Children of Paradise: A Novel (45 page)

The pilot banks the plane to the extreme right over a large clearing that reveals itself with a flourish among the giant trees. From the plane, it is possible to see a long road leading to the rough-hewn gated entrance to the commune and rows of dormitory-like buildings and a single white painted house around a square and many outlying buildings, one with a large chimney and a farm and fence leading this way and that, and not far from the commune, the wavering brown scar of the river, now clear of trees, now hidden among greenery, now defined as a gap that the trees might lean across and bridge. Lower in its flight path, the Cessna straightens for a few quick miles of hurtling greenery before the pilot makes his approach to land. His maneuver tilts the delegation buckled in their seats, and the runway looms up ahead. Bodies tense as the undercarriage grinds open and brace against seats and stop looking out the window at the green ground rushing up to meet the plane.

The last things seen from the air are four children with satchels slung crosswise on their bodies, loping along the side of the runway on their way home from school, and some cows grazing in the long grass, and six or seven men, some in shades, milling about in plain clothes with rifles slung over their shoulders.

Breathe, people, breathe past the knot in the chest and try not to think of the axle of the plane shearing off with all the jolting and noise and rumble of the chassis as the engines shut down fast to a relatively quiet cruise in the direction of the armed men.

Do not be alarmed by the sight of guns or by your proximity to arms and the people who bear them. The simple geometric shapes of weapons advertise deadly intent but only as a remote prospect. They seem to mean serious business only when poised and warming against a man’s flesh. Do not become nervous, seeing how the rifles become an added appendage to these men, who look as if it would take surgery to separate the two, or some deadly conflagration.

Tell yourselves it is just two nights and three days out of your lives and away from what you know as civilization. Picture yourselves as moral stalwarts on a fact-finding mission to save the children, assuming, from the many negative reports about the commune, that they need saving.

The welcoming party from the commune, armed men, are vibrant in their own way of being easy with their bodies’ musculature, though they lack, somehow, the vibrancy of the surrounding vegetation. One of them, dressed in dusty and patched imitation army fatigues and, improbably, old flip-flops, smiles as he cleans his dark glasses with a rag and, before reinserting the rag in his back pocket, lovingly wipes the barrel of his rifle. He smiles and nods. Mirror his smile. Keep inhaling past the hitches in your breath as you try to hold back tears.

A flock of the brightest and noisiest parrots, all primary colors, shrieks, and squawks, swoops across the clearing between trees by the airport, and the members of the delegation shade their eyes to follow them. The flock disappears as it plants itself in the trees.

T
he ladle lifts and empties into cups. My head feels just as though my mother lifts me up above her head until her arms are straight, and keeps her grip on me as she lowers me and repeats her lift. Not quite giddy but a blur, trees seem to haul up roots and lift skirts of vines and swing through the air with me. There is a sound to go with this swinging, but I do not hear it. What tune goes with this feeling? My flute knows it. I feel the impression of the holes of my flute on my fingertips. I breathe in and out and both in and out breaths make a tune on my flute. I do not know how this can be. One kind of music is for outside, another for inside, not both the same. I have no words for it. We reach the open. I find myself next to Ryan and Rose. Our shoulders touch. We line up in front of a large vat. Women bring their young, nurses feed the babies with syringes, men guard the older children to keep them in line, and not a dry eye among the guards, who sleeve their faces to keep them clear, and mothers and fathers feed their youngest first, as ordered, and the work of parents is done, and not much noise at first besides our church sounds and this deep output of air all around me. Mother. I think this without saying it. I am sure my lips move, but no sound for Mother happens. Not even a whisper. Or I say her name and it cannot be heard above the moan, the hymns running up and down the long queue, the cries of the very young picking up volume, orders shouted by guards, and gunshots, their two-four dying echo.

—Children!

—Yes, Captain.

—Do I have your ears?

—You have our ears.

—Your good ears.

—Our good ears.

—You looking at me?

—We looking at you, Captain. But how did we end up on this ship, and where are our parents and friends?

—All of your questions will be answered with this story. You ready for my Anansi story?

—We ready!

—You know about Anansi. Who don’t know about Anansi? A human and a spider wrap up in one, a house and a web in the house for a bed. Anansi walk upright on two legs and he use two more legs for arms and he hide the last four on his travels among people. A man tangled up with a spider. But at night and in the spirit world, where he often play tricks and win and lose fortunes, he need all his limbs and all his wit to survive.

—Imagine, children, how much we would get done around this ship if we all had Anansi limbs. Anansi got big eyes. He can see all around him, three-hundred-and-fifty-nine-degree point of view except for a one-degree blind spot no thicker than a silver thread that run from the back of the point on his head, a single strand of web for a blind spot. In the world of people, that don’t sound like a weakness at all. But in the spider world, it count for something.

—Children!

—Yes, Captain.

—You sure you want to hear this?

—Yes, Captain, we sure.

—You can see and hear me, right?

—Yes, Captain. But we can’t see where you’re taking us.

—Don’t worry about your journey. Let me be your captain.

—Yes, Captain.

