Two men are watching us,” Adrianna said. She handed Martinez her sketch pad. “I drew this. It only shows their faces in profile. It was the best I could do without them knowing.”
Martinez nodded. “Yes, the two men dressed in white. They have been following us since we left the hotel. I suspect they will continue to follow us, so this picture of their faces may be useful.” He tore off the top sheet, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
“Cabrera’s men?” Devlin asked.
“They are Abakua.” He pronounced the word Ahh-bah-quah. “This particular sect is unusual. They dress all in white and are known to work for State Security, which in itself is unusual. Normally, the Abakua shun the police and the government. Fortunately for us, these Abakua are not very good at their jobs.”
“What the hell is an Abakua?” Devlin asked.
“It is a secret society with many sects. Very violent and dangerous, and much feared by the people. They consider themselves part of Palo Monte, yet apart from it. Most paleros wish they were even more apart.”
“Great. We’re being followed by lunatic voodoo worshipers, who also happen to work for the secret police.” He reached out and placed a hand on Martinez’s shoulder. “You have any good news?”
Martinez offered up one of his mournful smiles. “Soon, my friend. Soon we will have good news. I promise you.”
They drove a dozen blocks before Martinez pulled to the curb in front of a large, crumbling house that would easily qualify as a small mansion.
He turned to face Adrianna. “This is your ancestral home,” he said. “It was the home of your grandfather before he left Cuba. It was also the home of his father before him.”
Adrianna turned to look at the house. It was two stories of stone, covered with stucco that had fallen away in places. There were two balconies visible from the front, with ornately carved stone balustrades and curved floor-to-ceiling windows. The small front yard was closed off by a low stone wall and iron gates, and behind it thick tropical vegetation hid much of the house from view. There was a long driveway that led back to a large detached carriage house, with long-disused servants’ quarters above. It was one of those houses that years before must have seemed impervious to any changes that might come.
On either side stood equally once elegant homes, homes that now spoke of the new Cuba of the past forty years. To the left was a brightly painted and well-tended mansion that served as the headquarters of the Cuban Olympic Committee. To the right was an even larger, but fast-crumbling house that had been converted into apartments. A large Cuban flag hung from one window of the second house, while another held freshly washed clothing set out to dry.
“It’s like seeing a world that doesn’t exist anymore,” Adrianna said. “I’m trying to imagine what all this was like when my grandfather lived here.”
“It was an elegant neighborhood,” Martinez offered. “People like your grandfather lived in great splendor, while others barely lived at all.” He shrugged, as if apologizing for that regretful truth. “Your aunt returned to the house after the revolution. She lived here with her sister, Amelia, and her sister’s husband. But apparently the two women did not get along, and later Fidel gave her another house in Miramar, where many of the leaders of the revolution still live.”
“Fidel gave her a house? Himself?”
“Oh yes. All the houses given to heroes of the revolution were selected by Fidel, or at least personally approved by him. It is the same today. He is-how do you say it? — a micromanager?” Martinez seemed pleased with his use of the word. “Anyway, your tia Amelia lives here alone now. Her husband died several years ago. But certainly you knew that.”
Adrianna shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I never even met my aunt Amelia.” Her hands tightened in her lap. “I guess it’s time I did.”
A small, agitated woman with the darting eyes of an angry bird opened the door. Amelia Mendez de Pedroso glared at Adrianna, then at the two men. Her hair was pulled back in a tight gray bun. Strands had pulled free on either side, and it gave her a wild, slightly mad look. She was frail, almost shrunken, and well into her seventies. Yet there was an intimidating quality about her that caused Adrianna to hesitate.
“Auntie … it is I. Adrianna … your niece. Your brother Rudolfo’s daughter.”
The old woman stared at her, horrified. “Rudolfo is dead. Don’t talk to me about the dead. It is bad luck.”
Adrianna turned to Martinez, momentarily confused. She switched to English. “What do I say to her? Does she even know about my aunt Maria?”
“I understand what you are saying,” the old woman snapped. “Don’t think you can fool me by speaking in English. Why are you talking about my communist sister, may God forgive her treacherous soul. And who are these men? They smell like Castro’s police.”
