The next day, Paz stayed late in bed, drifting in and out of a hypnopompic sleep in whose vapors lurked worry and discontent. Awake at last, he lay with his arms behind his head staring at the white ceiling, counting out the reasons why this should be so. Colombianpistoleros? Check. Huge magical jaguar after his little girl? Check. Oddly enough, he decided that these worries, however grim they might seem to an ordinary man, did not constitute the basis of his unease. It was deeper than that, existentially deep. Neither he nor his family had been troubled by nightmares since he’d brought back the Santería charms from the littlebotánica. Which, despite the bravado he’d shown in dealing with his wife’s disbelief, he knew was impossible. Little bags of whatever should not have had any effect on their dreams, but they had, even though Amelia was a kid and Lola was a total skeptic. He no longer knew what he believed anymore, but he understood that this amphibian life he had been leading with respect to Santería was breaking down; he would have to go in one direction or the other, toward the sunlit uplands of rationality inhabited by Bob Zwick, his wife, and all their pals, or down, into the soup, with Mom.
And since his social world was composed of people who were either believers or skeptics, there was no one who could give him any meaningful advice, or…as this thought crossed his mind he recalled that there was at least one other person who’d been in precisely the same bind, who had in fact introduced him to the possibility that there was in fact an unseen world. He reached for the bedside telephone and his address book and dialed an unlisted number with a Long Island area code.
A woman answered.
“Jane?” he said. “This is Jimmy Paz.”
A pause on the line. “From Miami?”
“Among your many Jimmy Pazes, I am in fact the one from Miami. How’re you doing, Jane? What is it, eight or nine years?”
“About that. Gosh, let me sit down. Well, this is a blast from the past.”
Some small talk here, which Paz encouraged, being a little nervous about broaching the point of this call. He learned how she was-daughter Luz, twelve and flourishing, Jane teaching anthropology at Columbia and running her family’s foundation. He told her about his own family.
“You’re still with the cops, I take it.”
“No, I’m running the restaurant with my mom. Why do you take it?”
“Oh, nothing…just that we had an intense twenty-four hours eight years ago but not what you could call a relationship, and suddenly you call. I assumed it was police business.”
“Actually, I guess you could call it that. Look, I’m in a…I don’t know what you’d call it, a kind of existential bind…”
She laughed, a deep chuckle that sent him back over that span of years. He brought her face up out of memory: Jane Doe, a handsome fine-boned woman with cropped yellow hair and a mad look in her pale eyes. Jane Doe from the famous Voodoo murders, a woman with whom he had shared the single most frightening experience of his life, actual zombies walking the streets of Miami and the gods of Africa breaking through to warp time and matter.
“Those’re the worst kind,” she said. “What’s the problem? Morevoudon?”
“Not really. Do you know anything about shape-shifting?”
“A little. Are we talking imitative, pseudomorphic, or physical?”
“What’s the difference?”
“It’s complicated.”
“If you have the time, I do.”
He heard her take a deep breath.
“Well, in general humans tend to be uncomfortable locked in the prison of the self. Our own identification with nations and sports teams is probably a relic of that, and on a higher level there’s religion, of course. Traditional peoples often identify with animals, and from this we get imitative magic. The shaman allows the spirit of the totemic animal to occupy his psyche. He becomes the animal, and not in a merely symbolic way. To him and the people participating heis the bison, or whatever. They see a bison.”
“You mean they hallucinate it.”
“No, I don’t mean that at all. ‘Hallucination’ is not a useful term in this kind of anthropology. It’s a mistake to assume that the psyches of traditional people are the same as ours. You might just as well say that the particle physicist hallucinates his data in accordance with a ritual called science. Anyway, that’s imitative shape-shifting, well established in anthro literature. In pseudomorphic shape-shifts, the shaman creates or summons a spiritual being which then has an observable reality. The observer hears scratching, sees a shape, smells the creature, and so on. Traditional people are mainly substance dualists, of course. The spirit is completely separate from the flesh, and the body it happens to occupy at the moment is not the only body it can occupy. Anthro tends to draw the line here because we don’t understand how it’s possible to do that, since we’re all supposed to be good little materialist monists. I’ve had personal experience with both types, if that helps.”
“What about physical shape-shifting?”
Another chuckle. “Oh, that. Ah, Jimmy, would you care to tell me what this is all about?”
