Tropic of Darkness (9 page)

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Jack had pulled himself free of Pierre and was stumbling back through the lobby. There were no gaming tables these days, like there had been in the fifties. At least that was different.

He staggered through a door into a washroom. Which was empty at the moment. And thank God for that.

Giddiness took hold of him again, and he clung onto a basin for support, still breathing heavily, his eyes screwed shut.

A dream. And a slender woman on a nightclub stage in front of him, illusion and waking reality merging. It frightened him, and that didn't happen too often. But it still did not make any sense.

One moment she'd been there, in plain view. And the next, she was gone, exactly the way it had been in his fantasy last night.

There was still blackness around him and the world seemed to be rocking.
Open your damned eyes,
he told himself.

Jack managed it, but only very slowly. His lashes tried to stick together and his vision blurred. But finally, his own reflection drifted into focus in the mirror on the wall in front of him.

There was still nobody else in here.

He'd actually suspected that the woman might be there behind him, when he dared to look.

*   *   *

Sleep was a tenuous thing for Dolores. Always had been, ever since she could recall. She remembered once, in her teenage years, dipping into a book in the house's library and coming across some phrase about a person “falling deep into a peaceful slumber.”

And she'd been filled with envy. How might it feel, to lie unconscious in her bed for long, uninterrupted hours, instead of drifting in and out of sleep and waking at the slightest noise, the way she always did?

There was something else about the process too. Something her own Mama had told her, a few months before she'd died.

“Our kind have always believed that sleep is a brief foretaste of death. Beware of dreams especially, Dolores. Be ever conscious of their power. For when you dream, you leave our world and open a door to quite another. And it is their world, the twin
s'
, where they are at their very strongest.”

That had always stayed with her. But tonight, sitting at the table in the dining room, her head tilted and Dolores nodded off.

A dream began immediately, the images wrapping around her like some great, enfolding blanket. She could smell and touch as well as see and hear.

It was no longer the present day but over two hundred years earlier. And she was still of the same bloodline, but was no longer Dolores.

She'd become the one who had begun all this. Her many-times-great grandmother. Camille herself.

*   *   *

The
Batá
, big leather drums, summoned her, despite the fact that they were beating several miles away, too distant to be physically heard. She could make out their insistent rhythm in her head, the same way she heard many things a normal human couldn't. It was a vibration like a second pulse.

Her silk petticoats rustling, Camille went to a window of the great DeFlores estate, staring out across the green expanses of the sugarcane plantation. It was so vast, an ocean of stems tinged red by the disappearing sun. You could look from here to the farthest horizon and still not see it all.

Smoke was rising from the refinery chimneys more than a mile distant, lending its own shadings to the coming dusk. But its furnaces would be dying down, untended by this hour. The refinery, the stables, and the fields themselves would be deserted this particular late afternoon. Traveling by horse and cart, or hurrying on foot, the plantation's slaves would be gathering in the woods at the eastern border of the property. None of the overseers would dare to try and stop them.

This night was a great
tambor
, the festival of her personal
orisha
, mighty Changó. And not even the cruelest and most brutal of the whites dared stand against their slaves on such occasions.

The big house around her was unnaturally quiet. Even the maids and cooks were gone.

A creak of floorboards directly above her broke Camille's train of thought. That would be her husband, pacing around nervously in the study upstairs. He'd been pensive the entire day, knowing what was coming and the part that she would play in it.

This whole business unsettled him badly; he was still a Christian man at heart. But like the overseers, he had far better sense than to attempt to intervene.

She smiled and began humming to herself, anticipating the pleasures of the night ahead. The dancing, and the singing, and the sacrifices, and . . .

And . . . Santiago was a decent man, treated her very well. But it would feel so good to have a younger buck pressing against her tonight. Have fingers run across her skin that were not stiff with age. Have the smell of hot, fresh sweat in her nostrils, instead of the faint odor of decay.

It would be the doing of wonderful Changó, the
orisha
of passion, among other things. Of the many
tambors
, this was certainly the best.

