Queen of Angels (36 page)

of citizens and groups tipped by ill focused or ill informed passions; the glory of the mottled human brain on its own native spin. He took a deep breath, smiled at a passerby, who ignored both Fettle and the bank wall, and walked on. No fear. Even should Selectors come and take him away, no fear. Even should he walk into the upland valley home of Madame de Roche and find himself wholeheartedly disapproved of or into the Pacific Arts Lit Parlor and find scorn and sharp criticism; even should he judge that all his past labors were useless, no matter no fear he was free of the heavy clouds that had burdened his life. Having nothing he was all the more grateful to have less. He paused before a flower shop watched over by an elderly woman with a grim expression. Gina and Dione had been cremated and their ashes scattered as per Diones wishes. No graves no markers an open acceptance of the anonymity guaranteed to all by death. Still, he remembered. He could commemorate them somehow. What would suit best his present state of mind? He conferred with his credit balance, found a few hundred dollars to spare and asked the old woman what he could buy for two dear friends with such meager resources. The woman walked back into her shop, leading him on with a curled finger. Are you from around here? she asked. Richard shook his head. He looked over shelves filled with strange ritual apparatus, not at all expected in a flower shop. Tiny bottles of herbs and oils, boxes of tied dried leaves and roots, drums of pure oil, anointed flour and blessed corn meal, colored sugars, plain and xntted devotional candles, embroidered and brocade ceremorual robes on an antique chrome steel rolling rack, shelves of ceramic bowls capped and tied with wax and ribbons, drums small and tall wired to the north wall of the shop, a huge ceramic urn painted black and brick red squatting beside the rear counter. Where are you from, then? she pursued. Ive been on a long walk to think things over, he said. Pardon my curiosity, but I thought this was a florists It is, the woman said. But we get a call around here for santerfa and vodoun goods, herbs, that sort of thing. We cater to oriental mystery patrons, Urantia, Rosicrucian, Rites of Hubbard Schismnatics, Sisters of Islam Fatima. You name it, we can get it. He looked at the large black and red urn. Whats in there? he asked. Six hundred knives known to have been used to kill human beings, the woman said. Packed in blessed oil to ease their accumulated pain. Now, arent you sorry you asked? We can get any kinds of flowers you want. Look at these catalogs. She dialed up a glorious garden on an old display screen. just tell us what you want. We can deliver. I need something I can take with me now, Richard asked. He eyed the urn dubiously. just whats out front, then. You a cultist or an edge walker? No, he said. Im a writer. All the same. All dreamers. I sell to them all. I got a charm for writers. Lit or Vid or both. Guarantees satisfactory broadcast and royalties. She winked at him. Thanks, but no, Richard said. She finger curled him to the front of the store and pointed to the vases of fresh flowers under the awning. Noble special on nano roses. Cant tell the difference, she said. Smell wonderful. Completely natural. Made from grain byproducts. He politely admired the roses and admitted they were very nice but declined. Something real, please. She shrugged, no accounting for tastes, and lifted a wrapped dozen orange and white and black winter lilies. Dominican Glory, she said. Engineered in my ancestral country. Seventy five and Uncle Sugar excise, she said. Theyre fine. Very pretty. Could I purchase some of your white wrapping paper? its such a lovely evening, the woman said, Ill give you a couple of meters for a blessing. Next he visited a traditional arts store to purchase a bottle of blue tempera paint. Sitting on a bench in the stores rear patio, surrounded by an old splintering wooden fence, his feet scuffmg a concrete slab stained with the excesses of young art students, Richard laid out the wrapping paper and carefully lettered a sign. Dusk was well along when he returned to the bank wall. He carried the rolled banner under one arm and clutched the flowers, wide brush and bottled paste in a bag. He applied the paste with the wide brush over an unreadable stretch of eroded posters and smoothed his sign into the glistening dripping gel. Then he taped one by one the lilies around the sign. East Comb One had gradually folded its mirrored walls. Natural evening fell on the city below; by the time he finished, arcs of street lighting danced between the forking tops of tall poles up and down the boulevard, playing a sand shifting electrical night music. He stood heels on curb back from his impromptu memorial and whispered to himself what he bad printed on the sign, not caring what the few shade pedestrians might think. For Gina and Dione. For Emanuel Goldsmith and for those he hilled. For God save us all human beings, idiots and wise men. For myself. Sweet Jesus, why does it hurt so much when we dance? Satisfied, he turned abruptly, leaving brushes and glue behind, and walked into the night.