Martinez stepped forward. “Ah, your nose is good, senora. At least for me.”
The old woman let out a grunt. “Even an old woman can smell swine. Why are you bringing my niece here? Has she been arrested?”
“No, I assure you, senora. No one has been arrested. I have brought your niece here to speak to you about your sister’s death.” Martinez spoke to the woman in Spanish.
The old woman snorted and looked at Martinez with contempt. “I can speak English, you know. You think I am not educated, but I am. And do not try to fool me. My sister is not dead.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You communists are not clever enough to kill her.”
“Senora …”
Another wave. “I saw her only yesterday.” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I had just awakened from a dream, and she was standing there in the room. Ochun was with her. It is how I know the paleros have her.” There was a sly smile, then her eyes turned hostile again. “It is all Juanita’s fault, may her cursed heathen soul bum in hell.”
Adrianna stepped forward and took her aunt’s hand. “Tia Amelia, may we come in? I so much want to speak with you.”
The old woman’s eyes remained suspicious. Then she seemed to surrender to the inevitable. “You may come into my house. But you remember. Nothing in here is yours. My father gave me this house when he and Rudolfo left Cuba. It is all mine, even though my communist sister will tell you differently.”
They followed her into the dark interior, down a long hall absent of any light, passing several closed doors as they moved toward the rear of the house. The hallway was narrow and confining, the heat trapped inside it oppressive. Whatever paint was left on the walls was peeling badly, mostly from areas where pictures had once hung. A heavy odor of mildew and decay seemed to permeate everything, to come from deep within the structure itself, almost as if the house was mourning what it once had been.
They passed through a final door and entered a large kitchen. It had the look of a place heavily lived in. There was an ancient wooden table with six sturdy chairs, set apart from the cooking area. A pedal-operated sewing machine sat before a tall, wide window that looked into an overgrown garden, behind which stood the carriage house and servants’ quarters.
Amelia waved at the chairs, waited for them to be seated, then stared at the one empty seat beside her niece before reluctantly sitting herself.
Adrianna reached out and took her hand again. “Tia Amelia, tell me about this Juanita you spoke about. Was she the nana you and Tia Maria and my father had as children?”
Amelia pulled her hand away, then pushed herself up and went to a small bookcase next to the door they had entered. She returned with a photo album and began turning the pages.
She let out a long, somewhat nervous breath when she reached the photo she wanted, and jabbed a finger at it. “Here,” she said, pointing to three small children gathered around a large black woman, a bandanna around her head, a cigar protruding from her mouth. “Juanita Asparu,” Amelia said. “A daughter of Obatala.”
Adrianna looked at Martinez. The major gave her a helpless shrug.
“Obatala is one of the orishas, the African gods,” he explained. “There are two hundred and thirty-six gods and goddesses, about thirty who are very important. Obatala is among the most powerful. All children belong to her. As a daughter of Obatala, this Juanita would be able to give a child to another god.”
“Yes, yes.” Amelia’s voice had grown insistent. “When she was just a child, Maria was given to Ochun by Juanita.” She gave her niece a cunning smile. “This is why the communists could never kill my sister.”
Devlin leaned forward, bringing the old woman’s eyes to his. “This Ochun, this is the person who was with your sister?”
Amelia gave Devlin a look of contempt. “Ochun is not a person,” she snapped. “It is like this policeman says. She is one of the orishas.” Her eyes flicked to Martinez, as if asking why he had brought such a fool into her home.
Devlin refused to give up. “What did this Ochun look like?” he asked.
The old woman snorted. “As she always looks,” she snapped. “Like the Virgin of Caridad, very saintly and black as the night. Protector of all the whores and deviants.”
Martinez placed a hand on Devlin’s arm. “Ochun is one of our most popular orishas. You will see many women dressed in yellow to honor her. She is very powerful. Also very vindictive. She can give twenty-five blessings, or twenty-five curses. And if you should ever harm a daughter of Ochun …” He ended the sentence with a shrug.
“Yes, yes.” Amelia echoed Martinez’s warning with a vigorous nod. “It is why Maria is safe from them.” She gave Martinez a contemptuous look, as if he was one of her sister’s enemies.