She went out of the room and down the stairs. The evening's heat enfolded her as she emerged onto the porch, the whine of mosquitoes starting up around her head.

A couple of the yard dogs roused themselves and followed her as she went toward the stables. And once she'd mounted up, they continued after her for a while longer before tiring and falling back.

She spurred her roan mare in the direction of the woods.

The light was already three-quarters gone when she got there. Everything had taken on a smoky look, and the chime of cicadas was a solid presence.

The sound of drums echoed out between the dense trunks like a giant's heartbeat, and she stared at the spot it was coming from.

If shadows had a place of birth, then this had to be it. If they were living things, then this was where they slept during the day.

It had been no accident that the original Yoruba slaves had chosen this place to practice the most secret of their arts. There were certain places in the world that were entirely perfect for such rituals. Concealed places, always. Caverns. Plateaus. Hidden coves.

And clearings within woods such as this one.

As for Camille, her spirit had been bound to this place, long before her birth. And anybody else who came here did so at her sufferance.

Even her own daughters. They'd have both arrived. She thought of them with a tremendous pride. How very beautiful they had become. And they were both as good students as any
santera
could hope for, their thirst for the secret knowledge seemingly unquenchable.

Camille went in through the trees. Despite the fact that there was practically no light to see by, she walked easily and quietly. Other noises reached her before much longer. She could make out chanting and the stamp of countless feet upon the ground.

She kicked off her shoes, began to unfasten her heavy dress. She was leaving it behind like a snake shedding its skin. Her stockings and her undergarments went the same way.

She reached the edge of the clearing and could make out the two things in it that made this spot so very sacred. There was a tall palm tree—special to Changó—and a Ceiba tree, holiest of them all.

The ground around the latter was covered with the bones of animals that had been sacrificed.

Camille stopped, just out of sight behind the tree line. Watched.

There had to be around six hundred worshippers present. They ranged from elderly folk to toddlers. And everywhere that she looked, there was motion.

Arms were raised and heads tipped back. Three drummers were squatting at the far end of the clearing, keeping up a rhythmic discourse, singing to the beat.

A heavy rustle in the undergrowth behind her brought her head jerking around.

Peering at her through the gloom were two pretty young girls, Nora and Jasmina. They normally worked in the scullery of the great house. On nights such as these, however, they had special duties to perform.

They had brought along a flask of pure spring water, and they washed Camille down. And then, they helped her get dressed. A long red coat came first. Then a red and white headdress. Her wrists and neck were adorned with strings of beads.

By the time that it was done, the sky above had turned completely black. The stars were bright as jewels. Bats whirred across them.

Jasmina placed the axe of Changó in Camille's right hand. Nora put a rattle in her left.

And, as if upon a signal, the drumming abruptly stopped.

Camille stepped out through the trees and a path cleared for her through the suddenly hushed crowd, all the way to the spot where the
batea
of Changó sat. It was a bowl that contained Changó's sacred thunderstones.

Jasmina brought Camille a struggling rooster and a ceremonial knife. Blood spattered down. Then both the girls were needed to present and hold a small ram, which kept on trying to pull away until Camille cut its throat.

The drums started up again, faster and angrier than before. The dancing became more chaotic.

Camille waved the axe, shook the rattle. Waited for the blessed
orisha
to possess a man. This was not a normal practice of the Santería cult. Many a believer would be shocked. But she was no ordinary priestess, and the rules did not apply to her. This was a demonstration of the greatness of her power.

Except she waited, longer and longer.

And nothing happened.

There was a sudden peal of thunder from the cloudless sky, a certain sign that Changó was nearby. The crowd, as one, yelled
“Kabiesi!”

But none of the young fellows around her stopped dancing. Nobody approached her. Camille slowed, her puzzlement giving way to concern.

Perhaps it was the case that she had presumed too much, broken the rules too often. Could it be that her
orisha
had become displeased, was shunning her?

Her congregation was not even looking at her anymore. Many were staring off at the far side of the Ceiba tree.

