The Ten Incarnations of Adam Avatar (46 page)

I had expected her to be tentative, or at least clumsy in her haste to get done. But she soaped my back thoroughly, then my arms, then my lower legs which hung over the sides of the tub. And, though I had not intended to try and make her go further that day, it was she who told me to stand up. This I did, feeling oddly like an oversized child. She used the soapy rag to scrub my back and chest and stomach. She was firm, but not rough. She then soaped my thighs, avoiding my genitals although the edge of her hand touched my dangling testicles now and again.

By this time, of course, my member was erect and throbbing. Ophelia affected not to notice. And so it was with genuine surprise that I felt her soapy hand begin to stroke my stiff length. She was quite thorough here as well, gently massaging my balls, her fingers even soaping the exquisitely sensitive skin between scrotum and anus. I would have come at once, save for an unease that she might at any moment give my balls a hard squeeze. This delayed the sweet ache of my engorged penis from burgeoning into unstoppable pleasure. But, as Ophelia continued stroking, my entire mind became concentrated on the sweet motion of her slippery hand up and down my throbbing staff, my breath catching as she tickled the heavy sac of my balls. And then I came, with a shuddering groan of release, my semen jetting in long spurts, my very anus contracting in pleasure!

My knees trembled, and I sank back into the tub, as if I were swooning. Ophelia continued milking me under the soapy water, until I motioned for her to stop. She then took up my towel and stood waiting patiently for me to stand up so she could dry me off. After some long moments, I felt able to do so.

When she was leaving, I said, ‘There are six bitts on the dressing table. You may have them.' I wanted her to know that I appreciated what she had done. She nodded and left. I could not tell whether she had enjoyed or been repelled or was merely indifferent to what she had done. Not knowing this bothers me.

December 10, 1828—

Nero has contracted gonorrhoea. Most bothersome. I have banned him from sexual intercourse for 44 days and informed all the women about his condition so they will not give in to his demands (for, of course, I do not expect my ban to dissuade him from trying). I have purchased for him 24 mercurial pills for purging, papers of salt and cooling powders, a large gollypot of electuary, and a bottle of balsam drops. Nero understands that he is to give me half of whatever he earns for outside work until he has repaid me. Fortunately for him, he is a skilled boiler, so he should be able to repay me soon.

In the following passage, I feel as though Rousseau addresses me directly: ‘If the aristocratic system allows of a certain inequality of fortune, the reason is that in general the administration of public affairs may be confided to persons who can best give them all their time, and not, as Aristotle pretends, so that the rich may be always preferred. On the contrary, it is important that an opposite choice sometimes teach the people that merit has a much stronger and more important claim to public favour and confidence than wealth can possibly create.'

If in the West Indies men adhered to this wise advice, a man such as myself would surely be among the most eminent citizens. But what is the reality? I have both wealth and merit, yet no real influence in the affairs of the colony.

On Tuesday, Ophelia bathed me once again. But she was more reserved this time. She soaped me thoroughly, spending considerable time on my buttocks, whose firm roundness, I have always felt, reflect my Negro heritage even more obviously than my dark complexion. Ophelia seemed to enjoy massaging them. Oddly, although I found her ministrations quite erotic, my penis softened while she attended to this portion of my anatomy. Then, although she soaped my genitals, she did not stroke me as she had last time. So I was left with a frustrated erection, which I relieved myself as soon as she left.

I do not understand why she was so coy, inasmuch as she has performed the task once and knew I was well pleased. And why did she pay such intimate attention to my bottom, which was quite pleasurable, then not do what naturally followed? She is playing some game, but I will not force the point just yet.

I dressed quickly after she left, and went to the peephole. She had already removed her wet dress, and was lying on the bed with an unused candle in her hand. Drawing her knees up to her breast, she inserted it into her vagina. My eyes felt as though they would burn the very air, as I watched Ophelia fuck herself with the candle. She moved it in and out, at first slowly, then more quickly, while the fingers of her other hand played with herself. It was not too long before she gasped, thrusting the candle deeply within herself, her back arching and her great toes pointing stiffly upward. I could barely restrain my own cry. That night, I went down to Beneba's house and fucked her for about an half-hour, my mind all the while on Ophelia.