He told her the whole thing: murders, evidence, dreams, theenkangues, the Indian, his conversations with Zwick. And the business with Amelia.
“So what do you think, Jane?” he asked at the end of it. “Hoax or what?”
“It sounds like you think it’s real.”
“I don’t know what to think. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“Okay, then: physical shifting. I’ve never seen it, but there’s a lot of anecdotal evidence. There’s a whole book on it calledHuman Animals by a guy named Hamel. Makes interesting reading. Obviously, if factual, just like your smart friend says, we have no idea of how it’s done. Had I not seen what you and I saw that time, I’d be prepared to discount it, too, but having seen it, I conclude that the world is not what it appears to the senses and is wider than what can fit in a lab. Why do you think it’s after your kid?”
“I have no idea. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not to you, maybe, but traditional people think on wavelengths that are closed to us high-tech folks. Your mom still around?”
“Yeah, she is. Why?”
“What does she think of all this?”
“I haven’t filled her in.”
“Why not?”
“I was hoping you’d say I should load with silver bullets and it’d be cool. Or garlic.”
“Yeah, well, a being who can manipulate the fabric of space and matter is unlikely to be swattable by a bullet made of any particular element. You’re still afraid to take the plunge, aren’t you? I recall you were reluctant to go the whole way back then. Your precious ontological cherry.”
A nervous laugh from Paz. It was cool in the bedroom, but he felt the sweat start on his forehead and flanks. “Guilty. I’m not designed for this shit. I just want everything to be regular, as my kid says. Why me? I whine.”
“Yeah, the great question. You’re not religious, are you?”
“Not if I can help it. Why?”
“Because it answers the ‘why me’ question pretty good. And the religious can pray their way past a lot of this unseen-world stuff. My advice is, talk to your mom.”
“Yeah, I’m on that already, as a matter of fact.”
“And…?”
“I don’t know, Jane. I guess I’m…I guess I’ve been unwilling to totally, you know, accept the reality of…”
“You’re scared shitless.”
He could not restrain a laugh but was successful in keeping it from blossoming into full hysterics. “Yeah, you could put it like that.”
“That’s good, actually,” Jane said. “If you weren’t frightened, you’d be fucking doomed. The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.”
“But we’re not talking about God here, are we?”
“Aren’t we? It’s always a mistake to try to put him in a box and say this is holy and this is not. As soon as we worship any good thing that’s not ourselves we’re worshipping him. You and I are on what they used to call the left-hand path. We have the illusion we know where we’re going, and how proud we are of our navigational skills. And then, well, what do you know! We end up in this tight little place with no way out except for one little tiny crack, but we can’t pass through it unless we admit we’re not God Almighty and in total control. That’s when we experience that ripping existential terror. If I were you I would visit the bathroom frequently.”
“Oh, thanks, Jane, speaking of tight little places-I feel so much better. Listen, you wouldn’t consider coming down here and holding my hand, you being so experienced in this kind of shit?”
She hooted. “Oh, no, thank you! After what happened that time, I think I can say that my zombie jamboree days are over: this rough magic I here abjure. I’m a proper Catholic lady now, I take my kid and my dad to mass every Sunday, and I even have a little hat. Oh, and you’ll find this amusing. The church we go to is called Mary Star of the Sea-you remember the way you were chanting that when the witching hour hit…?”
“Yes, despite trying to forget,” said Paz quickly.
“Yeah, me, too. Anyway, you can tell your mom that every week, in a church consecrated to her, I light a candle to Yemaya. And, Jimmy? When the time comes, just let it all go, let it bore right down to the deepest level. Love is magic, too. She’s not going to let anything bad happen to you.”
“If you say so. Well, Jane, thanks for the advice. Maybe our paths will cross again, in this world or the next.”
A low laugh. “I bet we will. And good luck. I’ll pray for you.”
Paz said good-bye and broke the connection and thought about boring down to the deepest level. Without replacing the receiver he rang his sister at home and had a short and somewhat technical conversation with her, after which he was pretty sure that he knew why Gabriel Hurtado was in Miami. So, one problem solved. He dropped the phone into its cradle and was not extremely surprised when the phone rang ten seconds later and his mother’s voice came over the line. She got right to the point.
“It’s time for you to beasiento, ” she said. “You have to start tonight.”
Paz took in a breath to say no to this proposal.Asiento, the ritual that prepared a person to act as a “seat” for a god.
