“Why does she give you a hard time?” Jeff asked. “Dolls seem pretty harmless. Especially compared to some of the stuff you carry.” He nodded toward the glass case that contained the ritual knives.
“Well, I guess you could say she’s very traditional.” Puma added in a spurt of candor, “And a little rigid. Also opinionated.” She shrugged. “Mambo Celeste thinks a poppet is out of place in a respectable Vodou emporium. So she doesn’t approve of me selling them—or of there being so many of them on display. She thinks it gives people the wrong idea.”
“Well,
that’s
hypocritical,” Jeff said. “Although I mostly avoid it, I’ve been down in the basement of the foundation, where she does rituals, and I’ve seen her altar. There are dolls on it.”
Puma shook her head. “Dolls on Haitian altars represent the loa. They’re not poppets, and they’ve got nothing to do with black magic or cursing people.”
“Ah!” Max nodded vigorously. “Of course!”
Jeff muttered, “More of the ‘of course’ chorus.”
“I had forgotten!” Max told me, “It has been quite some time since I had the privilege of studying with a houngan.”
“You’ve studied with a houngan?” Puma asked with interest.
“Many years ago. And for less time than I would ideally have wished. So my knowledge is both limited and, er, rusty,” Max said. “But I do recall now that the voodoo doll and its associated dark magic is strictly a mainland practice.”
“Mainland?” I repeated.
Puma said, “The European poppet became the voodoo doll by way of New Orleans, not Haiti.”
“Is voodoo different in New Orleans?” I asked.
The mention of New Orleans voodoo made me think of another of the Big Easy’s famous features: food. Jambalaya, gumbo, red beans and rice . . . My empty stomach grumbled.
“Some of the customs are different, and the focus isn’t identical,” Puma said. “Traditional Haitian Vodou emphasizes religious ritual and spiritual connection, while New Orleans voodoo tends to emphasize magic. There are more similarities than differences, but the differences are there. I deal with both traditions here in the store, since there’s a lot of crossover.”
“Which is understandable!” Max was clearly enjoying talking shop, as it were, with a knowledgeable practitioner of Vodou. “After all, both traditions developed among West Africans enslaved in French Catholic societies in the New World.”
Puma nodded. “And there was contact between the two communities.”
“Well, if Celeste doesn’t like you having money-making voodoo dolls in the shop just because it’s not
her
brand of voodoo,” Jeff said, “why don’t you just tell her to mind her own damn business?”
“Because she’s a mambo. She has dedicated her life to interceding with the spirits and helping people, and she deserves my respect.” Puma added, “Also, she spends a lot of money here.”
“Ah.” Jeff nodded, obviously persuaded by the final reason. He held up the poppet of “me” again and contemplated it. “So I guess Celeste’s disapproval isn’t because these are tourist souvenirs? It sounds like she’d grumble even if you were selling real poppets.”
I had the impression he was thinking of buying the doll just so he could wave it around at the foundation and annoy the mambo.
“Well, you can’t exactly sell a real voodoo doll,” Puma said.
“Is it illegal or something?” he asked.
“No, it’s not that,” said Puma. “The real thing is very specific and personal. It’s not something you can just go into a shop and buy. For one thing, you need to incorporate physical items from your victim into the doll. Strands of the real person’s hair or their fingernail clippings. That kind of thing.”
“How the
hell
would you get hold of someone else’s fingernail clippings?” Jeff asked with revolted fascination. “Wait. Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”
She smiled. “It probably requires some dedicated effort.” Giving him a flirtatious look, she added, “But that’s only if your intended victim if an enemy. If, instead, you’re creating a poppet to make someone fall in love with you, then incorporating some of their bodily fluids into the doll is your best bet. Sweat, saliva, semen, and so on.”
“You know, if someone’s collecting another person’s, uh, secretions and smearing them into a burlap doll,” Jeff said, “maybe it’s time to seek psychiatric help.”
I could not help but agree.