December 17, 1828—

Spent the day gathering materials in short supply – mahoe bark to make ropes; withies to tie the wattles; palmetto royal for ridging. Oversaw thatch repairs to buttery & fowl-house, had them cut Scotch grass for the cattle. Negroes drumming and dancing since nightfall.
Canaille convulsionnaire!

A most significant passage from my last reading of
Du Contract Social
: ‘Everything conspires to deprive a man who is brought up to command others of the use of his reason as well as of his principles of justice... the science of governing is one about which those persons always know the least who have learned too much of it, and which is generally better acquired by persons more accustomed to obeying than commanding.'

Since the colour of my skin has put me in a position where, although I do not actually have to obey any man, I am still in a subservient position, I fit perfectly Rousseau's criteria for command. Indeed, I would go so far to say that, save for the matter of prejudice, I would make a better governor than any we have had so far – certainly better than any other colonist. As proof, I offer the fact that my plantation is perhaps the most efficiently run one on the island. That is in spite of the fact that my own slaves are less respectful to me than they would be to a white master. Yet I have managed to strike an effective balance between discipline and kindness in spite of this. Not only that, but my self-education puts me above any other man in Trinidad. I perfectly exemplify Plato's ideal philosopher-king. Unfortunately, I do not live in a society with any interest in, let alone respect for, philosophy.

I find that my intellect is more active now than it ever has been previously. This is partly the result of keeping this diary, partly the result of events around me, and partly because of my growing mental powers. This last, I think, is the main factor. I find that I am suddenly able to grasp concepts and ideas that were either extremely difficult or completely beyond my ken in my younger years. Perhaps this is what is meant by the wisdom of age, though my own observation has been that age usually brings with it a closing and diminishing of the intellect.

I do not consider myself to have necessarily escaped that fate. If I attain 50 years, and retain this clarity of mind, only then shall I cease to worry. And already there are hopeful signs. Since I have begun this diary, the voices in my head have diminished, although I hear them when debating some philosophical issue with myself. And, since the ‘attack', I have not seen the Shadowman at all.

There is also a fourth reason I feel so mentally active: a considerable part of my intellectual activity is devoted to figuring out how best to seduce Ophelia. Of course, this is not a serious intellectual exercise, but the mind, like the body, requires its play. ‘True eloquence makes light of eloquence, true morality makes light of morality, to make light of philosophy is to be a true philosopher,' says Pascal.

I am still trying to analyze the last time she bathed me – her masturbation immediately afterwards suggests that she was excited by the act. But then why did she not act on the act? Truly, women are an eternal mystery! Still, now that the Tuesday bath has occurred three times in succession, I feel confident that it will become our ritual. (Ah, if religion had such rituals, the church would be bursting at the seams!)

I know I must proceed with caution. But it is difficult, so difficult, to restrain myself. On this Tuesday, I suggested to Ophelia, almost diffidently, that she remove her dress in order to avoid wetting it. She did not entirely comply, but nor did she refuse. Instead, she rolled it down to her waist, exposing her breasts while she bathed me. I became hard at once. I had not seen her breasts in good light since the auction. They are a sweet handful, the nipples neat like a young girl's. It was all I could do to refrain from cupping them and, as though in sympathy for my plight, Ophelia soaped my penis a little longer than she had since that first time. Though she did not actually stroke me, her touch still brought forth a dribble. It was not entirely satisfactory, though better than nothing, and, right there in front of Ophelia, I stroked myself to bring forth the sperm that still lay heavy in my balls. She waited patiently, still bare-breasted, while I did so, looking at me as if I were merely washing myself. It excited me greatly to have her watch me pleasure myself, as I had so often watched her without her knowing. Afterwards, she dried me. Her skirt had still got wet.

