Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [16]
The man with the camera set up a tripod, and the other man boosted the woman onto the dais surrounding Iemanjá. She looked behind her nervously. I felt a rising tension around me.
“Do you think this is OK?” the woman asked.
“Yeah, sure, honey, sure. It’s just a statue of a mermaid.” The man turned back to the cameraman. “Ready?” The cameraman nodded. “OK, then take off the robe and put your arms around the statue. Like that. Great!”
The woman now stood almost nude in a tiny bikini, her arms wrapped around Iemanjá’s waist, her head nestled beneath the deity’s breasts. The model did not look relaxed. “I don’t like this,” she said. “I don’t think we should be doing this.”
Beside me, Ana began looking around frantically. Two women ran into the House and the crowd began to surge toward the dais. Several men shouted and began pushing their way to the front of the crowd.
“It’s OK, honey,” the director told the frightened model, “it’s just a Carnival thing.”
Someone pushed the cameraman. His tripod tipped, but he managed to grab his camera before it fell. He looked behind him. “No, it’s not all right, George.” He rapidly folded up his tripod. The woman shimmied down from the dais, sliding her bum over Iemanjá’s leg in the process. Andrea gave a small cry and started forward. The crowd closed around the three and began pushing them away from the dais.
George finally looked around. “Maybe we’d better go,” he said. The model grabbed the cameraman’s hand and began trotting, pushing through the crowd, slipping from view. George followed closely behind.
Everyone’s attention turned back to Iemanjá. Two women in the white dresses of Daughters of the Saints came running behind an older woman who, by her dress and demeanor, was clearly the Mother. She ran to Iemanjá, crying loudly for forgiveness for not protecting her properly. She grabbed the dais edge, knelt before it, and immediately her body went rigid. She held on tightly while the rest of her body flew into the air, her feet and legs rising a good four feet from the ground. Then she slammed to the ground again, her face crushed against the stone. Again and again, her body flew up into the air, seemed to stay suspended for a second, and then was slammed to the ground. Everyone around began to murmur in distress and concern, but no one moved. All the time, the Mother begged for Iemanjá’s forgiveness. She looked to be sixty. I wasn’t sure how she could withstand this battering or how her hands continued to grip the sides of the dais. I worried that she had broken her nose, or worse.
Finally, after perhaps eight tosses into the air and smashes to the ground, the Mother lay still. Iemanjá was apparently satisfied and released her. The Mother was also unconscious. Now, people rushed into action. Two Daughters and several others from the House ran to her side. Vendors pushed forward and provided cold water to bathe her body and face. Six people lifted the Mother’s limp body and carried her into the House.
I looked at Ana and Andrea. My stomach hurt from tension and incomprehension. “She’s hurt,” I said.
Ana nodded. “Yes. Those people were so stupid!” She tightened her lips in anger. “How could they not understand what they were doing?” I remained quiet. I certainly didn’t understand.
That evening the barge went out as usual. People around the square whispered that after several hours the Mother had finally regained consciousness. In the long shadows of twilight, we watched the barge. Men jumped into the sea beside it, shouting blessings to Iemanjá. We all crowded toward the water, few talking, watching the barge float away. I began to pray to all the gods I knew that Iemanjá, or whatever force was involved here, accept the gifts.
We waited almost an hour, mostly in silence, the samba music stilled.
Suddenly, the barge sagged on one side. Strangely, it then seemed to sag also on the other side. Then, as if the waters literally created a depression to receive it, the barge disappeared.
Men and women on shore burst into tears. Vendors shouted the