The Ten Incarnations of Adam Avatar (8 page)

I visited Colón once aboard his stranded ship before he was rescued the following season. His men had built palm-thatched huts on the decks, since the insides of the ship where they slept was flooded. My visit was to ask him to stop the Españols who had left him to stop raiding our villages. But I was also curious.

‘Why do you want this yellow metal?' I asked.

‘God has commanded me to spread His word every land,' he answered. ‘The gold will give me the power to do this.'

I understood. Colon's god had eaten him up, and he did not know it. So too had Yúcahu separated me from my own people at birth, and now was eating them all save for me. But I knew it.

‘Your people are killing us,' I said.

‘I do not want that. You should have given us the gold.'

‘What we had, we gave.'

He shook his head – he could not believe there was not more.

‘Your people called Hamaica the source of the blessed gold. But we have found only a little.'

‘That was a joke. Xaymaca means “the land of wood and water”. That is what is precious to us.'

Colón seemed not to hear my words. ‘And we have heard many of them speak of the Golden Man. A statue made of gold bespeaks gold to spare.'

This made me laugh. ‘My people speak of “The Precious One.” There is no golden man.'

‘And who is this Precious One?'

I shrugged. ‘I am.'

I saw that he did not believe me. ‘And why are you called so?'

‘It is difficult to explain.'

Colón stared at me for a long time, with those sky-coloured eyes that now saw so little. ‘There must be gold,' he said finally.

I shrugged again. I knew what I had to do. I had brought liquor made from maize as a present for Colón. We drank together, and in that liquor was a special poison made by a bohutu. I knew it would not affect me. But Colón would die in a few months, perhaps a few years if he was very strong. I did not want him to die on our shores, to bring the wrath of the cacique Ferdinand down on us. And so we drank and a few moons later, when the ship came, he left. The poison took two dry seasons to work and, somewhat to my surprise, Colon's bones were brought to Ciguayo, now called Hispaniola, at his request.

By then, most Tainos had died. My wife and everyone else in the village had been killed. I spent the next few years travelling from island to island, fighting the Españols. But my efforts were all in vain. Even on the seas, the half-eaten bodies of Tainos floated like seaweed, staining the water red. I was immortal, but I was only one man. The Españols swarmed over the small lands like white bachacs, using sword and whip and gun to make my people dig for the gold which was never enough. I fought alongside those Tainos who were able and willing. Many times over I received wounds that would have killed any ordinary man. Always we were defeated by the superior weapon of the Españols, and my people fell like cut grass.

Eventually, when I knew we were doomed, I retreated to the mountains of Hispaniola, once called Ciguayo. In the cave where I had been born, I stored several zemis and
batey
balls and ornaments and even tools and dishes. I also spent my days writing down the words of my people on the thin barks of the Españols. The prophecy of Maiakan had come true and I could not protect – I could only preserve.

So I lived out my days. I did not grow old nor was my natural force abated. But I stayed in the mountains, unable to bear the ever fainter cries of my dying people. Sometimes, though, a rage would seize me and I would go into the Español settlements under cover of night and kill the unwary. So there was talk of a devil who lived in the hills. It was when I was returning from one of these forays, moving quickly through the forest to reach my cave before the silver sky turned blue, that I felt a terrific stabbing blow to the back of my neck. I fell like a cut tree. I knew at once that I was dying – my spirit was floating up a dark burrow towards the bright moonlight. I could hear the loved voice of my mother and I could almost see the welcoming arms of Yúcahu.
But I cannot die
, I thought. With my last breath, I turned my head and I saw the thick calf of a man with skin so black it seemed like stone.

Twenty years ago, I returned to Ciguayo, once called Hispaniola, now called Haiti. I found the cave were I had been born with some difficulty. The shape of the mountains had not changed in five hundred years, but where once there had been thick trees and abundant grasses, there is now only sparse bush and naked red earth. I did not take a guide. I remembered being Guiakan and so I remembered all my old forest skills. But even the forest has changed – banana and plantain and orange and coconut trees now grow everywhere, like strangely familiar weeds.