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Mary sat in the main office of the warden of Thousand Flowers, looking through the passport and the few papers that had accompanied the prisoner into Hispaniola. Soulavier and the warden argued loudly in Creole and Spanish next door in the prison records room. The United States passport belonged to Emanuel Goldsmith. It was of the primitive paper variety still favored by some nations and still recognized by most; Hispaniolas own laws with regard to visitors papers were loose, as befitted a country deriving much income from tourism. The passport photograph of Goldsmith, several years old, bore some resemblance to the prisoner if not examined too closely. But all the other documentsArizona state ID smart card, medical log card, social security cardcarried the name Ephraim Ybarra. The name was not familiar. Soulavier entered the office, shaking his head vigorously. The warden followed, also shaking his head. I have given him my orders, Soulavier said. But he insists on consulting with Colonel Sir. And Colonel Sir cannot be reached now. Too bad, Mary said. If you get through to him, let me tell him what I know. The warden, a short fat man with bulldog jowls, shook his head again. We have made no mistake, he said. We have done what we were told to do by Colonel Sir himself. I took his phone call. There has been no error. If this is not the man you thought, then perhaps you are mistaken. And to remove him from his legally ordered punishment, that is an outrage. Nevertheless, Soulavier said, voice rising. I have the authority to remove this prisoner, whether or not you consult with Colonel Sir. I will ask that you sign a hundred papers, a thousand, the warden said, eyes and lips protruding. I will not accept any responsibility. I do not ask you to accept responsibility. I am responsible. The warden grimaced in disbelief. Then you are a dead man, Henri. I pity your family. That is my worry, Soulavier said quietly, looking down at the desk. Look at this mans other papers. He has obviously stolen the passport and the tickets. Goldsmith would have no need for such aliases. I know nothing about such things, the warden said, glancing at Mary with a worried scowl. Her transform presence bothered him. We will take the prisoner now, Soulavier resolved after a deep breath. I order it in the name of the Executive of Hispaniola. I am his appointed representative. The warden held up his hands and shook them as if they were wet. It is your loss, Henri. Let me get the papers for you to sign. Many papers.

In the darkness near midnight, Soulaviers far traveled limousine pulled away from Thousand Flowers with its three passengers: a dejected and silent Soulavier, Mary Choy, tight lipped and grimly thoughtful, and the mysterious, unconscious Ephraim Ybarra, slumped across the rear seat like so much baggage. Aircraft entering the area, the limousines controller informed them in its feminine, slightly buzzing voce. Soulavier roused quickly and peered through the side window. Mary leaned hack to look through the other side. What is its call sign? Soulavier asked, shrugging at Mary when he could see nothing. It has no call sign, the limousine said. It is an Ilyushin Mitsubishi 125 helicopter. Is it nearby? Two kilometers away and closing. The limousine climbed to the rim of the valley overlooking Thousand Flowers. It turned off the road into thick brush and doused its lights. The sound of its electric motor changed pitch. The window glass frosted momentarily as the car reduced its apparent temperature to match the surrounding brush and soil. It is flying in the direction of the prison at an altitude of three hundred twelve meters. It has a human pilot. Dominican, Soulavier said emphatically. Colonel Sir gives that branch of the defense no automatic vehicles, and there is no reason for such a machine to be so far from its base. It means that things are going badly. We cannot speak with our forces or the helicopter will detect us. We will not stay here.. .And we will not head for the plain, either. There is a small town nearby where we can hide for a time.. .The town where I was born. Mary stared at him. Yes, he said. I am native Dominican. But I live in Port-au-Prince since I was an adolescent. He addressed the controller: Take us to Terrier Noir, as soon as the helicopter has passed. Mary glanced at Ephraim Ybarra and saw that his eyes were open slits, pupils shifting without seeing. A line of saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth. She wiped it away with a soft cloth. His eyes dosed again and he snorted lightly, right arm twitching. There it is, Soulavier said, pointing through the front window. A bright searchlight beam illuminated the ground barely twenty meters from where the limousine had turned off the road. Mary wondered whether a coup had succeeded and Colonel Sir was out of power. Could this helicopter be looking for them on behalf of the USA government? She watched Soulavier closely. He was not afraid. If anything, he appeared calmer, more in control now that he had made his decision. The searchlight flicked away and the helicopter dipped into the valley to hover above the prison. Distantly, they heard loudspeakers on the helicopter make demands in Creole. They do not look for us, Soulavier said. Maybe they come to free other foreign prisoners. Or politicals.. There are political prisoners in Thousand Flowers? Mary

Not from Hispaniola. They will threaten to send the prisoners from other countries back, unless a new government is recognized.. . It has been done twice before, and Colonel Sir rebuffed the challenges. Mary shook her head in astonishment. More than ever she longed for the simple and familiar outlines of LA, where she knew the rules and could intuit the surprises with fair regularity. Gunfire, high pitched humming dusters of pops and hisses, rose from the valley. Go, Soulavier told the limousine. The motor changed pitch again and the limousine backed onto the road. Mary reached across with both hands to keep the prisoners head from lolling painfully as the car swerved expertly around tight mountain turns.

