The Ten Incarnations of Adam Avatar (47 page)

‘They're very pretty,' I said.

‘Yes,' she said. She put her hands in her lap and looked at me. ‘Thank you,' she said. The words came out reluctantly, and the cautious light was back in her eyes.

I smiled easily and said, ‘There's something else in the box.' She drew out the piece of paper and unfolded it.

‘Mr. Rogét said you can read. Is that true?' I asked. She nodded. I said, ‘Those words are from a play named
Hamlet
, by a man named William Shakespeare. The heroine's name is Ophelia.'

She said, ‘I thought you say the play was name
Othello
.'

I was surprised. ‘You remember?'

‘I not chupid, you know.'

I said, ‘I didn't say you were. I made a mistake. Ophelia is from
Hamlet
.' She looked at the paper and frowned. I said, ‘Let me read it for you.' She handed it to me, and my fingers brushed hers. The passage I had given her was the following speech spoken by Hamlet, altered to suit:

‘Nay, do not think I flatter;

For what advancement may I hope from thee,

That has no revenue but thy beauty

To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter'd?

No, let the candied tongue lick naked pomp

And crook the humble hinges of thy knee

Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?

Since my dear soul was master of your choice

And of women distinguish, his election

Hath seal'd thee for himself; for thou hast been

As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing,

A woman that fortune's buffets and rewards

Hast tak'n with equal thanks; and bless'd are those

Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled

That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger

To sound what stop she please. Give me that woman

That is not passion's slave, and I will wear her

In my heart's core, aye, in my heart of heart

As I do thee.'

I folded the paper. ‘Do you like it?' I asked.

She said, ‘It sounding pretty. But I dint understand it.'

I gave her back the paper. ‘Read it a few times. It shall become clear.'

She took it and put it in her pocket, and sat looking at me. I leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips were soft, unresisting. My own lips were persistent, pressing firmly into hers. She did not kiss me back, but neither did she pull away. My hands held her upper arms. When my tongue began exploring her lips, I felt her give her little. My hands moved down her arms, brushed the bracelets, and I entwined my fingers in hers.

Now her mouth opened, and her breath came a little quicker. My mouth pressed upon hers, parting her lips. I put my tongue into her mouth. Now she breathed heavily. Our saliva mingled. I took her tongue into my own mouth, sucking upon it. My hands stroked her face. She returned my kisses fiercely now. Her hands were on my chest. I felt all her passion I had seen through the peephole in her room. My hand moved down to her bosom, sneaked into her dress. She pulled away a little, but my hand followed. I felt her hard nipple against my palm. I massaged her breast, squeezed it gently. She did not move away. I felt as though I were dreaming, wondered if I were. I took her hand and put it against my hard penis. I was not dreaming. But she pushed me away. I persisted. She turned away her face, my mouth pursued her mouth.

‘No!' she said. I held her face, pressed my lips on hers, but she twisted away like a snake from under me. I grabbed her shoulder, and she turned and slapped me right across the face. A white light exploded in my head, and I slapped her back. She fell to the floor. My blood was now heated with lust and rage and wine. I threw myself upon her, tearing at her clothes, my hands searching out her most private self under her clothes. She was cursing like the lowest whore, snarling like a wild animal. I did not care. I had treated her better than any slave had a right to be treated, given her expensive presents, even written poetry! And still she persisted in her stubbornness. It was enough! If she would not give herself willingly, I would have her by force. Willingness could come later.

This was my last thought before she stabbed me.

I didn't realize it at first. All I felt was my heart grow heavy in my chest, as though it were flopping in its beat. My mouth was ravaging Ophelia's neck, my hand clamped firmly over her warm, slippery cunt. Then something made me look down, and I saw the handle of a dagger sticking out of my ribs. Only then did the immense pain tear through me. My head swam, and I fell off her onto the floor. My vision grew dark, and the last thing I saw was the swirl of her skirts as she ran through the door.