She went over, having to push her way through the crowd. And was confronted with a spectacle that stopped her dead.

The glow of lanterns washing over their slim bodies, two young women were lying on the ground. Their heads were tipped back, their eyes glassy. And the smiles on their lips were of a hot and sensual triumph.

On top of each of them was a naked young man.

It was
they
that Changó had chosen tonight.

Camille could only watch, dismayed and fearful. Her own daughters had become even more powerful than she was.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

Pierre Melville had returned home and was lying on his sweat-stained mattress, his hands folded behind his shaggy head and a matchstick working idly between his teeth. This evening's hooker had slipped back into her dress and left, and he had already forgotten all about her.

Gazing out through the balcony doorway, his thoughts turned to Jack Gilliard, and he wondered what the hell was wrong. The man in whose company he'd spent the last couple of evenings was not the same Jack Gilliard he had known in previous times.

That outburst on the first night could be put down to drink easily enough. Tonight, though—jumping about and shrieking like that, in the middle of a crowded nightclub, for no reason whatsoever?

Returning from the washroom, Jack had claimed that he'd dozed off, become disoriented. But Pierre found that hard to credit. Was the guy having some kind of mental breakdown?

Pierre was completely alone in the house in which the government had boarded him. It was a big place, entirely dark, in a quiet neighborhood just down from the Nacional. Its occupants—there was no rent—were a professional family, both the parents lawyers and staunch Party members who were delighted to have an
Internationalista
staying underneath their roof. They had cleared out this spare room especially for him. But this week, they and their three children were in Baracoa, on the far side of the island, visiting a sick grandmother.

Pierre rather missed them. They had been so very kind. He almost felt like an upstanding human being when they were around.

He plucked the matchstick from his lips, used it to light a cigar. Blew a plume of smoke up at the ceiling.

The growling of Havana's traffic was reduced to a dim murmur. In a window across the street, a few teenagers had gathered, one of them strumming a guitar.

If you lay very still, you could feel the atmosphere of this place soak its way into your pores. God, he loved this city. It pained him that, one day, he would have to leave—and one day soon, if he had any sense. The only thing that he could sensibly do was to enjoy it while it lasted.

Pierre put the cigar down on a tin ashtray, then settled his head deeply in his pillow. Before long, he felt himself drifting, his eyelids sliding closed.

But then, there was a sudden noise from outside. High heels tapping up the path out front. The hooker? Maybe she'd forgotten something, or she couldn't find a cab.

The footsteps came to a halt directly beneath the balcony. Pierre frowned, his right hand sliding underneath his pillow to the pistol he kept there.

He was about to get up when there was a whisper from outside. He could not make out the words, but the voice was high-pitched, female.

He sat fully upright as it came a second time.

He realized with astonishment that, whoever this might be, she was speaking French.

*   *   *

“Monsieur? Monsieur Melville?”

Pierre's gun was in his grasp in an instant, nestling against his belly. And his first thought was:
They've found me, all the way from France! They've tracked me down!

It had been an Algerian teenager he'd killed, back in Marseilles—some stupid kid who'd tried to cheat him in the days when he'd been smuggling hash. He hadn't even meant to do it.

“Monsieur Pierre, I know you're in there. Please, I have to speak with you.”

There were no treaties here though, it occurred to him. Cops from France would never be allowed into Cuba on official business. In which case, who was this?

“Monsieur, I have to see you. My sister told me I should get in touch with you.”

Huh? What sister?

Pierre got up, tucking his gun into the waistband of his shorts. He padded across the tiled floor, then peered out, trying to keep hidden in the shadows. It was useless. He could make out nothing from this vantage point.

Gingerly, he stepped onto the balcony. He leaned over the wrought iron railings.

There was no one to be seen.

But the voice came again.

“Monsieur?”

And this time, it was directly behind him.

*   *   *

Pierre spun around, almost yelling. He pointed his gun where he'd heard the voice.

The door to his room was wide open. He could make out a slender shadow in its frame.