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Terrier Noir had been rebuilt and expanded after the great earthquake. Sitting in a low mountain valley, straddling a narrow black ribbon of aqueduct where once there had been a river, white reinforced concrete buildings and stickbuilt houses clustered like opaque crystals in the starlight. Seated on an island at the north end of town, interrupting the flow of the aqueduct like a miniature Notre Dame de Paris, rose an ornate four spired church that seemed to have been assembled by some talented child from bits of giant bones. There were no streetlights visible; all windows had been shuttered. The limousine entered the town square and paused by the central statue. With some surprise Mary realized the statue was not of Yardley but of a portly man wearing a wide brimmed, square crowned hat. "John D'Arqueville, Soulavier explained, noting her interest. He was Terrier Noirs finest son, an artist and architect. We will stay in his church tonight. I know the pr savan. The limousine passed through the square, down a narrow street between rows of darkened houses and across a short bridge onto the churchs teardrop shaped island. Soulavier got out and pounded on the tall arched entrance doors with a heavy white painted knocker shaped like a femur. Beside Mary, Ephraim Ybarra stirred, opened his eyes and looked at her with helpless terror. His body stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, and he closed his eyes again. She looked through the window and saw Soulavier confer with a short man in a green robe. The man looked in the direction of the limo, nodded and opened the doors wide, letting out the sepia glow of a candlelit nave. I will take his head and shoulders, you, his feet, Soulavier said, opening the second door and pulling the prisoner from the limousine. They carried the limp man into the bone church of John DArqueville. The pr savanadvisor on church matters to the towns official vodoun hounganbarely reached Marys shoulders in height. His intense eyes followed Mary with a look of mild shock and perhaps a little awe. He seemed to recognize her and shook his head, deeply perplexed, as he followed them down the middle aisle between pews to a double altarstriped pillar beside life size crucifixat the front of the church. The crucifix looked ancient, a dark wooden T supporting a black Jesus in muscle knotted agony. Bright blood from the crown of thorns stood out against the ebony black of the face; around the base of the cross twined a vivid green serpent, black tongue frozen in a sinister dart. The church interior smelled of sweet wax and polished wood with a faint hint of damp. Candles burned in sconces along the walls, in stands along the outer and center aisles, and before the twin altars of vodoun and catholicism, banked in inclined rows like a living choir of lights. There were no candles in the high vault of the church, however, and it took Mary several minutes, while they lay the prisoner on a pew softened by prayer cushions, before her eyes adjusted and she could see what surrounded them on high. She gawked in wonder. Suspended from the vault and the walls above the aisles were eleven enormous alien figures, each six to seven meters tall, long arms outstretched, faceless beads held proud and high, torsos slim and prominently ribbed as if in starvation or death. She tried to make out the details of their construction and recognized slender pipes, accumulations of scrap machinery, dimly glittering red and gold foil wrapped around interwoven wire and rods of metal. Sacred nightmares with vast spread wings, creatures culled from an unearthly ocean, flayed, hung up to dry. This man is ill? the pr savan asked, hands folded in concern as he knelt over the prisoner. He needs rest, Soulavier said. We need to stay here for the evening. The troubles, the pr savan said, shaking his head. Who is this, brother Henri? He nodded at Mary. She is a guest of Colonel Sir, Soulavier said. A very privileged guest. Is she a friend of yours, Henri? Soulavier hesitated the merest moment, glancing at Mary, before he answered, Yes. She is my conscience. The pr savan regarded Mary with more respect, and some awe. Can we stay tonight? Soulavier asked. This church is always open to the children of Terrier Noir. So Jesus and Erzulie willed it, so John DArqueville built it. Do you have some food? Soulavier asked, shoulders relaxing, face losing its tense ftxity. They were not very hospitable at Thousand Flowers. The pr savan tilted his head to one side and closed his eyes as if in prayer. We have food, he said. Should I call the houngenicon or