Mrs. Paz said, “It’s necessary if you want to protect Amelia. Thesanteros have met, and they all agree. You have to be made to the saints. Soon. Now.”
He spoke then and heard his voice expressing consent. This did not surprise him either.
“I’ll come by in an hour,” she said.
“What should I bring?”
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s not a vacation.”
His wife was the surprised one when he informed her that he would be out of reach for a full week.
They were out on the back patio when he told her, having cleverly delayed the moment until she was about to leave for work. Just beyond them arose squeals of delight and the sound of splashing water. Jenny had set up the inflatable pool and was entertaining Amelia.
“That’s crazy,” said the wife.
“Are you speaking as a psychiatrist or was that a figure of speech?”
“Jimmy, you don’t even believe in that stuff.” Here a sharp look. “Or do you?”
“Let’s say my beliefs are in flux. I know you’ve forgotten the way you were a little while ago, and about what stopped it, which is real convenient for you, but I seem to be engaged in something here and I can’t let it go so easy.”
“And what about Amy? I can’t take a week off work so you can ‘engage’ in some ritual to make your mother happy.”
“You won’t have to. Jenny will take care of her. See, it’s all been mystically arranged.” He gave her a big smile, which she did not return.
“Don’t be ridiculous! That girl can barely take care of herself. What if she seizes again?”
“I thought we were supposed to hire the handicapped.”
“And the Colombians?”
“You’re covered there. I’ll have Tito put a patrol car out on the street twenty-four/seven while I’m away. And if you’re uncomfortable with that, I’m sure my mom would volunteer to move in for the week.”
She could not keep the look of horror from her face. “We’ll talk about this later,” she said and climbed onto her bicycle. As he watched her depart Paz could not help chuckling. Manipulative swine that he was, he understood that Lola would give her daughter to a brain-dead quadriplegic before she’d let Margarita Paz move in for a week. He walked back to where the girls were sporting.
“That looks like fun,” he said.
“It is,” said Amelia. “Are you going to come in the water with us?” Paz glanced at Jenny, who was wearing an electric-blue thong bikini of Lola’s that Lola herself had not dared in years, exhibiting as much youthful scrumptiousness as anyone could desire. For about twelve seconds Paz contemplated what would happen, all unwillingly, should he roll about in the tiny pool in contact withthat. Not.
“I don’t think so, baby,” he said. “Maybe later. Jenny, could I talk to you for a second?”
She jumped up, jiggling exquisitely; he led her a few paces away. She was perfectly amenable to the plan, seemed almost to have anticipated the request. She had, of course, a vast experience minding young children, often under difficult circumstances. The money he offered was fine. Her medical condition would not be a problem, she said.
“You’re on medication, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
This was a lie, he detected, but he let it pass. When Amelia was informed of the arrangement, she howled and leaped for joy.
Paz returned to his lounger on the patio, sipped his cooling coffee and read the newspaper without much interest. The lead story concerned the destruction of the S-9, a pumping station north of Miami, by a powerful bomb. An organization that called itself the Earth People’s Army had claimed credit, although this was not entirely accepted by the authorities. An editorial suggested the fell hand of Al Qaeda or even more shadowy groups, striking at American prosperity by flooding prime Florida real estate. In a statement published in the paper, this putative organization threatened to bring down industrial society unless the Everglades was restored to its pristine condition and a host of other environmental cures instantly adopted. Wishing the evil ones the best of luck, he tossed the paper aside and drifted into the Florida room, where he watched a golf tournament, an old sitcom, a shopping show, a county commission meeting, and a tour of the French wine country by balloon, each for around two minutes, after which he muted the sound and put in a call to Tito Morales.
“Is this going to mess you up?” Paz asked after informing the detective that he would be unavailable for a number of days and required round-the-clock security for his family. He did not specify his destination. Morales said, “You’re worried about the Indian?”
“Yeah, a little. That’s why I need to be away for a while.”
“I’m not going to ask where. You think a couple of cops are going to stop him?”
“Not really, but what the fuck can I do? I just have to hope I’ll be able to do what I need to do in time. Meanwhile there’s the Colombians. They still might have an interest in the Simpson girl. How’s the case against them going?”
“Oh, thecase. Forget the case, man. The case is officially solved. All units are on the lookout for one homicidal Indian. The county is satisfied, we’re satisfied, and we’re on to newer and greater adventures. You heard about our terrorist?”
“Just what I read in the paper.”
