The Black Witch of Mexico (9 page)

Drumbeats echoed around the square, a modern day warrior in a jaguar costume was performing for the tourists outside the museum.

They passed a jewellery shop. Inside on the counter there was a grinning silver skull wearing a soldier’s helmet. It had a long cigar clamped between its teeth and its gaping jaws were filled with banknotes.

“It’s for good luck,” she said.

There was so much that was strange, he felt like one of those puppets that could turn its head around in a complete circle. He rubbernecked at the bright orange vendors’ carts laden with candy and cigarettes, the green Volkswagen taxis, the lottery ticket vendors wandering up and down the cloistered street.

He had never felt so alien. He was over six feet tall, taller than most of the Mexicans on the sidewalk. He felt naked.

She took him into the Catedral. A woman knelt in front of the Madonna, her arms outstretched, pulling the little clouds of incense towards her with her hands while her daughter knelt beside her, texting on her cell phone.

“The Spanish built this on the site of the old Aztec pyramid temple. There was an altar right at the very top,” she said, looking up into the dome. “They used to take prisoners up there and rip out their hearts with an obsidian knife and then throw it on a brazier of coals while they were still alive.”

“In America we call it ‘divorce.’”

She smiled for the first time. “Let’s have a coffee.”

There was a bar in the street behind the Catedral. They sat outside on the cobblestone plaza.

This was a different woman than the one who had come to meet him at the airport the previous afternoon. She was relaxed and charming. Perhaps her date had gone well.

He looked across the square. There were police and security guards everywhere and they all carried guns. In Mexico you were either rich and afraid or poor and desperate. There didn’t seem to be much in between.

“How was your date?” he said.

“What date?”

“Yesterday I asked you if you would have dinner with me, and you said you had a date.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well who knows why I said that. I stayed home and watched television.”

“Jesus.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

A hurdy-gurdy player in a moth-eaten uniform was busking for passers-by; a row of unemployed sat by the railings, hoping for someone to pick them out and give them a day’s work; a woman dressed as an Aztec moved among the tables trying to sell trinkets while a skinny cat fussed at his feet mewling for scraps. Everywhere there were people hungry for a few pesos, looking for a little luck.

“So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“I was born here. I’ve only been to the US to study. I did business at UCLA.”

“Your father never went back?”

“He came down here for a year’s missionary work thirty years ago and that’s how he met my mother. They were both idealists from rich families who had no use for money. He loves it here.”

“And you?”

“I’m not an idealist. I’d like to be as rich as my grandparents one day.”

“You want everything they threw away.”

She nodded.

“So that’s why you went into business?”

“I would make a lousy missionary. My father doesn’t mind finding snails in his bed and frogs in the shower. I’m not that kind of girl. I like a shoe rack two feet long and excellent mobile coverage.”

“You never thought of going back to the US?”

“I may not look it, but I’m Mexican. My Dad’s the same. After all these years hating
gringos
, I couldn’t become one.”

He saw another of the witches at work under the trees, chanting and waving a smudge stick around her client’s body. He frowned and shook his head.

“You don’t have time for witchcraft, for
brujerla
, Adam?”

“I’m a doctor. I believe in medicine.”

“And you think that is all is nonsense?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

She just shrugged her shoulders.

“Your father’s a Baptist minister. What does he think about it at all?”

“He understands that there are different religions here,” she said, as if that was all the answer he needed.

“And your mother?”

“She died when I was sixteen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“But that wasn’t your question. You were wondering what religion she was?”

He nodded.

“She was a good Catholic. All Mexican are good Catholics.”

“What about her?” he said, nodding towards the witch.

“She is probably a good Catholic, too.”

“I don’t get it.”

“To believe in
something
, you don’t have to believe in
everything
. If someone asks me what I am, I will say I am a Baptist because I love what my father does, and how he lives his life. I don’t have to believe everything he believes. Did you believe everything your father believed?”

Adam thought about it. “Pretty much,” he said.

“Well there’s your problem.”

“I didn’t realize I had a problem.”

“Realizing we have problems is the first step.”

“First step to what?”

“The first step to fixing them. What was your father like?”

“He was head of orthopaedics at Massachusetts General.”

“But what was he
like
?”

“I just told you, he was rich, respected and sensible. A little reserved I guess.”

It seemed that she was waiting for more.

“What was he like? Okay, it’s like this: when I was about seven or eight years old I took him a story I’d written, it was about Batman and Santa Claus having a battle with some monsters that wanted to invade the earth. I gave it to him to read. And when he gave it back he’d graded it. I got a B-.”

He waited for her to laugh.

“That’s sad.”

“It’s funny.”

“I don’t get the joke,” she said and finished her coffee. She picked up her bag. “Let’s go to the witches’ market,” she said.

“Witches’ market?”

“It’s a market. With witches. What’s the matter? Don’t you want to go?”

“Is it real?”

“Of course. You are coming, aren’t you? It’s just a ten minute walk.”

