July 5, 2009
Hey guys,
I am preparing myself for the possibility that the Clive Powell investigation will reveal some uncomfortable facts which a certain crowd will want to keep hidden. In my experience, it’s best to tiptoe into these situations and avoid jiggling the jello. I work best alone. I don’t want to involve anybody who could get hurt or slow me down.
I now believe Clive’s wife is the key to solving this mystery. She had immense influence over her husband and I am working under the assumption that the Astral Doorways held a similar influence over her. Juliette Renée St. Jean moved here from Haiti in 1977 at the age of fourteen, which would make her five years older than Clive. I searched for her work, school or health records and came up empty – very conspicuous – then I searched through local publications and made a fascinating discovery; from the age of sixteen onwards, she was very active in a Haitian church in the north end of Montreal. She was interviewed a few times throughout the years in L’Étoile Haitien, coordinating food and clothing drives. I followed this lead and took a trip uptown to the Reverend Brothers of Elijah First Baptist Church.
I put on my Sunday best: my least-frayed, crispest collar, mismatched cufflinks and single unstained tie. I’ve always dressed rather shabilly, refusing to spend much money on clothes, because I feel that a true scholar shouldn’t worry about their appearance.
The church was a short bus ride from the L’Ouverture subway station, but I decided to walk and take my time exploring the neighbourhood, enjoying the feeling of being a tourist in my own city. I hadn’t been in the north end since I was thirteen and my father took me shopping for a suit in the nearby garment district.
It was a sparkling day and Main street was abuzz. Shopkeepers had spread their wares along the sidewalk, calling out to passersby. Men lounged on patios smoking hookahs and children darted around, peekaboo-ing from under their mother’s flowing skirts. Soon I passed a video store with a broken sign and stopped in my tracks, unable to resist taking a moment to investigate.
The clerk, who had blue side-swept hair, a pierced lip and plastic rings stretching her earlobes down to her jaw, was engaged in some anime cartoons and nodded noncommittally. I wandered through the rows, breathing in the familiar atmosphere. They had the same movies we did, set in nearly the same order. There was even a Frank look-alike browsing the horror section. It was like I’d stumbled into an alternate universe. Is that what they call déjà vu? How many versions of the store exist staffed by how many versions of us? Variations on a theme, discrepancies in detail. Simultaneous and independent, yet somehow connected through it all.
…
My ultimate destination lay in a converted storefront in the basement of a triplex on Iroquois Street. I arrived while the preacher was in the midst of his sermon. It was in Creole and I didn’t understand, but the mystic force of his delivery bore straight through to my bones. I listened for a moment through the open door before slipping quietly into a chair at the back.
When his speech was over, a teenage girl accompanied the congregation on keyboard as they sang their final hymns. A wave of raucous energy spread through the crowd. People sang and danced feverishly in the aisles. I found myself getting carried away, then I remembered my mission and struck a more sobre pose.
Once the singing had died down, people spilled out onto the sidewalk, chatting, laughing and exchanging the usual gossip. I made my way over to some of the older members; it had been almost twenty years since Clive and Juliette had attended.
It turned out that many of them could recall her and the white boy she started bringing along in the late 80’s, although none were willing to share their knowledge. It may be the lingering paranoia brought on by my caffeine binge, but once I had uttered their names, my hosts’ expressions, once eager at the prospect of a new member, appeared to sour with suspicion. I took the hint and left to get a slice of pizza. I sat in the dingy pizzeria watching the Sunday traffic, my mind drowning in a sea of questions, my hope drifting away.
I didn’t have to wait long for someone to toss me a lifeline. One of the churchwomen shuffled past the window, adjusted her hat and looked at me just as I was finishing my slice. I wanted to yell out but my mouth was full of pepperoni. I gulped down my food and ran after her.
“Why you wanna know ‘bout Juliette?” She asked once I’d caught up.
“I’m trying to track down her husband, Clive Powell,” I panted, “What’s going on? Why doesn’t anyone want to talk about her?”
“We canno’ talk here, come to my apartment and I show you some tings.”
The diminutive woman introduced herself as Mathilde. She led me back to her place, a two room apartment cluttered with knick-knacks, family photos and doilies. She bade me to sit down in her late husband’s armchair while she put the kettle on. A copy of the New Testament rested on a doily on her coffee table.
