He takes his hat off to it derisively.
“Monsieur, can you direct me to the Rue du Morne?”
It can, apparently, in a voice hoarse as a crow’s and with a thumb pointed to the sky, then it vanishes into the house suspicious, maybe, that it has been trapped into talking to a Zombi.
Zombis are evil spirits, shapes, wizards. Now, in a little street, steep as a stairway, dusky with house shadows, framing a glimpse of blue sea, he asks the question for the last time of an old woman with a patient, kindly face, who has come to her doorway for a breath of air.
“Yes, this is the Rue du Morne, and No. 3, this is it.”
She is Manman Faly.
They like each other at sight, and he explains what he wants, shews her a handful of money, and follows her into the house.
She shews him into a room clean, but almost destitute of furniture.
In one corner is an “elephant,” not an animal, but a mattress two feet thick.
It is the thing he has been yearning for. St. Pierre has seized him at last, the drowsy languorous spirit has been leading him by the arm for the last half hour, it leads him now to the mattress and tells him to lie down. He does, and almost immediately falls asleep, whilst Man’m Faly closes the door and leaves him to take her own siesta.