Mosquito

by Gayl Jones

  Who?

  You know who. Bet she’s sweet on somebody.

  Then I’m looking at one of them refugees who’s looking at me, eagle-eyed, East Indian looking, then he’s studying them men playing chess, on what ain’t a table but a kettledrum turned into a table. And I be thinking maybe he a spy and not no true and orthodox refugee at all. But I guess them refugees can have that furtive-eyed interest ’cause they be in a New World and America it be like for them a whole new planet. ’Cause they be calling them aliens anyway, even some of them Sanctuary workers, they be using the word alien some of them and others they be saying undocumented workers and others they be saying refugees, but most they be using that same metaphor for them aliens from outer space. But I still be thinking he a spy, though. But then he ain’t looking at them Sanctuary workers any more furtive-eyed than I am.

  When I first come in the basement, the woman in the peacock skirt come up to me asking me if I speak English and then be asking me what country I’m from, and then one of them other workers who kinda look Japanese but sorta dark-complexioned who that Koshoo they be talking about be telling her I’m Nadine. That’s Nadine, he say. Oh, you’re Nadine. Maybe that’s why them Sanctuary workers talking what sound like that code, though, ’cause they don’t know who a spy. How come they be trusting all them refugees to be true refugees anyhow? Them Sanctuary workers they be telling you not to trust strangers that show too much interest in the Sanctuary movement and that same advice in that book that Father Raymond give me, and a lot of them same recruiting arguments they got in that book too. But I guess all them Sanctuary people they use them same recruiting arguments, and be talking about how them refugees is migrants and be talking about how you shouldn’t criminalize migrants and about them people that have the border mentality and them that don’t. Some of them refugees, though, they be looking at the Sanctuary workers like they think it them that the aliens. I’m still listening to them chess players:

  Anyway, so that’s what Roosevelt said about Somoza—sure, he’s a bastard, but he’s our bastard, right? You know how to play chess, greenling? he’s asking me. Standing up there trying to look like Sojourner Truth or what’s her name? Naw, I don’t mean you, greenling. Yeah, she’s joined the Sanctuary, wearing this kerchief and shit, like I said, trying to look like Sojourner Truth. I met her at the Quijote Center. So, like I’m saying, the problem is that people allow their governments to tell them what to believe—or the voice of authority. But when you know the voice of authority is lying. Today too many people know the voice of authority for the liars that they are. That’s why people don’t trust authorities anymore. I mean government officials, congressmen, doctors, lawyers. They know them for the liars they are. . . . People have to be the means to their own salvation. . . . I belong to this international consumers group. Naw, she’s waiting for some new refugees. Are you waiting for some new refugees?

  Yes, I answer.

  What’s your name, greenling?

  Chito Chiton.

  We’re all Chito Chitons here. And old revolutionaries. Some of us were on different sides in the revolution, but . . . I mean in our different countries’ revolutions, but we’re . . . ¡Hijas de puta! Chingada! As soon as I get my working papers, as soon as I get my freedom papers, muchachos. . . . Race? So he asks me my race. In my country, you never ask a man his race. Race is a North American myth.

