own age, when he left British Guiana to take up his scholarship. Would he betray her? Would he betray the young Marie of Port Mourant, the maiden, the Virgin Marie of Port Mourant?
‘Three Maries,’ I said to Mr Mageye, ‘appear in the Dream- book . Marie – this Marie – is destined to be Deacon’s bride. When I saw her myself on visits to the Courantyne I fell head over heels in love with her. I would have married her like a shot. I hated Deacon. I was jealous of him. Hate is too strong a word. But the truth is we were antagonistic to each other. Racial antagonism? Racial antagonisms between East Indians and Blacks and people of mixed descent? It’s rife in British Guiana. It’s rife in the Guianas – Dutch and French as well. Surinam. Devil’s Isle. Guyana.’
‘Will he betray her?’ asked Mr Mageye.
Deacon caught the drift of my silent conversation with Mr Mageye.
‘Never, Never,’ said Deacon. He bared his arm. On it was tattooed the Constellation of the Scorpion. ‘This gives me immunity to pain,’ he said. ‘Why should I inflict pain on my bride?’
‘All the more reason why you may,’I protested. I bared my arm. On it was tattooed an imprint of Lazarus.
Deacon glared at me. ‘Heroes are saviours of the people,’ he said. ‘They build strong gaols and fortresses and coffins. But in the end they save the people, don’t they? As for you, Francisco, fuck you! Lazarus eh? You are a ghost’s ill-begotten son. I shall take you under my wing. I shall adopt you as brother and son. I shall even give you my Mask to wear in times of Carnival. Then everyone will think you are me and you shall be honoured.’
I shrank from him. I had not a word to say. But I pitied poor Marie. She was the adopted daughter of the Doctor-God of the poor people’s hospital of Port Mourant. Her parents had died in a car crash on the busy road between New Amsterdam and Port Mourant.
‘The Doctor is your magus-medicine man,’ said Mr Mageye.
‘Deacon has taken him in,’ I said. ‘Deacon has persuaded him that Marie and he will give birth to a true Lazarus …’
‘But you,’ said Mr Mageye, ‘you …’
‘I may have magi within my book but I am a surrogate of the cradle of the Bone that will flesh all races into genuine brothers and sisters …’
Deacon may have overheard my silent conversation with MrMageye. He bit his lips savagely until blood came. Heroes eat the flesh of monsters in themselves to fuel life, to strengthen life.
The friendship, the curious enemy friendship between Deacon and Jones and me, was a phenomenon of the modern age, indeed of many past ages.
Jones’s terrible moods of anger fuelled our resolution to face the world, to withstand insults, racial insults in America.
‘All who aren’t white are black,’ said Jones. ‘I shall protect you. You are all one to me.’
‘Are Alexander and Genghis Khan one to you, Jonah? Would you have recruited them to sail on the Pequod ? They were sons of gods, they were fallen angels like me. Brace yourself Jonah for a new peasant uprising across the Americas. All you need is one man who contains millions …’
‘God help that one man,’ I said, ‘when he opens the door of the cell in which the Old God resides …’
‘What Old God?’ Deacon cried. But Mr Mageye put his hand to my lips. His face became grave as an Enigma or the Sphinx. And I said nothing. Indeed I was plagued by uncertainties and my allusion to a Prisoner upon Devil’s Isle, or Old God, was rash in all the circumstances. Jonah was angry. Old Gods were useless unless they could bring time itself to a standstill.
Phenomenal as it seemed, peculiar in the light of common sense, a strange aspect of the fuel that drove us into forging a treaty or a pact – a pact between the white American Jonah Jones and racially mixed and uncertain ancestries within Deacon and myself – was anger.
Though I had said nothing when Deacon taunted me as a ‘ghost’s ill-begotten son’ I
‘Three Maries,’ I said to Mr Mageye, ‘appear in the Dream- book . Marie – this Marie – is destined to be Deacon’s bride. When I saw her myself on visits to the Courantyne I fell head over heels in love with her. I would have married her like a shot. I hated Deacon. I was jealous of him. Hate is too strong a word. But the truth is we were antagonistic to each other. Racial antagonism? Racial antagonisms between East Indians and Blacks and people of mixed descent? It’s rife in British Guiana. It’s rife in the Guianas – Dutch and French as well. Surinam. Devil’s Isle. Guyana.’
‘Will he betray her?’ asked Mr Mageye.
Deacon caught the drift of my silent conversation with Mr Mageye.
‘Never, Never,’ said Deacon. He bared his arm. On it was tattooed the Constellation of the Scorpion. ‘This gives me immunity to pain,’ he said. ‘Why should I inflict pain on my bride?’
‘All the more reason why you may,’I protested. I bared my arm. On it was tattooed an imprint of Lazarus.
Deacon glared at me. ‘Heroes are saviours of the people,’ he said. ‘They build strong gaols and fortresses and coffins. But in the end they save the people, don’t they? As for you, Francisco, fuck you! Lazarus eh? You are a ghost’s ill-begotten son. I shall take you under my wing. I shall adopt you as brother and son. I shall even give you my Mask to wear in times of Carnival. Then everyone will think you are me and you shall be honoured.’
I shrank from him. I had not a word to say. But I pitied poor Marie. She was the adopted daughter of the Doctor-God of the poor people’s hospital of Port Mourant. Her parents had died in a car crash on the busy road between New Amsterdam and Port Mourant.
‘The Doctor is your magus-medicine man,’ said Mr Mageye.
‘Deacon has taken him in,’ I said. ‘Deacon has persuaded him that Marie and he will give birth to a true Lazarus …’
‘But you,’ said Mr Mageye, ‘you …’
‘I may have magi within my book but I am a surrogate of the cradle of the Bone that will flesh all races into genuine brothers and sisters …’
Deacon may have overheard my silent conversation with MrMageye. He bit his lips savagely until blood came. Heroes eat the flesh of monsters in themselves to fuel life, to strengthen life.
The friendship, the curious enemy friendship between Deacon and Jones and me, was a phenomenon of the modern age, indeed of many past ages.
Jones’s terrible moods of anger fuelled our resolution to face the world, to withstand insults, racial insults in America.
‘All who aren’t white are black,’ said Jones. ‘I shall protect you. You are all one to me.’
‘Are Alexander and Genghis Khan one to you, Jonah? Would you have recruited them to sail on the Pequod ? They were sons of gods, they were fallen angels like me. Brace yourself Jonah for a new peasant uprising across the Americas. All you need is one man who contains millions …’
‘God help that one man,’ I said, ‘when he opens the door of the cell in which the Old God resides …’
‘What Old God?’ Deacon cried. But Mr Mageye put his hand to my lips. His face became grave as an Enigma or the Sphinx. And I said nothing. Indeed I was plagued by uncertainties and my allusion to a Prisoner upon Devil’s Isle, or Old God, was rash in all the circumstances. Jonah was angry. Old Gods were useless unless they could bring time itself to a standstill.
Phenomenal as it seemed, peculiar in the light of common sense, a strange aspect of the fuel that drove us into forging a treaty or a pact – a pact between the white American Jonah Jones and racially mixed and uncertain ancestries within Deacon and myself – was anger.
Though I had said nothing when Deacon taunted me as a ‘ghost’s ill-begotten son’ I
Similar Books
