Tempter (2 page)

“Brothers and Sisters, this is Alex. Tonight he shall join us as a member of our society through the ritual of
Kanzo
!”

“Welcome, Alex.” the congregation responded.

Papa Beloved turned back to face Rossiter. “Did you bring an offering for Legba?”

Rossiter nodded and handed him the bottle of rum. The old priest raised an eyebrow when he saw the label and nodded his approval. The altar dedicated to Legba was a card table erected in the corner behind the temple door, draped in bolts of red and black cloth. The four corners were weighted by smooth stones the size of a man’s fist. Seven small glass vessels containing water stood grouped in a circle on the table, surrounded by nine white votive candles. A devotional candle bearing the likeness of Saint Michael dwarfed those clustered about it, casting flickering shadows on the crooked stick and plastic bowl full dried corn kernels set upon the altar.

“Legba will be pleased with your offering,” Papa Beloved intoned, placing the bottle of white rum among the other gifts on the altar.

“Will Legba be here tonight?”

The old man shrugged. “It is not my place to know the ways of
les invisibles
. We will call Legba. We will offer him the things we know that please him. Perhaps Legba will come. Perhaps we will get some other Loa. Perhaps nothing happens.” The priest grinned and favored Rossiter with a knowing wink. “But when there is good rum—that is when Legba most often chooses to visit.”

Papa Beloved turned to discuss something with another member of his flock, his voice low, but Rossiter could tell he was giving instructions. Arsine stripped off his own shirt, revealing sharply defined muscles, and took his place at the drum. Rossiter took the time to study the interior of the makeshift temple. The poured-concrete floor reeked faintly of motor oil and transmission fluid, and the walls were painted flat black, decorated with crude cabalistic figures done in whitewash and chalk. He recognized one of the symbols as the Seal of Solomon, but most were ornate, highly stylized line drawings of stars, crossed sabers, hearts, and what looked like an old-fashioned tugboat with smoke coming from its funnel.

A sturdy wooden table draped in red cloth ran the length of the front of the temple, laden with what looked like a wizard’s jumble sale. A collection of small pots lined the altar, along with a child’s crutch, a plastic toy tugboat, a machete, a rusty iron zigzag that resembled a lightning bolt, a yellow silk dress, and wire-rim spectacles with opaque lenses. Devotional candles dedicated to Our Lady of Mercy, Saint Jerome, Saint George and other appropriated Catholic martyrs flickered in the half-dark. Although Rossiter knew that what looked to be meaningless bits of trash were actually totems held sacred by the most powerful of the Loa, and instrumental in assuring their participation in the rituals, the altar still looked weirdly tacky.

There was the sound of a rattle and the congregation fell silent. Papa Beloved stood before his people, his hands raised above his head. In one hand he held a hollowed calabash covered in a loosely knit web of macramé. A leather thong, knotted with beads and tufts of rooster feathers, dangled from eh handle. Arsine began drumming, the temp slow and measured as a sleeper’s heartbeat.

Before Rossiter had time to ready himself, he was seized from behind by two of the white-garbed worshippers. The women of the congregation tied frayed palm leaves to his shoulders, arranging them so that they framed his face like spread wings. As he watched, the other members produced a kitchen chair draped in white cloth and began slowly lifting it over their head while Papa Beloved intoned a prayer.

A young woman dressed in the same simple white muslin dress as the other female worshippers, save for the red kerchief covering her head, stepped forward. Rossiter realized that she must be the
hounfour’s
mambo, the female counterpart to Papa Beloved. Her skin was the color of
cafe au lait
, and shone like satin in the flickering light from the altar candles. Her bare legs were long and muscular, and he could easily see that she was naked underneath her white cotton shift. As she moved closer, Rossiter’s mouth suddenly went dry. The mambo was the woman whose photograph he had seen at the museum.

The mambo spun in a circle and Rossiter glimpsed her upper thigh and the darker shadow nestled between her legs. She moved over to the altar and lit a candle to saint Michael, the Catholic totem of the ancient African deity known as Legba, Guardian of the Crossroads, and then picked up a small clay jar filled with cornmeal. While she sprinkled the meal onto the floor, the members of the congregation holding aloft the chair began to chant, slapping their bare feet against the hard concrete of the floor.