For an entire day, my servants thought I was dead. The floor was awash with my blood when they found me, and my heart had stopped beating. Yet when the doctor came the following day – he had taken a holiday and it took some time to locate him – he found a faint pulse. Even then, he told me, he did not expect me to live. I remained in a coma for another day after that. When I finally awoke, I was still very weak, but I recovered quickly once I ate some bread and drank some water.

Truth to tell, I was not as flabbergasted as those around me by my miraculous recovery. A similar event had occurred when I was 12 years old, and my father and I had fled St. Domingue just ahead of Toussaint's marauding hordes. In fact, we were rowing out to a waiting British ship when a lead ball caught me in the throat. For most of the voyage, I lay in a state closer to death than life. Indeed, the captain would have consigned my body to Poseidon's depths had not my father insisted that I be given a proper Christian burial when we reached land. But even before we landed in Trinidad, my mortal wound had mostly healed, though it would be weeks before I could speak above a whisper. The crew hailed my recovery as a miracle, and took me as a mascot – especially when, as soon as I could move around, I displayed a skill at knots and navigation which impressed them mightily. It impressed me, too, inasmuch as before my ordeal I had no such knowledge.

(Now that I write, it occurs to me that it is from then that I began to dream of other times and climes. It was also from then that I began to hear the voices that are mines, yet not mines. Perhaps, in my brief sojourn to the Other Side, I acquired the angels who have since guarded me in life.)

We learned later that Toussaint maimed and murdered 10,000 mulattoes. [Only 150 years later, in my tenth life, did I learn this story to be untrue, spread by those who wished to paint Toussaint as a devil – A.A.] Papa chose Trinidad because the King of Spain had granted a cedula to all Catholics. But, even without the slave revolt, Papa might have left. The whites in Martinique had already begun to oppress us, preventing any mulatto from being an officer in the militia, imposing a curfew, even prescribing our clothes. (Papa used to remark sardonically that telling Frenchmen not to fight or think would not arouse their ire, but telling them what to wear was a sure recipe for revolution.) The move certainly benefited me. Since we came here when I was only 12 years of age, I am equally fluent in French and English. I prefer to speak French, but I love writing in English.

As I write this, dawn spreads its rosy light through my window. My servants confirm that Ophelia has gone. The bloodstained dagger lies on my desk. I have received a mortal wound that is not mortal. I must rest and continue this entry another day.

December 30, 1828—

My recovery – I almost wrote ‘my resurrection', but that would be blasphemous – my recovery after Ophelia stabbed me seems to have been exactly alike to my recovery after I was shot. I remember having strange dreams while I lay comatose. I remember dreaming of strange rituals in the forest, before slaves who worshipped me. I remember dreaming I was white and wealthy, but without wisdom. I remember dreaming I was white and poor, and that was worse than being half-white and prosperous. I remember captured Africans, and how they rose against me – that terror stays with me. I remember being a soldier who slew without mercy. And I remember being a boy in Hispaniola, then called Bohio, when there were neither whites nor blacks there.

It is that boy who stays with me now that I am awake. All the others are become slippery shadows, their voices mere murmurs. His voice is quite silent, but only because he is in me, as much a part of me as my healed heart. I know his skills, as I knew the skills of the slave-captain when I was a boy. And so I have not called for an Indian to track Ophelia. I shall find her myself.

December 31, 1828
—

Spent the day in bed reading
Hamlet
, memorising certain passages. I am almost fully recovered. There is no natural explanation for my recovery, therefore the explanation must be a supernatural one. But this by no means makes the explanation irrational. Descartes provides my starting point. ‘Cogito, ergo sum,' he writes. ‘My essence consists solely in the fact that I am a thinking thing... I am really distinct from my body and can exist without it... Although my whole mind seems united with my whole body, I know that cutting off a foot, arm or other limb would not take away anything from my mind.'

But suppose there existed a man with a mind so powerful that it controlled his body perfectly? Descartes himself emphasizes that God would not deceive Man about reality and that it is Man's own imperfections that lead him into error. But since, as Descartes points out, the mind can exist without the body, then the mind is by definition GREATER than the body! Therefore, an unwavering commitment to truth, through faith and reason in perfect harmony, may well with God's fiat create the kind of healing I have displayed. And, of course, there is precedent: that of the greatest Healer of all. Not that I am in any wise Him. But there can be no doubt I am specially favoured by God. What a marvellous revelation with which to begin the New Year!

