Mr. Clarinet

To the far right of the column, Max saw a group of people standing around a pond of bubbling gray water. Two half-naked boys were standing in it waist-deep, beckoning to the bystanders, some of whom were tossing coins into the pool. Then a woman in a light blue robe walked in. The boys grabbed her by the arms and plunged her under the water, holding her down hard, like they were trying to drown her, then letting go and staggering back out. The woman slowly reemerged, naked now except for her underwear and the thick, gray muck she was completely caked in. She got back onto solid ground, took a few steps forward, and then threw herself on the earth, writhing on her front and back, slapping the ground hard with her open hands, then throwing dirt all over her body and stuffing it into her mouth. Then she ran at the crowd of people gathered watching the worshippers dancing around the column, grabbed one of them—a man—by his shirt and spat a jet of purple fluid at his face. The man staggered backwards, crying, furiously rubbing at his face and eyes. The woman took hold of his wrist, pulled him over to the pond, and pushed him in. The two boys dunked him and kept him under until he'd stopped thrashing around. When they let go, the man slowly rose from the water. He too was the color of ash and milk—and stark naked. He crouched down on the ground and watched the dancers.

Chantale stepped up to the sculpture and stuck to it a picture of a woman sitting up in a bed. Then she lit a candle and fixed it to a groove in the rock. She mumbled a few words in Kreyol and then began to chant as those around her were doing. They joined in the circle of people moving around them.

The drums beat a little faster, the bass dominated, vibrating in Max's thighs.

They danced. Max followed Chantale and all the others, shuffling, dipping his hips from side to side, touching the ground with his left hand, then his right, bringing them both together and separating them, as if miming an explosion. He could barely feel himself doing it. The stuff they were burning in the air had first loosened him up and now he was beginning to feel himself being separated from his body, his being floating around his cage of bone and sinew. His brain had powered down to all but its basic functions. His senses had been wrapped in cotton wool, stuffed in a tube, and dumped in a deep, warm river, where they were floating slowly away from him, getting beyond reach. He was watching them go and he didn't care. This was bliss.

He heard the drums picking up the beat, he moved his feet a little faster. He heard himself joining in with the chanting, somehow finding a common note and sending it out from the bottom of his stomach. He wasn't a singer. He'd never sung in church when he was a kid. Too embarrassed. First, he'd sounded like a girl, then his balls dropped and he sounded like he was belching. His dad had tried to teach him music, just the two of them at the upright piano one night, when he was five. No use. His dad had told him he was tone-deaf. Not anymore he wasn't, not in here.

His eyes fell on Chantale. She looked so beautiful, so sexy.

They were moving faster now. Worshippers were starting to fall away from the circle. Women were standing quaking, eyes rolling, tongues out, foaming at the mouth, in the full grip of spiritual possession. Meanwhile, the muck-caked born-agains were running out of the pond, spitting purple jets at people in the crowd watching the dancers, and dragging them off to the gray waters.

Max felt simply wonderful now. He was smiling and heard laughter in his head, coming from deep within.

He was facing Chantale now, the two of them standing on their own, away from the circle. He was feeling the drum beats in his crotch. Chantale was looking right at him, grabbing and squeezing her breasts, gyrating and thrusting her crotch in and out. She pressed herself up against him and rubbed her hand all over the front of his trousers. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the pleasure of her touch fill him completely.

But when he opened them, she was gone.

In her place, he saw a man coming toward him. He was naked, his skin covered in dry, gray mud, cracked and flaking, the whites of his eyes turned brake-light red. He was sucking his cheeks rapidly in and out, purple juice dribbling out of gaps in his lips.

Max suddenly came to his senses, feeling like he'd been slapped out of a deep sleep.

Groggy and swaying on his legs, he tried to look for Chantale while keeping his eyes on the man. All around him the scene was beginning to change and change fast. He saw gray-caked men grabbing women from out of the dancing circle and throwing them to the ground, ripping their clothes off, raping them. The women weren't putting up any resistance. Most seemed to be welcoming the assaults.