“Well, people do seek professional help for these things, but not from shrinks. From priests and priestesses,” Puma said. “To curse or charm your intended victim, you would probably bring the nail clippings—or whatever else you’d collected from the victim—to a voodoo king or queen. That’s the New Orleans equivalent of a mambo or a houngan. They’d fashion a poppet for you, usually out of wax or cloth, incorporating the physical bits of the person that you’ve provided.”
“Okay, I see why this is something you can’t go into a shop and buy,” said Jeff.
Max added, “Through the ritual, the physical detritus that has been collected, and the power of the sorcerer, the poppet develops an affinity with the victim. In a mystical sense, it
becomes
that person. Thus, whatever happens to the doll also happens to the victim.”
Jeff said to me, “Hey, wouldn’t it be great if we could get a voodoo queen to make poppets of casting directors and then charm them into giving us work? Or curse the poppets of critics who gave us bad reviews?”
“Do the two of you work together?” Puma asked us.
I saw her glance at the clock on the wall. Like me, she was probably wondering what was taking Biko so long.
“Not really.” Jeff explained that we had done
Othello
together about five years ago and told her that I would be teaching some of his workshops at the foundation for a while because of his current scheduling conflict. He added, “I’ve been teaching there, on and off, for years.”
“I’ve been involved there for years, too,” said Puma. “It’s funny that you and I have never met before. But then, the foundation has so much going on, both on site and elsewhere.”
“And I haven’t actually been around for a while,” Jeff said. “I’ve been living in Los Angeles for the past couple of years and only came back at the start of this summer.”
I was a little surprised by that. When Jeff had mentioned LA earlier, while we were in Catherine’s office, I assumed it was a short trip, not a long stay. However, I really had no idea what he’d been doing since leaving New York four years earlier with the short-lived road company of
Inferno: The Idi Amin Musical
.
Studying his face now, Puma said, “Actually, I thought you looked sort of familiar when you came into the shop. I think I saw you at Mr. Livingston’s funeral.”
“I was there,” he said with a nod. “I left for Los Angeles pretty soon after he died.”
“How did Martin Livingston die?” I asked, recalling that the foundation’s Web site hadn’t given any details.
“Massive stroke,” said Jeff.
Puma added, “It was very sudden.”
“And unexpected?” Max asked.
My gaze met his as I recalled that Darius Phelps’ death three weeks ago had also been unexpected.
“It took everyone by surprise,” Jeff said. “Martin wasn’t a health fiend, but he kept in shape and took good care of himself.”
“But a stroke can happen to anyone, can’t it?” I said, glancing at Max. “Even people who seem to be in good health? And he wasn’t a young man anymore.”
“Here today, gone tomorrow,” Jeff said, looking morose. “One night he was at an awards dinner. Just another celebrity-filled occasion in a billionaire philanthropist’s daily life.”
I wished Jeff hadn’t used the word “dinner.” It reminded me again of how hungry I was.
He continued, “According to people who were there, Martin looked fine. But then suddenly he collapsed in the middle of the festivities. And three days later, he was dead.”
I frowned. “It took him three days to die?” I had assumed that his death by sudden, massive stroke meant he had died instantly.
“Yes,” Puma said. “He passed away at Harlem Hospital. My mother was still alive then—she died last year of cancer—and she was one of the nurses taking care of him there. She said he was out of his mind during the three days he spent dying in the hospital. Ranting and raving. Seeing things. Saying crazy stuff. And
strong,
too—much stronger than you’d expect a man in his condition to be. Even with sedation, they had to keep him in restraints. But they couldn’t stop the internal bleeding. Finally, he went into cardiac arrest.”
“A grim way to go,” Jeff said.
“And so unfair,” Puma added, “when you consider how much good he did. I mean, he certainly changed
my
life.”
“In what way?” Max asked.
“For one thing, a scholarship from the foundation paid for part of my college education,” she said. “And another Livingston scholarship will be paying for part of my brother’s education. Biko’s starting at Columbia University this fall.”
“Hey, good for him,” said Jeff.