January 1, 1829—

Found Ophelia hiding in the barracks of the Albany estate 30 miles away. She tried to run when she saw me but I easily caught her and put her in irons. The owner, Mr. Phillips, was outraged that his slaves had sheltered a runaway and promised to punish them. A decent man.

Ophelia remained sullen on the journey back to Kush, but I could see that she was afraid. I said nothing to relieve her state of mind. After all, she had killed me and, although I had recovered, I was naturally upset. She only got truly terrified, though, when on our arrival I did not put her in the gaol but carried her up to my bedroom. In the bathing-room, I had had four iron rings with chains fixed to the wall: two for the wrists and two for the ankles. When Ophelia saw them, tears began flowing from her eyes.

‘Doan kill mi, massa,' she begged. ‘Please please doan kill mi.'

I chained her facing the wall, so her cheek was pressed against the tiles. Her arms were spread as if on the crucifix, her feet wide apart. I took my hunting-knife and she began to bawl.

‘Shh,' I told her, ‘shh,' and her sobbing subsided to a whimper. I took the knife and slit her dress down the back and pulled the ragged cloth off her. Her body was as beautiful as I remembered. The leg irons had been placed with deliberate wideness so that, though the chains allowed some play, Ophelia was forced to jut out her bottom. I placed my hand on the parted crease of her
derriere
, put my mouth to her ear and whispered, ‘The chariest maid is prodigal enough if she unmask her beauty to the moon.' I stuck out my tongue and delicately licked the inner ridge of her ear. A tremor passed through her body. ‘Virtue herself 'scapes not calumnious strokes,' I said, and slapped her plump left buttock, not very hard, but the sound reverberated through the small room. Ophelia drew a deep, moaning breath. ‘In the morn and liquid dew of youth, contagious blastments are most imminent,' I continued. My hand whacked her other buttock, and I felt how it jiggled firmly under the blow. Ophelia whimpered. ‘Be wary then; best safety lies in fear.' I leaned close to her other ear and said, ‘Are you afraid, Ophelia?'

She stammered. ‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘Because you gwine kill me.'

I laughed, and I saw from the tenseness of her spine that this scared her even more. ‘Why? Because you tried to kill me?'

‘Yes,' she stammered. ‘No. I din mean to kill yuh.'

I laughed again. ‘Oh, yes you did. But I can't be killed by you. It's not the first time you've tried to kill your master, is it Ophelia? Isn't that why you're still a slave? Why, if it weren't for this,' I ran my hands down her body, and she shuddered, ‘you'd have been whipped and hanged already. Not so?'

‘I doan know. They say I do things. I doan remember.'

‘You don't remember killing me?'

‘No.'

‘Then why did you run away?'

‘I doan know.'

I laughed. ‘You must think I'm a fool, Ophelia.'

‘No, I know yuh not a fool, massa.'

I leaned close to her, my mouth by her cheek. My hand crept beneath the fork of her legs, cupping her mossy cunt. ‘How do you know I am not a fool, Ophelia?'

‘Because of how yuh does talk to mi. Because yuh does read all them book.'

My fingers began massaging her cunt. ‘Remember that play I said your name comes from?'

‘Yes...
Hamlet
.'

‘The prince tells Ophelia, If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shall not escape calumny.'

‘I doan understand, massa.'

‘He means she's a cold woman who does not serve her man, so she'll have bad luck. Are you like that, Ophelia?' I inserted my middle finger into her hole. Her legs were already held apart by the irons, but she opened them a little more. I wriggled my finger inside her. ‘No, massa,' she said. I began rubbing her cunt in a rapid, circular motion, just as I'd seen her do to herself in her bedroom. Soon, her breath quickened and she rose a little on her toes. When I felt her shudder, I slowed my rubbing.