The woman swayed, righted herself, gaping, apparently stunned. She was young—eighteen, nineteen—and cocoa skinned, with a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks; her face was pretty, with a cleverness of feature that reminded him of Debora, and framed by stubby dreadlocks.… He lost interest in the woman, puzzled by his use of Debora as a comparative after all these months. But then he realized that while she had not been foremost in his mind, she had been a subroutine in his thoughts, a place to which he had traveled in dreams, in idle moments. And he realized, too, that his knowledge of her had deepened: it was as if he had been carrying on a dialogue with her, assembling a portrait of her from clues implicit in her words, her smell, her manner.
‘I been feelin’ you come,’ said the woman in hushed tones.
Again Mingolla pushed toward her, aiming the desire he had been harboring for Debora, understanding as he did that desire had a shape he could feel… feeling it like a pitcher who, leaning in for his sign, grips the baseball behind his back, fingering the seams until he has found the proper position: an unconscious yet expert process. The woman’s face went slack, her breath quickened.
‘Been feelin’ you come most all dis week,’ she said, edging closer. ‘You got so much power, mon!’ She fondled a shell that was threaded on a string about her neck, painted with red and green designs.
‘Who are you?’ Mingolla asked, anxious, not really caring who she was, wanting an answer that might shed light on who he was becoming.
‘I Hettie.’ She sank to her knees a body-length away. ‘De power full on you now. More power dan I ever felt, and praise God more de luck.’
Mingolla’s anxiety increased. ‘What’re you talking ’bout?’
‘De power bring de luck. Dat how it be always. De new ones come to power, and dey touch us fah to make dem safe.’
He recalled his sense of security after completing the pattern.
‘We keep you safe, too.’
‘Tell me ’bout the luck,’ he said.
She wetted her lips. ‘De luck ain’t not’in’ to talk on.’
‘Why not?’
‘Talkin’ liable to ’splain it ’way.’
That struck a chord in Mingolla, putting him in mind of his ritual, how he had been reluctant to talk about it… except with Debora, in whom he had seen another configuration of luck. ‘Tell me,’ he said. And I’ll give you stronger luck.’
A mixture of disbelief and glee melted up from Hettie’s face, as if he had promised something both improbable and wonderful, like the promise of an afterlife. ‘You do dis fah me?’
‘Yes.’
She talked in a breathy whisper, fingering her shell, head bowed, offering a litany of explanation, describing lives bound by magical pattern, security guaranteed by the repetition of behavior, and Mingolla began to wonder about the similarity between Hettie’s luck and his ritual of survival, the idiosyncrasies of the chopper pilots and of various other acquaintances back in Guatemala. All these behaviors shared the same delusionary character, and given that Hettie was essentially a test subject upon which fledgling psychics worked their changes, it could be that psychics were responsible in every instance, that the delusions were the product of their influence. He tried to dismiss this as paranoia, but found that he could not.
Hettie sat back on her haunches, silent, waiting for luck to be bestowed; her dress had ridden up, exposing the shadowy division between her thighs. Mingolla had no luck to give her, only desire, the one emotion he knew how to shape. Yet desire was powerful in him now. He was alive with it, alive with the power behind it. Everywhere he looked it seemed that the world was being enriched by the pressure of his vision. The weathered boards, the light beading silver on the cobwebs, the ruddy wood of the table, all these things seemed to shine brighter than before. Maybe, he thought, if desire was strong enough, it would effect luck. As he directed it toward her, he saw that luck, the feeling of being blessed with good fortune, also had a shape, and he incorporated that into the push of desire.
With an indrawn breath, Hettie arched her back, and, hands spread wide, caressed her belly, her breasts, pressing their rounds flat, kneading them. Watching her, Mingolla understood that his gift of desire and luck could have a return, that he could make love to her, that here among the moths and cobwebs he could commit an act of pure usage, almost of violence, of pleasure taken without toll or penance. And he was tempted. There was a peculiar tension in his body, a mingling of confidence and indecision, the way he had felt after receiving a pass at the top of the key, watching the waist of the man guarding him, not knowing whether to break right or left, leaning forward like a reluctant diver and letting gravity slowly take him, waiting until his opponent had seen—or thought he’d seen—a hint of direction, had shifted his weight in anticipation, placing himself at a disadvantage that would allow Mingolla to penetrate the lane. Hettie’s head lolled, her hips lifted. Sweat beaded her upper lip, the hollow of her throat. Abandon had refined her looks to an animal delicacy, and Mingolla reached for her, thinking of Debora, her delicacy. But at that moment she cried out, went down on all fours, hips thrusting at nothing, crying out again, more softly, hoarsely, and in her mind there was flurrying as of a million fish responding to a danger sign, scattering, their space filled by a lazy current, a sluggish tingling wash.
Wind battered the shed, vibrating the tin roof. Hettie remained on all fours, staring dull-eyed at Mingolla through the fat coils of her dreadlocks. He was glad he hadn’t taken her, because she was too easy a beast, because he wanted someone whose mind had not been walked through time and again. He got to his feet, and she followed him with her eyes; he moved around her to the table, and she turned her head, displaying no more emotion than a cow.
‘Get up!’ he said, irritated. But irritation gave way to pity, and when she stood, hands limp at her sides, he asked if she was all right.
‘I…’ She made a halfhearted effort at smoothing wrinkles on her dress. ‘T’ings dey comin’ clear.’
‘What things?’
‘T’ings of de luck.’
Branches ticked the wall of the shed, a wave boomed on the reef.
‘Better we find de others.’ Hettie came a step toward Mingolla, eyes wide, fidgeting with her shell. ‘Dis luck ’nough to make dem all catch a fire.’
Silver-blue clouds scudded across the moon, and a seamless dark flowed over the hotel grounds. Then the moon sailed clear, and the grounds became a floating puzzle of light and shadow: the edges of fronds, sprigs of round leathery sea-grape leaves, bamboo stalks, all illuminated by swatches of moonlight, all bounded by toiling blackness, rustling, seething, a troubled noise audible above the whispery vowels of wind and sea. Hettie beckoned to Mingolla, saying, Come, you follow!’ Mingolla waved at her, picking his way cautiously through the thicket toward the hotel, its white stucco ablaze between the arching trunks of palms, the open windows black as caves. The thrashing of the pitch-dark foliage seemed to empower him: he felt he was growing stronger with every step, storing inside himself the wildness of the night.