Vodou Child

Erol's cell phone rings constantly. A steady stream of artist friends want to get together, and Haitians call to consult on vodou matters. "I get a lot of calls in the morning from people who want their dreams interpreted," he says. People he mentors spiritually help him financially on occasion — but much of his work, such as the ceremony for Chantal in New York, is done pro bono.

Although he spiritually mentors dozens of people in New York, he is working with only a few here in South Florida. One of them is Paul Roesph, a 30-year-old white graphic designer from Fort Lauderdale. Erol helped him host a ceremony to invite spirits into his condo in July. Roesph had become intrigued with the vodou religion after reading about it, and was referred to Erol by a friend of a friend. "Erol stood in front of 15 other Haitians and said, that man — meaning me — is coming into our tradition," says Roesph. "I was the only white person in the room. He said to everyone: 'I want you to accept him. The loa are here with him.'

"Erol is so sincere. He knows that vodou is a religion for anybody."

It is 5:00 a.m. in Chantal's Long Island basement, and Ogou is inside Erol. He lights a cigar and shakes everyone's hand. Unlike Chantal, who has been possessed by an obviously angry Ogou, Erol has been seized with the spirit of the dealmaker, the politician, the organizer. His face is confident, masculine, hard — so different from the tender, almost maternal look he had when helping Chantal a few hours earlier. He taps cigar ashes in almost everyone's hands — not Chantal's, because she is still screaming and waving the machete — and nods in approval. It is an odd, yet comforting, blessing amid the chaos.

Then he slips out of the spell.

He gulps a mouthful of rum and blows it around the room in a large, misty spray. He walks over to Chantal, swigs some rum, and sprays it on her. She is holding the machete in front of her, its blade inches from her face. Without a word, Erol calmly takes the machete from her hand and passes it to a woman standing nearby. He embraces Chantal and she, too, slips out of the trance. The room is quiet.

There is more singing, in soft voices now, and a few candles are lit. The ceremony is over. Erol is physically drained. The spirits have come and gone.

It is 5:30 a.m. Friday. The oak-tree-lined street in Hempstead is beginning to stir. Lights illuminate windows, and people in suits walk to their cars to begin their commutes to work.

Erol and the others from the basement emerge and stand on the lawn. Erol jokes and chats softly with Florence, while Huguette and the other women shake the fabric of their skirts and cool off in the morning air. Everyone is still dressed in their white ceremonial clothes, and they glow like ghosts in the predawn half-darkness. They discuss plans to continue the vodou rituals at Chantal's house later that evening; the chicken sacrifice needs to be taken care of.

Erol is moving slowly, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He has to get back to the city, to his sister's apartment. He wants to sleep. He's not sure what time the ceremony will begin later that night, but it doesn't really matter. Vodou, he says, has no time.