“Do you believe in these gods?” Devlin asked.
She gave Devlin a sly look. “You are my niece’s lover, eh? I saw your picture. My niece sent it to my sister and she showed it to me.” She nodded as if coming to a decision. “You are very handsome. But you are also from the police. I know about you.”
“Do you believe in these gods, Aunt Amelia?” Devlin asked again.
The old woman stared at him. “I am not your aunt. Do not try and fool me. And I believe in nothing.” She turned her glare on Martinez and elevated her chin defiantly. “And, especially, I do not believe in that communist fool Fidel. The Negroes believe in him, just as they believe in their gods.” She made a slicing gesture with one bony hand, as if wielding a knife. “Fidel cut off their tails and let them down from the trees, and now I have them living next door to me. And now their gods even enter my home with my sister.” She reached out and slammed the album shut, as if closing away her childhood. “It is all the communists’ doing. All of it.”
“I am afraid she will be of little help to us,” Martinez said. They were driving back toward the old city, headed to the apartment of Jose Tamayo, the mystery writer-cum-political cop whom Martinez wanted to enlist in their small army.
“You think she’s …” Devlin finished the sentence by tapping the side of his head.
Martinez shrugged. It was the major’s habitual response to any question. But it wasn’t just Martinez. Devlin had gotten it from bellmen and waiters, and just about everyone he had met. It seemed to be the Cuban national answer to any question.
“She is old,” Martinez said. “But I suspect she is also very clever. She also likes to say things that are not acceptable. Perhaps she feels it is safer to act”-he glanced regretfully at Adrianna-“shall we say, somewhat mentally infirm.”
“Do you think she believes in these … these orishas?”
Martinez kept his eyes straight ahead. Devlin could see he was smiling. “Did you notice the bracelet she wore on her wrist. The one made of blue and white beads.”
“I noticed it,” Adrianna said.
“It is a symbol that marks her as a daughter of Yemaya, the goddess of the sea and the home and motherhood. Sailors worship her and seek her protection. She is also Ochun’s older sister, and the one who gave Ochun her powers. And Yemaya, herself, is very powerful, her dark side very capable of vengeance.”
Adrianna gave Martinez a sharp look. His words had seemed sly to her, almost condescending. “I don’t care what she believes, or doesn’t believe. I think she was frightened.” She held the major’s gaze, defying him to contradict her. “I want to go back and see her again. But next time I’ll go alone.”
“I’m not sure that’s-” Another sharp look from Adrianna killed Devlin’s objection in mid-sentence. “Maybe Ollie could go with you,” he said instead.
“God, no.”
“He could stay outside,” Devlin offered.
“He’d scare the entire neighborhood.” Adrianna shook her head, letting him know further discussion was useless. “I want to see her again, and I don’t want her to feel her home is being invaded. I want her to talk to me, and I don’t think that will happen unless I go alone.”
Before heading to their next stop, Martinez stopped at a public phone to check with his office. When he returned to the car, his face was masked by uncertainty.
“It seems Colonel Cabrera has postponed your appointment.”
“Until when?” Devlin asked.
“Tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Do you think that means he’s found something?” There was a hint of hope in Adrianna’s voice.
Martinez inclined his head slightly as if considering the possibility. “I think it is more likely he wants to await a report from his Abakua henchmen and see what we are up to. But we can be hopeful.”
“Maybe we should ask him why the Abakua are following us,” Adrianna suggested.
Martinez and Devlin exchanged a quick look.
“Perhaps it would be better to let the chicken sit on the nest undisturbed,” Martinez said. “But on our way to Jose Tamayo’s apartment, perhaps we also could give the chicken something to think about.”
“What would that be?” Devlin asked.
Martinez offered up his Cuban shrug. “Perhaps I can come up with something,” he said.
Jose Tamayo’s apartment was in a battered block of tenements off the Plaza de Armas, a small square dominated by a statue of Carlos Manuel de Cespedes, who led the fight to free Cuba from Spanish domination.
Martinez parked his ancient Chevrolet in front of what appeared to be a diminutive church that sat behind a spiked iron gate and an ancient tree with wide-spreading branches.
“Come,” he said. “Let me play tour guide for the benefit of the Abakua.”
