Cross Current - Kling Christine (бесплатные книги полный формат TXT) 📗
Racine stopped in front of a door to one of the outbuildings. Up close, I could see that the paintings on the walls were far more elaborate than I had originally thought. The style was unusual, what fancy art critics called primitif, but the subject matter was clearly religious—from the black Madonna and child on the right of the door to the intricate black cross adorning the door itself.
“Miss Sullivan,” she said, “I understand this must all seem very strange to you.”
I nodded and smiled. While it was easier to speak out here farther from the drums, I still found myself overwhelmed and not sure what to say.
“We Haitians practice a form of Christianity that has blended with the African religions of our ancestors. We call this religion Vodou." She directed her gaze over my shoulder at the dancers back in the yard and smiled. “Most Americans, when they hear that word, they think of black magic. They have all those images of zombies, curses, and Voodoo dolls from their films. In reality, Vodou is a way of seeing the universe, of being connected to our ancestors, of using nature to heal. I hope you can keep a more open mind.”
I nodded. “I’ll try. But I’ve got to tell you, all this”—I swung my hand in an arc toward the drummers and the people who were starting to dance—“I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s very beautiful, but a little frightening as well.”
She smiled. “I appreciate your honesty. But there is no reason to be afraid. One of our rituals is a sacred cleansing ritual called a lave tete," she said, pronouncing the words lavay tet with a beautiful French accent, “because we wash the hair several times with special herbs. This clears the consciousness of the individual. This will help the child wash away her fears and bring her back to us. Can you trust me?”
“You’re just going to wash her hair?”
Racine took my hand in hers. Her skin was cool and dry, and her palms felt almost like crepe paper. As she spoke, her dark eyes locked on mine. “I would never do anything to hurt this child.”
I believed her. “Okay. I just want her to get better. I don’t know what else to try.”
“When we are inside,” she said, “I don’t want you to say anything. You may watch, but I ask you not to speak.”
Racine took Solange’s hand and led her into the small room. An involuntary shudder shook my shoulders as I watched Solange pass through that doorway without me. I was seized by an overwhelming urge to grab her, run for the Jeep, and get the hell out of there. Instead, I followed them inside.
The only light inside the room came from dozens of candles on an altar that ran along the right side wall. Scraps of cloth bearing a variety of patterns covered the base of the altar. It was difficult to make out all the paraphernalia that crowded the shelf. There were bottles and jars made of colored glass, a big wooden cross, a stone bowl, terra-cotta pots, and what looked like little packages wrapped in colored paper with ribbons tied round the paper to form long necks. Two low chairs had been placed directly in front of the cross in the center of the room, one in front of the other.
Racine led Solange to one of the chairs and began to undress her. When she pulled the T-shirt over the child’s head, her arms flopped down and dangled loose at her sides. The term rag doll popped into my mind. Solange was flesh and bone, but she seemed to have lost all control of her body. She was wearing only her new white underwear, and I realized again just how skinny she was. She looked so small and vulnerable.
I held my breath, and I was certain my hands would shake if I held them in front of me. What was I doing here?
A woman in white entered the room carrying a small white dress. Racine pulled it over Solange’s head. The skirt nearly touched the dirt floor, and I thought of the white dress Solange had been wearing the day I pulled her from the sea. Racine eased Solange into the front chair, then sat in the chair behind. She gently removed the beaded bands and combed out the braids in the girl’s hair. Two more women dressed in white came in, carrying between them what looked like a huge galvanized soup pot and ladle. As they placed the pot behind the chairs, gentle steam rose from the water inside. The smell was earthy, almost musky. It reminded me of when, as kids, my brother Pit and I used to make “tea” by mixing sticks and leaves from all over our yard.
Racine stirred the pot, then tested the liquid on her wrist, like a mother testing the temperature of her baby’s milk. She nodded, then lifted the child’s chin, tilting her head back, and ladled the steaming water over her head.
Solange showed no reaction to what was happening. I looked around the room. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I noticed for the first time that there were other observers leaning against the walls. I couldn’t make out the features of a tall man on the far side of the room, dressed all in black, but closer to me, slouching and sucking on three fingers, was a girl not much older than Solange. When she turned to look at me, I recognized her. It was Juliette, the girl from Martine Gohin’s house. She pulled her fingers out of her mouth and pointed first to her lips and then to me.
Did she want to talk to me? I pointed at her and then at myself and lifted my hands and shoulders as if to ask “What?”
She ignored me, walked around the head-washing ceremony, and slipped out the door.
I assumed she wanted me to follow her. I looked back at Solange and was surprised to see her smiling. Racine was saying something in Creole that I could not understand, but the child seemed quite safe. I would step outside for just a minute.
It wasn’t until I opened the door that I realized how well soundproofed the room had been. The noise of the drums hit me, and I could feel each beat pounding in my body. The dancing in the yard had grown more frantic. Nearly everyone was involved now. Some of the dancers were writhing on the ground, and others were jumping around in bizarre contortions that made them look double-jointed. One woman fell to the ground, flopping around like a snake that had just been run over by a car. Three people surrounded her and helped her to her feet, but she seemed to struggle against them. They dragged her from the dance area toward the building that looked like an Indian chickee hut.
“Pssst.” Juliette’s head poked out, then disappeared into the shrubs at the side of the building I’d just left. I started in her direction.
“Seychelle Sullivan? Is that you?”
When I turned around, a short woman in a bright blue- and-yellow dress was coming toward me from the center of the yard. Like all the other women, she wore a colorful headscarf. I used my hand to shield my eyes from the spotlight behind her and attempted to make out the features of her face. She wore heavy, dark-tinted glasses.
“Martine?”
“Mais oui. Seychelle, what are you doing here?”
I pointed to the door. “I brought Solange. You know, the little girl? The Earth Angel? She’s sick. It’s a long story. I found this card on board the Miss Agnes—it had Racine Toussaint’s name and address. They’re washing her hair in there.”
“Ah, the lave tete. Yes, that will help.”
“You practice Voodoo?”
She shrugged. “I am Haitian, non? Come, follow me.”
I glanced over my shoulder. There was no sign of Juliette. Martine led me closer to the dancers. She motioned for me to bend down, so that she could talk over the drums and into my ear.
“Some of these dancers have been mounted by the lwa."
“What does that mean?”
“The lwa are spirits who can enter the body of a living person and possess him in order to communicate. We call that mounting, just like a rider mounts a horse. You see the tree in the middle of the peristil?” She pointed to the strangler fig trunk. “That is called the poto mitan, or center post. It is hollow, and that is how the spirits pass the Crossroads and travel from their world to ours. Usually it is truly a pole, but Mambo Racine has chosen a tree. It seems to work well enough.” She shrugged again.