“Oh, well, you can imagine. The feds are no longer interested in Colombian drug lords. Everyone could care less if Cubanguapos get their livers eaten, and as far as those two narco thugs in the garage are concerned, they’re making a medal, whoever did it. Meanwhile, every swinging dick, fed, county, and local, is now on full terror alert. Leaves canceled, automatic weapons issued-it’s a total zoo.”
“For a pump?”
“See, you say that because you’re not hydrologically aware. Miami is a fucking swamp. These bastards blow a few more pumps, and should we happen to get a couple fucking hurricanes this year, they’ll be fishing for marlin on Flagler Street. The major said to thank you for your invaluable help, by the way. They might make you a plaque.” Paz heard noises in the background, voices and car engines. “Hey, I got to go, man,” Morales said. “Catch you later.”
Paz had been about to tell Morales that there was at least one man in town with a connection to the environmental movement who had a professional skill with bombs, but the moment passed. Let them figure it out. Paz had a boat, after all, and he thought it might be kind of cool to fish on the drowned avenues of downtown. Besides, he wanted to talk to Cooksey himself, on this and other matters. But not today. His week was spoken for. He went back to the lounger and let his mind go blank, listening to birdsong and his child’s laughter until he heard the sound of his mother’s car in the driveway.
Jenny felt a certain relief when the man left. He had a way of looking at her, a sharp look that she associated with street cops, as if he knew stuff about her she didn’t want out in the open. Cooksey had a sharp look, too, but that was different, like he was seeing something in her that she didn’t know was there and it would be a good thing if she learned about it. She missed Cooksey a little, but her life had rendered her nearly immune to missing anyone very badly. Perhaps she missed the fish a little more.
The child was getting wrinkly from the water, so Jenny got her out of the pool, dried and dressed, contemplating the clothes in her wardrobe with wonder. She supposed all of them had been bought new. She herself had never had new clothes as a child, but such was the sweetness of her nature that she bore the present child no resentment. She felt sorry for her, actually, without quite knowing why. A small puzzle here, nagging.
The day progressed pleasantly enough. She called Cooksey and told him more or less what had transpired since she had left La Casita with Kevin, including her rescue by Moie, but omitting the details. She said she thought she’d stay at the Paz house for a while. They seemed to need her. Cooksey made no objection; he was delighted to learn she was safe.
Then she made lunch for the girl, tuna fish sandwiches, from the can, following the child’s instruction so that the sandwich would resemble in every detail those made by her father, the toast just so, the crusts removed, the chocolate milk in the special glass. Jenny followed these diktats amiably, delighting in a child who had confidence enough to order an adult around. She had never seen anything like it while growing up.
After lunch she cleaned the kitchen with quick efficiency and then went through the house with the child in tow, making a game of neatening, dusting, mopping, picking up toys and strewn luxuries. She didn’t think much of the mother’s housekeeping, but she figured that was to be expected from a doctor. Cooksey was a slob, too. The child informed her that no one was allowed in Mom’s office when she wasn’t around, and Jenny acquiesced in this.
They watched DVDs,The Lion King andThe Little Mermaid, with the child telling Jenny what was going to happen next and singing along with the songs. The Disney music was not able, however, to drive from her head the song that had been circulating around in there for a whole day now, maybe longer, an ancient Pink Floyd number, “Brain Damage.” An older kid in one of her foster homes was always playing it. She hadn’t thought about it for years but now could not get it out of her head:
You lock the door
And throw away the key
There’s someone in my head but it’s not me.
Therewas someone in her head that wasn’t her, a presence, unobtrusive, silent, but unquestionablythere, like someone staring at you in a crowded restaurant, but staring from the inside. She was not afraid, however, and this in itself was startling. After all that had gone down recently-Kevin getting his brains blown out all over her lap, being kidnapped and tied up naked, and what she’d seen in the garage-she should be a nervous wreck. I should be a nervous wreck, she said to herself, but I’m not. I feel fine, like I just smoked a huge spliff of primo dope, just kind of floating in the middle of life, like a fish, or this Little Mermaid on the TV. She thought it might have something to do with visiting the land of the dead with Moie. Maybe she had left all fear there. Anyway, it was cool, in a way, like being an X-man with secret powers. She settled back on the cushions and watched the movie, humming softly to herself.