In the cave, buried in a wooden chest, I found all the items I had stored. The lettering on the curled, yellowed pages is faded almost to illegibility. But the signature is clear enough – ‘Guiakan, a Ciguayao, a Taino'. So I knew that I am not insane. But, when I recall the life I lived next, I also knew that there was once a time when I was exactly that.

Mr. Avatar's appointment for the following day was at three p.m. He arrived exactly on time. He was to do this for every appointment, always entering my office almost to the second. I suspected him of lurking in order to time himself, but when I suggested this to him in joking fashion, he laughed and said, ‘No, it is just a minor talent.'

I do not use a couch, but a low, cushioned chair with a slanted back. The patient is thus in a relaxed posture, looking up at me. Mr. Avatar sat back, but his poise seemed enhanced rather than diminished. I told him that I had read his story.

‘What did you think?' he asked.

‘When did you first begin to believe you have lived five centuries ago?' I asked.

‘I started having dreams about my past when I was twelve or thirteen years old,' he said.

I asked him how old he was when he decided that these dreams were, in fact, memories.

He said, ‘By my early twenties, I suppose. But by the time I was twenty-five, all my doubts were gone. Well, not all, or else I wouldn't be here, right?'

‘So you have doubts?' I asked.

‘Wouldn't any rational person?' he said.

I asked him if he considered himself to be a rational person.

‘No,' he replied. ‘I consider myself to be an extremely rational person.'

I said, ‘Yet you waited almost another twenty-five years to see a psychiatrist.'

‘Yes. There are reasons for that,' he answered.

‘What are they?' I asked.

‘I'd prefer not to say right now.'

I said nothing but waited for him to continue speaking, but he only watched me. He has green eyes, which naturally hide their own expression, so I had no clue as to what he was thinking. His gaze was steady, he did not fiddle his hands, and his breathing was even.

Finally, I said, ‘Did anyone close to you die when you were in your mid-twenties, Adam?'

‘My grandmother, Emily,' he answered.

I asked him how close they had been, and he said he had never been closer to anyone in all his lives [
sic
].

‘So her death was very hard on you,' I said.

‘I missed her, of course. Still do. But I'm accustomed to death,' he said.

‘Many people close to you have died?' I asked.

‘I thought you read my story,' he said.

‘Oh, yes. Of course,' I answered.

I paused again, but again he said nothing. He seemed entirely comfortable with silence. I let it draw out until I was sure he was not going to say anything. He was still testing me. I looked at his file. He was a university lecturer.

‘What subject do you teach, Adam?' I asked.

He told me that his doctorate was in History, but he lectured a course on Thinking.'

‘Thinking?' I queried.

He said, ‘Yes. I try to pull together different subjects so students will learn to apply clear and rigorous thought to their particular fields of study. So I lecture on philosophy, psychology, literature, physics, biology, economics, as well as history.'

I remarked that this sounded like a heavy workload. He agreed, but said he enjoyed it. When I said that I had never heard of such a course at the university, he explained that his Chair was privately funded by a Foundation set up by his grandmother.

‘Would you say that you are good at your job?' I asked.

‘Yes.'

‘You don't find it stressful?'

‘No.'

I put down his file and took up his story. I said, ‘It's quite common to wish for a simpler life, Adam. Modern society overwhelms many people. Human beings aren't equipped by evolution to deal with the demands of this century. That is why most people talk about the good old days.'

He laughed. ‘All that is very true, doctor,' he said. ‘But I'm a historian. I know that the good old days weren't all that good.'

I held up the story. ‘Yet you portray here an idyllic life,' I said. ‘There is sexual freedom, the main activity is play, and you are the son of a god.'

He said that he did not consider the Taino lifestyle idyllic at all. ‘There's far more sexual freedom in modern society, more leisure time, and I don't believe that I was ever the son of a god.'

I did not entirely believe his assertion. I felt that Mr. Avatar's fantasy was driven, at least partly, by a need for status. Yet he was apparently wealthy, seemed quite healthy, and a worked in a respected profession.