  Then that woman, that Grand Panjandrum, find out I’m waiting for the new refugees, tell me to wait against the wall till they decide which refugees I’m supposed to drive and where. Then she herself stand near that kettledrum that them men done turned into a chess table and then come to me again telling me my assignment, that I’m to drive them—some of them refugees—to another farmhouse. You know, one of them big ranch-type farmhouses; she describe the farmhouse and then take a map out of her peacock skirt, must be another map ’cause the other map she have were a world map and this a Texas map and show me where it is on the map, but she make me memorize where the farmhouse is and what it look like—I guess in the old days farmhouses like this used to be the big house, like the plantation big house, but in this part of the country they didn’t call them the big house or plantation neither, they call them the hacienda or some shit. Yeah, I think they call them the hacienda, but they still the same plantation. But they got a Spanish word for plantation too. I guess that just plantación. That hacienda that just a farm, Delgadina say, hacienda that just the Spanish word for farm. And farmer that a hacendado. Still that sound fancier than farm. When you say you a hacendado instead of a farmer. And they have them they slaves and peones working the land. And some of them haciendas they got them slave cabins, except but they put them migrant workers in them cabins. Them migrant workers is the peones. ’Cause every group they always be wanting to make somebody into the peones. Like them ex-slaves when they returned to Africa they be making the native Africans into they peones. And like that Portuguese African he be talking about the elite Africans. I guess they be making the other Africans the peones. And he be talking about what he call them detribalized Africans. And the elite Africans they be moving into them colonialist houses and shit and supposed to like them Mercedes, ’cause every group got to have they peones. Like that Delgadina she be telling me about that African filmmaker be satirizing all that about them Africans and they Mercedes, but she be saying she likes his films ’cause he don’t just show the African jungle he show the urban Africans too, like that woman be talking about that man doing that series on the African cities, ’cause when most people think about Africa they don’t think about them cities, and they always be more interested in them animals than they is in them human beings. And like I said they know the names of all them animals and don’t even know the names of them human beings. Lotta them animals they’s got they own language, though. People think ’cause they don’t speak the human languages, they ain’t got no languages. ’Cept the woman that own this farmhouse she ain’t no fancy socialite elite-type woman. She look more like she mighta been one of the peones. She a sorta plump woman and look kinda Eastern European, like one of them Eastern European refugees, but somebody say she Dutch. I don’t know if she a illegal alien herself or not. And I can’t make out the accent of hers. If it is Dutch. I don’t know. It a strange-type accent. That detective school that supposed to teach people different types of accents too. That Delgadina she pretty good with accents. I wonder if that Dutch a easy language to learn. Dutch supposed to be kinda like German, except it ain’t German. But she ain’t got no Dutch name, though. Then somebody else say she Dutch and Indonesian. The secret word for everyone is Chito Chiton. We’ve all got the same name: Chito Chiton. And that Portuguese African he want to give me one of them African names that mean the beautiful one, but I think he kidding. And he don’t want me to call him no Portuguese African he just want me to call him African. ’Cause he be saying if I call him a Portuguese African that the same as colonialism. He speak Portuguese, though, as well as his tribal language. He say when he ain’t in Africa or Canada he in Brazil and be telling me about all these ex-slaves who came from Brazil to Africa and from Africa back to Brazil. He say that he could claim to be Brazilian as much as he could claim to be African. And he be talking about the Africanization of Brazil and he be telling me about these towns in Brazil where he be in Brazil and think he still in Africa. And he be saying how they got towns all over Latin America like that, even Mexico, and he be saying he been in them towns and think he still in Africa. But, like I say, that another story about that Portuguese African, that African, ’cause he should have his own whole story. But one of them refugees kinda remind me of him and I be looking at him when I first come in the basement, ’cause I be wondering if maybe that him. He wearing a vest and spectacles and look like he should be one of them Sanctuary workers, but he don’t look like he recognize me, though, so I don’t figure it that African. And I don’t ask nobody what he name, ’cause we ain’t supposed to ask them refugee name, and I think they gives them
new names anyhow.

  You think you can remember that? the woman in the peacock skirt ask.

  Yes.

  Are you nervous about taking these refugees?

  No, I ain’t. I’s got my own citizenship papers. Them refugees is them that looks nervous. What’ll they do if they catches me smuggling?

  You call this number. Do you have Ray’s private telephone number? And you know about some of the patrols?

  Yes, I remembers everything. I’s got Ray’s private telephone number. Do they put me in jail if they catches me smuggling?

  You just call that number. I’d ride along with you, but they know me. If they see me riding with you, the patrols would be sure to stop you.

  They always stops me, but Koshoo say the people’s supposed to have they own documents. As far as I know these is farmworkers, and if I’m harboring illegal aliens I’m harboring them unknowingly. It Koshoo’s farm itself that asked me to transport these peoples.

  Ah, yes. Okay. Well, if they stop you, then you just show them your own registration. These are farmworkers, okay. They have their papers, okay. I was thinking you’d be transporting the other refugees, the ones that no one would mistake for farmworkers. Do you want me to get someone to ride along with you?

