Children of Paradise: A Novel (34 page)

The truck arrives at the T-junction where the group is supposed to be waiting for permission to visit the compound, but the guards find nothing and no one there. Tracks lead in both directions: To the right is the route to the small mining town and airstrip, to the left more forest and eventually the river and the Indian villages settled not far from the banks. The guards debate whether they should wait for the group, which surely must return at some point, or pick a direction and drive in the hope of meeting the two jeeps. If they take one direction, the tribal council might return from the other. If they sit and wait, there is no telling how long it will be before the jeeps return.

They decide that since they are there, they might as well wait for a while rather than risk going in the wrong direction. As they wait, they debate about the commune and where it is going and how things will end. Everyone sings and prays as much as they ever have, but there is no shortage of misery in the air, with each new drill surrounding the imminent doom brought about by each new crisis. At first these men guarded the commune against wild animals and intruders, and now their duties involve just as much policing of the residents as guarding against the jungle and the threat of an invasion from mercenaries. The tribal council is just such an invading force, and this is a test of conviction. Their action will restore the equilibrium of the commune. Things are out of balance for them as a community. They find themselves on their back foot, but they should be pivoting on the balls of their feet and toes and leading the charge.

Sid and the rest of the council watch the truck from their hiding place among the trees. Their jeeps, reversed off the road and camouflaged by bush and vine, cannot be seen by someone driving past. The tribesmen sit on sheets on the ground and discuss this response by the commune to their friendly visit. Sid scratches his head slightly, at a loss for words in his effort to square his personable interactions with people at the commune with the grievous intent of sending armed guards in a truck to pursue the council.

—Not very hospitable.

Sid suggests they have some fun with the commune guards, since both armed guards and council are out in the forest with time to kill:

Didn’t the commune try to kill time way back by shooting up that poor time seller’s cart?

The laughter all around, tempered by worry and irritability at the commune’s decision to ratchet up hostility, fades when the elder of the council considers Sid’s proposal and agrees. Sid, always the clown, especially in the face of tension, rubs his hands together in mock glee.

—Let’s go native.

The tribal council shrugs and strips to just underpants, applying dye squeezed from leaves and scraped from bark to their bodies. They tie small branches to their arms and legs and heads, examine one another from head to toe, and add finishing touches, asking someone to close both eyes and swiping the eyelids with a thumb dipped in black dye, adding the right stripes and circles on each other’s back and behind the knees. Sid starts a low, rhythmic, guttural chant, to get in the mood, he says, rubbing his hands together, and the chant spreads to the rest of the group—even the usually serious elder joins in—and together they sound like an odd gaggle of geese, wild turkeys, and bullfrogs.

The temperature in the back of the truck is enough to melt the glue binding a book. The commune guards sweat and their tempers flay. A guard peers into the bush.

—You hear that?

—Hear what?

—That hyena.

—No hyenas here.

Only one other guard says maybe, but he hears less of a bark and more of a wild boar grunt. The guards look out at the thick vegetation. It reflects so many gradations of green and so much variety of texture that staring at the bush with wet eyes plays tricks on them. If the light hits the eyes one way, the bush assembles a giant face resting its chin on the ground with its forehead in the trees, or at another angle a herd of galloping horses, or a savannah shifting with so much wildlife grazing on it.

—See that?

A guard shouts and aims at the bush, and the other guards look in all directions and agree that there is movement out there. There is not just something out there but many things all around them.

—Look.

—Where?

—Over there.

—Yes, I see something.

—Over here, too.

—Yes, I see it.

—Must be a lot of them.

—Of what?

The guards aim their rifles in many directions. A senior guard reminds them to hold their fire until something definite shows itself. The bush all around them shakes without a breeze. The guards hear grunts and barks in the bush. Not grunts of wild boar or hyena barks but something bigger and unknown. And the sounds match the movement all around the truck. One guard suggests:

—We should get out of here.