Amelia dozed off toward the end of the film. Jenny watched the rest of it and then, driven by some unsettling energy, polished all the furniture that would take a polish and cleaned all the windows she could reach, with newspaper and vinegar. Then she began to assemble a meal. Invisible and indispensable, the two wings of her life strategy, her default mode. She slipped into it without thought, like a gecko going leaf-green on a leaf.
Thus when Lola came home (noting as she did so the Miami PD car with two cops in it across the street) she was presented with a working mother’s wet dream of a helper: she cleans, she cooks, she’s live-in, she’s dirt cheap, the child adores her, she’s sweet-natured, if a bit blank, she’snot a guilt-making member of the hitherto exploited races, the opposite really, a guilt-lessening member of the handicapped. True, Jenny might be involved with a murderous Colombian mob, and vicious killers might at that very moment be stalking her family (with her wacko husband off at some voodoo party instead of protecting his dear ones, the rat), but on the other hand, you could actually see through the windows, and the floors did not stick to one’s bare feet in that disgusting way, and here prepared from food already in the house a delicious crabmeat salad and actual warm biscuits thatshe baked from scratch herself, this alone worth defying the entire Cali cartel, enough even to forgive her husband.
Who had been given by his mother into the care of three elderly white-gownedsanteras, one of whom turned out to be Julia from thebotánica; apparently, she was to be hisyubona, or sponsor. Julia explained to him that what they were doing was quite irregular, that in old Cuba it might take nine months to prepare the head of aiyawo, an initiate, for union with theorisha, but that Pedro Ortiz and the othersanteros andsanteras had agreed that it was necessary, and also out of respect for his mother. They were in a room at the back of the house where Pedro Ortiz held hisilé, a room that must at one time have been a closet or workroom, because it had no windows. It was furnished only with a mat and a large mahoganycanistillero, a cabinet for ritual objects.
The explanations went on for some time. Paz had a reasonable working knowledge of Lucumi, the African-based language of Santería, but Julia was using words that he didn’t know, quoting divinations not only from Ifa but also from the special readings that were part of theasiento ceremony itself, that were done not with palm nuts or divining chains but with handfuls of cowrie shells. Theseita divinations foretold a dark something if something didn’t do something to something sometime at some particular place.
“Mi madrina,”said Paz, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
The old woman shrugged and grinned and exchanged looks with the other two. “Of course not, but when theorisha is in your head, then you’ll understand it all.”
“The other thing I don’t get,” said Paz, “is I always thought that theorisha called the person and then the person prepared to receive thatorisha. But noorisha has called me.”
“Theorisha has been calling you for years,” said theyubona, “but you stopped your ears against him. He called so loud that everyone else heard it. It was very annoying.”
“I’m sorry,” said Paz, and as he said the conventional phrase, discovered that he really was. The old woman patted his hand. “Don’t worry, my son, we’ll make everything all right, although it’s going to be hard. You’re a stubborn donkey, like your mother, God bless her.”
“Really? I thought my mother was always made to the saints, from when she was a young girl.”
“If you think that, you don’t know much,” Julia said, and pressed her hand onto Paz’s still-inquiring mouth, saying, “No, this is not the time for you to talk. This is the time for you to listen, and watch and prepare your head for theorisha. ”
So then it began. Paz was ritually bathed and his head was washed and shaven, and he was dressed in white garments. He was placed on a mat, and the three women attended him as if he were a baby, giving him food and drink by hand, holding the spoon and the cup to his lips. The food was bland, mashed, and pale, the drink was herbal tea of many different kinds. There was a good deal of chanting and incense burning. A man Paz did not recognize came in and sacrificed a black pigeon, draining its blood into a coconut-shell bowl. He used the blood to draw designs on Paz’s nude scalp. More tea, more smoke, more singing. Paz lost track of time. He felt himself regressing into infancy, which he gathered was the idea. At length he slept.
And of course dreamed. When he awoke, there was Julia, her dark eyes and black-leather face close to his, asking him what his dream had been. The other two sat in the background quietly observing, like judges at a gymnastic event. He told her the dream. He was in Havana, walking down a forest path with Fidel. He felt that he had impressed Fidel so much that Fidel was going to give up communism and free Cuba. Only one thing stood in the way of this great blessing-Fidel wanted to hold a feast to celebrate the end of communism, and the only thing he wanted at the feast was baby wild pigs. They would need seven of them for the feast. Fidel handed Paz a bow and seven arrows and Paz went into the forest to hunt wild pigs. He found he was a great hunter and soon had seven little pigs in his bag. As he walked back to Fidel’s palace, he met his daughter. When he told her what he had in the bag she asked him for one of them. But Paz said no, because it was necessary for something very important, the liberation of Cuba, which Fidel would only do if he came back with the seven piglets. Not even one? Amelia cried. No, not even one, said Paz. It has to be seven. Then Amelia went away, and it started to rain and storm, a regular hurricane. Paz came to the palace all wet and battered by the storm and gave Fidel his sack. But when Fidel took out the piglets there were only six. Fidel was angry and said, “Can’t you follow my orders, Paz? I said seven. No freedom for Cuba now!”