  Naw, I don’t allow nobody in my cab. I mean nobody I don’t know. And I don’t know none of these peoples. ’Cept some of them do kinda look like peoples I know. Some of them even looks like peoples I’ve seen on documentaries. I ain’t saying they names, though, and ain’t telling nobody who they is.

  She return the map to the pocket of her peacock skirt, and then when them refugees that I’m supposed to transport is account for the woman in the peacock skirt lines them up and I can sorta tell why that man be calling her the Grand Panjandrum, whatever that is, even though she be wearing them guaraches just like some of them refugees. But you can tell she one of them elites, just trying to look like a refugee. Too old to be a college girl, though. Y’all know that singing group, the Fugees. That’s why they call themselves Fugees, on account of them refugees.

  The refugees, though, they don’t all get in the truck at once. The woman in the peacock skirt act like a lookout. She peek out the door of the farmhouse, and then she motion for them one at a time to get in the truck. If they go too fast toward the truck she sorta holds them back and then motion for them when they supposed to go toward the truck. They’s as many refugees as they’s crates and bins of industrial detergents in my truck, so’s each has got his or her own crate or tin drum of industrial detergents to hide behind. Though this ain’t near the border, and the border patrols just checks my truck when I’m on that border road. But like Father Raymond said I don’t have to carry none of them refugees across the border. At the next farmhouse papers are being made up for them and they will be given new names and they be given bags with food and powdered milk and hygiene stuff. But we all be name Chito Chiton. Even I must not tell them my true name is Sojourner. My true name Sojourner, I be wanting to say but I gotta say I’m Chito Chiton, that way they know I’m the one they’re supposed to trust. How come them say my name Nadine if we all supposed to be Chito Chiton? Maybe they don’t know the rules they ownself. ’Cause they sho said Nadine and they say that Koshoo name.

  You refugees’ transportation? ask the man. It the other Ray.

  Yeah, I says. He hand me a map, a rolled-up newspaper and some documents.

  Thanks, I says.

  You know the Koshoo farm? he asks.

  Yes. And I ain’t nervous. ’Cept I am a little nervous ’cause that woman told me not to be nervous. I ain’t never been nervous of them patrols. But now I’m the smuggler that they have always accused me of being. ’Cept I ain’t smuggling for myself. I’m smuggling for these peoples. And I ain’t smuggling things. I’m smuggling peoples. And I ain’t crossing nobody’s borders but my own. I must be kinda nervous. They’s calling these farms, but they ain’t just farms, they’s hideouts.

  Have you ever been arrested?

  No, but I have seen it on documentaries. I got Ray’s private telephone number and the telephone number of y’all’s legal guerrillas. I gots all the maps I needs, but I already knows the area. I knows where that farm is. I’ve seen that farm on my route, but I ain’t know it were a stop on nobody’s Underground Railroad.

  I’ll ride out to Koshoo’s with you, he say. I’ve got to pick up some documents. Naw, you don’t have to drive me. I just remembered. We’ve got the Land-Rover. You know the route?

  Yes. I just told you I knows the route. I might be a little nervous ’cause that woman asked me is I nervous and that’s the power of suggestibility. I wish she hadn’t signified on being nervous, though. I’m trying to think what Delgadina, well, she ain’t no new Underground Railroad person so’s I can say her name, what she taught me about yoga so I can triumph over the power of suggestibility. But I knows all the routes in South Texas. In fact, I could conduct y’all’s refugees to Arizona, New Mexico, and Nevada, but I would prefer not to, and Ray have said that I can join the new Underground Railroad according to my own preferences. Koshoo the brown-skin Asian-looking man. I knows him.

  I still be thinking they uses the name Koshoo and Al and Ray and the other Ray but ain’t supposed to say the names of them others. Or maybe everybody else a Nicodemus and they ain’t no Nicodemuses. Ray say they’s coupla kindsa Nicodemus. They’s the Nicodemuses that don’t want you to know they names, but you can know they works with the Sanctuary, and there’s the Nicodemuses that wants you to neither know they names nor that they works with the Sanctuary.

