Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [281]
‘What man you tink me, Paree, what man you tink yourself?’ he said, after an angry silence. ‘You come here my house for ask favour. Man born me I favour dat man, no madder what, but you no born me, you buckra white man come off slaveship.’
Paris took care to keep his eyes steadily on the other: any shift of gaze would be taken as weakness. ‘White man, black man, all free man, all bradder, live tagedder dis place, all same boat,’ he said.
‘Same boat?’ For a moment Kireku seemed to waver between anger and amusement. Then his face settled into a fierce smile of derision. ‘Dat de slaveboat you talkin’ bout?’ He glanced round at his minion, who was seated to one side and slightly behind him. Barton, responsive as always to the need for background effects, sniggered loudly.
‘Hear him laff, heh, heh?’ Kireku said. ‘Barton, he sabee when to laff.’ With a sudden gesture he brought his right hand across his body and pointed to the livid scar on his chest. ‘Barton do dis,’ he said. ‘Barton put hot iron, burn me. How ken he do dat? I tell you. It cause Barton strong pas’ me dat time. Now Barton my man, fetch dis, carry dat. He no do it I kick him arse. Dat de same boat? You bigman doctor, look me eye, mouth, ball, make me dance, people laff, heh, heh. Now you come sweetmowf, ask favour me, say we fren’, sai by sai, no more slave. Dat de same boat?’
‘He got you by the bollocks.’ Barton was grinning. He seemed no whit abashed or put out by the slighting references to himself. ‘He got a headpiece on him like I never –’
‘Barton, stow you gab,’ Kireku said.
‘All dat finish now,’ Paris said, after a brief pause to gather himself. ‘Dat in de past. Twelve year live tagedder dis place. We no tink come here. Come here by wind an’ sea. Come here by God hand, you like say so. We jus’ happen here, Kireku, but give us de chance put ting altagedder right agin.’ He paused again, casting about for words that might somehow clinch the matter, failing to find them. Kireku’s face had returned to seriousness, the look of derision quite gone. The sun was close to setting, shadows inside the hut had lost form, seemed merely now a vanguard of darkness. Paris saw Amansa pass outside with an armful of kindling. There was a smell of wood smoke and he could hear the voices of children, happy-angry, in the distance. It was a world, and precious to him. ‘Give us secon’ time here,’ he said heavily, ‘give us secon’ chance.’
‘Mebbe give you secon’ chance, not me,’ Kireku said, and his deep-throated voice now held a quality of conscious forbearance, sarcastic or sympathetic, Paris could not tell which. ‘I no panyar people from house put slavemark on dem, take for sell. You de one do dat. You tink one mind belong all us here, dat mind same-same you mind. Why you tink I belong you idea right-wrong? I tell you why, Paree. It cause you tink you clever pas’ me, you think you idea right-wrong strong pas’ my idea.’
His voice had quickened and stumbled as he spoke and his hands had clenched. He made a brief pause, staring before him. When he spoke again it was more deliberately.
‘Dat you big trouble, you never change. You allus try make adder people belong you idea. Like you play game wit dem, move here, move dere, like amati game, you sabee? You try make people here dis place do like you want, so you feel good, make man free. Den Paree feel good, oh-hoh! No feel bad no more, make man free, win de game. But Kireku not piece amati game pick up, put down. I no stay in place you want. I strong pas’ you. You a fool. You tink dis speshul place but it altageddar same adder place. Iboti, Callee, Libbee, dese men slave, you no change dat never. Go look for Iboti now,