endearments, salacious suggestions. I drop my cloth wrap, I tear at his clothes, I drag him naked into the little bedroom, and oh, good, he has a huge hard-on, far bigger than Witt’s actual thing, parodically immense, black as obsidian glass, shiny wet. There is no room on the bed, for the bedroom is full of naked women. They are all playing with babies, newborns, crooning, tickling, nursing. Most of the women are black, but there are several with blond hair, one of whom looks Cuban. All the babies are dead, though, because the tops of all their heads have been sliced neatly off and their brains are missing; the tiny empty skulls gape like fledglings, but the women don’t seem to notice, or to notice that their own bellies have been sliced open, and that everything in the room is coated with, gelid with, slick, dark blood. I am insane with frustration, the desire is intolerable, I rub at my genitals. I shout at the women, I shoulder them aside, pushing them off the bed.
One is my sister. She looks me in the face, such a look as I cannot recall my sister ever giving me, full of love and compassion. I lie on my back and raise my knees and he falls on me and shoves it in, huge, impossible, I am being ripped apart, but the pleasure is so overwhelming that I don’t care if I die. Then my sister says, into my ear, “Forgive me.”
It is like an electric shock. Someone is holding me from behind, there is motion, we are on a boat, there’s a cheek pressed against mine, my hands are on a tiller. He’s guiding my hands, my father’s big freckled hands on mine. I can smell him. It’s dark, we’re sailing through the dark, through black water. A voice in my ear, warm breath. It’s a sad voice, disappointed. I know I’ve screwed up badly. The unevenness I felt earlier is explained. The wrong ally. There’s a hole in the circle of protection. The son and the mother are solid, but the yellow bird is wrong. The wrong yellow bird. I didn’t pay enough attention. I was distracted by fear.
The hands on mine turn stringy and black-skinned.
Now Ulune is sitting in front of me and the boat has turned into the landscape around Danolo, still moving, a heavy nauseating roll. Glowing lines radiate out from Ulune’s head, a thick meshwork that envelopes me, too, and everything else. I see the net of fate, and I understand that my whole life? my whole life?was for this purpose, my family, my childhood, my education. Marcel, the Chenka, Witt, Africa, all has been arranged so that I would be in a position to be where I am now, to function as a weapon in the jiladoul.
Shooting blanks, as it turns out, a broken blade. I’ve failed.
Sadness is flowing out of Ulune’s face. I see it as a colored mist, taste it as bitter, smell it as blood, earth, damp cloth. He is fading. I am still enclosed by arms, still feel breath on my cheek, but the arms and hands are turning into the limbs of a beast, the breath is rank and too hot.
Ulune wait! One question.
His face flows back into focus; an interested look appears on it. This is a tradition. The teacher always waits for one last question, but only one.
I say, now tell me about the Ilidoni. Where did that come from? Stupid! I have wasted my one question on a historical detail, but Ulune seems pleased by it. The net lines flowing from his breast become brighter. I hear his voice. Knowledge flows into me.
In Ife, long ago, the orishas were not yet divided from the ajogun; all were the same, all were honored. The orishas walked the streets of Ife alongside the Olo people. But then some of the Olo became proud, for although they had much, they desired more. These people said, Why must we dwell here in m’fa, where we must labor for our food, where we sicken and die like the animals? In m’arun the orishas live forever, and have nothing but pleasure. Let us conquer m’arun, and make it our own. These people were great sorcerers and with gifts, magic, and clever talk they corrupted half of the number of the gods. These became the ajogun. The evil ajogun showed the Olo sorcerers the way of great power, the okunikua. They tore the babies from the wombs of women, and ate their parts, and became strong as the gods. They assaulted m’arun and there was a great war. Now Olodumare was angered and showed his face. Ife was brought to ruin, and the Olo sent on their wandering, and many of the ajogun were destroyed, too, which is why there are now four hundred and one orishas, but only two hundred ajogun, and why the orishas are always vigilant, to this day, and the Olo honor them and walk in their paths. The ajogun are like rats in the house, allowed to eat a little grain; yes, the orishas will not tear down the house for that, but if they bite the baby, then they tear down the house.
