The House of Rumour (38 page)

So I accepted the long-standing invitation of Gonçal Figueras and went to stay in Barcelona. And this is where I live now. I’ve managed to find some comfort in my work here, though nowadays it tends towards the abstract, despite the conceptual analysis that critics persist in applying to it. I try not to give in to disillusionment but to find the logical beauty of simple objects. But there are times when I feel completely alienated from the world and can no longer find any refuge in it.

Only last week I found myself in the Estació de França, on my way to Paris by train (I rarely fly now if I can help it). Passing through the ticket hall, I noticed that the model of the station was missing. I’d scarcely thought about the thing over the years. The glimmer of inspiration I had once felt before it had left little mark on my conscious memory, though it must have been deeply ingrained on my instincts. A brief regret for its absence gave way to something like relief: that I would be spared the inevitable disappointment when revisiting a moment of illumination. But then as I made my way to the train, I realised with dread that the maquette had been moved. It now stood near the entrance to the platforms and I could not stop myself looking once more into this miniscule abyss, though I knew that everything would be out of joint. The model of the model within the model was now in the wrong place. It is the carelessness of dislocation that so disturbs me and I am overcome by an incomprehensible weariness. No one knows (no one can know) the endless regression of loss and displacement.

15

death

Then Dad’s voice comes over the tannoy, calling us all to a meeting at the Pavilion, and we know that we are in for another long White Night. And back to hard work with rice and gravy tomorrow. Just when we thought that the party for the Congressman and the Concerned Relatives had gone so well. What with all the singing and dancing and everything, and all that good food that we hadn’t seen in such a long time. The Congressman even said so. He told us he could see that there are people here who believe this is the best thing that has happened in their whole lives. Then we were betrayed again by the enemies that Dad says are always in our midst. Somebody passed a note to one of the reporters, telling them that a group of them wanted to leave with the Congressman and the Concerned Relatives, to go back to America and capitalism. Some of us said let them go: they are only fifteen, we are over a thousand. But Dad said that they will spread more lies and that will mean even more trouble.

So I find Mom and we make our way to the Pavilion. I hold her hand and sort of guide her. I’m supposed to be raised communally since we’ve been here but I’ve been allowed to spend more time with my mom lately. She has been sick from the sun. She is sensitive to the heat and she burns so easily because she is so white. She don’t have to work in the fields no more and instead she cleans rice with the seniors in the senior tent. I know tonight we will have a catharsis session and that will be hard for her so I have to make sure that I’ll be near by. White Nights can be pretty tough even on the young folks.

It’s been hard for Mom down here. Sometimes she says that she wants to go back but I tell her to keep faith. We can’t expect paradise overnight. To build a garden in the jungle takes time. A promised land is a promise that works both ways, that’s what Dad says. It’s not easy to build a world free from injustice, inequality and racism. I try to remind her how proud we can be as socialists, not victims of capitalism where money and greed mean everything. Even if this means making personal sacrifices. But Mom gets sick, not just physically. She has problems with her mental state and I have to watch out for her sometimes, make sure she takes her medication.

I’ve had a good time here. I’ve done well in class at the school tent, never once sent out on the Learning Crew like some of the bad kids. I have a good understanding of social consciousness, that’s what one of the teachers said. We learn all kinds of things in the school tent. We even had a Russian visitor come and teach us some Russian.
Kak vashi dela?
(How are you?) Then there’s volleyball and basketball. There are film shows in the Pavilion some nights, or we listen to broadcasts on the BBC or Radio Moscow. Every so often Dad will let us have a dance night with live music or a disco. I had a party for my twelfth birthday in the summer.
Harosho, a kak ty?
(Fine, and how are you?)

Me and Mom first found the Peoples Temple back when we lived in Los Angeles. I remember the first time I saw Dad in his robes and sunglasses, calling out to the congregation like an old-time-religion preacher. Except he was talking about struggling for justice, for equality and righteousness. He said that Jesus Christ was a revolutionary, that Christianity had never really been tried out properly. And when he spoke about creating a world where there was no racism, it was the first time I ever felt that was a possibility.

You see, growing up, I never felt I fitted in anywhere. At school the white kids called me nigger and the black kids called me an oreo (meaning I was black on the outside, white on the inside, just like an Oreo cookie). But I couldn’t help that, I never knew my black father. Just Mom, who is blonde white. The black kids might call me brother, but every time one of them said they hated whitey it was like they were saying that they hated my mom. Life was always like I was looking over my shoulder. When we walked into that big old church on Alvarado Street, that was the first time I really belonged.

There were black kids, white kids, all colours of the rainbow. The choir was interracial, and the whole congregation mixed with each other, not sitting in groups of their own kind. It was like I had come home.

Dad looked interracial himself. Jet-black hair and high cheekbones. He’s got Cherokee blood, they say. He’s kind of white but he talks like a black man. Calling out the sermon like a revival meeting.

Soon after that we got on the Peoples Temple bus and left Los Angeles for good. It was a bad place, Mom said, full of evil. We went up to live in San Francisco and then spent a summer at the commune in Redwood Valley. It was beautiful up there. That’s where I first learnt what socialism was. We were one big happy family and nobody called my mom crazy any more.

She told me that I had a new dad now. A real dad who could take care of me. My own father had been shot dead by the Detroit Police Department in 1974 during a bank hold-up. I’d never really known him anyhow. His name was Cato Johnson and he was a guitarist with a band called Muthaplane. I have a cassette tape of their album
Afrostronomy
.