So, Paz thought, some wicked person has stolen one of the piglets. So despite the hurricane he went back into the forest and found another herd of pigs and with his bow and arrow shot another one and brought it to Fidel, who was very happy with it. Then Fidel said, “You have done good work, and now do you wish anything for yourself? Ask and it shall be done.” And Paz thought about this and answered, “Yes, I want that wicked thief who stole my piglet caught by the police and shot.” So Fidel said, Let it be done. But the police brought in little Amelia, and Paz had to watch as they put her in front of the firing squad.
“And was she shot, your daughter?”
“I don’t know. I pointed my bow at Fidel and threatened to shoot him if they didn’t let her go; it was kind of a standoff, I think.”
“No, in the dream she dies. You know that this is the dream of Oshosi?”
“I didn’t know. How can you tell?”
“It’s the same story, what we call theapataki, the life of theorishas while they were still human. But in that story Oshosi hunts quail for Olodumare, the god of gods, and his mother steals it, and Oshosi catches another one, pleasing Olodumare, and Oshosi asks that his arrow find the heart of the thief, and so it did, killing his mother. Also Oshosi’s number is seven, and there were seven arrows and seven pigs. What were you wearing in the dream?”
“I don’t know, some kind of uniform, a green and brown uniform like they wear in Cuba.”
“Yes, green and brown are Oshosi’s colors. He is the lord of the hunt. Now you know who is trying to fill your head. It’s good.” She smiled broadly at him, and the other holy ladies did, too. And itwas good, Paz thought. Oshosi the Hunter felt right to him. He had been a hunter himself, a hunter of men, and even though he was one no longer, he felt the pull, and so he had let himself become involved in hunting the magic jaguar. He recalled how he’d handled the small bow at thebotánica, and also one of the symbols of Oshosi was a jailhouse, yes, and what was Paz’s favorite fruit-the mango, also Oshosi’s. Yes, everything was connected, a sure sign of insanity, his wife might have said, but his wife was not here. Only themadrinas were here, unless this was another dream, that he was in a small white room with white-clad women treating him like a baby, in which case he was doomed, so why think about it?
He watched with interest as they laid out the round stones, thefundamentos of Oshosi in a half circle in front of him. These contained theashe of theorisha, which would be transmitted into Paz’s head. The woman honored thefundamentos by bathing them and pouring herbal decoctions on their smooth surfaces. The same was done to Paz’s head.
Five days passed in this way, Paz not being permitted to walk or talk, being fed by hand. Was he drugged? He didn’t know, and after a short while he didn’t care. His former life became vague, a distant half-recalled dream. This was the only reality, the slow, chanting, smoky, endless afternoons and nights. And more sacrifices. Thesantero came in at intervals and sacrificed beasts: roosters, pigeons, a small piglet, a black goat. Thesantero fed a portion of the blood of the sacrificed to the stones and arranged their heads and feet in the deep-bellied clay pots,soperas. At the end of the five days, Julia announced that a seat for theorisha had formed in Paz’s head.
Paz felt this, too, a difference subtle but real, like the loss of virginity or how you felt after killing a man. He could talk now, it seemed, and was free to walk around, which he did on tender feet that seemed not to quite touch the floor. The five days of private gestation were over; now wasel dia de la coronación. Paz wasiyawo, a bride of the orisha. Themadrinas dressed him in fresh white garments and freshly shaved his head, renewing the markings on it. He was given a crown of bright green parrot feathers, a cloak of emerald brocade, and the symbols of hisorisha: a bow, and a leather quiver with seven arrows, and a small wooden model of a jail. Around his shoulders he wore the great embroidered, bead-worked, shell-danglingcollares de mazo, and thus clothed they led him to the main room of the house, one corner of which had been made into a throne room, with silk hangings of green and brown and apilón, a royal stool of the kind used by the kings of Ifé. There they sat him, and around his feet they lay yams and mangoes in piles, and the air was scented by these and by the cooking for the wedding feast, the roasting and frying of the sacrificial beasts.