As we sipped our tea she told me about Juliette’s involvement with the church. Juliette was a quiet young woman who, outside of church duties, kept mostly to herself and was hardly ever seen without a book in tow. She was very interested in ancient religions and the spiritual sciences: Yoga, astrology and especially Taoism. Mathilde pulled out a scrapbook and opened it to a photograph of the Church volunteers. There was Juliette Renée – standing in the midst of the group, looking into the distance. She was stunningly beautiful – tall, lithe with a perfect face and deep, haunting eyes. Even from this worn-out picture I could see how Clive fell under the spell of this exotic goddess. Soon after he showed up, she became even more distant and aloof. She withdrew from her community activism and eventually had a falling out with the pastor of the congregation. I asked her about the cult.
“Astral Doorways were notorious,” she claimed, “they use voodoo and they worship Hollywood stars. The preacher, he want’ nuttin’ to do with idolatry and he shun’ her.”
“Excommunication?” I nearly spat out my tea. I thought they stopped doing that in the middle ages.
As to their current whereabouts, Mathilde had heard a theory that they’d established an underground voodoo lair right here in Montreal. But she doesn’t believe the outlandish tales that have been circulating and says that they probably returned to Haiti to live with her relatives. No one knows for sure.
I thanked Mathilde for her hospitality. As I stood to go, she motioned towards a crystal ashtray full of Haitian caramels that sat among the framed photos of her grandchildren. I helped myself to one of the treats, unwrapped its gleaming jacket and laid it on my tongue. The syrupy tingle awakened memories of my own grandmother, known for the vast array of exotic toffees she doled out to clean-cut young visitors.
“Thanks again,” I said.
“You’re welcome. But if I was you, I wouldn’ go lookin’ for some wild ghost chase. Better to leave ‘em buried. Have a good day, monsieur.” She led me to the door. Was it my imagination or did she close it a little harder than necessary?
As I walked back to the subway, I pondered this new information. Could Clive be a witch doctor, casting voodoo incantations, hiding out somewhere in this very city or is he in Haiti? For all I know, he might as well be in another universe, yet for some reason I don’t yet know his name still sets alarm bells ringing through that church.
…
Without firm clues, I will concentrate on creating a psychological profile of Clive. If I can get into his head, perhaps I will be able to retrace his footsteps.
Clive mentions that Juliette was fascinated by the work Karl Jung. Only a couple of entries later he begins talking about Native American shamanism, a theme he mentions frequently after that point.
March 1990
I just watched that Heritage Canada documentary about Iroquois legends. Maybe it was something about the animation, but I could really feel those medecine men bringing their ancestral stories to life. Juliette’s right, we need to pay attention to the lessons they contain.
Maybe we’re nothing but shadowy copies of a few mythical ideals. Dreams, inaccessible memories somehow guiding us back to the core. The idea seems to fit with Juliette’s Taoism – she has been withdrawing even more, losing interest in her activism, only maintaining a peripheral role. I wonder if she’s simply abandoning herself to her fate, whatever that may be. I also wonder if she’s told me everything.
The next few pages were completely torn, just like Clive must have been. I admired the way he seemed to be capable of trusting someone so deeply. I don’t know if I can silence my critical mind and have enough faith in someone to follow them into the unknown. How can some people lose themselves so fully in their partner? I feel like I’m missing out on a part of life that comes so naturally to some.
A little later on Clive became very interested in the condition of his body. He mentions a 3 day long fast:
December 1990
I drank only water and once a day mixed in 1 tbsp psyllium husks and 1 tbsp powdered Bentonite clay. As my toxins released, I felt a growing connection between the functioning of my body as a whole. I am beginning to learn my place as an organism of this world. There were times when I thought I was going to pass out, but Juliette told me that it’s actually good for your body and soul to do these cleanses. She fasts for a week each month. I am in awe of her discipline.
At first I thought these were merely the musings of an inquisitive mind, but I’ve realized that it means much more. Clive and Juliette were striving to commune with the supernatural.
Comments:
jenkins: I used to live up in the North end. I moved west when the underwear factory closed and I lost my job threading needles. You can still get a 99 cent pizza slice up there.
Spliffany: Great research Vic, I hope you find this mysterious Juliette. She sounds so cool. IM also a big fan of fringe spirituality and fad diets. Did you hear eggs were bad for you now? the cholesterol will swell in your gut and create disease-causing vapors. The ancient greeks were right about everything.
Jukeboxsuperhero: maybe his voodoo lair was smashed in the 98 ice storm
always_right_princess: No way, there were no reports of crushed lairs. I read the news everyday. I’m sure they ran away together. Like I said, probably to Haiti.
Follow Vic in his investigation. I guarantee you’ll never look at a video store the same way again
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