The senior guard says they are to stand their ground, since whatever is out there cannot be bulletproof. The bush rattles, and the grunts and barks grow louder. The senior guard orders his men to fire at will and the guards aim their rifles, some at the movement in the bush, others in the direction of the sounds. They shoot from the truck in all directions and break tree limbs, shredding leaves and twigs and pockmarking tree trunks. They pepper a bird that accidentally flicks into range and send feathers flying and bring down the bird in a heap. They keep firing until their rifles empty and shell casings litter the ground. The trigger clicks cease and the forest seems stirred by something that passes through in a hurry and upsets things, but the forest is far from disturbed. The trees stop shaking, and the men imagine faces in the bark and in the clusters of leaves. Then the shaking of the vegetation starts again, along with the grunts and barks, and the senior guard shouts that enough is enough and he orders the driver to get them out of there. The driver reverses at high speed for a mile and does not stop in time for the two guards at the main gate to lift the barrier out of the way, and they crash through it, stop, call the two guards onto the truck, and turn and speed back to the compound.

The council members regroup at their camouflaged jeeps, laughing at the reactions of the commune guards. Sid sounds a triumphant note:

—The ancestors will be laughing at this one for a long time.

They shake hands, drive down to the river, wash off their paints as they sneer at the smelly water poisoned by the commune’s pig farm, dress, and head back home with their report about the negative response of the commune to the council’s second visit. The indigenous tribes who depend on the river cannot ignore the commune’s pollution. Fish are dying; the water irritates the eyes and causes rashes on the skin of the children who bathe in it at the wrong time; it stains clothes yellow and orange; and at different times of the day, the water stinks like a pigsty. The fishermen throw their nets in the river and joke that they pull out mutant fish.

—Fish the color of pigs.

—Fish that smells like bacon when you fry it.

—Stink fish that no amount of juice from lemons or limes can neutralize.

The entire commune hears the gunshots and people run from their chores in the kitchen, the fields, the farms, the mill, incinerator, and infirmary, to gather in the central area in front of the preacher’s house and Adam’s cage. The truck pulls up and the guards bail out, their faces drained of blood, their eyes showing too much white and their mouths stuck open. They run in all directions and talk about the jungle coming alive in front of their eyes, and the shaking trees and the big faces formed by tree bark and broad leaves. The preacher listens to the senior guard recount the events. He asks him to go outside and calm his guards before they panic the community. The preacher asks his managers, the doctor, the head of security, the head teacher, the accountant, what they make of this latest debacle. Do they think the commune is under attack? Not one of them thinks that it could be, though everyone agrees that something odd happened out there to spook the guards.

The preacher says they should use the opportunity to have another drill in case an attack may be under way. He orders his assistants to mix the vat of concentrated powder diluted with water. He sounds the compound sirens: The community is under attack. Joyce and Trina join the other stragglers rounded up at gunpoint and ordered to stay in the open area. The people obey instructions to form a long line and to drink fast and to pray. Children drink first and Trina cries and Joyce looks puzzled and she keeps staring at the managers to see if this ninth drill is real. Every one of the managers and assistants move fast, to Joyce’s eyes, but their actions of filling up the ladles is too careful and lacks the edge of a believable emergency. Joyce tells Trina not to worry, just go along with it. This surprise gathering is not one they should worry about. Trina says the drink is just warm water with coloring. Joyce warns Trina to make sure when she tells Rose that the whole thing is a drill and not the actual thing that Rose acts normal and keeps it to herself.

Joyce, Trina, and Rose find it hard to watch the other children cry and ask for their parents in the belief that this is their final drink, and parents drink to join their children and promise them that they will meet again on the other side. They sing hymns. The guards, always the last to drink, set down their sticks and rifles. Rose looks at Adam and wonders, if this time were the real thing, what would become of him. Would the preacher make Adam drink as well? Adam howls and grabs the bars of his cage and jumps up and down.