Martinez stood before the gate. Fifty yards away, the two Abakua who were tailing them sat in their car on the other side of the plaza.
“Those clowns certainly stand out in a crowd,” Devlin said.
“Yes. They are not very good at surveillance, but they are persistent.” Martinez raised one hand toward the small church hidden behind the massive tree. “So, I will play tour guide for a few minutes. Then we will lose our Abakua friends before we go to Jose Tamayo’s home. And, who can say, you may even enjoy my instructions.”
Martinez waved his hand in a circle. “Here, under this sacred ceiba tree, on November sixteenth, 1511, was held the first mass to celebrate the founding of the city. The small church behind the tree, the Templete, was built later, in 1828, and it holds paintings commemorating that day.”
“It can’t be the same tree,” Adrianna said.
Martinez raised and lowered his bushy eyebrows. “It is unlikely. Some say succeeding trees were grown from shoots of the original. But, according to legend, it is the same tree. I suspect the tree has been replaced several times, possibly from these shoots, but many prefer to believe the original tree has endured.” He smiled. “Like Cuba itself.”
Martinez took each of their arms and started to walk toward the small park at the center of the plaza. “The ceiba tree is also very important in Palo Monte. The paleros believe the god Iroko lives in the tree. If a palero must leave his home, he will bury his nganga under a ceiba tree and Iroko will protect it. Then, when the palero returns he must leave money for the god in order to retrieve his possessions.” A broad smile creased Martinez’s face. “The gods, the orishas, do nothing for free, you see. If they are not paid, they will do no work, either for good or for evil.”
The major led them into the small park, the surrounding sidewalks of which were filled with used-book stalls. “We will buy one of Tamayo’s books,” he said. “He will be very honored if you present it for him to sign.” He let out a small laugh. “Like the orishas, Cubans also do not like to work for free.”
“What kind of books does he write?” Adrianna asked.
“He is a great follower of your American writers Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. I do not know the work of these men, but it is said that Tamayo’s is very similar.”
“They were very good,” Adrianna said. “What we call ‘hard-boiled’ fiction.”
“Ah, yes,” Martinez said. “That is Tamayo. Very hard-boiled. But only in his writing.”
After buying a copy of one of Tamayo’s books, they made their way through the plaza and into a government building that housed offices for the Ministry of the Army. Once inside, they immediately moved to a side door that opened onto an adjacent street. Three entry ways down, they turned into a dark, narrow hall covered in ancient mosaic tiles.
“This is Tamayo’s building,” Martinez said as he led them to a narrow staircase that had frayed electric wires hanging from the ceiling. “The Abakua will be staring at the government building we first entered, wondering who in the army is giving us aid and comfort.” He laughed. “It will also give Colonel Cabrera great concern when they tell him where we went.”
Devlin glanced at the ceiling of the battered building they had entered. “He won’t have anything to worry about if we don’t get out of this firetrap alive.”
Martinez followed Devlin’s gaze. “Do not worry,” he said. “Tamayo is a son of Chango, the god of thunder and fire-a very powerful rascal-and he will not allow flames to touch the home of his follower. Besides, Tamayo also keeps a statue of Eleggua behind his door, which he feeds every day.”
“Feeds?” Devlin asked.
Martinez nodded. “Yes, feeds, my friend. From his mouth he sprays it with aguardiente, a cheap Cuban rum. This way he gives Eleggua his ache, his spirit, and this assures the god is content and that Tamayo has nothing to fear inside these walls.”
“Jesus Christ,” Devlin said. “Is there anybody in Cuba who doesn’t believe in these gods?”
“Oh yes,” Martinez said. “There are many. You will know them by the misery in their lives.”
They climbed the battered staircase, past crumbling walls and metal doors, many of which had more than one lock. Martinez had told them that Tamayo was one of Cuba’s most revered and successful writers. Now he had also told him that the man practiced a form of voodoo that was beyond Devlin’s comprehension. And that those who didn’t practice voodoo could be known by the misery in their lives? He glanced about him as he climbed the steamy, battered staircase to the fourth floor of this hellhole firetrap of a building. If this was viewed as the absence of misery, he wondered what life in Cuba was for those who rejected these two hundred and thirty-six African gods. And what had it been before the arrival of Comandante Fidel. Perhaps that was it, he thought. Like Castro, perhaps these strange religious beliefs simply offered hope in a country where hope had always been the one elusive commodity of life.
