“Why don’t you just throw us out?”

“Well, Mr. Smug, Mr. Condescension, I can’t. You might think your uncle’s all fun and games, but I’ve seen the violence he’s capable of.”

“Terry’s pretty stubborn. I don’t think I’d have much luck convincing him of anything.”

“Please, Jasper. Please. Your father’s dying. And he is going to do one more crazy thing, and it’s going to be a big one. You must know that too. You can feel it coming, can’t you? It’s like an approaching storm. It’s going to be something wild and unexpected and dangerous and stupid. I stay up nights thinking about it. What is he going to do? Do you know? What is it? I must know. But I can’t. You see? You must leave!”

“I’ll try to speak to Terry.”

“You don’t try, you do. What do you think will happen when your father dies? It’s you that will take up his heritage of doing crazy, unbelievable things. And you will turn out to be an even bigger spectacle than your dad. And that’s why I promise you, if you don’t leave now, I will follow you doggedly for your whole life until you have a son, and then I will have a son just so my son can follow your son. Don’t you see? This is an addiction that can go on for generations! For centuries! We’re at a crucial point here, Jasper. If I don’t get off you now, I will be attached to you forever.”

That was an unpleasant thought.

“Anyway. That’s it. Go speak to your uncle. If you stay, I don’t know what I’ll do. Slit your throats in your sleep, probably.” With that thought he let out a laugh, the kind where you don’t see any teeth. “Leave me alone now. I must pray to my parents.”

Eddie laid some brightly colored flowers on the floor and knelt in front of them and started muttering. He prayed daily for success, which was bad news- when a doctor in your neighborhood prays for business, you’d better hope his gods aren’t listening.

I poked my head into Terry’s room on the way to bed. Even though I’d knocked and he’d said come in, he hadn’t bothered to throw clothes on. He was standing naked in the center of the room.

“Hey, Jasper! What’s going on?”

“Never mind. Goodnight.”

I closed the door. I wasn’t in the mood for chatting to a fat naked man at the moment. Then again, I wasn’t in the mood for having my throat slit in my sleep either. I reopened the door. Terry hadn’t moved.

“Jesus, can’t you knock?”

“Eddie’s gone crazy. He’s threatening to slit our throats in our sleep.”

“That’s not especially hospitable, is it?”

“I don’t think he wants to kill us, I just think that by being here, Dad and I are likely to push him over the edge.”

“So?”

“So shouldn’t we get out of here?”

“Probably.”

“Good.”

“But we’re not going to.”

“Why not?”

His eyebrows were all bunched up, and his mouth was open as if any second he were going to speak. Any second now.

“Terry. Are you all right?”

“Of course I am. I’m a little agitated, that’s all. I’m not used to being agitated. You know, I’ve been away from my family for so long, it’s having a funny effect on me having you two here. I don’t feel quite myself. I don’t feel quite as…free. I’ve started fretting about you two, if you want to know the truth. And I haven’t fretted about anything or anyone in a long time.”

“And Caroline? Are you fretting about her too?”

Terry’s face turned purple in a split second. Then his eyes went all funny. I felt I was standing outside a house watching someone flick the lights on and off.

“You’re a pretty intuitive guy, Jasper. What is your intuition telling you? Mine is telling me that something is going to happen in this house. I’m not sure what. It could be a good thing, though I doubt it. It’ll probably be a bad thing. It could even be a very bad thing. And maybe we should get out of here, but I’m insanely curious. Aren’t you? Curiosity is one of my favorite things. Intense curiosity is like one of those tantric orgasms, a long, maddening, delayed pleasure. That’s what it is.”

I said goodnight, closed the door, and left him alone in his nakedness, thinking of normal families who have normal problems like alcoholism and gambling and wife-beating and drug addiction. I envied them.

I woke early the next morning. My throat was unslit. The sun was hot already at six-thirty. From my window I could see mist oozing out of the jungle. We were at a high altitude, and the mist hid the mountain peaks from sight. I’d had a bad night’s sleep, thinking about everything Eddie had said. I knew he was right. Dad was planning something, even if he was doing it subconsciously. But didn’t I already know what it was? I felt as though I did, but I couldn’t quite see it. It was concealed somewhere in my mind, somewhere dark and far away. In fact, suddenly I felt I knew everything that would happen in the future but had for some reason forgotten it, and further, I thought that everybody on the planet also knew the future, only they had forgotten it too, and that fortunetellers and prognosticators weren’t people with supernatural insights after all, they were just people with good memories.

I dressed and went out the back door so as not to run into anybody.

At the back of the house, at the edge of the jungle, was a shed. I went inside. There on rickety wooden shelves were paints and paintbrushes. Leaning against the wall were a number of blank canvases. So this was where Eddie’s father had painted his disgusting artworks. It appeared to have once been a chicken coop, although there were no chickens now. There were chicken feathers, though, and a couple of ancient broken eggshells. On the floor was a half-finished painting of a pair of kidneys; Eddie’s father had obviously got it into his head to use egg yolk to get the right kind of yellow.

I picked up a paintbrush. The bristles, caked in dried paint, were stiff as wood. Outside the chicken coop there was a trough filled with muddy rainwater, as if it had fallen from the sky that way, brown and gluggy. I rinsed the brush thoroughly in the water, flicking the hairs with my fingers. As I did this, I saw Caroline walking from the house down the hill. She was walking quickly, though every few steps she’d stop and stand perfectly still before continuing on her way, as if she were late for an appointment she dreaded keeping. I watched her until she disappeared into the jungle.

I went back into the chicken coop, opened a can of paint, dipped the brush in, and started attacking a canvas. I let my brush float across it, seeing what it wanted to paint. It seemed to favor eyes. Hollow eyes, eyes like juicy plums, eyes like germs seen through a microscope, eyes within eyes, concentric eyes, overlapping eyes. The canvas was sick with them. I had to look away; these thick painted eyes were burrowing into me in a way that was more than simply unsettling: they seemed to be moving something inside me. It took me another minute to work out that they were my father’s eyes. No wonder they made me sick.

I put the canvas down and lifted another in its place. The brush started up again. This time it went for a whole face. A smug, self-satisfied face with wide, mocking eyes, a bushy mustache, a twisted brown mouth, and yellow teeth. The face of either a white slave-owner or a prison warden. I stared at the painting and felt a pang of anxiety, but I couldn’t work out why. It was as if a thread in my brain had become loose, but I was afraid to pull on it in case my whole being unraveled. Then I realized: the painting- it was the face. The face I’d dreamed about in childhood. The imperishable floating face I had seen my whole life. As I painted, I was able to recall details I didn’t know I had actually seen before: bags under the eyes, a small gap between the front teeth, wrinkles at the corners of the smiling mouth. I had a premonition that one day this face would come down from the sky to head-butt me. Suddenly the heat in the chicken coop became unbearable. I felt stifled. Being inside a humid chicken coop with that haughty face and a thousand reproductions of my father’s eyes was suffocating.