Saturday Comes. Carine J.D. Fabius
Saturday Comes
A Novel of Love and Vodou
Carine Fabius
2011
© Copyright 2011 Carine Fabius
Saturday Comes
by Carine Fabius
Published in ebook format by
Kouraj Press
6025 Santa Monica Boulevard
#202
Los Angeles, CA 90038
323-460-7333
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
Copyright © 2011 by Carine Fabius
Cover Design: Pascal Giacomini, Jeannie Winston Nogai
Cover Artwork: Edouard Duval-Carrié
Notice of Rights
All rights reserved under international and pan-American copyright conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.
Fabius, Carine
Saturday Comes
Copyright © 2011 Carine Fabius
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13:978-0-9785-003-9-9
Also by Carine Fabius
Jagua, A Journey into Body Art from the Amazon
Sex, Cheese and French Fries: Women are
Perfect, Men are from France
Ceremonies for Real Life
Mehndi: The Art of Henna Body Painting
Acknowledgements
Writing a book is a long, hard journey requiring, among countless things, the help and support of those whose encouragement, generosity, expertise, tough criticism and positive feedback help to remind an author that there is an end in sight. I am grateful to those of you who read the manuscript and provided critical insights. I won’t even attempt to name you all because this book has been so many years in the making that I will surely forget someone crucial! I owe endless gratitude to Maddie Perrone of Literary Artists Representatives, my first agent, who fell in love with this story and believed in me as a writer. I am also grateful to Deborah Ritchken of Castiglia Literary Agency, who pushed hard to help this story see the light of day, and to my friend Karen Kaplan for introducing me to Deborah and championing this book from day one. Many thanks to Donald J. Cosentino for helping me get closer to the ultimate trickster, Baron Samedi; and to Henrietta Cosentino for her guidance to a better understanding of Vodou ceremonies. Frank Weaver remains the best editor known to mankind. Thanks to Edouard Duval-Carrié for his gorgeous artwork, which graces the cover of the book. As always, huge thanks to my husband, Pascal Giacomini, for his enduring support.
The Baron
If Christians paid more attention in school they would remember about Saturday night. They would know that the Miraculous One goes by other names too, like Lord of Saturday, Father of the Dead, Spirit of Death; or, the one my Haitian children use: Baron Samedi. What’s that you say, baby? Yesss…Samedi is French for Saturday, the day He died. But the Christ’s valiant journey to the underworld to gather lost souls never gets much play; it’s his return on Easter Sunday to rise in glory from the dead that steals the show every time. Not surprising, really, since everyone makes such a fuss about life. Call me biased, but I’m into death.
I love it down here in the land of the dead, where it’s icy and dark, with no need to protect my sensitive eyes from all that light—although these shades do look sharp with my black suit and hat. And you’ve got to admit that my purple scarf hits just the right note! I let myself be lured up there, but I don’t like to stay too long. Sliding into a human body is no easy thing. My throat gets funny too. I hear them saying I’m nasal and that I speak so slowly…But, there are matters to deal with above ground—like encouraging humans to carry on feeding their obsession with sex.
No death without life, I like to say. ‘Round and ‘round it goes, from the grave to the stage and back again! You want my job, you better be an expert on getting down, baby, and, yesss, dying. Haitians love that delicious and dangerous combination. Mmm…That’s why I like hanging with them and will attend their ceremonies, but only IF properly plied with the right rum and cigars. And it is true that I love, love, love to dance. Watch this smooth move. Uh huh. You get my groove.
Love me, hate me, fear me—doesn’t matter. Just get used to me ’cause I’ll be dropping in from time to time to cast a shadow or two. I can’t help it. I have a stake in this story, as in all stories, which have to end in my cold but welcoming arms. Haitian people say that if a person does not merit death, I will reject it. I am not sure if I agree or disagree—about it being a question of merit. Why don’t you read on and judge for yourself?
Prologue
Iam going to kill him!
In a feral flash of brilliance, Maya St. Fleur knew what to do. As glacial resolution spread through her body, the dark, long-limbed child wondered at the sense of peace and thrill that filled her heart. She understood that her prayers to the Baron had been answered. As he bowed before her now, his tall black hat removed in at-your-service parody, she watched his vacant face melt into shaded topcoat, and vanish into the gloom around her. And she accepted the unthinkable. Yes, it was perfect—and so right that she should kill the very one who had introduced her to love.
A defiant tear willed itself down her cheek as angry waves slapped against the rotting, hollowed-out, 14-foot tree trunk that doubled as a boat. She frowned, wiping at the tear. I have to stay strong. I have to stay alive. But she knew that the probability of reaching Miami was slim at best. It was folly even to try.
The hopeful crew of twenty-five that had waved goodbye to relatives and friends had dwindled down to two: Maya and the determined young man named Antoine, who had collected their tattered filthy dollars for the price of passage.
Perhaps two weeks (or was it months?) had passed since the group’s departure. But the anxious resolve, swollen aspiration, and devil-may-care disposition had been theirs, not Maya’s. No willing participant was she, sentimentally blackmailed and prodded like a pirate on a plank to leave her family and friends, home and hopes. How was it that she, who would have chosen Haiti’s desperation over Miami, was the only one still alive? One by one, day after wretched day, night after terrifying night, they’d gone. Three nights into the voyage, two aged women, an overweight girl, and a middle-aged man had been swept away by choppy waves. Blue-cold wails haunted the air around them as the moonless sky aided the sea in its conquest. And the others: that blur of black faces and bodies so wrenchingly skinny and scared. What did it matter? They were gone, and Maya dared not reflect on the gruesome, sometimes scandalous remembrances—of tightly packed bodies made slippery by vomit,