The chanting diminished to a slow stop. “How do you feel?” asked Doctor John.

  “Drained,” said Marie. “But much better.”

  “I told you I had the healing power. But healing’s just the first step. It won’t solve all your problems—you’re still out on that same limb, running out of money, no prospects, all alone in that big house with nothing to occupy your time.

  “That’s why you’re lucky I’m ready to sign you up in my service.”

  “Your service?” It sounded like something the devil would say.

  “That’s right. I’m inviting you to join my service.”

  “What does that mean? Last time I got an invitation like that, Marie Saloppe was out to buy my dreams.”

  Doctor John laughed. “Keep your dreams,” he said. “I don’t need them. I get my numbers from the planets and stars. The stars are a good bet. But my service is a sure thing. Maybe the money’s slower—but there’s a whole lot more in the end.”

  “What’s my part?”

  “Your part’s the secrets. That’s the part you were born to play. I want those secrets. I’ll trade mine for yours.”

  “I don’t know any secrets.”

  “Not now you don’t. But you will. You’ll know the secrets of the richest families in New Orleans. You’ll know what goes on in the bedrooms of those fancy mansions, in the mayor’s office—you’ll know more than his own deputies. You’ll know about the rum bottle in the banker’s desk, the welts on his wife’s cheek, the black blood in his son-in-law’s line.”

  “How will I know that?”

  “They’ll tell you.”

  “Who will?”

  “The ladies.”

  “I don’t know them.”

  “You’re supposed to be smart,” said Doctor John. “How come you’re acting so dumb? Now think: who do those ladies tell their secrets to?”

  “Their friends.”

  “They don’t have friends.”

  “Their priest?” “Sure. And who else?”

  Marie looked blankly at him. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “They talk to their hairdressers. Every idiot knows that.”

  “You want me to become a hairdresser?”

  “Just ’cause the spirits called you doesn’t mean your living’ll come easier than any other yellow girl. Too bad the spirits ruined the quadroon balls for you. Too bad Baron Cemetery came to see you during that plague so you couldn’t go back and find yourself a rich white man. You haven’t got many choices left. You don’t have the temperament for being a hooker—so what else can you do? Cooks and laundresses don’t hear secrets—all they hear are complaints about the food and the wash. They can’t get the power. But hairdressers hear what’s going on inside the heads they’re fixing. They watch ladies watching themselves in the mirror and see secrets which go deeper than talk.”

  “It’s sickening. All that greasy, dirty hair ...”

  “Then wash somebody’s dirty laundry. Fry somebody’s greasy onions. No—hairdressing’s clean work. Hair’s got its own magic. Remember Samson? Besides, it’s a steady living. There’ll always be rich ladies wanting to look pretty. And in return you’ll get the money and the secrets—secrets you can trade for knowledge and power.

  “Join my service, Miss Marie. I’ll teach you the power. You can retire from the hairdressing business early and sit pretty for the rest of your life.”

  He stared hard at Marie. She tried to say something, to break the spell. But she couldn’t talk. “Maybe,” was the first word she could speak. “I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know.” The spell was broken. She stood up quickly and stumbled toward the door.

  “Allow me,” said Doctor John, raising the candle to light her way. As they crossed the main room, he called Sweet Medicine over. He put his arm around her, then very gently gathered her hair and pulled it back from her face. “Look,” he said. “Sweet Medicine knows the magic of hair.”

  Without the thicket of hair around her face, Sweet Medicine’s blue eyes looked raw. She reminded Marie of a newborn duckling.

  Doctor John let the hair fall, then showed Marie outside. “Sweet Medicine’s got strong magic,” he said. Marie was surprised by the love in his voice. “She’s nearly blind—she moves on her senses like a cat. She worked six months at Miss Sophie’s cathouse on Gallatin Street before they suspected anything was wrong. I found her when they threw her out. She’s my lucky charm.

  “Here’s Sweet Medicine’s card.” He pulled a paper square from his sleeve. There was no writing on either side.

  “It’s blank,” he said, laughing. “That’s so the spirits can write what they please.”

  Suddenly anxious to go home, Marie started down the muddy alley, past the lepers already hobbling out to surround her.

  “I’ll be waiting,” Doctor John called after her. “I’ll be waiting for your knock on my door.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  SISTER DELILAH'S HOUSE OF BEAUTY was built like a maze. Flowered curtains and thin sheets of cypress partitioned the one-story cottage into a labyrinth of t
wisting corridors and small rooms. The walls were studded with human heads like cannibal trophies—white, yellow and black plaster heads, each crowned with a unique, outrageous wig.

  Early for her noon appointment, Marie paced the outer corridor, examining the bizarre decor. She was studying the wig display when she sensed she was being watched. At that moment a high female voice called her name, then recited directions to guide her through the maze.

  “Come on now,” chirped the birdlike voice. “Through that curtain and left, now right, right again by that red wig, now open that door ...”

  Marie found herself staring into a huge mirror reflecting a long glass counter veined with silver, covered with clear bottles, ivory rouge pots, palettes, gold combs, ebony brushes, curling irons, cotton batting, tweezers, tongs, wires, pins, ribbons, bowls, soaps, eggs, jars of tinted waters and perfumed oils. Behind the counter was a red satin chair. Behind the chair stood a short black woman.

  “I’m Sister Delilah,” she said, addressing Marie’s mirror image. “Please to meet you. Sorry 'bout the mess”—she gestured toward the mazelike halls—“but my customers like their privacy. They’re ladies, and ladies don’t like to meet each other on the way to the beauty parlor. They like comers to duck into when they need to disappear. You signed the appointment sheet for twelve, right? Sorry I’m late, but there’s no clock in here. My customers don’t like to hear it ticking off those seconds—that’s why they’re here at the House of Beauty.”

  Sister Delilah was stoop-shouldered, with a hooked nose, nervous brown hands like little claws, and an angular wiry body which would make her look like a gawky teen-ager even in her old age. Her eyes had the piercing shine and the restlessness of a bird’s. She wore a girlish white dress, an apron, a checked kerchief over her cropped hair.

  Marie regarded their reflections in the mirror. Beside Sister Delilah she looked tall, graceful, astoundingly beautiful. Beside Sister Delilah’s effusive apologies, she seemed confident and poised. Slowly it dawned on her: Even the excuses were part of Sister Delilah’s business.