People arrived in numbers, singing praise songs and abasing themselves before the throne of Paz-Oshosi. Among these was his mother, and seeing her, Paz understood that his previous relationship with her was over, that the personality of a rather bratty and sarcastic man he’d used to defend himself against her force during the whole of his life was gone, that now they would be demigods together.
The room became more crowded and grew warmer. Paz was given a glass and told to drink it: it wasaguardiente, Oshosi’s drink. The sweat popped out on his upper lip. The drummers arrived, three very black men, and greeted thesantero, and set up their instruments on a wooden platform built on one side of the room: theiya, the great mother drum, the smalleritotele, and the littleokonkolo. As usual, in the casual African way, the thing began. The sharp penetrating crack of theiya rang out, and the chatter of the other drums and the gourd rattle in the hands of thesantero, weaving the ancient and intricate sounds, music as the language of thesantos. Theilé took up the song to Eshu-Eleggua, the guardian of the gates,ago ago ago ilé ago: open up, open up.
Paz sat on his throne-stool thinking about his mother and about someone he seemed to have heard of long ago named Jimmy Paz, who had a kid and who was married to a doctor, nice enough guy, something of a wiseass, and wondered if what he was now could ever be fitted back into that container.
People swayed to the rhythm, and an elderly woman made to Eshu danced in front of Paz. The chanting grew louder, more insistent. The people sang for Oshosi to come down to take his new bride. Paz blinked sweat from his eyes; the shapes of people and objects were starting to get weird and shaky. And there was a little inquiring voice in his mind, and Paz had to admit that yes, he’d gone through this somewhat tedious ritual, and he understood the benefits of purification, and he recognized it as a symbol of some kind of coming-of-age, some kind of making peace with the Afro-Cuban part of his background, and yes, it had changed him, he was really a better person for it, and he even imagined himself explaining all of this in a rational voice to his wife. But in the midst of this pleasant notional conversation (itself born of a terror that Paz was yet unwilling to own), Oshosi, Lord of Beasts, stepped through the gate from the unseen world and into Paz’s head.
So now Paz understood that there is a virginity much deeper than the sexual one about which people make so much fuss, the basic bedrock understanding of physical being we bring from earliest childhood that nearly everyone in the modern world carries intact to their graves: that the world is as it is represented by our senses; that we sit permanently within our own heads, all alone in there; that belief is a choice we make with our minds. All this vanished in the first seconds, as theorisha penetrated his body, and here he understood that calling the person in this situation a bride was no mere figure of speech; he was being fucked by a god, not unwillingly it seemed, but undeniably possessed, never again to be the same.
Paz has seen people ridden by theorishas before this and had supposed that while theorisha was in charge the people were unconscious, but now he finds that this is not so. He is now outside his body, a disembodied spirit containing nothing but a benign interest in what his body is doing. It is down there dancing in front of the throne while the drums sing. It goes on for a long time, this dance; Paz sees his body do things it cannot normally do.
Then he is back in the flesh, with people helping him to stand. His legs barely support him, and he is covered with sweat. There was a warmth in his groin and his joints, as if he has just made love for hours. They sat him on his throne, and Julia and themadrinas and thesantero spoke to him about his new life, and of theewos, the ritual tasks and prohibitions that came with it. Thus passedel dia de la coronación. The next day wasel dia del medio, devoted to feasting and visits of congratulation by Miami’s Santería world. People prostrated themselves in front of Oshosi as Paz. Paz found he enjoyed being a god. His mother came by, and they had a long conversation about this, during which Paz was able to admit cheerfully that he’d been wrong about nearly everything, and his mother was able to do the same about all her mistakes in raising him, and they had a good laugh about it.
The next day wasel dia del Ita. A man, theitalero, very old and brown and dressed in immaculate white, came in and threw cowrie shells on a mat and from the fall predicted the remainder of Paz’s life, its dangers, failures, and triumphs. Paz was surprised at some of it, but the rest seemed a reasonable projection from his current state.
He asked theitalero about jaguars and daughters and got the usual oracular answer. Apparently it was all up to Paz, either he’d make the right decision or not. He should depend on hisorisha. Having now met this entity, Paz thought this was pretty good advice.