dangling between your legs, no use for satisfying any of those dozens of girlfriends you’re forever boasting about.”
Wilberforce blanched, then tried to brazen it out. “It wouldn’t work. You can’t cast a hex on someone who doesn’t believe.”
“But don’t you believe? If you believe even a little tiny bit, it’ll happen. Trust me.”
Wilberforce seemed about to argue further, but Lex intervened. “I’d leave it there if I were you, mate. Don’t want to go messing around with that sort of thing, especially when it involves a part of you you’re so very fond of.”
“Wisely spoken, Lex,” said Albertine.
“I take it the role of mambo is hereditary, then,” Lex said.
“It can be. In my case it is. My sister Giselle and I grew up watching our mother hold her ceremonies, give gifts to the loa, ask them for help on her own behalf and on others’, be ridden by them during the rituals. Giselle pooh-poohed it as peasant superstition, but I knew it wasn’t. It was more than that. It brought tangible results. It was truth . So when I was old enough, I asked Mama to start teaching me the ways, and soon I was a vodouisante myself, familiar with the loa nachons , the songs, the dances, the drumbeats. I now have my own peristyle—a sacred space, kind of a temple—at home, and in my spare time I offer people consultations and advice. I make candles for them to purify their homes with, cast spells to ward off evil or bring luck, heal them if they have some sickness of the soul...”
“It’s a nice little sideline,” said Wilberforce. “They give her money, expensive gifts, free meals. Fleecing the gullible, I call it.”
“Oh, yes?” Albertine said. “And the inflated prices you charge at your rum shack—what’s that if it isn’t fleecing?”
“It’s a legitimate mark-up.”
“But having a two-tier system, one set of prices for locals, another for tourists?”
“That’s just simple economics.”
“And what about when you flew your seaplane, before the airport was built? You used to charge outrageous prices for ferrying passengers and packages between islands. And sometimes you’d claim a parcel had got lost, but for twenty dollars you could ‘find’ it again.”
“The price of aviation fuel—”
“You’re as bad as the Garfish,” Albertine said hotly. “You and he deserve each other. What annoys me is that you wouldn’t even have to owe the man anything if you’d only sold that damn plane of yours.”
“I’m not selling Puddle Jumper for anyone or anything,” Wilberforce shot back. “She’s my pride and joy. Besides, I don’t think I’d get that much for her.”
“Not even as spare parts?”
“Cruel. That’d be like selling your own children’s organs.”
“So you’d rather borrow from a crook instead?” Albertine sucked her teeth so viciously it sounded like swearing.
Lex was loath to intrude again, but neither could he take much more of it.
“We’ve gone a bit off-topic,” he said diplomatically. “Albertine, I’m happy to accept that you’re a mambo. Each to their own. Whatever floats your boat. But you say I’m in danger. Do you mean from the Garfish? Because if so, not exactly a newsflash.”
“Not just him. Not him at all, I don’t think.”
“Then who?”
“The loa were not able to specify. Here’s what happened. Last night, I was making an offering to my three husbands.”
Lex raised an eyebrow.
“My three loa husbands,” Albertine clarified. “Every mambo or houngan—that’s a vodou priest—is ‘married’ to at least one loa, more usually three. They are the ones who favour us the most and watch over us. Mine are Damballah, Loko and Erzulie Freda, who’s actually female and also Damballah’s wife, but don’t let that confuse you.”
“Not confused at all,” Lex said wryly.
“As I was serving Damballah a saucer of white flour with a white egg on top, all of a sudden he took control of me. I became his ‘horse,’
Wilberforce blanched, then tried to brazen it out. “It wouldn’t work. You can’t cast a hex on someone who doesn’t believe.”
“But don’t you believe? If you believe even a little tiny bit, it’ll happen. Trust me.”
Wilberforce seemed about to argue further, but Lex intervened. “I’d leave it there if I were you, mate. Don’t want to go messing around with that sort of thing, especially when it involves a part of you you’re so very fond of.”
“Wisely spoken, Lex,” said Albertine.
“I take it the role of mambo is hereditary, then,” Lex said.
“It can be. In my case it is. My sister Giselle and I grew up watching our mother hold her ceremonies, give gifts to the loa, ask them for help on her own behalf and on others’, be ridden by them during the rituals. Giselle pooh-poohed it as peasant superstition, but I knew it wasn’t. It was more than that. It brought tangible results. It was truth . So when I was old enough, I asked Mama to start teaching me the ways, and soon I was a vodouisante myself, familiar with the loa nachons , the songs, the dances, the drumbeats. I now have my own peristyle—a sacred space, kind of a temple—at home, and in my spare time I offer people consultations and advice. I make candles for them to purify their homes with, cast spells to ward off evil or bring luck, heal them if they have some sickness of the soul...”
“It’s a nice little sideline,” said Wilberforce. “They give her money, expensive gifts, free meals. Fleecing the gullible, I call it.”
“Oh, yes?” Albertine said. “And the inflated prices you charge at your rum shack—what’s that if it isn’t fleecing?”
“It’s a legitimate mark-up.”
“But having a two-tier system, one set of prices for locals, another for tourists?”
“That’s just simple economics.”
“And what about when you flew your seaplane, before the airport was built? You used to charge outrageous prices for ferrying passengers and packages between islands. And sometimes you’d claim a parcel had got lost, but for twenty dollars you could ‘find’ it again.”
“The price of aviation fuel—”
“You’re as bad as the Garfish,” Albertine said hotly. “You and he deserve each other. What annoys me is that you wouldn’t even have to owe the man anything if you’d only sold that damn plane of yours.”
“I’m not selling Puddle Jumper for anyone or anything,” Wilberforce shot back. “She’s my pride and joy. Besides, I don’t think I’d get that much for her.”
“Not even as spare parts?”
“Cruel. That’d be like selling your own children’s organs.”
“So you’d rather borrow from a crook instead?” Albertine sucked her teeth so viciously it sounded like swearing.
Lex was loath to intrude again, but neither could he take much more of it.
“We’ve gone a bit off-topic,” he said diplomatically. “Albertine, I’m happy to accept that you’re a mambo. Each to their own. Whatever floats your boat. But you say I’m in danger. Do you mean from the Garfish? Because if so, not exactly a newsflash.”
“Not just him. Not him at all, I don’t think.”
“Then who?”
“The loa were not able to specify. Here’s what happened. Last night, I was making an offering to my three husbands.”
Lex raised an eyebrow.
“My three loa husbands,” Albertine clarified. “Every mambo or houngan—that’s a vodou priest—is ‘married’ to at least one loa, more usually three. They are the ones who favour us the most and watch over us. Mine are Damballah, Loko and Erzulie Freda, who’s actually female and also Damballah’s wife, but don’t let that confuse you.”
“Not confused at all,” Lex said wryly.
“As I was serving Damballah a saucer of white flour with a white egg on top, all of a sudden he took control of me. I became his ‘horse,’
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