When we get to the Pavilion, Dad has already started speaking, standing on the platform with the sign above his head. The one that reads
THOSE WHO DO NOT REMEMBER HISTORY ARE CONDEMNED TO REPEAT IT
. He talks of a catastrophe. A bad thing that is about to happen. A catastrophe is going to happen to the plane taking the Congressman back to America. And we can’t just wait for it. We have to do something. Someone is going to shoot down the pilot and the plane will crash into the jungle. And Dad tells us that we better not have any of our children left when that happens because they will come and butcher them. Dad sighs. We have been so betrayed, we have been so terribly betrayed. He looks tired and sick. If we can’t live in peace, he says, let’s die in peace. Let’s be kind to children and to the seniors and take a potion like they used to in Ancient Greece. Step over quietly. Because we are not committing suicide. It’s a revolutionary act.

We’ve heard this before on White Nights. Revolutionary suicide. Dad gets this barrel of punch and says its poison but it’s not. It’s just a loyalty test to see that we’re ready to die for the Cause. On White Nights we’re on alert, ready for when they come for us. You can’t have a revolution without discipline. Sinners have to go to the front for a lecture, maybe a beating. Traitors and class enemies get revolutionary justice. Time in the box, or out with the Learning Crew, cleaning the latrines or digging ditches. If you’re really bad you get taken to see the tiger. I’m not even sure what that means but I know it must be bad.

It has been harder down here than in San Francisco. There it was more like a party, a carnival. Every week the Peoples Temple would join in on a demonstration or a political rally. Civil rights and workers’ rights, women’s rights. Gay rights too. Dad told us that gay people should be equal just like women and black people. That we’re all field hands on the plantation called America. We have to build our own garden, our own agricultural project. But it’s been hard work making our dream come true.

It’s been hardest on Dad. He looks tired nearly all the time now. He has told us before of his illness. High blood pressure, low blood sugar. He suffers with us, for us. And the American government has tried to destroy us. With its infiltrating and wire-tapping and plots to assassinate Dad.

The Red Brigade security have now started to line up around the Pavilion, some with rifles, others with crossbows. Eyes hard, looking to Dad, then out to the crowd. And I start to feel real scared for the first time. Some of the Red Brigade are not here. There is a rumour running round that some of them went to the airstrip, after the Congressman. Dad looks so weary. He asks if there is any dissenting opinion.

Is it too late for Russia? A woman’s voice comes on the tannoy as she takes the microphone from Dad. It’s Christine, a black senior that we knew from the Los Angeles Temple. She’s never been afraid of speaking her mind. Russia, she says.

No, no, Dad replies. It’s too late for Russia. These people have killed. I can’t control them. I can’t separate myself from them. I’ve lived for all. I’ll die for all.

Well, I say let’s make an airlift to Russia, says Christine. That’s what I say. I don’t think nothing is impossible if you believe it.

I suddenly felt something rise up inside me. Yes. Russia. We’ll go and live there.
Harosho, a kak ty?

Dad asks Christine, How are we going to do that? How are you going to airlift to Russia?

And Christine says, Well, I thought you said if we got in an emergency, that they gave you a code to let them know.

I grab Mom’s hand tightly. I want to join in the discussion. But I’m too young. So I speak to Mom and tell her we could go to Cuba. It’s nearer. We could go by boat if we couldn’t get a plane. I learnt in the school tent that in Havana they have the best ice-cream parlour in the world and it’s cheap enough for everybody.

Then Dad says that the Russians only gave us a code that they would let us know on that issue, not us create an issue. They said if they saw the country coming down they agreed they’d give us a code. You can check on that and see if it’s on the code. We can check with Russia to see if they’ll take us immediately. Otherwise we die. I don’t know what else to say to these people. But to me death is not a fearful thing. It’s living that’s treachery.

The crowd breaks out in loud applause and Mom starts talking about an airlift. Except for her it’s the Space Brothers from Sirius or Pleiades that will land and take us to another planet. Only if we have the right code. I’m trying to concentrate on the argument up front on the stage while she babbles in my ear about a spaceship coming to save us.

Dad is up there saying that Russia isn’t going to want us now. He says that he is standing with the people. That he could never detach himself from our troubles. He is speaking as a prophet today; he has taken all our troubles right on his shoulders. And Christine is saying that where there’s life there’s hope. That the children have a right to live. That we all have a right to our own destiny.

And the crowd is getting upset by what Christine is saying. As if Dad could be wrong. And I realise that is the most frightening thing for us. And people are shouting Christine down. It’s over, sister, it’s over! You’ll regret it if you don’t die! Let’s make it a beautiful day! And Dad says, I’ve been born out of due season, just like we all have, and the best testimony we can make is to leave this goddamn world!

There is more cheering and I hold Mom’s hand tight. Christine tries to talk some more and there is more shouting. You just scared to die! What fucking good would you do in Russia! How can you tell the leader what to do! Dad talks once more about revolutionary suicide. That we lay down our lives in protest against what’s being done. Death, Death, Death. It’s like we’ve talked of Death so much we’ve actually summoned him up. And the voice of Death is speaking in tongues. Like when you stand at the edge of a cliff and look down and you hear a voice say, go on, go ahead and jump. Except now it’s out loud. Communal. And a senior wails, we’re all ready to go, if you tell us we have to give our lives now, we’re ready. At least the rest of the brothers and sisters are with me.

There is the sound of a truck coming into the compound.

What comes now, folks? Dad calls. What comes now?

A commotion outside the Pavilion. The rest of the Red Brigade is back from the airstrip. Everybody hold it. Everybody be quiet, please. Sit down, sit down, sit down. Gather in, folks, Dad says softly on the microphone. It’s easy, it’s easy. One of the Red Brigade is taking to Dad. He nods. It’s all over, he says. The Congressman has been murdered. It’s all over.

And everybody knows now that this is it. Please get us some medication, says Dad. It’s simple. It’s simple. Just please get it. Before it’s too late. They’ll be here, I tell you. Get moving, get moving, get moving.