  I ain’t had to read them maps, ’cause like I said I knows all the routes in South Texas. And the curious thing is I ain’t stopped by none of them patrols. I seen a patrol, one of them patrols who have stopped me, but even he didn’t stop me. He look like he going to stop me and then he spot that man in the Land-Rover who look more like a illegal alien and smuggler than I does myself, so he stops him, and I continues on the route to the farmhouse. I ain’t know whether that part of they strategy, though. To get a alien who look more like a alien and smuggler than me so’s I can have a free route. ’Cause they knows they’s only one patrol for this route. When I gets to this other farmhouse, the Asian-looking man, Koshoo, is there. He leads them refugees into the basement of his farm, except the door that leads to the basement is camouflaged so that if you didn’t know there was a door to the basement, you wouldn’t know there was a door to the basement or that the farmhouse even had a basement. Then he shows me his art studio, which look like a ordinary art studio and have a skylight. Then we go into another basement, but ain’t the same basement where he led the refugees, and I be thinking how many hidden basements his farmhouse have and be thinking that maybe they’s a whole lot of hidden basements, then I be thinking about Ray’s cathedral and be thinking if that have a whole lot of hidden basements, and be thinking why Ray more secretive about the hidden basements in his cathedral than Koshoo about the hidden basements in his farmhouse. I be thinking why Koshoo ain’t no Nicodemus, but I knows I’m prohibited from asking questions, so I lets him tell me as much about hisself as he wants to say.

  I finds out that Koshoo a true artist, that he a art artist but that he also work with the Sanctuary movement making all kinds of documents and papers. I finds out he a true artist, a art artist who can do any kind of papers. He a brown-skin man, like I said, but look kinda Asian and kinda African, but I can’t tell he nationality. He speak English without no accent, though. He that same Koshoo, but they don’t introduce me to anyone by name, and I be wondering why they be gossiping about people by they true name. And how come that peacock-wearing woman be calling me by one of my true name, like I said, ’cause I know she be saying You’re Nadine? or maybe she think Nadine ain’t my true name, maybe somebody told her that my code name Nadine and that ain’t my true name, and supposed to be calling me Chito Chiton anyhow.

  This Koshoo, if he name Koshoo, he kinda speak English with a accent, but it a American
accent, one of them ordinary American Midwestern-type accents, not no Asian accent and not no African accent. Got a ponytail and hair sorta kinky and sorta straight, and he wearing one of them goatee. He just sit down at this desk and with a ordinary pen he can make any kind of papers. Well, he got different-color pens, but they all them ordinary-type pens. Least the first time I seen him he have one of them ordinary pens, then I see him again he be having one of them computers that got them graphic designs where he can draw with this ordinary pen, but then it put what he draw on the computer screen, then after that he got him one of the scanners and the pen too. But then that first time I seen him he just have him one of them ordinary-type pens. Anyhow, I’m waiting for a new load of Chito Chitons and watching him make up these papers with one hand and holding this telephone under his chin with the other hand. I don’t understand all of what he say, but I just tell you the way I hears it, and it don’t exactly sound like he just talking shit. I be wanting to scribble some of what he be saying in my notebook, but don’t want them to think that I’m no spy:

  Yeah, a bullet in her arm, he be saying. She came across the border with a bullet in her arm. Yeah. Anyway, so they’re insisting she’s a economic refugee and here the woman has a bullet still lodged in her arm. Al’s trained as a medical doctor, so he took it out. Then somebody recognized the woman, one of the refugees. Some of them are staying at my farmhouse. My other farmhouse. . . .

  He say a lot of other stuff that y’all don’t have to listen to. I likes to listen myself, though I don’t know all that he’s talking. He’s talking about someone from the INS and Ray and el centro and old lovers and the Haitian Refugee Center and Miami and something else about lovers and more about the woman with the bullet in her arm and Ray and economic refugees and revolutionaries and people who consider themselves revolutionaries and computers and Form I’274 and G’28 and making some G-28s. . . .