the houngan? No, Soulavier said. We will be gone tomorrow. Do you have a radio? Of course. The pr savan smiled. I will bring food and damp towels to deanse this man. He has been through hell, hasnt he? Soulavier inclined. I can always tell, the pr savan said. They have this look about them, like our Jesus. He pointed to the dark, twisted figure on the cross. With a last, lingering glance at Mary, the small green robed man left to find food. Mary sat beside the prisoner and cradled his head in her lap, watching his tight closed, enigmatic face. She wondered whether he still suffered, though withdrawn from the hellcrown all these hours. He had not yet come fully awakewould he scream as the others had? She hoped not. He needs a doctor, a therapist, she murmured. She teetered on an edge from which no amount of discipline could draw her back. She stroked the prisoners forehead without thinking, then stretched her neck to ease her muscles, looking again up into the vaulted ceiling. What are they? She pointed at the figures arrayed there. Archangels. Loa of the New Pantheon, Soulavier said. I went to this church as a boy, when it was new. John DArqueville wished to reunite the best elements of African religion and catholic christianity. to reshape vodoun. His vision did not spread far from Terrier Noir, however. This church is unique. Do they have names? Mary asked. Soulavier looked up, squinting as if digging deep into childhood memory. The tall one with the black sword and the feather torch, that is Asambo-Oriel. The first part of the name means nothing, I think; DArqueville heard their names in a dream. Asambo-Oriel drove the blacks out of Guinthrough the Coast of Souls. He is the Loa with Torch and Sword, like the archangel Uriel. The one with the drum and the bones of birds, that is Rohar-Israfel, Loa of Sacred Music and Chanting. Next is Ti-Gabriel, who calls an end to all ba. . . The smallest of them, and the most mighty. Samedi-Azrael, the most vain, calls us to our graves and covers us with sacred dirt. Others. I dont remember them all. He shook his head with sad memories. Such a lovely vision, but so few believe. Only the people in Terrier Noir. Mary was curious what the other figures represented; eleven in all, filling the vault as if crowded into a bus, wings jostling outstretched arms, faceless heads leaning out over the pews, garlanded with ribbons and cobwebs. But she noticed for the first time, in the dark alcove above the arched entrance door, a smaller feminine figure barely three meters tall and draped in robes of shadowy gold and red and copper. On her thin graceful arms and uplifted hand she displayed dozens of bracelets and rings. Behind her head hung a gold foil sundisk radiating undulating daggers. The glow of candles from below gleamed dimly off the sundisk and robes, but a single electric lampthe only one she could see in the entire churchcast the figures cowled face in a soft circle of illumination. Besides the crucified Jesus, she was the only figure with a human face. Her face was black, the features dearly defined: elongated oval countenance, thin bridge of nose and generous nostrils, large eyes shaded and downturned in sorrow, lips curving up on one side down on the other, a mysterious smile of private pain and joy. In the figures lap, spread across the rich robes, lay the limp bodies of two children, one white, one black, the white one with eyes closed in sleep or perhaps death, the black with eyes wide and staring, otherwise identical in appearance. Soulavier traced her gaze. That is Marie-Erzulie, Mother of Loa, Mother of Marassa, Our Lady Queen of Angels, be said. He crossed himself and drew with two symmetric index fingers a goblet on his chest. The pr savan returned with a tray of bread and fruit and a pitcher of water. He set the tray down on a pew, turned, and saw Mary cradling the prisoner on her lap. The little man froze, hands extended and fingers curved, just as he had lifted them from the tray grips. He gave a low moan and fell to his knees, crossing himself and drawing the goblet on the front of his robe, then clenching his hands in prayer. Pieta, he said over and over. Pietal He bowed low before her, mumbling words she could not understand. When he rose again his face was streaked with tears. He turned to Soulavier, eyes frightened and shiny, and asked, You brought her here. What is she, Henri? Soulavier gave Mary the sweetest smile she had yet seen in Hispaniola. There is a resemblance, you know, he told her in a confidential tone. He went to the pr savan and lifted him to his feet. Stop this, Charles, be said softly. She is as human as you or I.