The ladle catches the light, the cups turn and drain. Throats exposed. I am four places back from the front of the queue. Two for Ryan. Three for Rose. She grips my hand. Hers shake. Hers sweat, and if I did not return her grip, our sweat would free our hands. Ryan glances back at me for the last time. He stands at the head of this queue about to consume itself. His eyes stay on mine, and for a moment the flicker of a smile upsets the compressed corners of his lips. The smile of the three of us, about to embark on another game of run, run and never stop, and hope never to be caught. The line packs tight, shoulders touching, almost impatient for a turn to drink from the ladle, but not us, Ryan, Rose, and me, we are caught up in the web of it, the line as a sticky web, made up of pieces of us. I do not have to move a muscle. The queue moves me along. Its push and pull forward. Songs run up and down it, crying chases the song and the two catch each other in one throat and then another as both hymn and crying, and neither one the same.

—Children!

—Yes, Captain.

—I need your ears and nothing else.

—You have our ears.

—Your eyes on me?

—Yes, Captain. We’re looking at you. But where’re you taking us? And why don’t we remember how we found our way on your ship?

—Don’t worry. Keep your eyes locked on me and your ears tuned to my words, and all your questions will be answered.

—Yes, Captain.

Cups drain. The front of the queue collapses. More people add to the queue. Ladles refill cups. Heads throw back to swallow and the back of an arm wipes a mouth and a boy makes the sign of the cross and moves to the side and it is Ryan, and I am next, and Rose who steps in front of me at the last moment, and I cannot even lift an arm to stop her, my arms and feet leaden, her look begging me to let her be first this time, one last time, my body moving as one piece on a web made up of many bodies, and after Rose tilts her head back and steps to the side, I stand at the head of the line barely able to stay upright, and I am next to drink.

—Children!

—Yes, Captain.

—You can look and listen at the same time?

—Yes, Captain.

—Where are your eyes pointing?

—On you, Captain. Are we there yet?

—We will soon be there.

—Will our parents be there to greet us?

—Yes, trust me, children.

—Yes, Captain.

Trina! Two armed guards press close to me. A face, ladle in hand, fills a cup, holds out the cup with not much in it, and says my name and nods at me to go ahead. Take. Drink. I hear my mother. Trina! Calling me back to my name. Her tone above all the wailing. She tells me to do as I am told. She says, I love you, Trina. I see her combing my hair as clear as if I looked into a mirror. A comb in her hand over my head of hair. She says, Child, hold your head still and let the comb do its work. I hold my head quite still for you, my mother. The comb, guided by your gentle push and tug of my head, does its work. I love you, Mother.

—Children!

—Yes, Captain.

—I got your ears.

—You have our ears.

—Where are your eyes?

—On you, Captain. We look and we listen.

—You doing well?

—We’re doing well. But this journey’s taking long.

—We have all the time in the world.

—Will we be there soon?

—Soon. You ready for more Anansi!

—Yes, Captain.

—Children!

—Yes, Captain.

—You all ready for more Anansi?

—Is Anansi real, Captain?

—Yes, children.

—Is he more real than us?

—No. Let me finish the story and all will become clear.

Sometimes I think I am Anansi, the spider. I shift into any shape to suit my dilemma and escape. Not just me but Adam, Rose and Ryan, and all the children. All of us shape-shift and escape. I hold a mirror to the sun and redirect one beam into several hundred, from one place where no good comes of the light to another place that welcomes the shine. Light, splinter for me now, if not for me, for my mother, and if not for her, for love.

I
am grateful to everyone at HarperCollins who played a part in publishing this story, book cover artists, copy editors, publicists, one and all. I single out Jonathan because he ran with the manuscript. From the early 1990s he has shown an expert eye for a good story and by now he knows all about the art and craft of the novel. And Barry. He rolled up his sleeves and aimed at the body of the text with a ninja’s accuracy. He is a gifted editor. My friends Geoff, Peter, Grace, and Douglas read with cold eyes and warm hearts. My brothers Andrew, Patrick, and Greg said I could do it and I was foolish enough to believe them. My thanks. I sat with Wilson Harris and talked about my project and explained how much his books inspired my attempt at this tragic story. He urged me to do it. He is the presiding spirit behind my writing of this novel. Bless him. My children served as daily reminders of the hundreds of children who perished at Jonestown. Bless them. The result is a novel inspired by Jonestown rather than in strict adherence to it, and for that I am solely responsible.

FRED D’AGUIAR
is an acclaimed novelist, playwright, and poet. He has been short-listed for the T. S. Eliot Prize in poetry for
Bill of Rights
, a narrative poem about the Jonestown massacre, and won the Whitbread First Novel Award for
The Longest Memory
. Born in London, he was raised in Guyana until the age of twelve, when he returned to the UK. He teaches at Virginia Tech and is an American citizen.

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F
ICTION

The Longest Memory

Dear Future

Feeding the Ghosts

Bloodlines

Bethany Bettany

P
OETRY

Mama Dot

Airy Hall

British Subjects

Bill of Rights

An English Sampler: New and Selected Poems

Continental Shelf

The Rose of Toulouse

P
LAYS

High Life

A Jamaican Airman Foresees His Death

Days and Nights in Bedlam

COVER DESIGN BY JARROD TAYLOR

COVER PHOTOGRAPH © OYVIND MARTINSEN / ALAMY

AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY VICTORIA SMITH

C
HILDREN OF PARADISE
. Copyright © 2014 by Fred D’Aguiar. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.