Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [40]
“They follow the rituals.” Mambo Celeste eyed me with disdain. “They serve the loa.”
“Vodou worship involves propitiating and invoking the favor of the loa,” Max said to me, “which is a pantheon of spirits that includes ancestors, natural forces, and representatives of human nature. Worshippers make appropriate gifts of food, beverages, shelter, and money, and they pay homage with respect, deference, and love.” He gestured to Mambo Celeste and her twining reptile. “A mambo or a houngan—er, a priest—is an accomplished intermediary who can intercede with the loa on behalf of the community. A mambo is someone who has trained with dedication, studied devoutly, and made great personal sacrifices to be closer to the spirits.”
Looking rather pleased with this description of herself, Mambo Celeste looked curiously at Max. “Are you a servant of the loa?”
“I am a respectful friend of all faiths,” Max said. “And an eager student of anyone willing to share wisdom and knowledge.”
Mambo Celeste smiled a little, and for a moment, she almost didn’t look unfriendly. “Perhaps you would like to join my community in a ritual one day?”
“I would be most honored to do so!” Max beamed at her.
She glanced at me with distaste, then said to him, “I suppose you may bring your friend, if you wish. But she must dress with more respect.”
“Er, I’m standing right here,” I pointed out.
“Hmph.”
While I gently explored the sore spot on my scalp again, Catherine said, “Were you coming to see me about something, Mambo Celeste?”
“Ah. Yes.”
Catherine said to me, “Well, as you can see, I have other matters to attend to. And your students are probably waiting for you downstairs.”
Since Napoleon seemed to be getting restless, I was only too happy to vacate the room. “Jeff?”
“Right.” His eyes were also on the snake. “Let’s go teach a class.”
“It was nice to meet you, Dr. Zadok,” Catherine said, dismissively. “Perhaps you’ll come to one of the foundation’s art exhibitions or public lectures someday.”
“I look forward to it.” He added to Mambo Celeste, “And to meeting you again, I hope.”
Once we were out in the hallway with the door closed behind us, Jeff said quietly to Max, “Well, you’ve certainly got hidden talent. I never saw that old witch warm up to anyone so fast—let alone a white person.”
“Hmm.” Max paused to study Darius’ photo again, then followed us to the stairs. “I certainly agree with your concerns about her roaming this building with an unrestrained boa constrictor. But a mambo is a learned and powerful woman, and that merits our respect.”
“She’s pretentious and nasty,” Jeff said dismissively as we started down the stairs. “That Creole accent she talks with? Please. Her family emigrated here from Haiti when she was a teenager, fleeing Duvalier. She’s been in New York for nearly forty years. You can’t tell me that ‘authentic’ accent isn’t put on—or at least consciously retained.”
“Oh, an accent can be a hard thing to shed,” Max said. “It’s just the way a person learned to speak a language. It feels familiar.”
Jeff paused on the steps as he listened to Max’s accented voice. “Sorry, Max. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just don’t like her.”
As we reached the ground floor, I said, “And I gather she doesn’t like white people?”
“Hell, no. Catherine’s the only white person I’ve ever seen her be at all friendly to—until Max turned her up sweet, that is.” Jeff gave Max an amused glance, then continued, “And, actually, it took a long time for her to accept Catherine.”
“What do you mean, ‘accept’? Catherine’s the boss,” I pointed out.
“Oh, she’s only the boss since the old man died. Here, this way.” Jeff led us to a set of swinging double doors and pushed them open.
“The old man? You mean Martin Livingston?”
We followed him into a hallway that had classrooms on either side of it. The foundation was obviously a busy place in summer. We passed an art class, a tribal drumming class, and a room full of women who seemed to be planning an event. Fortunately,