“The reason I was able to open this shop was because I got a no-interest loan from the foundation. Mr. Livingston was passionate about wanting to see independent African-American businesspeople thrive in Harlem.” Puma continued, “The foundation is also where Biko discovered fencing, and that sure turned his life around.”
“Oh?”
“My little brother—and where
is
he?—was a really smart, independent, strong-willed kid, but he didn’t have a focus for his energy. My father was long gone, and my mother worked overtime at the hospital to support us. Biko was becoming so wild and restless by the time he was twelve years old, we were really worried about how he’d turn out. I was trying to get him interested in Vodou, but it just wasn’t his thing. Anyhow, one day I dragged him to the foundation with me for a Vodou ritual he didn’t want to attend. He saw some boys with swords in the building, and that made him curious enough to go watch the class, and that was it! From that day onward, if he wasn’t at school or at home, we always knew where he was: training. My mother never had to worry about him again.” She smiled at the memory.
“That much have been a great relief to her,” Max said, “as well as a source of pride.”
She nodded as she continued, “After a couple of years, the fencing instructor went to Mr. Livingston and said that Biko had reached a stage where he really needed private instruction from a top coach. The foundation paid for that, and also paid for him to compete in tournaments—some of which he won. And because of that, part of his college education is also going to be paid for by an athletic scholarship.” Puma concluded, “So Mr. Livingston made a huge difference in our lives. And we’re not the only ones. Not by a long shot.”
“Martin contributed a lot to the world,” Jeff agreed.
“And speaking of Biko . . .” Puma picked up the telephone, pressed a speed dial button, then held the receiver up to her ear. A few moments later, she turned her head to stare at it with a puzzled expression.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Still staring at the receiver, she replied, “He answered his phone, said, ‘Not now,’ and hung up.”
“Did he sound as if he was in danger?” Max asked.
She shook her head. “No. Just distracted. And also like he doesn’t want me to call him back.”
“Then we should patiently await his arrival,” Max said. “He will no doubt explain when he gets here.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She put the receiver back in its cradle.
“What sort of man was Martin Livingston personally?” Max asked Puma, returning to the previous subject.
“He was a man of many fine qualities,” she said carefully.
He noticed how measured her response was. “But?”
She shook her head. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Especially since they may be listening.”
I asked Jeff, “Did you know him well?”
“No. He was personally involved in the foundation, but he didn’t run the day-to-day operations. I spoke to him a few times, but that was about it. He was gregarious and seemed like a nice guy.” Jeff asked Puma, “Why didn’t you like him?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like him,” she said firmly.
“Ah.” His expression changed. “He put the moves on you.”
Puma scowled at him but didn’t deny it.
“What do you mean?” I asked Jeff.
“Martin had quite a reputation. Some people described him as a ladies’ man,” said Jeff. “Other people called it sexual harassment.”
“He made a pass at you?” I asked Puma with some surprise. Also some distaste. Martin Livingston would have been about forty years her senior.
Puma cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable. “He was a man of, uh . . . vigorous appetites.”
“Did he try to force himself on you?” Max asked, aghast.
“Oh, no! No, nothing like that.” Puma looked at each of our faces, then sighed. “All right. Fine. Mr. Livingston grabbed me once, when I went to his office alone to thank him for paying a tournament fee and travel expenses for Biko to compete. My mother usually went to thank him, but she was having her first battle with the cancer back then—I guess this was about four years ago. So I went instead. And since she was sick, I didn’t tell her what happened. I didn’t want her to get up out of her bed and go storming into the foundation to give him a piece of her mind. Which she would have done—and in her pajamas, too!” Puma smiled for a moment as she remembered her mother’s feisty nature, then continued, “I jumped out of my skin and shoved him away when he tried to kiss me. But I think I was more startled than shocked. I knew his reputation by then. He made passes at lots of women. Anyhow, it was embarrassing, but he certainly didn’t get rough or mean about it. He sort of laughed it off. And he never tried it again. Although . . .”