A tall, slender, coffee-colored man with short, tightly curled gray hair opened the door of the apartment. He was well into his sixties, but his face was spread into a smile that made him seem far younger, a smile so genuine that Devlin had the inexplicable feeling they had known each other for years.
The man bubbled forth in perfect, if somewhat formal English. “I am Jose Tamayo. Welcome. Welcome. I am honored to have you visit my home.”
Over Tamayo’s shoulder Devlin glimpsed a small, sparsely furnished apartment. There was a main room, consisting of four dinette-type chairs covered in plastic, set in a line before an old black-and-white television set. A small table sat next to one of the chairs, holding only a telephone and a single ashtray in which a large cigar smoldered. Off that room was a galley kitchen, giving off a rich aroma of Cuban coffee, and a long, narrow terrace overlooking an in terior courtyard. Two open louvered doors on the terrace led to small, cramped bedrooms. Martinez had told them that Tamayo’s son and daughter-in-law lived there as well, but that both were now at work.
Tamayo ushered them into the main room and seated them on the dinette chairs with all the formality of someone offering the comfort of a plushly furnished room. He then hurried to the kitchen, returning with steaming cups of coffee. When Adrianna presented the battered book they had purchased, his face again burst into youthful radiance, and he quickly signed it with the exuberance of a child opening gifts on Christmas morning.
As he handed back the book, Tamayo’s expressive face filled with unabashed regret. “My wife, who is away working this morning, asked me to add her condolences to my own,” he said. He reached out and took Adrianna’s hand. “Your aunt was a great woman, and a great hero of our revolution, and my wife and I were greatly honored by her friendship.”
For the first time since she learned of her aunt’s death, Devlin saw tears form in Adrianna’s eyes. He leaned forward, drawing the writer’s attention.
“The major tells me you once worked with the political police,” he said. “We are hoping you can use your knowledge to help us find the body of Maria Mendez.”
Tamayo nodded, then made a small wave with one hand, as if brushing aside his past activities.
“I was merely a propagandist, senor. My job was to put forth my government’s views on political matters.” He wagged his head from side to side. “Sometimes they were accurate expressions, sometimes merely views my government wished others to share. So, my police abilities, I’m afraid, are really limited to my fictional writings.” He leaned forward, his face filling with more sincerity than Devlin had ever seen crammed in the face of one man.
He nodded toward Martinez. “Arnaldo has explained, however, that Palo Monte may be involved. In this I can help you. I have written extensively about Palo Monte in my fiction, and I am also a believer in its powers.”
Martinez interrupted, explaining what they had discovered at the funeral home. He handed Tamayo the black feather the ancient security guard had given them.
Tamayo held the feather up to the light and nodded. “There is no question this is from the aura tinosa.” He looked at Devlin. “This is the scavenger bird we call mayimbe, very sacred to the Palo Monte, and very integral to their rituals.”
“We are also under surveillance by two Abakua,” Martinez added.
Tamayo’s eyes hardened into a look of true hatred. He turned to Adrianna. “First, I must tell you that I have grave doubts that your aunt’s death was the result of any accident.”
Adrianna’s eyes widened and she seemed ready to speak, but Tamayo hurried on. “I have no proof of this.” He brought his hand to his chest. “But from here I believe this is true.”
“What makes you believe it?” Devlin asked.
Tamayo shook his head, his eyes still severe. “Something sinister is going on in my country, Senor Devlin. I do not know what it is, but I do know that two people high in our government also held this belief. And now both are dead.” He looked back at Adrianna. “Regrettably, one of those people was your beloved aunt.”
“Who was the other?” Adrianna asked.
Tamayo drew a deep breath. “Are you familiar with the name Manuel Pineiro?”
Adrianna shook her head. Tamayo turned to Devlin and received the same response.