“Sure. Why not? I’d love to see a real witch. Will they cast a spell on me?”

“Only if you ask them to,” she said. She didn’t smile.

Chapter 23 

The Mercado de Sonora.

It seemed surreal. Surely no one believed in witches any more, not in places where there were cars and Coca Cola hoardings and ATM machines. Witches were characters from the Middle Ages or Shakespeare.

But all the accoutrements of black magic were here, laid out like fruit at the food market on Charles Street in Beacon Hill. There was grease-green candles, mysterious oils, little packets of herbs and powders promising
la buena suerte
, or health or success or love. Jesus hung on a cross above a green frog holding a sign that said:
Bienvenidos. Welcome.

Another sign on a wall above one of the shops announced:
Consejero en ciencias ocultas
.

“Is that what I think it is?”

She nodded. “There’s your first witch,” she said.

The witch wore an open-necked shirt and a flat cap and he was smoking a cigarette. He looked like a cab driver.

Adam read down the list of complaints the witch claimed he could cure;
“Take away illnesses, bring back lost lovers, deliver good luck in business, remove spells, jinxes, sexual impotence.”

The witch saw them staring and grinned at Adam and motioned him inside. Jamie shook her head and hurried him along.

On every stall there were cures for cancer and for baldness, manuals on how to perform exorcism alongside children’s toys, Barbie dolls and Tinkerbell handbags. There was a bewildering range of charms, amulets and dolls.

“What are these medicines?” he asked her.

“That is dried rattlesnake--people take it to prevent cancer. That is dried skunk, it strengthens the blood.”

“The chains of garlic?”

“To protect against the evil eye.”

“It’s like going back five hundred years.”

“Some of the medicines are good; some of these people are herbalists. Others, you’re right, it’s just superstition. But as you can see, we Mexicans enjoy our superstitions. This is your competition!”

“Does anyone ever get sick from all this crap?”

“About ten years ago if you wanted an abortion you could come here and buy medicine you could use at home. It was very bad, there were girls bleeding to death. The police stopped it. But most are harmless--just love potions. You see that one?
Atrapahombres
- that’s a soap for making a man love you. The powder there is called
Ven a mi -
come to me - and that potion there is
miel de amor
- love honey.”

“
Amansa guapos
?”

“That is for taming handsome men. Perhaps I should buy some,” she said and kept walking.

They came to a huge glass cage with a life-size doll of the Madonna with a child’s rattle at her feet. Beyond was the pet market:
puppies in cages, iguanas, frogs, goats, turkeys. He couldn’t get any closer because of the stink. Even the vendors had masks over their faces.

They turned and walked back through the Mercado. Despite himself he was fascinated. He pointed to a little packet called
Jabon de Calarme.

“What’s this, Elena?”

“That’s soap. It’s called ‘Soap to Shut Me Up.” You give it to your wife. What did you call me?”

He stared at her, confused. “What?”

“You called me Elena.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. Who’s Elena?”

“No one.”

“She must be someone. Is that who you’re running away from?”

“I came here to help at the mission.”

She squeezed his arm, an intimate gesture he was not expecting. “What are we going to do with you?” she said and then moved off through the market. From behind, that braid, that hair, she looked just like her. Why couldn’t Jamie Fox Garrido have been short with black hair, like everyone else in this damned country?

They passed a shop selling religious and occult statuary. Inside, rows of saints were lined up on shelves like soldiers alongside racks of exquisitely suffering Christs.

He almost barged into a life-size statue of a skeleton in a scarlet and black robe.

“
Santa Muerte
,” she said. Saint Death.

“That is grotesque,” he said.

“She is venerated here. During the flu epidemic here four years ago, sales of
Santa Muerte
went through the roof. She may look terrifying, but to a Mexican she is a great healer, especially when she is dressed in white. We pray to her when someone we love is sick.”

“Do you believe in all this ...” He was about to say ‘crap’ and stopped himself.

“Not in the daylight.”

“But your father’s a Baptist minister.”

She shrugged.

“What about your mother? What did she believe?”

“She said that a soul cannot die, just like my father does. But she did not believe in heaven, she said we go to a place called Mictlan, the land where souls wait to be reborn. She did not believe in a judgment day like my father does.”

“So why did she marry a Baptist minister?”

“Because she loved him,” she said. “I don’t agree with my father on many things but I still love him. Do you have to agree with someone before you can love them, Adam? If you do, you must live a very frustrating life. Not many surprises for you. Sorry, now I have offended you again. Let’s try to cheer you up. Here’s some candy. Do you like candy?”

The candies were skulls made from dark chocolate and sugar coated. She bought a dozen and popped one into her mouth. “
Muy bien
,” she said. “Here, try one.”

He shook his head.

“You don’t like chocolate?”

“I don’t want to eat a skull.”

“Then what about one of these? It’s a skeleton. They’re called
calavera
, they’re delicious.” She went back to the stall and bought two. She popped one in her mouth and offered him one. He hesitated and took it.