Private House (31 page)

“It is very beautiful,” said Lorraine, reaching into her bag. She had one more five-peso note; after that, only tens and fifties. Still, she placed the note on the dish, weighing it down with the coin. And stepping back—not having been invited to rattle—she made the sign of the cross, which surely couldn't offend.

Mercedes said, “Nuestra Señora de la Merced.”

“Like the church,” said Lorraine. “But who is the god?”

“Obatalla. White, always.”

“She is very important?”

“Oh, yes.” But then Mercedes shook her head. “Not ‘she.' Father, mother. Both, everyone.” She made a large gesture with her hands. Then she smiled, and gently touched Lorraine's arm. “Come, lie down. You rest.”

The couch had been made up in their absence—was that why she had been taken out of the room?—with a pale yellow blanket. It was clear she was expected to stretch out; it was a relief, actually. Mercedes went away. Lorraine lay with her forearm crossed over her eyes, in the darkness. People passed in the street, and she could hear them, but she was facing the other way, and gradually these sounds grew remote, like the wind in the tree outside her house in the summer. Lorraine wondered if He-She Obatalla was having an effect. Her panic was now remote, and she felt herself attenuated, like a lamp turned down, though she knew she wouldn't sleep, as if that would turn down the lamp too far. Perhaps fear was her energy, all she had to go on with. How horrible, if that was true. I am frightened, therefore I am. Was that how she lived? She remembered the prayer she'd rattled off—that was nice, she'd truly
rattled
something off. . . . But what was she afraid of? If only God, any god, would show her. You're absurd, she thought. You really are pathetic! Her mind went around and around, it was hopeless, she simply didn't understand. She could see an irony, that horrid room and the grisly dumper where she'd seen that bloody vision were surely claustrophobic spaces, the opposite of the “out there” which apparently set off her panic. All right. So she was afraid of something horrible and murderous inside herself, presumably Freudian—she was trying to flee it, deny it—but even if she'd wanted to murder her mother, she hadn't. Had her mother murdered her? Was there a dead body inside her, lurking—was she
really a zombie?
O-
shun,
Shan
-go . . . Well, she was in the right place for it. And then she tried a different tack, telling herself she was only afraid of being afraid. True. The fear took on a life of its own, regardless of the cause. It was an independent principle. A god? Shango. Thor. Vulcan—fire. The red figure in the corner, by the couch.
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
—but why be afraid? She'd fall down in the street, make a fool of herself—yes, but kind strangers would take her in. You got a cup of tea out of it. . . .

At one point, as her mind went whirling around like this, she was aware of someone else, passing in the room; and then the click of the lock in the grille. But by the time she realized, and took her arm away from her eyes, they were gone. A while later, it happened again; and this time, peeking out from under her arm, she saw a tiny black woman come around the L, tiptoe past her couch, and go out. She got up then, could hear nothing; and she stepped around the L, to see where the black woman had come from. There was no sign of Mercedes, and the curtain leading to the altar of peace was closed; but the door she'd noticed earlier was ajar. She could see in, a wall with shelves laden with jars and bottles, some kind of pantry. She eased the door open to see more and a voice said, “Please come in—you are Lorraine?”

She had a sense of being caught out, snooping; but that was absurd and she pulled herself up. “I was looking for Mercedes. I wanted to thank her.” She was going to add, “before I go,” but she didn't, quite.

“I think my wife was expecting that you would talk to me.”

A light-skinned man was sitting on the floor, on a straw mat. The shelves that rose around him were filled with bottles, jars, and urns— fans, feathers, stalks of plants protruded from some of them; and higher up, there were an incredible number of china figures, mostly religious statues, saints and virgins, crowned and haloed, robed,
shining, blessing. She thought of La Guarida—was this man's room also a tiny refuge, a hermit's cave? He was not exactly priestly, but sitting cross-legged he didn't quite seem a lay figure—despite the green Heineken cap on his head. He seemed younger than Mercedes, though not a young man.

“Why don't you sit down?” he said. “I understand you have had a trying day.”

Lorraine sat on the other side of the mat, turning her legs to one side in her skirt. “You speak very good English.”

“I was a sailor, in the merchant marine. You are Canadian? I have been all up the St. Lawrence. Saint John. Trois-Rivières. Montreal. Cornwall. Toronto. It makes things easier, doesn't it? I should tell you that my name is Incubay. I'm a
babalawo
. A kind of doctor. Do you know what is troubling you? Can you tell me?”

