Free Merrick by Anne Rice Page A

my handkerchief and my pen, hadn’t she? She’d retrieved my blood, my very blood, which must never fall into the hands of the Talamasca, hadn’t she? Oh, it wasn’t for the Order, no. She stole it for herself and her charms, but she stole it, didn’t she? And I’d been kissing her all the while like a schoolboy.
    So I had every right to inspect this envelope in her purse. Besides, she had asked me if I wanted these papers. So I would take them. It was her intention to give them to me, was it not?
    At once I snatched up the envelope, opened it, confirmed that it was all Aaron’s papers concerning me and my adventures, and resolved to take it with me. As for the rest of the contents of Merrick’s bag, it contained her own journal, which I had no right to read, and which would most likely be written in impossible French code, a handgun with a pearl handle, a wallet full of money, an expensive cigar labeled Montecristo, and a thin small bottle of the Florida water cologne.
    The cigar gave me pause. Certainly it was not for her. It was for that little Papa Legba, that cigar. She had brought with her the statue, the Florida water, and the cigar. She had come prepared for some sort of conjuring. Ah, it infuriated me, but what right had I to preach against it?
    I went back into the parlor, and, avoiding the eyes of the statue and its seeming expression, snatched up my fountain pen from the makeshift altar. I located the hotel stationery in the middle drawer of a fancy French desk, sat down, and wrote a note:
    All right, my dear, I’m impressed. You’ve learnt even more tricks since last we met. But you must explain the reasons for this spell. I’ve taken the pages written by Aaron. I’ve retrieved my handkerchief and fountain pen as well. Stay in the hotel as long as you like.
    David.
    It was short, but I did not feel particularly effusive after this little misadventure. Also, I had the unpleasant sensation that Papa Legba was glaring at me from the violated shrine. In a fit of pique, I added a postscript.
    “It was Aaron who gave me this pen!” Enough said.
    Now, with considerable apprehension, I went back to the altar.
    I spoke rapidly in Portuguese first, and then in Latin, once again greeting the spirit in the statue, the opener of the spiritual realm. Open my understanding, I prayed, and take no offense at what I do, for I want only knowledge, and mean no disrespect. Be assured of my understanding of your power. Be assured that I am a sincere soul.
    I dug deep into my memory now for sensation as well as fact. I told the spirit in the statue that I was dedicated to the orisha, or god, called Oxalá, lord of creation. I explained that I had been faithful in my own way always to that deity, though I had not done all the little things that others had prescribed to be done. Nevertheless, I loved this god, I loved his stories, and his personality, I loved all I could know of him.
    A bad feeling crept over me. How could a blood drinker be faithful to the lord of creation? Was not every act of blood drinking a sin against Oxalá? I pondered this. But I didn’t retreat. My emotions belonged to Oxalá, just as they had many many decades ago in Rio de Janeiro. Oxalá was mine, and I was his.
    “Protect us in what we mean to do,” I whispered.
    Then, before I could lose heart, I snuffed out the candle, lifted the statue, and, retrieving the handkerchief, set the statue back with care. I said, “Goodbye Papa Legba” to the statue and prepared to leave the suite.
    I found myself quite motionless, my back to the altar, facing the door to the corridor outside. I couldn’t move. Or rather it seemed I shouldn’t move.
    Very slowly, my mind became rather empty. Focused upon my physical senses, if anything, I turned and looked towards the bedroom doorway through which I’d only just come.
    It was the old woman, of course, the wizened little Great Nananne, with her fingers on the doorjamb, staring at me, and her thin lipless