‘The next few years Otille was off at private schools and college, and she don’t talk much ‘bout them days. But around the time she was twenty, twenty-one, she got bitten by the actin’ bug and headed for New York. Wasn’t long before she landed what was held to be the choicest role in many a season. Mirielle in the play Danse Calinda. ‘Course there was talk ‘bout how she landed the part, seein’ as she’d been the playwright’s lover. But couldn’t nobody else but her play it, ‘cause it had been written special for her. The critics were unanimous. They said the play expanded the occult genre, said she incarnated the role. Them damn fools woulda said anything, I expect. Otille probably had ‘em all thinkin’ slow and nasty ‘bout her. She’ll do that to a man, I’ll guarantee you.’ He smirked. ‘But the character, Mirielle, she was a strong, talented woman, good-hearted but doomed to do evil, bound by the ties of a black tradition to a few acres of the dismal truth, and ol’ Otille didn’t have no trouble relatin’ to that. Then, just when it looked like she was gonna be a star, she went after her leadin’ man with a piece of broken mirror. Cut him up severe!’ Papa snapped his fingers. ‘She’d gone right over the edge. They shut her away in a sanatorium someplace in upstate New York, and the doctors said it was the strenuousness of the role that had done her. But Otille would tell you it was ‘cause she’d arrived at certain conclusions ‘bout herself durin’ the run of the play, that she’d been tryin’ to escape somethin’ inescapable. That the shadowy essence of Valcours and Clothilde pervaded her soul. Soon as they let her loose, she beelined for Maravillosa and there she’s been for these last twelve or thirteen years.’ He puffed out his belly, patted it and grinned. ‘And I been with her for six of them years.’
‘And is she crazy?’ asked Donnell. ‘Or is she evil?’
‘She’s a little crazy, brother, but ain’t we all.’ Papa laughed. ‘I know I am. And as for the evil, naw, she’s just foolin’ with evil. The way she figures it, whichever she is she can’t deny her predilection, so she surrounds herself with oddballs and criminal types. Nothin’ heavy duty. Pick-pockets, card sharps, dopers, hookers…’
‘Tent show hucksters,’ offered Donnell.
‘Yeah,’ said Papa, unruffled. ‘And freaks. You gonna fit right in.’ He worried at something between his teeth. ‘I’ll be up front with you, brother. Goin’ to Otille’s is like joinin’ the circus. Three shows daily. Not everybody can deal with it. But gettin’ back to her theory, she figures if she insulates herself with this mess of lowlife, she’ll muffle her unnatural appetites and won’t never do nothin’ real bad like Valcours and Clothilde.’ He fingered a card out from his side pocket and handed it to Donnell. ‘You wanna learn more ‘bout it, call that bottom number. She’s dyin’ to talk with you.’ He stood, hitched up his trousers. ‘One more thing and I’ll be steppin’. You’re bein’ watched. Otille says they on you like white on rice.’
Donnell did not react to the news; he was staring at the card Papa had given him. But Jocundra was stunned. ‘By who?’ she asked.
‘Government, most likely,’ said Papa. ‘Otille says you wanna check it out, you know that little shanty bar down the road?’
‘The Buccaneer Club?’
‘Yeah. You go down there tomorrow. ‘Bout half a mile past it’s a dirt road, and just off the gravel you gonna find a stake out. Two men in a nice shiny unmarked car. They ain’t there today, which is why I’m here.’ Papa twirled his car keys and gave them his most unctuous smile. ‘Let us hear from you, now.’ He sprinted out into the rain. Jocundra turned to Donnell. ‘Was he telling the truth?’ He was puzzled by the question for a moment, then said, ‘Oh, yeah. At least he wasn’t lying.’ He looked down at the card. ‘Wait a second.’ He went into the back room and returned with a notebook; he laid it open on top of the stove. ‘This,’ he said, pointing to a drawing, ‘is the last sketch I made of the patterns of light I’ve been seeing. And this’ - he pointed to a design at the bottom of the card - ‘this is what my sketch is a fragment of.’
Jocundra recognized the design, and if he had only showed her fragmentary sketch, she still would have recognized it. She had seen it painted in chicken blood on stucco walls, laid out in colored dust on packed-earth floors, soaped on the windows of storefront temples, printed on handbills. The sight of it made all her explanations of his abilities seem as feckless as charms against evil.
‘That’s what I want to build with the copper,’ said Donnell. ‘I’m sure of it. I’ve never been…’ He noticed her fixation on the design. ‘You’ve seen it before?’
‘It’s a veve,’ said Jocundra with a sinking feeling. ‘It’s a ritual design used in voodoo to designate one of the gods, to act as a gateway through which he can be called. This one belongs to one of the aspects of Ogoun, but I can’t remember which one.’
‘A veve?’ He picked up the card. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘Why not?’ He tucked the card into his shirt pocket.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to wait until morning, because I don’t want to appear too eager.’ He laughed. ‘And then I guess I’ll go down to the Buccaneer Inn and give Otille a call.’
Donnell dropped in his money and dialed. A flatbed truck passed on the road, showering the booth with spray from its tires, but even when it had cleared he could barely make out the pickup parked in front of the bar. The rain dissolved the pirate’s face above the shingle roof into an eyepatch and a crafty smile, smeared the neon letters of the Lone Star Beer sign into a weepy glow.
‘Yes, who is it?’ The voice on the line was snippish and unaccented, but as soon as he identified himself, it softened and acquired a faint Southern flavor. ‘I’m pleasantly surprised, Mr Harrison. I’d no idea you’d be calling so quickly. How can I help you?’
‘I’m not sure you can,’ he said. ‘I’m just calling to make a few inquiries.’
Otille’s laugh was sarcastic; even over the wire it conveyed a potent nastiness. ‘You obviously have pressing problems, or else you wouldn’t be calling. Why don’t you tell me about them? Then if I’m still interested you can make your inquiries.’
Donnell rubbed the phone against his cheek, thinking how best to handle her. Through the rain-washed plastic, he saw an old hound dog with brown and white markings emerge from the bushes beside the booth and step onto the road. Sore-covered, starved-thin, dull-eyed. It put its nose down and began walking toward the bar, sniffing at litter, unmindful of the pelting rain.
‘I need three tons of copper,’ he said. ‘I want to build something.’
‘If you’re going to be circuitous, Mr Harrison, we can end this conversation right now.’
‘I want to build a replica of the veve on your calling card.’
‘Why?’
At first, prodded by her questions, he told half-truths, repeating the lies he had been told at the project, sketching out his plan to use the veve as a remedy, omitting particulars. But as the conversation progressed, he found he had surprisingly few qualms about revealing himself to her and became more candid. Though some of her questions maintained a sharp tone, others were asked with childlike curiosity, and others yet were phrased almost seductively, teasing out the information. These variances in her character reminded him of his own fluctuations between arrogance and anxiety, and he thought because of this he might be able to understand and exploit her weaknesses.