Tamayo picked up his cigar, noted that it had gone out, and returned it to the ashtray. “Manuel Pineiro was known as Barba Roja to the people-or Red Beard. For twenty years he was the head of our intelligence apparatus, our spymaster as my fellow novelist John le Carre would say, and someone equally as respected in the intelligence community as the famous East German Markus Wolf, who le Carre used as the model for his great villain. In short, he was very good at his job-a man who knew all the secrets.”
“And he was also killed?” Devlin asked.
Tamayo nodded. “Also in a car crash earlier this year.”
“Was his body stolen?”
“No,” Tamayo said. “But there were reports that several men dressed all in white were seen near the site of the crash. I believe they were members of a particular sect of the Abakua.”
Devlin turned to Martinez.
“This is true.” Martinez glanced at Adrianna, his eyes filled with regret. “Police also saw these Abakua near the scene of your aunt’s accident. The Abakua fled when they arrived, and I am ashamed to say the police did not pursue them. There were only two police officers, and at least five Abakua. As I explained, they are much feared by the people.” He hesitated, then added: “And some of our less courageous police.”
“And it is known that these Abakua-the ones who dress in white-are often the tools of State Security,” Tamayo added.
Devlin sat back and digested what he had been told. He let out a long breath. “Tell me how Palo Monte fits into this.”
Tamayo took time to relight his cigar, sending a stream of thick smoke up toward the high ceiling. “Before you can grasp what I am about to tell you, you must first understand something about our Afro-Cuban religions.” He raised two fingers of one hand, then one of the other hand. “There are two of these religions, and one false religion. First is Regla de Osha, which is also known as Santeria. It is the most gentle of the religions in its divination rites, and it is very closely tied to Catholicism. It was brought to Cuba by highly educated African slaves from Nigeria. Next is Regla Mayombe, also known as Palo Monte. This is a much darker and more primitive religion, which performs its divinations through contact with the dead. It originates from very primitive Bantu slaves brought here from the Congo. And finally there is the Abakua, which is not a true religion, but rather a secret society that believes in solving all problems through violence. These Abakua originally came from West Africa’s Calabar River basin, where they were part of the leopard society of the Negbe people. Here in Cuba, they have formed their own sects, which are tied to Palo Monte through the use of corrupt paleros who seek to use the power of the Abakua.”
“And you think one of these corrupt paleros was behind the theft of Maria Mendez’s body?”
Tamayo nodded.
“Why?” Devlin asked.
“To make a nganga to the god BabaluAye.”
Devlin let out another long breath and held up his hands. “You are losing me again. First, I keep hearing about all this nganga business, but I can’t seem to find out what the hell it is.”
Tamayo smiled. “I will explain.” He turned to Adrianna and his face filled with regret. “Some of the things I will tell you will sound unreasonable, perhaps even cruel and barbaric. I ask you to be indulgent, and to remember that the followers of Palo Monte hold these beliefs as strongly as those who believe deeply in the teachings of Judaism or Christianity or any other religion.”
He turned back to Devlin. “The nganga is at the center of all Palo Monte ritual. It is basically a large pot”-he made a circle with his arms, indicating something two and a half to three feet in diameter-“into which various sacred items are placed. The nganga is dedicated to one of the gods, but its purpose is to speak to the dead, and get the dead to answer questions about the future, and to perform certain acts for its owner-acts of both good and evil. But the main purpose of the nganga is to protect the owner from harm.
“Central to the nganga are the bones of a dead one-man or woman-with whom the owner can drive a bargain by feeding the nganga his own blood at least once each year. In addition, the owner must give the nganga whatever it asks for, which is usually money or some offering, but in some rare cases it has been known to involve the life of another-even someone very dear to the owner.
“So first we start with the bones of a dead one-the skull so it can think and speak; fingers so it can do what it must; feet so it can travel wherever necessary. There also may be the bones of other dead ones, but the first bones-the oldest-rule the nganga, and the other dead are there only to assist.”
Tamayo glanced at Adrianna to assure himself that his words were not causing her distress.
“The bones that are selected for the nganga determine the type of power it will possess. If, for example, the owner wants to do harm to his enemies, he will use the bones of a killer, or a person who was evil in life. If, on the other hand, he wishes to cure an illness, or protect against illness, he will choose the bones of a great healer.” Again he glanced at Adrianna.
