She lifted her face and there was an eagerness in her eyes, as though she expected something from me.
“Tomorrow. In the Swap Shop. The booth is Paris Kids.”
“What time?”
“Anytime. She work all the time.”
“How will I know her? What’s her name?”
She shook her head. “You will know. Now I go. Madame waits.”
“Juliette.” I had to ask, even though I was fairly certain of the answer. “Martine ... she’s not your aunt, is she?”
She looked down again, refusing to meet my eyes.
“But where is your family?” She shrugged her shoulders very slightly but still did not look up.
“Does Martine let you go to school?”
The young girl raised her eyes slowly and smiled with her lips, but in those eyes there was something old and tired and angry. A fat tear pooled and slid down her smooth cheek.
“Juliette, I’m so sorry.”
I reached out to her, but before I could touch her, she turned and slipped through the hedge.
XVII
I had been leaning against the side of the building, deep in thought, when I heard a child’s scream.
A branch of the ficus hedge caught on a button of my shirt, ripping it. The door flew open as I came around the corner, and a huge man, dressed in black and wearing a black top hat, ran out, raised his left hand, and pushed me hard. My feet flew out from under me, and I fell to the ground, dazed. When I sat up, he was gone. I’d gotten only a brief glimpse of his face, his mustache and goatee. My eyes had been drawn to the sequined design that adorned his hat: a skull and crossbones.
I pushed myself up and ran into the dark room.
The chair was empty, the pots gone, but on the floor, glistening in the candlelight, was a pool of what looked like blood. There was no sign of the child.
I turned and ran out into the yard.
The drummers’ bodies were slick with sweat as their hands danced over the skins stretched taut across their drums. The pounding beats bounced inside my head, and the rhythm became almost painful. I wanted to yell at them to be quiet, but a part of me was afraid.
The dancers ignored me as I pushed through them, searching for Racine or Max. One man tipped back a bottle of rum, filling his cheeks, then sprayed out the liquid and lit it with a disposable lighter. The ball of fire jumped out of his mouth and seemed to come straight for my hair. I leaped away and fell backward into the arms of a man who was jerking and twitching, his eyes rolled back in his head. He kept in perfect beat with the drums. I pushed myself away from him only to feel something smack me on the backside. When I reached around, my fingers closed on the shaft of a cane. Holding the other end was a strange man dressed in raggedy clothes and dancing a silly jig. The other dancers were laughing and pointing as he mugged and joked in Creole. I let go of the cane when I felt a hand on my forearm. The lady in red, the one Martine had called Erzulie, was speaking to me in Creole. I couldn’t understand a word, but when I shouted Racine’s name, she stroked my hair and my face, then put her arm around my waist and led me out of the crowd of dancers. She pointed to the hut and said something in Creole, the only word of which I understood was Racine’s name. I ran across the dirt yard and burst through the door.
“Racine,” I shouted. The tall woman stood alone in the room before an altar with a painting of the Virgin Mary and dozens of candles, bottles of perfume and rum. The altar was decorated with garlands of Christmas tinsel, beaded flags, and pink silk roses. “She’s gone.”
Racine put her fingers to her lips, indicating quiet.
“There’s blood all over, and Solange is gone.”
She placed her hand on top of my head as though I were a little child. “Calm down. Solange is fine. She is resting.” Her gravelly voice was soft and quiet.
“I heard her scream, Racine. Then this huge man in a black suit and hat ran out. He had a skull and crossbones on his hat.”
The look on her face changed to one of concern. “Bawon?"
“I’ve seen that skull before. On dark glasses I found on the Miss Agnes."
“Come,” she said, nodding her head. “We will see.” She put her hand in the small of my back and pushed me toward the door.
We crossed the yard at a pace that required me to trot to keep up. She walked past the bloody chair without concern and led me to the back of the room. There on the floor, a small mattress and bedding had been laid out. The white sheets were streaked with bloodstains. “We left her here, asleep. She must sleep after the lave tete." She shook her head. “It was the bokor."
“Bokor? What’s that? I don’t understand. Where’s Solange?” The sound of breaking glass caused us both to turn. One of the bottles had fallen off the altar, and the smell of rum filled the room. Then a section of the curtain beneath the altar moved, and a small hand poked out.
“Solange,” I yelled. The broken glass crunched beneath my sneakers as I reached her side. Her eyes looked huge beneath the white scarf that wrapped her head, and I slid my arms under her and lifted her up so her bare feet would not touch the glass. Her white dress was splattered with blood. Until I felt the tears on my cheeks, I had not been aware I was crying.
I set her down on the bed to check her wounds.
Racine, who was standing behind me, said, “She is fine. She is not hurt.”
“But the blood.”
“It is part of the lave tete. We kill a white chicken. It is a gift for the lwa. The blood is not hers.”
Then Solange pushed her head back and looked up at me, her brown eyes focused. “We go now?” she asked.
My whole body sagged, limp with relief. She was talking again. I wrapped my arms around her and held her. I looked at Racine over the top of her head and mouthed, “Thank you.” She smiled and nodded as though she had never had a doubt that things would turn out this way.
Most of the time I’d felt so awkward not knowing what to do for this child, but hugging her skinny little frame at that moment felt just right. I didn’t care if they had used dead chickens, magic herbs, visiting spirits, or whatever. Solange was back from that place deep inside herself.
“Sure, kiddo,” I said. “We’ll go now.”
Racine accompanied us across the yard, which was still filled with dancers. I carried Solange on my hip, afraid to let her go. Inside the house, Racine put her cool hand on my arm.
“Wait one moment, please,” she said. She motioned toward the couch. “Set the child down a moment. We need to speak.”
“Racine, I just want to get her home.”
“You are looking for this child’s father, non?”
“Yes.” I sat Solange down on the couch and joined her. “Can you help me find him?”
“Perhaps. We are both searching for the same answers, you and I.”
“I don’t understand.”
She took my hand in hers again. “Now it is my turn to trust you.” She paused, as though trying to decide whether to continue. “Many Haitians try to come to the United States. Some make a cooperative and build their own boats. They work together for their freedom, but it can take many years. Others, they pay the smugglers, money-hungry men who sometimes dump their human cargo rather than be captured. People go with smugglers because they feel they cannot wait any longer.”
“But Racine, what does this have to do with Solange?”
“There are people here who get word when a boat has left Haiti. A watch is kept and when the boat comes ashore, people drive down to help any make it safely ashore. I was there that night, waiting for someone, when the Miss Agnes sank.”
“You were there? Can you put me in touch with anyone who might know her father?”