It could have been the figure of a ballet dancer. Gentle curves and smooth-honed limbs. A waist so narrow you could practically encircle it with both your hands. And the woman's hair was piled above her head, defying gravity.

He couldn't see her face, however. Just a pair of tiny, twinkling glimmers, marking the position of her eyes.

How'd she gotten up here so noiselessly, so fast?

Pierre stepped back into the room, aiming his pistol squarely at her chest. He peered harder, trying to make out who she was, but it was impossible in this half light.

She seemed unconcerned about the gun and struck a relaxed pose, leaning against the doorjamb. Pierre could see that she was wearing a short, filmy dress that was almost transparent.

“There's no need for the weapon, Pierre,” her voice floated to him. “I'm not going to harm you.”

“Who the hell are you? What d'you think you're doing here?”

“You were recommended by my sister,” came her puzzling reply. “According to her, you just adore beautiful women.”

What?
he wondered numbly.

“And so,” she went on, “here I am. For you.”

And without further preamble, she reached up with one hand and tugged at the knot of fabric at her neck.

Her dress slid down across a beckoning olive paleness.

She began moving. She stepped softly over to his bed, her hips swaying. Pierre tried to follow her with the aim of his gun but it proved difficult, because his hand had started shaking.

The dusky circles at her breasts and the darker triangle below them mesmerized him. Even if he had to, could he pull the trigger?

But what in God's name was going on? He still couldn't make out her face properly, even though her figure had been revealed by the moonlight from the window. And it took his breath away to look at her. So perfect in every detail.

The woman slowed to a halt. She clicked his night lamp on, then turned to him again. And he knew, at once, she was a total stranger. Because if he'd ever met her, however brief that meeting might have been, he would have remembered her for the rest of his life.

Such a face. Like a beautiful portrait. A pair of emerald-green eyes were staring out at him from underneath those curls of lustrous black hair.

Pierre felt his arms dropping, his hands losing their tension, and the pistol clattered to the floor.

The woman's soft smile widened to a broad, delighted grin. She clasped both hands to her chest in a pantomime of relief.

“You're not going to shoot me then, Monsieur? Have you thought of something better you can do with me?”

Pierre still couldn't figure why a perfect stranger should behave like this.

“Don't you have the courage?” she inquired of him.

Another peculiar thing to say. And he did not know how to answer her.

“You have questions?” Her voice seemed hypnotic. “Please, forget them. Questions are the baggage that weigh down our lives. Simply accept me, Pierre.”

And before he even knew what he was doing, he had begun walking over to her. He was clambering up onto the mattress.

And she was moving too, joining him from the other side.

*   *   *

Near the end of it, he was so exhausted that she had to do most of the moving for him.

She was even lighter than she looked, and if he closed his eyes he could practically imagine that she wasn't there at all. That only a soft breeze was idling across his body. It was one of the most delicious sensations he had ever known.

After she climaxed, Pierre found himself listening to her breathing as she settled down against his chest. Oddly, it was slow, perfectly even. As if she hadn't exerted herself in the slightest.

And when her breath touched his skin . . . it was rather cool, he noticed. It should have been warm. But instead, it seemed almost chilly.

“Who
are
you?” he whispered.

And the woman sniggered.

“I'm Lucia.”

Abruptly, her weight vanished altogether.

Pierre sat bolt upright, his eyes coming open wide.

It was wholly dark in the room again. The bedside lamp was off, although he hadn't heard it click. His whole body was drenched with sweat. But he still had his shorts on.

No, that wasn't right.

Of the woman, there was not a sign.

Pierre got up, listening for retreating footsteps. He could hear none.

But he could still taste her on his lips. And her musk filled his nostrils. It had seemed so real.

He clasped his hands around his shoulders, and took in the fact that he was shivering. This was utterly crazy, but the shaking wouldn't stop.

It wasn't only from the fright, he understood after a while. He had actually become quite cold.

There was no reason for that. It was a perfectly normal, hot, and sultry night. Except that he felt cut adrift from everything around him.

Even when he climbed up and got fully dressed, the strange chill that had closed around him wouldn't go away.