If she was going to leave, surely that time had passed. She knew what a
babalawo
was, a “witch doctor.” But he wasn't frightening; rather the opposite, reassuring—he had a good bedside manner. “I'm not sure.” That was safe enough. Also true.

“The heat, of course. It is always a problem for people from the north. The sun. But more than that?”

“I was frightened. That seems to happen to me—for no reason.”

He laughed. “But everything has a reason! Do you have pain?”

“Not exactly. Only I find I become very tense . . . stiff. So stiff I'm paralyzed, really.”

“Paralyzed with fright? Isn't that something you say? But you don't know why.”

“No, I don't—I don't know why. I just know . . .”

“What?”

For the first time, she was telling someone, truly, what she felt. It came out at last in her voice, “I just know I am so frightened, so
afraid—” And she was on the verge of tears, and then she was weeping, or at least tears slipped from her eyes.

Incubay seemed perfectly calm, not in the least put out. “Well, I will read Ifa and we will find out why, perhaps not everything, but a beginning. Would you like that?” She was breaking down. She knew if she spoke, she would start to blubber. Or she would start to laugh—at this man in his green Heineken cap, or herself? She barely managed a nod. “Ifa is . . . what would you say, an oracle? Don't worry. I know. That is what I know. But I hope I won't shock you by raising the question of my fee. I hope you will understand. It is not only for myself, in a selfish sense. You see, we can only read Ifa because of Orula, it was her gift to us, and she always likes something.”

At least around the question of money, she could pull herself together. “Of course,” she said. She took a breath. “Yes, I would expect to pay. How much?”

“Five and twenty-five.”

She was opening her bag. “I'm afraid I only have a ten—that is the smallest—”

“But that is perfectly all right. I will make change.”

She gave him the bill, ten convertible pesos—adorned with a picture of a monument, some hero on a horse; there were half a dozen along the Malecón. He put this into the drawer of a small chest that was standing beside him, about the size of a big jewellery box. From it, he removed banknotes, and a number of coins, which he slid across to her, counting, “One, two, three, four, and twenty-five and fifty, and seventy-five.” The notes were one-peso notes, Jose Martí in a stiff collar and a bow tie, and though Incubay's arithmetic was, in one sense, perfect, in another it was less so; for he was giving her Cuban pesos in return for her convertible notes, one of her notes being worth at least
twenty of his. Lorraine looked at his face. Nothing in his expression betrayed sharp dealing or seemed to anticipate any kind of response from her. She placed her change in her bag: this left a single one-peso note, and a twenty-five-centavo coin on the table. He folded the note carefully over the coin, and handed it to her. “You know how to make the sign of the cross? Please. With the money.”

She did so—it seemed merely odd, not improper. She asked, “Is the money blessed now?”

He exhaled, puffing out his lips—it seemed a vexed question. “It is more complicated. You must remember how money came to us. Do you know the story? One of the lesser gods, Oragun, was in the plaza—the marketplace—and he saw a man arrive with two empty sacks. This fellow went up to a trader and said, ‘Give me what you have for one of my sacks.' The trader laughed at him. ‘But your sacks are empty!' The fellow replied, ‘Yes, and that's why you could use them to carry your goods to market.' The trader thought about this, and saw it was true, and gave the fellow some of what he had. And the fellow went to another stall, and bargained the same way again. Soon, he was rich. Oragun was impressed, but he noted how much time was lost, in all the bargaining, convincing people to give something for nothing. So he went to Obdulmare, the greatest of the gods—the sun—whose
ashe
is the force of life—and said he should give the people money, to make trading easier. Obdulmare was reluctant. Everything was fine as it was. So Oragun made a bet with him, if Obdulmare gave the people money, and they didn't like it, he could take it back and banish Oragun forever. But he warned Obdulmare, ‘If I am right, the people will worship money more than you.' Well, who won the bet! You see! So we know that money, even though it comes as a gift from the gods—as does everything— is still cursed. We say,
el dinero es maldito
.”

“So we are removing the curse?”

