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infrastructure to maintain it. There’s no pope, no central governing body. Every temple does its own thing, so to speak. Yet it’s lasted for seven thousand years.”
    “I didn’t realize it was that old.”
    “Yes, very old,” she said. “It’s kind of like jazz in the way it developed. Jazz evolved from both the African musical culture brought to this country by slaves, and the European musical tradition, which was familiar to slave owners. New Orleans voodoo is also a mixture, in this case, a blend of at least three separate religious traditions—African from Dahomey, Catholic from the French and Spanish who settled in New Orleans, and Native American, too.”
    “You’ve given this talk before, I think,” Wayne said, smiling to soften his comment.
    Doris blushed. “I have indeed. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you.”
    “Please don’t apologize,” I said. “I hadn’t heard it.”
    “I’ve been known to go on about a topic till eyes glaze over,” she said, chuckling.
    “You’re just passionate about your work and that’s an admirable trait,” I said. “Go on, Doris.”
    Doris cleared her throat. “There are two historical figures associated with the spread of voodoo and its influence in New Orleans in the Nineteenth Century. One was Dr. John, also sometimes called ‘the Drummer.’ The other was Marie Laveau.”
    “Now there’s a name every New Orleanian is familiar with,” Wayne interjected.
    “I’m sure that’s true,” Doris continued. “Voodoo is matriarchal, and the powerful voodoo queens were always more important than the men, even witch doctors.”
    “Yes, but wasn’t Marie Laveau actually two women?” Wayne prodded.
    Doris smiled at him. “I’d love to have you in one of my classes. You’d certainly keep me on my toes. Yes, they were two women, mother and daughter, both with the same name. Marie, the mother, reigned over notorious ceremonies that took place in Congo Square and along Lake Pontchartrain, with frenzied dancing and boiling cauldrons of frogs and snakes and the like. That’s what became the Hollywood image of voodoo.”
    “Is voodoo still practiced that way?” I asked.
    “Actually, today believers say ‘verdoun’ rather than ‘voodoo’ to dissociate themselves from the sinister portrayals of voodoo involving casting evil spells, human sacrifice, and stabbing pins into voodoo dolls to harm your enemies.”
    “None of that takes place anymore?” I asked.
    “I think some of it probably does. Animal sacrifices, but certainly not human sacrifices. There are always fringe elements in religion. But for the most part, voodoo focuses on living in harmony and attaining spiritual balance by serving the loa, the spirits.”
    “Wayne, you mentioned the loa when you talked about Little Red,” I said.
    “Yes. They’re also called the ‘mysteries’ or the ‘invisibles.’ They’re kind of intermediaries between the human world and the creator.”
    “Like saints,” Doris added. “You can see the Catholic influence there.”
    “But Dr. John and Queen Marie Laveau are loa,” Wayne put in, “and they were not very saintly.”
    “That’s true,” replied Doris, “but they were powerful in their day, and are still considered powerful.”
    I turned to Wayne. “Are they the same loa that are supposed to have possessed Little Red and influenced his music?”
    “I don’t think so. There are many loa, and Little Red was probably identified with Ogoun. He’s associated with metals, so the trumpet fits in, and is also represented by the color red—blood and fire. Little Red’s playing was supposed to be very fiery and passionate. Of course, that’s an assumption we can’t prove until I find those recordings.”
    His eyes did a quick check of the other tables on the patio, before he leaned toward us and added in a soft, singsong voice, “And I think that’s coming closer.”
    “Your meeting last night?” I whispered, caught up in his need for