The House of Rumour

by Jake Arnott

  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 impo
ssible 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.

  Time for medication, says Mom. She squeezes my hand and I turn to look at her. She shakes her head. Medication is for sick people, Martin, she tells me.

  A table is being set up at the front. A big tub with the punch is being brought out. Mothers and babies go first. They are lining up on the wooden walkway. They have syringes without needles to squirt the poison into the children’s mouths. Everyone get behind the table and back this way, okay? Everyone keep calm and try to keep your children calm. They’re not crying from pain. It’s just a little bitter tasting.

  Everyone can see that this is for real now. Not just another White Night loyalty test. Death is coming for us.

  Mom whispers in my ear. You’ve got to get out of here, Martin.

  Somebody has the microphone and is talking about how they used to be a therapist, and the kind of therapy they did had to do with reincarnation and past life situations. Whenever people had an experience of past life all the way through death, everybody was so happy when they made that step to the other side.

  Mom shakes her head again. No, no, no, she mutters.

  The Red Brigade have taken up positions around the Pavilion. I look around to see if there’s a way out. How are we gonna escape, Momma? I whisper.

  Not we, she says. You, Martin. I’m ready to go.

  And I squeeze her hand tighter.

  Listen, she says. I see her try to concentrate. It’s like she is trying to make sense of things.

  More and more people are going up and taking the potion. There is crying and screaming but also people testifying. This is nothing to cry about. This is something we could all rejoice about. They always told us that we can cry when we’re coming into this world. So when we’re leaving, we’re going to leave it peaceful.

  I’m sorry, Martin, Mom is saying. I’ve always had trouble in my head. I know that hasn’t been easy for you.

  Mom, I say. Please.

  But I know now, she tells me. You see, I know what madness is. I always have done.

  Die with a degree of dignity, lay down your life with dignity, Dad is calling out. There’s nothing to death. It’s just stepping over into another plane. Stop these hysterics. This is not the way for people who are socialists or communists to die. We must die with some dignity.

  You see, says Mom. Dad is God.

  She points up at him.

  God is Dad.

  Yes.

  She nods.

  But, Martin, you see, Dad is mad.

  God is mad.

  Death, death, Dad is saying, death is common to people. Let’s be dignified. If you adults would stop some of this nonsense. I call on you to quit exciting your children when all they’re doing is going to a quiet rest. Hurry, hurry, hurry, my children. Hurry. There are seniors out here that I’m concerned about. Quickly, quickly, quickly, quickly. No more pain now.

  Come on, Martin, Mom tells me. I’m ready. You pretend.

  What? I ask her.

  You got to play dead. You can do that, can’t you? Play dead.

  And Dad is calling for another vat to be brought out. The vat with a green C marked on it. Bring it here so the adults can begin.

  We’re in the queue and they’re moving us quickly now. Mom finds it hard to keep up so I put my arm around her waist and let her rest an arm on my shoulder. Take care of her, someone says. Yes. That’s a good boy. They are giving paper cups to the adults now. Someone hands one to me. I’ve only got one arm free so I take one cup and Mom reaches out to it.

  Help me, Martin, she says. It’s at that moment that I realise that if I help to kill my mom, I might just get out of this alive. And that makes me feel bad. Like I’m a traitor. But I want to live. We’re walking away from the vat and I’m holding up Mom as she takes a drink of the potion. She coughs and drops the cup on the floor. She’s going to die. Part of me wants to get another cup for myself and go with her. Everyone is going together. Most people die on their own but now they are all going together. Mom is choking and shuddering but all the time leading me away from where people are taking the poison. And nobody has noticed that I haven’t taken mine. Mom starts to stumble and I stumble with her. All around us people are dropping to the ground, holding on to each other. Choking and coughing, crying and wailing. Calling out for the last time. Calling out to each other. Calling out to a God that has gone mad. I help Mom down gently and lie next to her. The sun is si
nking. The sky is red like blood. Mom tries to say something to me but a froth comes out of her mouth. I hold on to her as she shakes and shakes. Then I feel the life go from her. And I’m on my own now. All around me people are dying and I’m lying among them, pretending to be dead, like Mom told me to. I’m on my own now.

  It’s getting dark and there is some shouting up at the Pavilion. Gunshots. One. One, two, three. Somebody calling out. One more shot then silence. Just the sounds of night. The chirp of insects and the sad calling of the birds. I raise my head to look around. I can’t see anybody left standing. No Red Brigade standing guard no more. I look down and see Mom dead next to me. I look across all the bodies lying all over the ground as far as I can see through the gloom. I feel like I’m the last person left alive on the whole earth. I get up and start to run. Run towards the bush.

  In the bush it’s dark. Pitch black. It’s hard to make my way through the tangle of branches but I just want to find a place to hide. I find a place where I can curl up. I just want to sleep. For my mind to go black like the jungle. I feel so sad and alone and my mind is racing, racing. I close my eyes and try to think of sleep. All I can think of is Death.

  Then I hear something rustling in the bush. At first I think that it’s somebody come after me. I curl myself up even tighter. Try not to move, not even breathe. Then I realise that it’s not a person. It’s an animal of some sort. It comes closer and I feel the presence of it, like it can feel me too. I don’t know what it is. I think maybe I’ve taken myself to see the tiger and I’ll finally know what that means. I think that now I’ll die in the bush anyway. All on my own. The animal is sniffing, like it’s sniffing me. Then I think this is Death itself come to get me. And I shout out and the thing rushes off. And I start to sob all alone in the jungle, crying for Mom and everybody else.