That was a good question, Jeanne. You are a brave little goat.
He smiles, and waves his cane and walks off, and he drags the world along with him, the heaving landscape sky air and sound, leaving me alone in the quivering darkness between the worlds. Why was it a good question? Goat? What did he mean by … the thought flies out of my mind. There is a pulling. I am being pulled home like a naughty child. It is a torment, it is like being jerked through a keyhole by a meathook. And oddly enough, through the pain, I understand that this is necessary, too, this is what, in a way, the Chenka would have done to me had I the courage then, the death of all the ogga and of old Jane. In m’doli there is no time of the sort we are used to in m’fa, so this flensing goes on for quite a while, and is quite inexplicable. A log being lathed down to the size of a toothpick. Somehow in the middle of it, I become a Catholic again, my faith restored. What is pulling at me can’t possibly understand this part. It merely wants me back in my body. It’s focused on the fact that I am no danger to him now, that my circle of protection is broken, that my stool rests on two legs. The wrong yellow bird. I feel the flesh of m’fa grow around me again. A little ray of hope here. I am helpless, yes, but I am also quite a different sort of being from what It thinks I am. They will tear down the house if the rat bites the baby. And the goat. That’s important, too, I think, as I open my eyes and see my apartment again.
THIRTY-TWO
Paz felt his neck jerk up, felt the cords of the chair under him pressing on the backs of his knees. He was stiff. I must have dozed off, he thought. He looked around. The candles his mother had lit were dim in the bottoms of their glass cylinders. That was crazy: he couldn’t have been out that long. His mother was sitting at the table, with Jane, who was still slumped with her head hanging over her shoulder, eyes shut. His mother was singing something, not in Spanish or English, low, a chant. He barely recognized her face. The lines drawn by tyranny, pride, and suffering appeared to have melted away, bird tracks on the beach, leaving a fine, dense surface that glowed like an old piano. He felt a pang of resentment; I could have used some of this, if this was peace, you could have shared it … anyway, what was he doing here with this mumbo-jumbo. He said it to himself, Mumbo-jumbo, and then out loud, Mumbo-jumbo. He stood up. The hell with this shit.
Jane’s head snapped up and she looked at him. “Hold still. He’s coming here.” Her voice sounded deeper than it had before.
“Who, Moore?”
“No. Yes. Look, can you pray? I mean literally. Do you know any prayers?”
“You mean like Hail Mary?”
“Yes, that’s fine. He’s trying to get to you, he’s planting those thoughts, he wants you knocked out. Your mom’s like a rock, he can’t touch her, she’s Yemaya now. But he can get you. Pray, and don’t stop for anything. Oh, and say ‘Star of the Sea,’ add it to the prayer, it’ll link you up to Yemaya.”
“This is ridiculous, Jane, I don’t even believe in that shit anymore, and even if I did …”
There was a sound, a fluttering, clattering sound. They looked at the chick in its cage. It was battering itself against the mesh frantically, smashing its head, over and over, shattering its beak. It fell at last to the floor of its cage, vibrated briefly, and was still. A thread of blood came from its gaping mouth and formed a glistening droplet on the tip of its broken bill. The candles grew dim. The air in the room changed subtly, objects appearing as if seen through filthy glass.
Paz said, “HailMarystaroftheseafullofgracetheLordiswiththeeblessed- artthouamongwomenandblessedisthefruitofthywombJesus …” and continued in a low voice, concentrating on the words, fighting the thoughts that came bubbling up like foul oils in a well.
Then Witt Moore was in the room, no sound on the stairs, no opening of the door, he was just there, looking about the same as he had looked the other night during the supposed arrest, the same clothes, the same half-smile on his face. Standing next to him was Dawn Slotsky, wearing a man’s shirt over her great belly. Her legs were bare, her eyes shut, an expression of beatific calm on her face.
Moore said, “Well, Janey, what are we going to do with you?”
Paz wanted to stand up but found he had forgotten how to send messages to his arms and legs. The chair