Rossiter saw that she was laying down a
vévé
, an occult symbol unique to a particular Loa, which supposedly obligated the spirit to descend to Earth. Once she was finished, the mambo offered libations to the cardinal points from a jug of fresh water, and then anointed the threshold to the temple. As her motions became more and more hurried, the drumming grew faster. Rossiter felt his heart thudding in accompaniment, his breath growing shallower and sharper. Every inch of his body was slick with sweat and his vision pulsed in time with the music.

All of the worshippers save for the two holding his arms, placed themselves before the empty chair and began to sway from side to side, their heads lolling with each movement, their voices united in a low, guttural song. Papa Beloved moved forward, his every step marked by a shake of the rattle. Rossiter marveled over how the benevolent, retired handyman had metamorphosed into a guardian of the dark mysteries, invoking the gods of his stolen ancestors.

After Papa Beloved finished the ritual invocation, the mambo motioned for the congregation to move aside with a slight motion of her hand. The worshipers parted like the Red Sea before Moses. The two men holding Rossiter’s arms dragged him forward and presented him to the mambo. She regarded him with the eyes of Siamese cat and her full lips pulled into a smile. She pointed to the chair and the surrounding network of
vévés
.

“Lie down with your head pointing toward the chair.”

The attendants roughly pushed Rossiter to his knees. After hesitating for a moment, he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling of the temple. The mambo bent over him, a glass container in her left hand, and muttered something under her breath. The water splashed onto his face, causing him to sputter and cough like a man pulled from the sea. The mambo dipped her right index finger into a jar held by one of the worshipers, coating it with a green mixture that smelled of rancid grease. She quickly sketched a cross on his damp face and inside the palms of his hands, then stepped back. Rossiter remained flat on his back, uncertain as to what would happen next.

The cat-eyed mambo picked up a whip plaited from palm leaves. The whip cracked the air, licking his forelegs like a lizard’s tongue. The whip cracked again, but its pain was ritual, the abasement necessary to prove the initiate’s resolve. His penis thickened, tenting the thin material of his cotton pants.

“Stand,” the mambo commanded.

Rossiter got to his feet. He was wobbly, but that was more a side effect of his arousal than the scourging. The mambo glanced at the attendants, who dug their hands into his shoulders, forcing him to kneel before the priestess. It didn’t take him long to figure out the proper protocol; he kissed her bare feet. The attendants’ hands disappeared from his shoulders and he felt a featherlike touch on the top of his head. He looked up, meeting the mambo’s gaze.

She grasped Rossiter’s hand and helped him to rise, turning him three times in a graceful pirouette. After he finished the third twirl, the mambo threw her arms around him and kissed him full on the mouth. Rossiter was too disoriented to enjoy the probing of her tongue. His face burned bright red as she pulled away from him; there was no way she could have overlooked the erection pressing into her belly.

The congregation began to weep and moan like mourners behind a funeral cortege. The drumming ceased, although Rossiter’s pulse still echoed its rhythm. The mambo shook her rattle and the others fell silent, their dry eyes fixed on her. She then burst into tears, triggering yet another volley of wails. The worshippers surged forward, each trying to hug Rossiter or shake his hand. The intensity of their emotions was disturbing and confusing to him. It was as if he was a dear friend they never expected to see alive again.

Arsine stepped forward, his face mirroring the sorrow shared by the others. “What’s going on, man?” Rossiter whispered to his friend. “Why are they acting like this?’ The drummer did not reply, and instead wrapped a blindfold made from white cloth over Rossiter's eyes. His stomach knotted into a tight ball of impending panic. “C’mon man, what’s going on?”

“They’re just mourning your passing from the land of the living,” Arsine said as he kicked Rossiter’s legs out from under him.

Chapter Two

Rossiter laid very still, images from a hundred horror movies crowding his mind as he

listened to the
voudou
worshipers file out of the temple.

