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iconography suggested the
Virgin Mary but the picture itself was of a blackskinned female, eyes
startlingly large and white, breasts exposed and bountiful. Two boys, both
black and covered with red fur, hung from her breasts. Twisted roots lay on
red cloth before the icon. One of the roots had been cut and oozed a milky
fluid.
| Do you see her, too? Carol asked.
| I do. The twins again. They re both black this time...
| She looks like the woman in the dream.. . what was her name, Hazel?
| Erzulie.
| Let s call her up.
| No, Martin said firmly. She s not a minor player. We don t even want to deal
with a figure that powerful. Not for a mere guide.
| She spoke to us, she told us what had happened, Carol persisted, puzzled by
his reluctance.
| There s a knot tied there. Some connection with the male figure who attacked
you. I say let s work with simpler figures for now.
| You think Goldsmith was fixated on Mama? Carol asked. Her flippancy and
continuing dread made an odd and irritating combination for Martin.
| draw no conclusions yet.
He examined the window s objects more carefully. They seemed to be for ritual
purposes; cheap plastic horns painted with snakes and fish, paper umbrellas
ornamented with grimacing faces limned in jagged red lines, dried fish with
shrunken eyes, jars filled with pickled snakes and frogs.
| Let s go in here, Martin said.
Why?
A hunch.
She followed him reluctantly through the door into the shop. A bell jingled
overhead and the interior suddenly took on a fixed solidity indistinguishable
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from reality. The effect was startling; Martin could smell the herbs and
flowers arrayed in stacks and rows along the shelves. He could feel his shoes
rolling sandy grit and sawdust on the old wood floor.
A wrinkled old woman, not Erzulie, stood behind a counter pouring out brown
powder into a white enamel basin on a scale.  May I help you? she asked, her
voice clear and her words distinct. Her face was wrinkled and shiny like the
skin on a dried frog. Her yellowed ivory eyes were full of humor.
 We re lost, Martin said.  We need to find somebody in charge.
 I run this shop, the woman said, smiling broadly and waving her arm in
gentle scallop sweeps at the shelves.  My name is Madame Roach. What can I get
you?
Carol stepped forward. The woman fixed her eyes on her.  Poor girl, she said,
smile fading into pained sympathy.  You ve been through a lot of trouble
lately, haven t you?
What happened, my dear?
The woman lifted a gate and emerged from behind the counter shaking her head
and tsk tsking.  You ve been attacked, she said. She touched Carol s
longsuit. The suit vanished, leaving Carol in her previous flowing white
dress. Patches of blood stained the front of the dress.  Some savage things
have been at you. She turned on Martin.  You brought this poor girl here. Why
didn t you protect her?
Martin had no answer.
 We were caught in a nightmare, Carol said, her voice like a little girl s.
 There wasn t anything either of us could do.
 If you don t know your way around I wonder why you came here at all, the old
woman said, expression deeply disapproving.  This isn t a nice neighborhood
anymore. It used to be wonderful. People came in all the time to shop. Now
it s just commuters
rushing uptown to work, and then dying at the end of the day, no money to
spend, no need for Madame Roach. Why are you here?
 We re looking for someone in charge, Martin repeated.
 Won t I do?
 I don t know.
 At least I m willing to answer your questions, she said slyly, winking at
Carol.
 Does he really understand anything? she asked her behind a cupped hand.
 Maybe not, Carol said, voice still girlish.
 You come back with me to the rear of the shop and I ll fix you up, the old
woman said.  As for you, young man, you just look around here. Whatever you
need you ll find on these shelves. But whatever you do, don t open that jar on
the table. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]