The Locomobile with the 2 men and dog occupants moves toward the vicinity of the explosion. When they reach it they see people milling about. The fire trucks, police and cars are parked haphazardly about the street. PaPa LaBas notices an object that has been blown to the pavement. He emerges from the car after signaling T Malice to halt. It’s the brokers “ugly” fetish: a wood-carving of Ghede. Isn’t that strange, PaPa LaBas thinks. PaPa LaBas re-enters the auto. Desiring privacy as he examines the Ghede, he pulls down the backseat’s silk roller shades. It is an easy ride; the rear of the car contains 50-inch springs.
PaPa LaBas’ Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral is located at 119 West 136th St. The dog at his heels, PaPa LaBas climbs the steps of the Town house. He moves from room to room: the Dark Tower Room the Weary Blues Room the Groove Bang and Jive Around Room the Aswelay Room. In the Groove Bang and Jive Around Room people are rubberlegging for dear life; bending over backwards to admit their loa. In the Dark Tower Room, artists using cornmeal and water are drawing veves. Markings which were invitations to new loas for New Art. The room is decorated in black red and gold.
A piano recording plays Jelly Roll Morton’s “Pearls,” haunting, melancholy. In the Aswelay Room the drums sleep after they’ve been baptized. A guard attendant stands by so that they won’t get up and walk all over the place. PaPa LaBas opens his hollow obeah stick and gives the drums a drink of bootlegged whiskey. Stunned by Berbelang’s attack upon him as an “anachronism,” he has introduced some Yoga techniques. In 1 main room, people are doing the Cobra the Fish the Lion the Lotus the Tree the Voyeurs Pose the Adepts Pose the Wheel Pose the Crows Pose and many others. There is a room PaPa LaBas calls the Mango Room, so named to honor the great purifying plant. On a long maple table covered with splendid white linen cloth rest 21 trays filled with such delectable items as liqueurs, sweets, rum, baked chicken, and beef. The table is adorned with vases containing many types of roses. This room is the dining hall of the loas, and LaBas demands that the trays be refreshed after the Ka-food has been eaten. His assistants make sure that this is done. The room is illuminated by candles of many colors. On the tables sky-blue candles are burning. In the other main room attendants have been guided through exercises. Once in a while 1 is possessed by a loa. The loa is not a daimon in the Freudian sense, a hysteric; no, the loa is known by its signs and is fed, celebrated, drummed to until it deserts the horse and
govi
of its host and goes on about its business. The attendants are experienced and know the names, knowledge the West lost when the Atonists wiped out the Greek mysteries. The last thing these attendants would think of doing to a loa’s host is electrifying it lobotomizing it or removing its clitoris, which was a pre-Freudian technique for “curing” hysteria. No, they don’t wish it ill, they welcome it. When a client is handled by an especially vigorous loa the others stand around this person and give it encouragement. Smiling PaPa and T see that everything is really Jake.
PaPa LaBas walks into his office. His lamp glows. Incense is burning. Sandalwood, myrrh and many other formulas which survived the ban when the Catholic Church decreed that only frankincense be used in ceremonies. He inspects a rejected manuscript from London, the editor says he liked his article on “lost liturgies in New Orleans” but feels “it doesn’t fit in with our format.” PaPa LaBas reviews the editorial board. Just as he expected. All Atonists. He looks down the hall. Earline is emerging from 1 of the rooms. Strange. He never noticed that before, her walk. She is serpentine and her hips move tantalizingly under the thin, white short dress.
Thanks for inviting me to your party, Earline. I hope I didn’t upset your guests like that, the argument between me and Abdul. It occurred after you left but I’m sure you heard about it.
O we’re accustomed to Abdul’s bunk. He gets on his soapbox and goes on for hours. I have heard that he is receiving money from the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan.
PaPa LaBas reflects. I rather like him though, at least he has his own flag, not like these Black Marxists who merely mimic the words of the “Internationale,” somebody else’s thought, and somebody else’s song. Abdul is just an irritated lyricist who can’t seem to get his music sung. I am eager to read his book when it’s out.
Charlotte wants to see you.
She does? I thought it strange that she wasn’t giving you assistance out there.
I can manage. I think she’s quitting. What’s up?
I don’t know, you’d better ask her.