“Sit up, boy.” Papa Beloved said, sounding like a tired schoolmaster instructing a dense pupil. “There’s no need for you to play possum.” Rossiter struggled into a sitting position, but did not remove his blindfold. A few seconds later Papa Beloved’s gnarled fingers unwrapped the cloth binding his eyes. The old man held a straight razor and a bowl of warm soapy water in his gnarled hands. “Take down your drawers.”

Rossiter’s testicles contracted at the sight of the razor. “I’m already circumcised,” he said quickly.

“I ain’t worried about that, son,” Papa Beloved chuckled. “Now drop ‘em.”

Although he felt foolish exposing himself to the aged
houngan
, Rossiter did as he was told. Papa Beloved began to carefully shave the pubic hair from his crotch, speaking as he worked in a calm, even voice. “What I’m doin’ is collectin’ elements that represent what the Loa call
ti bon ange
: the ‘good soul’. It is the thing that exists in all people, man or woman, black or white,
voudou
or not, that creates a person’s character and gives them will power and everything else that makes them who they are. It is the ‘little’ soul, different from the
gros bon ange
, which unites all livin’ things. Okay, you can pull up your drawers now.”

The priest carefully scraped the hair off the razor into a small white china jar. He then produced a pair of shears better suited for trimming rosebushes than cutting hair. “Now we take a snip from the other end, eh?” he grinned, scissoring the air.

Rossiter surrendered a lock of his hair the length and width of a child’s finger, which went into to the same jar as the pubic hair. He balked, however, when Papa Beloved menaced the nails of his left band with the same pair of shears.

“Do you
have
to use those?’ he blurted, jerking his hand back.

“The head pot must contain parings from the nails of the left hand and foot.”

“Yeah, but I play the guitar for a living, man.”

Papa Beloved shrugged and turned to the cluttered altar, returning with a pair of stainless-steel nail clippers. Rossiter breathed a sigh of relief, counting himself lucky that the old wizard hadn’t decided to use the machete instead. The
houngan
harvested his parings and placed the little white pot alongside a row of similar receptacles arranged on a narrow shell over the altar.

“Sit before the altar, son. Sit with your legs spread wide apart” It was not a suggestion.

Once Rossiter was in position, the
houngan
began calling the Loa in a deep voice, sprinkling himself and Rossiter with liberal amounts of white rum and water. Without breaking the litany, Papa Beloved moved to the darkest corner of the temple and re-emerged carrying a wooden crate full of live chickens. He yanked one of the birds free of its fellows. It was a scrawny black rooster with a mottled comb the color of blood. Papa Beloved thrust the frightened bird in Rossiter’s face, and it promptly pecked his left cheek, drawing blood.

“Shit!” Rossiter blurted, despite himself. He put his hand to the wound and stared at the red smear on his palm.

Papa Beloved nodded, apparently pleased by the augury. He cradled the struggling bird in the crook of his arm, stroking its glossy feathers to calm it. Then he broke its wings and legs. The chicken’s pained squawks ended as abruptly as they began as the old man ripped its throat out with a single snap of his dentures.

Rossiter was too stunned to even flinch as the
houngan
splashed his face with the rooster’s blood, and then snapped the bird’s neck with a practiced motion. He ripped a handful of feathers free of the corpse and plastered them across Rossiter's forehead with a mixture of chicken blood and human spit. He then dipped his fingers in the freshly killed sacrifice and traced crosses on the nape of Rossiter's neck, the palm of his left hand and the sole of his left foot.

Papa Beloved returned to the poultry crate and retrieved a second chicken, which he casually broke as he had the first, dumping its flopping body between Rossiter's spread legs. He continued the sacrifices until there were twelve dead chickens heaped before the novice. Rossiter stared at growing pile of broken, twitching roosters, watching their eyes turn gray and filmy.

“Now you are known to the Loa. You are marked as their servitor. Through you they can walk the world of mankind. You will be a mount for the Divine Horsemen. And for this service you will be rewarded with good health and luck in love, business, and money. But it you offend the Loa, then you will be crossed at every turn and made miserable for the rest of your life...and beyond. Now rise, for it is time for the
hounfour
to recognize you as one of their own.”