‘I see you end your story with evidence of documents,' I said. ‘Do you think these documents might have inspired you to write this?'

He said, ‘I had my memories before I wrote the account. That was how I found the documents.'

I said, ‘Very well. But I see you also end with a confession that there was a time when you were, in fact, insane.'

He said yes. He had come with a small, leather briefcase, from which he took out a sheaf of typewritten pages.

‘This is an account of that next life,' he said. He handed the sheaf to me, then took out some handwritten pages. ‘And this is an account of the life you have just read, written in the original language.'

‘Who knows that language now?' I asked.

‘No one. But if you have a professional linguist analyze it, they'll confirm it's a genuine language,' he answered.

I told him I would do this and asked him when he would like to meet next.

He said, ‘I think, after you read that story, you may want to see me as soon as possible. Call me.'

‘We still have some time left,' I said.

‘No. I am done for now,' he said firmly.

I wrote up my notes as soon as he left. Later than night, I read his story. I called Mr. Avatar very early the following morning.

In the year 2000, I went to Vatican City. I had been there before, in the mid-sixteenth century, to deliver a document to the then Pope. It was that document that I went to retrieve almost four hundred and fifty years later. I spoke to Cardinal Vittorio di Medici, one of the keepers of the Vatican records. He did not speak French or English or Portuguese and his Spanish, though adequate, was hesitant. But we were able to communicate quite well in Latin, for he had received a classical education just as I had when I was a Spanish conquistador and, three centuries later, a West Indian planter. It was appropriate, given what I wanted from him. Cardinal di Medici was quite old, in his eighties, with a courteous manner and the thin face of a lifelong scholar. I told him what I wanted and he said it would take some days to locate the records. Even though I was from a small, unknown island and had no Catholic connections – I didn't even get an introductory letter from the Trinidadian archbishop – he gave me every consideration as a fellow historian. I left the name of my hotel with him and he promised he would call as soon as he had located the document.

I spent the day walking through Rome. Despite the throngs of people, it seemed to me almost as though time had stopped, for the city has changed far less than my Caribbean islands. When I had been there four centuries before, the mix of old and new – the crumbled Coliseum, the new dome of St. Peter's cathedral – had stayed in my mind. Now the layers of history were less marked: Rome was old and very old, with muscled stone statues gazing over gray cobbles once trod by Roman sandals, but its new parts hid like a shame – even the glass of my hotel windows was set behind wooden shutters and there were many poor people begging outside the Vatican. Rome made me feel like a ghost, because of the gap of history that yawned in my islands. But perhaps that was because I remembered in my islands what other West Indians could see only trivially in street signs and a few colonial buildings. It is good to know the past; it is bad to live there. Since I began recording my past, this is a lesson I have had to keep reminding myself of.

Cardinal di Medici called me on the third day. He regretted to inform me that the document I requested was under seal and could not be viewed by anyone save Vatican officials. I asked him to pull the file and I would present him with something that would convince him at least to show me the document. In fact, I said, I was sure that what I would show him would persuade him to give me a photocopy of every page of the document. He was doubtful, but agreed to meet with me in one hour.

For the next thirty minutes, I lay in my hotel bed, not quite sleeping, recalling the self of my selves I most wished to forget: becoming, once again, Adam Colón de Espanola. And, when I felt that dark ghost risen in me like an anti-Christ, I arose and went to the writing desk where I had already laid out pen and paper. I wrote steadily for one minute in a dead language. I then folded the single page into my jacket pocket and went downstairs and caught a taxi to the Vatican. I shivered all the way there and the driver asked me if I had the ague.

I must have still looked ill when I met the Cardinal, for an expression of concern crossed his face and he asked if I wished to have some water. I shook my head and pulled the sheet of paper out of my pocket and handed it to him. He looked at it, not understanding at first, then his eyes widened. For a second, I cursed my taste for melodrama: suppose the old man had a heart attack? But he merely muttered a hasty ‘
Scusi
' and left the room. I sat in the comfortable chair and waited. I knew what he had gone to do.