December 25, 1828—

I celebrated the birth of Our Lord quietly. Went to Mass and in the evening went over to Mr. Chavannes' for a light supper and drinks. Only two other men there, Mr. Simeon and Mr. Forde. The conversation quite relaxed, since we are all mulatto. Even among enlightened whites, one always feels a certain caution. Mr. Chavannes offered me a sweet-faced 15-year-old, with smooth light-brown skin. But I wanted to leave early and come home to write.

Rousseau has some interesting thoughts on religion:

Religion, considered in its relation to society, which is either general or particular, may also be divided into two distinct species: the religion of man, and the religion of the citizen. The former, without temples, altars and rites, and confined entirely to the purely eternal cult of the supreme God and the eternal duties of morality, is the pure and simple religion of the Gospel, the true theism, and what may be justly called the ‘natural divine law'. The other, set down only for one country, gives it its gods, and its own tutelary patrons. But if you pass the boundaries where this religion prevails, its followers consider every human being as a stranger, an infidel, a barbarian.

This solves a puzzle that has bothered me for years. It often seems as though the Holy Church has more politicians than priests. It is for that reason that my attendance has, in the past few years, become more and more confined to special events, such as at Easter, and His birth, as tonight. For there had seemed to me an irreconcilable contradiction between Christ's message of Love, Forgiveness and Charity, and the Church's wars, inquisitions and constant demand for tithes.

But Rousseau has given me an understanding that I find eminently satisfying. For I am a man before I am a citizen. Indeed, how can I even consider myself a citizen when the natural rights allowed me by my wealth, my position, my education, are denied – or at least restricted – by the colour of my skin? No, I think I can be justified in becoming an even greater stranger to the Church. I must follow the ‘religion of man', for to do otherwise may well be to follow a path away from God.

[
Later: Written December 29, 1828
]

The miracle I am about to record seems to me incontrovertible evidence of the rightness of my decision to adhere to the religion of man. Something similar happened when I was a boy, but I thought the luck and vigour of youth was an adequate explanation. Now I know it is not so. I am still at a loss to give any rational explanation for the event. But let me just write about what happened. There cannot be any natural explanation, but that makes it more, not less, important to record every single detail.

After I finished the previous entry, I called Ophelia up to my room. I could see the caution on her face, for I had never had her in my room so late in the night. I also saw something else which delighted me: a resigned expression. Clearly, she thought I had decided to exact my full price. But I hid my delight, and motioned her to take a seat in the chair opposite me. I had poured two glasses of red wine, and motioned her to take one. She had a sip, and made a face. I raised my glass to her and took a sip.

‘Are you a Christian, Ophelia?' I asked.

She nodded.

‘So you know what day today is,' I said.

She nodded again.

I said, ‘There was a man named Nicholas who used to mark the birth of Jesus by going around to the houses of poor people and leaving a nugget of gold on their doorsteps. He is now a saint.'

She looked interested and said, ‘He use to gi them gole?'

‘Yes.'

‘And what he use to ask for?'

‘Nothing. He never even let them see him.'

‘He musta had plenty gole.'

I sighed. ‘Perhaps. But he could just have kept it. But he wanted to help the poor.'

‘What place this happen in?'

‘England.'

‘In England poor people have dey own house?'

I decided to change tack. ‘Nowadays, Christians follow the example of St. Nicholas by giving one another presents on Christmas Day.' I took out the small box tied with a red ribbon from my jacket pocket. ‘This is for you.'

I was pleased to see how Ophelia's grey eyes widened in true surprise. She took the box hesitantly, then looked at me. I nodded, and she pulled off the ribbon (stuffing it into her dress pocket) and opened the lid. Inside were two heavy silver bracelets. She held them up, hooked on two fingers, and for the first time I saw her smile. Her teeth, which I had never noticed before, are smaller than I expected. ‘Put them on,' I said.

She drew them onto her wrists. I refilled my wine glass, watching her. Ophelia has strong wrists, the outer tendons forming a short, straight line when she flexes them. I found this little detail of her anatomy very appealing. She pulled the bracelets up and down her wrists, as though getting used to the feel of them. Her hands, which I knew well by her touch, are in appearance square-shaped and short-fingered, but with a solid grace. Strange that only on this occasion in all these months had I observed her so closely.