Rossiter got to his feet and allowed Pap Beloved to blindfold him again, this time with a red cloth. He heard Papa Beloved open the door and clap three times. The worshipers filed back into the temple, their voices low. Rossiter could hear some of the women giggling.

“We1come, brother,” Arsine whispered into his ear as he removed Rossiter’s blindfold. The drummer winked at him before resuming his place.

The mambo glided into the middle of the room, a bound rooster clutched in either hand. She began to whirl about, flourishing the hapless chickens like a fan dancer. The other members of the
hounfour
began to clap their hands and skip in place, grinning happily. After a few more minutes of chicken-waving, the mambo handed the birds to the men who had served as Rossiter’s attendants. She then stood with her feet spread apart, her left arm stretched in his direction, while shielding her eyes with her right hand. Her stance was so rigid Rossiter could see her calf muscles twitching.

The mambo began reciting a long list of Catholic saints and martyrs that gradually degenerated into a litany of Loa names. When she finished, she nodded to the attendants, who calmly jerked the heads off the roosters they were holding. Blood spurted onto the floor, muddying the elaborate
vévés
.

The mambo collected the decapitated chickens and tossed them into a portable barbecue pit beside the altar. The stink of burning feathers filled the confines of the temple. She turned and motioned for Rossiter to come closer.

“Pass your left hand through the flame.”

Although Rossiter’s eyes were fixed on the fire, he could feel everyone watching him. Sweat rolled down the furrow of his back and there was a sharp, acid taste at the back of his throat. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and moved his hand through the flame. There was a moment of heat and he felt the skin of his left hand momentarily tighten, and then a dozen voices were raised in jubilation.

He opened his eyes and stared as the members of the congregation surrounded him, slapping his back and shaking his hand. All he could do was smile weakly and nod his head in polite response. He searched the crowd for sign of the mambo. He saw her framed against the open doorway, talking to Papa Beloved. Before he could free himself, she waved good-bye and left the temple.

After the last member of the congregation finished welcoming him into the
hounfour
, it was time for everyone to go home. Rossiter trailed Arsine out of the temple and into the backyard.

“What now?”

“Nothin’. The service is over.”

“No, I mean, what happens now? Do I show up every Sunday?”

Arsine shrugged. “You come when you feel like it. You come when you need it. The Loa don’t require regular churchgoing.”

“So--Who is she?”

“She who?”

“You know. . .
her
.”

“She calls herself Ti-Alice.” Arsine pronounced it ‘Tee Ah-lease.’ “Story has it her grandma’s grandma was a powerful
mamalewe
, back in the day. She works in a restaurant in the Quarter.” Arsine dropped the cigarette he was smoking and ground it into the grass with the heel of his boot. “It's time I got you home. You had yourself a busy night.”

“Is it true? What Papa Beloved said about getting luck?”

“It works for some. Stay right here, okay?” The drummer disappeared around the corner of Papa Beloved’s house. When he did not return immediately, Rossiter started to get worried.

“What’s going on, man?” he called out after his friend. “I’ve had enough mystery for one night, okay?”

Arsine reappeared, dragging a length of garden hose behind him. “Chill out!” he said with a laugh as he trained the hose on Rossiter. “You don’t think I’m gonna let you get chicken blood all over my new seat covers, do you?”

Rossiter was surprised to discover that only two hours had passed during the time Arsine picked him up and returned him to his apartment. He felt as if he’d been up all night. Although Arsine’s impromptu hose-down had cleaned off most of the congealed chicken blood, he was still in need of a bath. Soaking in the tub while thinking about the exotic and mysterious Ti Alice sounded like the perfect end to his day.

As he started the bath water, the phone rang. It was the booking agent for the Gris-Gris Club. Rossiter had been trying for the last two months to land a gig there, without much success. The booking agent apologized for not getting back to him sooner, and offered him a gig for the first weekend in June.

Maybe there was something to be said for luck and Loa, after all.