“We are saying, we know it is there. And now I will read Ifa.” He opened a drawer in his chest and from it took a long chain, on which a number of shell-like beads were strung. Picking up the chain and the folded money, he now reached across, touching Lorraine's forehead, hands, shoulders, knees. He then placed the chain on the mat, and the shells all fell one way or the other—turned down, or up. That seemed to be a principle—and there were sixteen shells, so it was, she supposed, hexadecimal. And binary: for he noted down the position, up or down, of the shells on a piece of paper. Then he went back to the drawer, and handed Lorraine a shell, instructing her to hold it behind her back, in one hand or the other. Throwing the chain, and noting the position of the shells, he would ask which hand held the shell, doing this over and over, almost as if he was calibrating the chain in some fashion: and now he began to tell her which hand held the shell and he was infallibly accurate. The process was not exactly hypnotic, but absorbing; or perhaps imprinting—the pattern of the shells, and his voice, on her consciousness. She no longer wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or protest. Or leave. She was, all at once, just there, and she felt a resolution of herself in a literal sense— she was coming into focus. For him? He seemed absorbed, too, all concentration. But then he sat back. He seemed to take thought— one phase of the interview was now over. And he began asking her questions. Her mother and father. Her children. Her health. This seemed routine but then he inquired, “Who wishes you harm?”

“No one, I think.”

“You have no enemies?”

“No.”

“I wonder. Let us think of it the other way. Is there anyone you wish to harm?” She hesitated now. Nothing specifically came into her
mind, but she did hesitate. And he noticed, “Well, then. Do you think evil of anyone?”

“It may be that someone has done terrible evil to a person I know.”

“A person close to you?”

“Not really—no.”

“And not yourself?”

“No.”

“You see, Lorraine, people can direct evil against us—a spell, if you like. But we cast spells too, thinking evil of them. Anyone who does this, however, runs a risk, because it takes great energy, all the power, and the force that we have, is directed out of us, toward another, and so what is left for us? You see?” But he gave her no time to answer, only reiterating a question: “Your mother is alive?” And when she nodded, he went on, “Here is what you must do. It is a good time. My wife will bring you more tea, and then you will go to the ocean. Walk to the Malecón. Go down to the water. Listen. The god of the ocean is Yemaya and she will speak to you. Do as she tells you. And to please her, throw the change that I gave you into the water—not the amount only, but those coins. And I want you to wear this all the time, even when you sleep—especially when you sleep. . . .” He stood up and on one of the shelves found a string of beads, a complicated pattern of red beads, blue beads, and clear.

“Thank you,” she said, slipping it over her neck. “It is very pretty.”

“It will please Yemaya, and tell her that you wish her aid.” He chuckled. “You know, she is the god of maternity, so today is perfect.” He smiled. “It will be ten pesos.” Lorraine was already opening her bag. She passed him the money and he remained standing, murmuring apologetically, “Today is always so busy, people wanting to see me.”

“Thank you for seeing me.”

“Now my wife will bring you more tea.”

And so she did, patiently watching Lorraine as she drank it. Lorraine now drank without reluctance; perhaps it had done some good. Mercedes explained that the herbs in the tea were known to Oshun, the god of the fresh waters, and so they were cooling, “After the heat,” she said, “the heat of the sun, but the heat in your head too.” Had this abated? Time had passed, more than she'd guessed; it was cooler now. And, yes, it was cooler inside her head; her eyes were no longer burning. Mercedes walked with her a way, but it was hardly necessary; she felt much calmer, and the fear that had lurked all about her had withdrawn.

“Follow this street,” Mercedes said, “and you will reach the Malecón.”

Lorraine walked along easily. Relief, as after a fever or pain, passed through her. The streets were quiet. People had the air of stragglers, hurrying home, catching up. No one noticed her but she did not feel a stranger. As she passed out of Belen, the buildings grew more ornate, their high, carved facades, darkened by the centuries and the fading day, tracing incomprehensible hieroglyphics across her eye. But even their strangeness was familiar, as if she was coming back after being away for years; she'd remember everything in time. Three boys, one wearing the too-large, brilliantly green jersey of an American basketball team—his hero was number 34—played marbles around a manhole cover. A woman in white shorts, bright against the darkness of her legs, stood in a doorway, one hand on the jamb, and nodded as Lorraine went by: her little girl was clinging to her thighs, and turned up her solemn face and smiled. Lights shone out of windows. The Cuban night, always lurking within the shadows, was waiting to descend. She came up to a cross street and looked around. Down there, women gathered around the water tank,
gossiping by the fence; the hotel was barely a block away. Thoughts impinged. She held them back. When the bloody vision she'd seen inside the dumper filled her mind, Oshun and Yemaya drove it away, Shango, Oshun, Yemaya—but were those names themselves not visions? And so she murmured, “Open my lips, O Lord, and my mouth shall proclaim Your praise.” She paused. That way lay safety. After this, there might be no turning back. But it was such a little way to go, she thought, so she walked on toward the sea.