Delice realized that she was in the house of a mambo, a priest of the voudou. But how did she get here? Last night she had been home, at the Maison DuPlessis. And something had happened. Something bad. And was it last night? It seemed longer, somehow.
Suddenly it was hard to remember. Hard to think. Madame always called her stupid. Jeannette always said Madame was stupid to think Delice was stupid. But perhaps Madame was right. Right now Delice felt like her head was full of wet cotton.
Ava Ani was back, tying up Delice’s new curls with a ribbon.“Non, non, non!” she exclaimed. “Madame, she is the stupid one. I know, and soon we shall tell Erzulie too. Erzulie is a powerful djabo and she will help. Madame will learn, and Monsieur too. No need to look so surprised, ma petite. Oui, Ava Ani knows all.” She helped Delice down from the table and placed her in a chair in the corner.
“Now, petite fille, you sit and rest. Wait until the evening comes.”
Delice did as she was told, closing her eyes. She listened to the sounds of the Vieux Carre coming alive as the rain stopped and the clouds gave way to a hot, red, fiery dawn. The fragrance of the bougainvillea hung sweet and heavy in the air.
In front of the Maison DuPlessis, a crowd was gathered. Ava Ani joined them, listening to their conversations and waiting for a glimpse of Monsieur or Madame. The house was still, the shutters tightly closed over the windows as if in shame.
Shame, vraiment, thought Ava Ani. She knew the story, perhaps better than anyone in New Orleans. The DuPlessis were a prominent family in society, wealthy and handsome. But their neighbors whispered to each other about the strange sounds that came from the house late at night—screams and inhuman moans, like an animal in distress. Finally the neighbors’ curiosity was at last satisfied.
Delphine DuPlessis had chased her maid all through the house until the terrified slave girl had sought refuge on the roof. Madame DuPlessis had followed her onto the roof, and somehow the girl fell off the roof to her death.
A cursory investigation was made, and the DuPlessis were charged a fine for maltreatment. That was the end of that. But, a few hours later, someone deliberately set the kitchen on fire. When the fire department arrived, they made a grisly discovery.
On the third floor, Denis DuPlessis had a private, locked chamber. When the door was opened, the officials found four young slave girls, all under the age of sixteen, chained to the wall. Whips, ropes, iron pokers, and other unspeakable implements were found. All of the girls had had their tongues cut out, so that they could not tell what happened to them in the room, and one had her eyes sewn shut as well. They were horribly scarred and filthy, with deformed limbs and faces from repeated beatings and other abuses.
Delphine had known of her husband’s peculiarities, and not only tolerated them but actually acted as a procuress for him. The girl who fell to her death had been selected by Delphine for the chamber, but was able to escape before she was bound and chained.
A shutter flicked open an inch or so, then closed. A barely perceptible movement, but Ava Ani saw. That meant Monsieur and Madame DuPlessis were still there. They would not be for long, Ava Ani knew. No, no, with their money and their position they would make their escape from New Orleans. Back to France, perhaps.
Time is short, thought Ava Ani. Very well. Ce soir.
Her hands closed tightly into fists, fingernails digging red crescents into her palms.
While Ava Ani was gone, Delice tried to remember how she got here. She found that her mind worked slowly, so slowly. It took her most of the day to piece it together.
She remembered that Madame had summoned her quite late to Madame’s fine, high-ceilinged bedchamber. Madame was thin and pale, with eyes like ice. Madame had looked her up and down. Her eyes lingered on Delice’s chest, and the spot where her legs joined her body. Delice wondered if Madame could see through her threadbare calico dress and see the sprouting of soft dark hair that was growing there. Before she left, Jeannette had told her that the hairs meant you could have a baby now. Delice missed Jeannette terribly and wished with all her heart that Madame had not sold her last year.
“It is time.” Madame sighed. “Go wash, Delice, and then come back.”
“Yes, Madame,” Delice had replied. She quickly returned to Madame’s chamber, face and hands clean.
“Denis wants you,” Madame had said, and then laughed queerly. “Come, we will go upstairs.”
Madame’s laugh frightened Delice. But she dared not show it lest she be whipped. Maybe she would be whipped anyway, Madame was so strange tonight. She timidly approached the third floor room, her hands twisting in the pockets of her dress. Madame followed her at a distance, her shoes tapping lightly on the floor.
Monsieur opened the door to the room with a big smile and put out a hand to welcome Delice. But then a puff of wind had opened the door wide. The smell of excrement and infection and pure raw fear had filled Delice’s nostrils. She saw the bodies of the girls, chained in dumb misery, limbs smeared with feces and blood. One had lifted her head and met Delice’s eyes with her own vacant and hopeless ones under a mat of blood-crusted hair.
“Jeannette,” Delice breathed, recognizing her girlhood friend. Jeannette was not sold. Jeannette had been here, for almost a year.
Delice wasted no breath screaming. Her muscles jumped to life. She pushed back Monsieur’s fat white hand and turned and fled, running. She had thrust Madame out of her way, terrified, and ran to the hall door. She had tugged frantically at the doorknob, but it would not open. Madame and Monsieur were running after her, the shoes tapping out a frantic beat now.
Delice spun around and ran into one of the guest bedchambers. At the far end, a window opened onto the second floor roof. She would run onto the roof and climb down somehow, she thought. She flung the shutters open and crawled out onto the roof. She pressed herself into the shadows, her heart pounding.
She heard Madame say, “Give it to me, Denis, you fool.” Then the rustling of Madame’s skirts, like a snake’s hiss, as she too made her way onto the roof.
Delice tried to make herself small, to inch her way along the sloping, slippery tiles without being seen. Madame’s pale eyes were sharp though, and cut through the darkness like a lantern.
“Delice!” she called, and out of habit Delice looked up.
The clouds parted and the moon shone down on Madame. She stood not ten paces’ distance. Her dark hair was tumbled and wild, her face ghostly white in the silver light.
In her hand was a pistol.
“Delice, get back inside. Now!” Madame commanded. She raised the pistol, pointing it at her.
Delice had stared at the pistol. Madame would surely kill her. But to go back inside . . . that was worse than death. Suddenly Delice was no longer afraid.
If I am to die, then I will die. But I choose.
She rose up and began to run. She heard a pop, and then a ball sang past her ear. She felt the hot rush of air against her cheek. She ran and ran and suddenly she was flying. Flying . . .
And then there was nothing. Nothing until she had awakened here, at Ava Ani’s.
That night, two slender figures moved slowly and silently through the close, black-velvet darkness that enshrouded the city. They disappeared down an alley that ran behind the Maison DuPlessis, and slipped over the fence that enclosed the rear yard. Ava Ani paused as two shiny blue eyes watched her from under the boxwood hedge.
“Venez ici,” she whispered, staring back at the eyes. Delice watched as Madame’s white Persian cat came out from under the shrubs and approached Ava Ani. It moved slowly and deliberately, like a child’s pull toy, straight toward her. Delice watched, fascinated. She hated Henri. She had been bitten and scratched countless times by that ill-tempered cat.