“Where do they get these bones?” Devlin asked.
Tamayo gave him a somewhat sheepish half smile. “Usually, they are stolen from cemeteries.”
“Is this common?” Adrianna asked.
Another half smile. “Let us say it is more common than the government would like it to be known. Let me give an example. For some reason that I have never been able to understand, Palo Monte believes that the bones of a Chinese are very lucky, and can be used to bring good fortune.” He shrugged away his lack of understanding. “For this reason many Cubans have paleros make ngangas with Chinese bones, or have them include Chinese bones in ngangas made for other purposes.” He leaned forward. “Here in Cuba, the Chinese have their own cemeteries, and the theft of Chinese bodies is so prevalent that most of the graves in these cemeteries have been protected by alarms.”
“Burglar alarms?” Devlin sounded incredulous.
“I am afraid that is so,” Tamayo said. “To the Chinese, we are viewed as a nation of grave robbers.”
“What else goes into these ngangas?” Adrianna asked.
“Ah, many things. First there is earth from the four sides of the grave from which the body was taken, or where it was to be buried. Then there is the hide of a snake, which was the origin of the religion, and which consolidates the nganga‘s power. Then the skeleton of a dog to go and fetch things for the dead one. Also the skeleton and feathers of mayimbe-the scavenger bird I told you about. There will also be the bones and feathers of a night bird to allow the dead one to see in the dark. Then there are many sacred woods from the forest-palo monte actually means ‘sticks of the forest.’ These are woods that can do either good or evil. One of the most powerful of the sticks is from a tree called the jaquey. Another is from the rompezaraguey, a very evil forest wood. Then, of course, there are things needed by the dead one to perform his duties-herbs for healing, if that is the purpose. A knife or gun for killing, perhaps. And then there are the things needed by the god to whom the nganga is dedicated. If that god were BabaluAye, there would be items related to illness and death and healing. If it were to the great warrior Oggun, it would be filled with objects of metal, over which Oggun holds all power.”
“But once you have all these things, how does it work?” Adrianna asked.
“Everything is based on the three principles of magic,” Tamayo said. He raised three fingers. “First, that the same produces the same. Next, that things that have been in contact influence each other. And, finally, that everything-man, animal, object-has a soul.” He folded his hands in front of him as if preparing to pray. His voice became solemn. “Using these principles, the palero questions the dead one-or asks its assistance in certain matters. He does this through prayers, chanted in a mixture of Bantu and Spanish, and by throwing the coconuts-special religious shells that the palero has made from pieces of the coconut shell, each about the size of a large coin. The dead one answers the questions and requests put to it by means of the shells. Let me show you.”
Tamayo left for a moment and returned with some paper and a pencil. He began drawing and writing rapidly.
“Now, the coconut shells have both a concave and convex side, and how they end up when they are thrown by the palero determines the answer of the dead one.” He pointed to the first drawing, which showed all the shells with the concave sides turned up. “This answer is Alafia. It means yes, good news, but is not conclusive. More questions need to be asked, or offerings made if it involved a request.
“Next is two shells up, two down. This is Eyife. It is a definite yes, a conclusive answer.”
He pointed to the third drawing-three shells with the convex side up and one down. “Here the answer is Otawe. This means that the answer could be yes, but there is an obstacle to overcome.
“Next is three shells down and one up-Ocana. This is a definite no to the question or request. It tells us that something is wrong, or has happened, or was done by some enemy. To overcome this there must be an Ebbo, an offering to the god of the nganga.
“And finally is Oyekun, which is all shells facing down. This means that the dead one wants to speak, and you must question him.”
Devlin stared at Tamayo. The man seemed sincere in all he had said, like a Christian explaining the equally unfathomable resurrection of Christ.
“And you believe all of this?” he asked. “You believe that it works?”
“I have seen it work, my friend.” He gave Devlin a small smile that seemed a mixture of patience and tolerance. “And tonight, at midnight, when you visit the great palero Plante Firme, I believe you also will see it work.” He turned to Adrianna. “And it will be you who will make this magic happen. Because tonight, with Plante Firme’s help, you will speak to the dead man.”