PaPa LaBas walks into Charlotte’s office and finds her sitting on her desk. She is dressed quite spiffy. A black-felt hat adorned with ostrich feathers. Pearls, a black suit with flapper skirt. She raises her eyes from the magazine
Vanity Fair
when she sees LaBas. She is inhaling from a Fatima Turkish cigarette held in an ivory holder.
What’s wrong, Charlotte?
O pop, I don’t want to hurt you but I’m leaving. You know Berbelang had some good points; after he left the clientele, his followers dropped off. He influenced your approach, which at 1st I thought was O.K. but, pop, you know you developed a cultish thing about this New HooDoo therapy, I mean, I have learned all of the dances and everything…I feel…
You mean you’ve gotten an offer…
Well yes, I am going on the stage, the Plantation House wants me to star in their new review
The Witches’ Pick.
I tried out a few months ago and have gone back on amateur nights. Now they want me for a long run. I’m gaining quite a following.
Congratulations. That’s good news.
O you mean you approve? She asks in her characteristically sultry voice.
Yes of course, if you have a break like that, just so you don’t become 1 of those Gold Diggers as Irene did.
She glances at the floor.
There’s more?
The manager wants me to entertain some of the selective clientele. The diamond stickpin trade. You know, teach them diluted versions of the dances I have observed here.
Charlotte, you shouldn’t attempt to use any aspect of The Work for profit.
Why not? I helped translate the French works and took Berbelang’s place when you were short of help, pop. Pop, you can’t keep something as wonderful as your techniques a secret. They will benefit the world.
Charlotte, I think we should be careful. I don’t know the extent to which the Haitian aspects of The Work can be translated here. Suppose the loas have followed the features of their work I have borrowed. This means that they have to be appeased. That’s why I require that the 22 trays be fed just in case. The 22 trays dedicated to the Haitian loa. I know you all think it’s silly but we have to observe these precautions. People didn’t believe me when I warned of the Jes Grew epidemic; but now here it is.
O pop, they just invented that to sell the tabs, you know how outrageous the newspapers are getting to be.
I still think you ought to wait, Charlotte. It might be dangerous. Upset a loa’s Petro and you will be visited by troubles you never could have imagined.
Charlotte rises from the desk, walks over to LaBas and puts her arms around his neck.
Look, pop, I want to take the benefits of all of the beautiful things you and Earline and Berbelang have taught me and give it to everyone.
PaPa LaBas pauses for a moment.
I hate to let you go but I guess you know what you’re doing.
Charlotte picks up her things and walks toward the door. She turns, kisses LaBas goodbye and walks out. LaBas hears her conversing with Earline outside the door.
She had been hired as a translator. Sometimes, the mail being so slow, she would be his messenger. Taking packages to his clients on her way home. He was worried about her. There was always the precaution he had developed because he had “been called” and awarded himself the Asson which was as good as inheriting the ability to Work. But he felt obligated to warn his technicians of malevolent side effects of the field lest they pick up a loa they didn’t want. If this was considered conservatism or orthodoxy then that’s what it would have to be.
He phoned the florist. He would send Charlotte a mixed bunch of roses. She could choose the variety she wanted. She liked to choose.
*
The Conquest of Epidemic Disease—
Charles Edward Amory.
*
No one called him an anti-Negro vulgarian, however.
*
Castles in the Air—
Irene Castle.
E
ARLINE IS QUITE CHEERFUL
when she arrives home. She has bought this marvelous scarf which bears a design of a stylized heart pierced by a dagger. She amuses herself by thinking this an apt metaphor for her present affair of the heart. She removes the mail from the box. She then picks up the New York
Sun
which lies on the doormat. The headline is about Haiti. VooDoo generals. Something about Marines. She has heard PaPa LaBas speak of Haiti. He wanted to visit there but wasn’t able to. PaPa LaBas had quipped, If I don’t visit Haiti perhaps Haiti will come to me. Earline enters the apartment and goes into the living room. She undresses for a bath. She takes a luxurious bath in basil leaves and strange aromas. Her black skin glistens like a glazed piece of pottery. It affects the touch like satin. She lies in the tub, the folded newspaper in her hand.
What was this about doughboy zombies? The tabs were becoming outrageous; as if the scandals of Hollywood weren’t enough they were playing up this matter on Haiti. Recently 1 of the reporters had sneaked into a big house chamber and emerged with a picture of a woman undergoing execution—ghastly but fun.
