63
by Mary Wakefield
I’m standing in a smallish, windowless world to the spirit world. “Papa Legba, bar in Baton Rouge, killing time, drinking
room on the ground floor of a large Papa Legba,” the women in white Sol lager through a lime, when a young
house just south of the French Quarter invoke the gatekeeper spirit. “Salut � toi couple – both in beige slacks - started
in New Orleans. The room is murky, lit Legba. Ouvre moi les portes.” Then the up a conversation. England! How
by blurry pools of candle-light. There priestess stops, shivers, turns. nayce” etc. When I said I was at a loose
are makeshift altars against the walls, A grin stretches slowly across her face. end, Mr Beige gave Mrs B a look. Some
packed with offerings to the voodoo But I don’t recognise her anymore: her secret understanding passed between
spirits: rum, tobacco and (oddly) tins expressions are all different, her smile is them, then Mr Beige coughed and said:
of sweet corn. In a far corner five men different, her eyes clouded and absent, “Why don’t you stay at our place in
beat African drums. Thump...thump... like a sleep-walker. Has some nasty New Orleans? We have an apartment in
thump... spirit slipped through the gate and into the French Quarter that we never visit.
In the middle of the room four her head? Anything seems possible. I’ll give you a key, you can just post it
women in white togas are dancing ”Maman” makes a beeline for me, back through the door when you leave.”
in a slow circle, their shadows flicker her hands held out in a welcoming A few days later, I was happily
and dive down the walls. One woman, fashion. Shit. Should I bolt for the door? settled into their fabulous flat.
the priestess, “Maman” mutters in What in God’s name possessed me The DVD remote was working, there
Louisiana French Creole. No-one to come here? was a basket full of Mars bars on
is laughing. I am not laughing. I am From the moment I crossed over the table. My good fortune seemed
keeping up an expression of polite from Texas - speeding along the I-10 limitless. Then phone rang.
interest, but actually, I’m scared. over the stinking swamps - everything Mr Beige: How are you settling in?
The door is right behind me, but it’s about Louisiana seemed to augur Me: Great, terrific, thanks!
still too far away. unease - Spanish moss crept along Mr Beige: Listen, we were just
The drums pick up speed and then... the boughs of the ancient oaks, crossing wondering if you’d like to come on a
panic! The priestess, beckons to me to from branch to branch, carefully little holiday with us to Vegas.
join in. There seems to be no option, darning out the nice blue sky; the bayou Me: No thanks! I only just arrived
so forward I step, into an awkward lay low, black like bitumen, emitting a Mr Beige: No, I mean my wife and I both
prance. Faster, faster, faster. We’re sinister steam. like you very much. We could all play
circling a symbol drawn on the floor Then there was the curious way I around together, see?”
in heaped white lines of flour and salt: was lured to New Orleans. It seemed at Me (confused): Seriously, no thanks.
a gate “Maman” said it was, from this the time like a stroke of luck. I was in a You’ve been too kind already.”
avantoure
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school of trickery