Captain Aubrey and First Mate Anthony rehearse their manufactured IDs and tug and itch their recently grown beards as they steer the freshly painted and newly registered
Many Rivers
toward the jetty that belongs to the commune and wave at Eric, the guard stationed there. He waves back. The captain asks Eric how things are going, and he says fine as long as they do not plan on bringing him and his Kalashnikov any trouble. The captain says he would not dream of disturbing the beautiful day’s peace. He offers the guard some ginger beer, cold, he says. The guard invites him to pull in but to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice if anyone from the commune approaches the dock. The captain promises to keep the engine running should such an eventuality arise. They answer the guard’s preliminary questions about the boat and their location upriver; soon he seems satisfied. They chat and drink not one but two cans of ginger beer. The captain breaks out some of his special black cake, and Eric thinks it is the best cake he has tasted in his life.

—What’s it made of?

—Well, it’s a Christmas recipe started a full six weeks before, with raisins soaked in rum.

—But it still tastes fresh.

—An old family-secret.

—One day I’d like that recipe to try for myself.

The captain says he will bring some more the next time he sails by:

—How is life at the commune?

Eric says if he speaks honestly, it has to stay between the three of them. The first mate nods and pretends to attend to matters on the deck.

—Not good, Captain. Not good. Tense. Hardly any laughter, and the prayers are desperate, whereas before when we prayed, it was ecstatic.

The captain says he understands what Eric means, but he wonders what could cause such a big change in the atmosphere.

—Paranoia. Pure and simple.

Eric’s eyes moisten, and he says he cannot talk because he is stuck with it, and if things do not improve, his nerves are done for. The captain strokes his beard and looks Eric in the eye and tells him if it ever comes to his nerves not able to withstand living in the commune, he should come to them and they will help him, he should turn to them first before he thinks of anything else. Eric thanks them but says he is in with the preacher for the long haul. He loves Christ and loves the reverend and gave up too much to walk away from it all.

The captain scratches his beard again and says he understands about the sacrifice, but faith should not be stubborn, and maybe sometimes faith is the midwife of doubt. Eric nods in deep thought about this.

From his elevated vantage point at the pig farm, Kevin spies his friend Eric in conversation with someone whose multicolored boat is docked at the landing. Kevin’s engrossed stare attracts the attention of Joyce, who tries to look without looking by keeping her gaze trained on a spot far ahead of her, making a series of small movements of her head toward the river. She picks up the vibrant boat, about the same size as the
Coffee
, with two people in charge of it, but they are too far away to see features. She asks Trina in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone to pivot her body and direct the same practiced stare and steal a look at the wharf to see if younger eyes might pick up a trace of Cook on the water. The word causes Trina to become very attentive to her mother. Trina looks in the same covert way and catches sight of the colorful boat and the two figures, and one of them, she thinks, even with her way of having to look without seeming to, one of them, this one man for sure, moves like Cook. She knows this little nugget of information will excite her mother, so she takes extra care with reporting it, to keep her mother’s reaction safe; she says the bigger Cook of the two, with the full beard, reminds her of a clean-shaven Cook, who ran a somewhat plainer kitchen compared to this spicy one, and she misses this Cook quite a lot but she knows her mother misses this Cook even more. Joyce asks Trina if she is sure and if she will kindly drop the whole Cook thing, since no other ears linger near enough to eavesdrop. Trina glances at the guard. He seems mesmerized by the scene of his friend contravening orders by fraternizing with people from outside, though from this far, how can he be sure the talk is not all about commune business?

Joyce inhales heavily and says they must send a signal to the captain that they can see him, even if they cannot get to him or he to them. Trina thinks they should stage an escape. Not just one pig but a whole brood of piglets, to make rounding them up quite an enterprise. She opens the pen a fraction and ushers the piglets out, and once they start to scatter, she shrieks and runs at them to make sure some of them head toward the river, and her mother follows her, grabbing at the piglets and failing to grip even one, as if the little pink slip of a thing is greased and this is a game of catch the greasy pig. Kevin can hardly believe his luck, a chance to get a closer look at Eric in some animated conversation with strangers down at the landing pier. So he joins in the chase of the piglets with not much effort to catch the pigs so much as scatter them nearer the river to get a better look. And with that, the three commune people and the screaming pigs spread out and draw near to the dock.