The picture showed a zombie Marine surrounded by men in white coats. The door opens.
Hi.
Looking through the open bathroom door into the other room, she sees Berbelang. Hi? You’ve been gone for 3 days, all you got to say is hi? Hello.
Berbelang, what is happening to you?
Berbelang opens the refrigerator and takes out a piece of barbecue from a bowl. He removes the wrapping and eats a short rib.
O I’ve been busy, you know, hanging out.
He wears a black hat featuring a white silk headband decorated with black scarabs and a long woolen black frock coat which hugs him about the ankles. He wears these impeccably shined high black boots of blunt-toed Civil War style. A very fat knotted and hand-painted tie under a white vest decorated with black orchid designs. It isn’t new but he’s clean and he wears the stuff well. He is known by the fellows as a Lounge Lizard for his way with women. But he doesn’t pursue it. He isn’t 1 of these Drugstore Cowboys or Creepers who hang out, ogling every Jazz Baby who walks by. Berbelang is serious.
Look baby, soon I will be through and able to tell you everything but now, sugar, you have to trust me.
Earline stands in the doorway with an elaborately decorated towel covering her body.
Berbelang glances at the painting on the wall. It was done by J. B. Bottex, a Haitian. A Black Mary Magdalene and Jesus. The 1st thing you see is the woman’s effulgent rump covered by a lime dress. She wears pearls, a string around her neck, and her hair is tied in a bun. She is watching a procession, some Haitians following Christ…Christ has eyes for her. He has stopped and is staring at her as she leans over the banister of her porch.
Berbelang’s trousers sag a bit at the knees. He removes his coat and hat and tosses them across the table. Earline has moved over to the bed and, legs crossed, is sitting on its edge.
What’s that pretty thing lying next to you?
A scarf I bought today.
Berbelang approaches the bed and handles the scarf. Fondles the silk in his hand and smiles.
Some very serious things are happening baby, Berbelang confides, King down next to her. You will see that Jes Grew is no dream of an old man but…dynamic, engrossing—
Earline rises, supports herself by leaning on her hands. She starts to defend PaPa LaBas.
O Berbelang, he admires you so, why can’t you be—
But Berbelang has other ideas. He puts his hands about her waist and they begin some furious necking. He switches off the lights so that only the
Fire of Love Brand Oil
candles burn. Sputtering candles whose poles have been anointed.
At 3:00 in the morning Earline awakes. She feels warm under the covers, a contentment like bathing in the rich soap, the basil leaves. She turns to her lover. The pillow shows the imprint of where his head once was.
H
INCKLE VON VAMPTON RESEMBLES
the 4th Horseman of Apocalypse as depicted in a strange painting by William Blake: a grey-bearded figure of whom it was written: “Behold, pale horse and its rider’s name was Death and Hades followed him…” Von Vampton works in the copy room of the Atonist voice, the New York
Sun,
administered by members of the Wallflower Order. He lives in a rooming house located in the Chelsea district of New York City. Never married, he sits with his companions in an Automat on 23rd Street, night after night, discussing European history, drinking coffee and eating bean pie. His companions get into heated arguments as numerous cups of coffee are fetched from the Automat’s spigot. Hinckle Von Vampton, steady, a black patch on his eye from an old war wound, is often referred to by the disputants as “The Grand Master.”
1 night, Von Vampton’s nosy landlady, who constantly interrupts his meditations by sweeping about the door of his room, peers through his keyhole and finds the man staring at an ugly, hideous bejeweled object: a little black doll. Hinckle Von Vampton is dressed as she is to report later, “like 1 of them Knight fellers. And began kissing some ugly nigger doll.” Spaced-out, his good pupil dilating, sitting in a ragged uniform marked with a Red Cross emblem, a coat of lamb’s wool, he utters a strange cry.
And then in reverie he leans back into his chair.
It is
A.D.
1118—the Burgundian knight Hugues de Payens is conducting a ceremony before the Temple of Solomon. He is founding the “Knights Templar” the “poor fellows of Christ.” They are a scraggly bunch who look as if they haven’t bathed in months. They are a kind of Tac Squad for Western Civilization; a mighty highway patrol assigned to protect the pilgrims en route to the Holy Land from attack by infidels and robbers.