Paul Theroux - The Mosquito Coast

Now we had a house and a number of inventions that made life convenient. The Zambus, whom we had met by chance on that Fish Bucket riverbank, seemed contented. They walked around in trunks and short-sleeved shirts that Mother had made for them out of sailcloth. And the Maywits, with Father's help, improved their own house.

Our miracle beans were more than half grown and already had pods that Father said would be ready for picking in a few weeks. The other crops nourished beside the spillways of irrigation ditches. Entering Jeronimo from the Swampmouth path, you saw something that looked like a settlement — houses, gardens, stone-paved paths, and the pump wheel flinging water into the drum. It was the civilized place Father had seen that first day, when all we had seen was tall grass and a mud bank and a smoldering armchair.

I was luckier than anyone. When the twins went down with squitters because of stomach trouble, and then Mother and Jerry, I did not get sick. And I noticed that Father liked me a little better for that. He had a way of insinuating that if anyone was sick he was faking, or at least exaggerating. He never said "He's sick," but always "He says he's sick" or "She claims she's ill."

"I haven't the time to get sick," he said. "If I had a little spare time, I'd probably get sick as a dog!"

One day, Mr. Haddy returned. By then, Father had started building what he called the Plant, which was so far only a large framework of peeled poles two stories high, in the hollow at the back of the cleared land. The boilers were dumped there. We heard the motor before we saw the launch. Father made me climb to the top of the poles to get a look at it.

"Who is it?" he said, sounding angry for the first time in Jeronimo.

"It's the Little Haddy, " I said. I could see the torn awning and the little wheel house.

Father was glad about this, but when he got down to the landing he did not like what he saw. Mr. Haddy was not alone. There was a man with him — a white man, carrying a suitcase ashore.

Mr. Haddy explained that he had pumped out the launch at Fish Bucket, and patched it. He had found that without the boilers and scrap metal there was enough freeboard for it to float easily in the shallowest river. After spending two weeks at Santa Rosa getting it properly fixed, he decided to see if he could make it all the way to Jeronimo, by sailing up the Bonito River, where it branched from the Aguan.

"I bring you some real food from Rosy — carkles and conks and wilks." These shellfish were in kegs on the deck. Then he showed us a dead turtle. Its flippers had been hacked off, and its lizard head of beaky bone hung out of its big barnacled shell. "And a hicatee."

But Father was not interested.

He said, "Who's this hamburger?"

"This here Mr. Struss from Rosy."

"How do you do," the man said. He stepped forward onto the mushy bank and set his suitcase down. Then he took his sunglasses off and tried to smile, but his eyes wrinkled shut in the sunlight and gave him a squinched face. He was a bit older than Father, and fleshy, and there was a dark sweat patch on every bulge of his body — moons under his arms, and a belt of wet around his waist. He turned his suffering smile on us. "What lovely kids." He looked beyond us. "And you've made yourself a beautiful home."

"What do you want?" Father said, blocking the path and keeping the man sinking in mush.

The Zambus had put down their tools, and the Maywits had trooped from the garden. There were about seventeen of us here, watching Father and the stranger.

"Mr. Haddy said he was coming up this way. He kindly let me hitch a ride."

Mr. Haddy said, "He a paying passenger, but I do all the steering. He work the sounding chain. He know the way."

"I've been here before. Mr. Roper knows me. Don't you, Mr. Roper."

He was speaking to Mr. Maywit.

Father said, "There's no Mr. Roper here. It's a case of mistaken identity. The heat is making you rave."

Mr. Maywit just goggled and kept his mouth shut.

The man was confused. He put his sunglasses on again and picked at the sweat patches on his shirt and said, "I came here to ask you all a question."

"We're not interested in your questions," Father said.

"You just answered it, brother. And I'm glad I came. Because the question is, 'Are you saved?' And I've got a funny feeling, the Lord—"

"The Lord is up in that tree," Father said, pointing with his finger stump at a bill-bird on a branch.

The man stared at Father's finger, and even adjusted his sunglasses to get a better look.

"Go away," Father said, and gave the man his deaf-man's smile.

"You can't answer for these people here."

"I'm not answering at all," Father said. "As far as I'm concerned, you didn't even open your mouth or ask a question. You're not allowed to. I own this place, and you don't have my permission to come ashore. If you want to talk to these people, you'll have to do it somewhere else, outside Jeronimo. About half a mile due north of here you'll come to a little swamp. That's Swampmouth, the Jeronimo line. Can't miss it. You go there and do all the preaching you like. Start walking, Mr. Struss."

He handed the man his suitcase.

"The Lord sent me here," Mr. Struss said.

"Bull," Father said. "The Lord hasn't got the slightest idea that this place exists. If he had, he would have done something about it a long time ago."

"This river doesn't belong to you, brother."

"You planning to walk on the water?" Father said. "If so, don't say another word until you're midstream."

Mr. Struss looked us over. Flies had gathered on his shoulders and he was breathing hard.

"You know I'm a fair man." Father said to us. "If any of you people want to go with him. I won't stop you. Hurry on down to Swampmouth and listen to what this gentleman has to offer. Anyone interested?"

Mr. Maywit and his chicken-eyed wife looked anxiously at Father. The Zambus had started giggling.

"Excuse me, Mr. Roper, will you please—"

"Shut it," Father said, and Francis Lungley laughed out loud.

Mother said, "You'd better do as my husband says. There are some dugout canoes at Swampmouth, and I'll give you a bag lunch. You'll have no trouble getting back to the coast."

"The Lord wants me here," Mr. Struss said.

Father said, "That's what I like about you people — your complete lack of presumption. But listen, I'm not going to tempt you with martyrdom, so just shove off and don't come back."

A little while later, from the porch of the house, we saw Mr. Struss walking down the riverbank toward Swampmouth. He carried his suitcase in one hand and Mother's lunch bag in the other. He was alone.

Father said, "Imagine that hamburger coming all that way to ask a silly question." He put his face close to Mr. Maywit's and said, "Are you saved?"

"Yes, Fadder."

He then asked everyone else in turn and they said yes and laughed along with him. He asked me and I said yes, but I was at the window and I saw that, hearing us laugh, Mr. Struss glanced up. He looked sick, but he kept on walking.

The days passed. They were sunny, there was little rain, they were muffled by dust. But the nights were furious with the ringing cries of insects, and bird grunts that sometimes rose to screams. The darkness helped us hear the soft splash of monkeys on branches, and the chafing of crickyjeens was like combustion, as if every bush and tree were burning. And night heat was more suffocating than in the day, and made sleep seem like death. It was a dreamless plunge into that riot.

Father spent these days hammering. He did not say why, but his eyes told me that his thoughts were storms. And every man in Jeronimo labored with Father at the plant. It was, so far, only a skeleton, with pipes buckled to poles and men hanging like monkeys to the crosspieces, where they followed Father's orders. It was slow work, and for a long time it did not look like anything at all.