slavery-era costume. They milled about in an apparently aimless fashion, ignoring the visitors; now and again they would embrace one another and utter eerie cries like tree-canopy birds.
After a considerable amount of time the pai entered the room. He was a tall light-skinned black man wearing white clothes and a fixed sneer, as though his moustache was giving off a foul smell. He blew long jets of cigar smoke from his flared nostrils. The drummers struck up and the women began a shuffling, swaying dance, stomping the floor with bare feet. Soon – too soon, Faustino thought – one of them was writhing on the floor in front of the altar, moaning and gabbling in an invented or lost language, while the pai blew his smoke over her body and the other women yelped their bird calls.
This had gone on for several minutes, then the possessed woman got to her knees, pressed the pai’s hand to the crown of her head, lit a cigar from the altar, and rejoined her companions. Then the whole damned thing had started over again: the drumming, the dancing, another woman possessed, the room filling with shifting strata of blue smoke.
At the beginning of the evening Faustino had felt a bit … embarrassed, perhaps. Even intimidated. After two hours of this repetitive mumbo-jumbo these feelings had given way to a sullen boredom. He and the girl had tried to slip away in search of a taxi, but had found the iron gate between the yard and the street locked. It had been three o’clock in the morning before they’d been delivered back to their hotel. It was odd, really, that such a tedious and irritating experience should have lodged so vividly in his memory. Maybe it was because the two tickets for the performance had cost him eighty dollars.
He said to Edson Bakula, “With all due respect, I think they were taking the piss.”
Bakula smiled happily. “Because they took your hard-earned money off you? Well, yes, of course. But I’m sure you’ll be comforted to know that it would have been put to good use. Houses of Worship use their takings from tourists to provide education and medicines for the poor, among other things.”
“That’s all right, then,” Faustino said, lighting a cigarette.
“I take it you were at a white ceremony. White room, white clothes, and so on?”
“Yeah.”
“White ceremonies are healing ceremonies. Through the pai, people speak with their spirit ancestor, who gives them advice, comfort, strength. And God knows they need it. These people have hard lives.”
There was something about Edson Bakula that was … what? Patronizing? Schoolmasterish? Something that didn’t quite fit with his fine face, his easy smile.
But Faustino nodded understandingly. “And white ceremonies are the ones that tourists get to see, I assume. But there are other kinds?”
Bakula swirled his glass, apparently interested in the way the chunks of lime lurched among the ice.
“In San Juan,” he said, “white ceremonies are the most common. This is because for a long time now, people have come here from the country thinking that the life will be easier. It is not. Instead we found hardships, temptations, crimes we had not imagined. And were not ready for. So, of course, the Veneration houses that offered healing became popular. Important.”
As a journalist, Paul Faustino was always hugely pleased, as if he’d won a game of cards with a weak hand, when someone avoided answering a question. Because it had been, obviously, a good question. The trick was to wait a while before asking it again.
So he said, “I noticed that you said
we
just now. You said
we
found hardships and whatever. So you’re not a city boy? You’re from the country?”
Edson Bakula raised his hands and leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Ah. You have seen through my cool urban disguise. Yes, of course. I’m from the Cane Country. They still call it that, even though the sugar business collapsed a long, long time ago. You’ve heard of
After a considerable amount of time the pai entered the room. He was a tall light-skinned black man wearing white clothes and a fixed sneer, as though his moustache was giving off a foul smell. He blew long jets of cigar smoke from his flared nostrils. The drummers struck up and the women began a shuffling, swaying dance, stomping the floor with bare feet. Soon – too soon, Faustino thought – one of them was writhing on the floor in front of the altar, moaning and gabbling in an invented or lost language, while the pai blew his smoke over her body and the other women yelped their bird calls.
This had gone on for several minutes, then the possessed woman got to her knees, pressed the pai’s hand to the crown of her head, lit a cigar from the altar, and rejoined her companions. Then the whole damned thing had started over again: the drumming, the dancing, another woman possessed, the room filling with shifting strata of blue smoke.
At the beginning of the evening Faustino had felt a bit … embarrassed, perhaps. Even intimidated. After two hours of this repetitive mumbo-jumbo these feelings had given way to a sullen boredom. He and the girl had tried to slip away in search of a taxi, but had found the iron gate between the yard and the street locked. It had been three o’clock in the morning before they’d been delivered back to their hotel. It was odd, really, that such a tedious and irritating experience should have lodged so vividly in his memory. Maybe it was because the two tickets for the performance had cost him eighty dollars.
He said to Edson Bakula, “With all due respect, I think they were taking the piss.”
Bakula smiled happily. “Because they took your hard-earned money off you? Well, yes, of course. But I’m sure you’ll be comforted to know that it would have been put to good use. Houses of Worship use their takings from tourists to provide education and medicines for the poor, among other things.”
“That’s all right, then,” Faustino said, lighting a cigarette.
“I take it you were at a white ceremony. White room, white clothes, and so on?”
“Yeah.”
“White ceremonies are healing ceremonies. Through the pai, people speak with their spirit ancestor, who gives them advice, comfort, strength. And God knows they need it. These people have hard lives.”
There was something about Edson Bakula that was … what? Patronizing? Schoolmasterish? Something that didn’t quite fit with his fine face, his easy smile.
But Faustino nodded understandingly. “And white ceremonies are the ones that tourists get to see, I assume. But there are other kinds?”
Bakula swirled his glass, apparently interested in the way the chunks of lime lurched among the ice.
“In San Juan,” he said, “white ceremonies are the most common. This is because for a long time now, people have come here from the country thinking that the life will be easier. It is not. Instead we found hardships, temptations, crimes we had not imagined. And were not ready for. So, of course, the Veneration houses that offered healing became popular. Important.”
As a journalist, Paul Faustino was always hugely pleased, as if he’d won a game of cards with a weak hand, when someone avoided answering a question. Because it had been, obviously, a good question. The trick was to wait a while before asking it again.
So he said, “I noticed that you said
we
just now. You said
we
found hardships and whatever. So you’re not a city boy? You’re from the country?”
Edson Bakula raised his hands and leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Ah. You have seen through my cool urban disguise. Yes, of course. I’m from the Cane Country. They still call it that, even though the sugar business collapsed a long, long time ago. You’ve heard of
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