She sees the professor take out his mail; the letter, which he reads, and the magazine, which he sticks under his arm. While she scans the bulletin board noting dances to which she will not be asked the panic of his flight reaches her. She wonders if his letter was about someone who has died.
4
Later, in the car, her body is like a lump of something that only breathes. She feels her lover's hands, dry and young, rake up the impediments of her clothes. A thrust of one hand against her nipples, nearly right, then a squeeze that accomplishes nothing. She feels herself borne backward on the front seat of the car, the weight pressing her down, the movement anxious, selfish, pinning her, stabbing through. When it is over she is surprised she can sit up again, she had imagined herself impaled on the seat. Sitting up, looking out the window: "Yes, it was good"; she remembers not the movement knocking against her stomach but the completely correct account she has given the word boire. Je bois, tu bois, il boit, nous buvons. ...
They move back toward the campus, she feeling outside the car, far away from the hands that manipulate the wheel. They hurry. If the gate is locked she will have to climb over the wall. For this she could be expelled. The boy sweats, worried about their safety, the future he wants. She thinks climbing walls an inconvenience but the humiliation of failure is not quite real. The knot behind her ear where a policeman struck her two weeks before begins to throb. But they are not late. She walks the two blocks to the campus gate, passes the winking guard, smells the liquor on his breath as he sniffs after her. She wonders about this injustice, her confinement, tries to construe an abstract sentence on the subject in impeccable French.
5
The professor will have cottage cheese, a soft egg, a glass of milk and cream for his meal. He has an ulcer and must take care of it. He wonders if Mademoiselle Harriet has noticed how he belches and strokes his stomach. He really must stop thinking of her. Must remember he is old. That death has had its hands on him. That his odor is of ashes while hers is of earth and sun.
As he eats his colorless meal he remembers the magazine. It opens to his own story; a story he wrote to make the new pain less than the old. It is a story about life in a concentration camp. The same camp that gobbled up his wife and daughter and made fertilizer from their bones. He recalls the Polish winter, cold and damp and in his memory always dark; the stiff movement of the long marches, bleeding feet. It is all in the story; seven years of starvation, freezing, death. The publishers have described his escape in sensational language. His survival, in their words, appears abnormal. He is a monster for not now pushing up plants in the backwoods of Poland. A criminal for crossing Europe unslaughtered; for turning up in France already knowing the language. For having had parents devoted to learning that in the end had not done them any good!
The author is now Professor of French at a school for black girls in the Deep South.
Outraged, the professor flings the acknowledgement of his existence across the room.
6
"Mon Dieu, quelle femme!" Harriet inspects her naked body in the glass. She imagines that the professor will climb up the fire escape outside her window, that he will creep smiling through the curtains, that she will reach out to him all naked and warm and he will bury his cold nose and lips in the hot flesh of her bare shoulder. Undressed (she imagines him first in long red underwear), he will lean over her on the bed, looking. Then into bed with her. They will lie, talking. For there is no hurry about him. He is old enough to know better. He strokes her neck below the ear and tells her of his life. Explains the blue stenciled numbers she has seen peek from beneath his cuff--a cuff he is always adjusting. For she is ignorant of history. Her own as well as his. He must tell her why he put a tattoo there only to keep trying to hide it later. He must promise her he will not be embarrassed to remove his coat in class, especially on hot days when it is clear he is miserable. So much he must tell her. ... But now her body has completely warmed him. His body seems to melt, to flow about hers. His mouth, fuller, plays with her breasts, teasing the nipples, light as the touch of a feather. His hands find, discover, places on her back, her sides. She takes him inside herself, not wanting to make him young again, for she is already where he at old age finds himself.
A knock, harsh and resounding, announces bed check and the house mother. Harriet has time to slip into her nightgown and mumble "Yes, ma'am" before the gray-brown dream-dispelling face pokes rigidly into the room.
7
Once in bed the professor abandons himself. He thinks hungrily of his stupid pupil. He remembers her from the very first week of classes; her blurred, soft speech, which he found difficult to understand, her slow comprehension--far behind the nearly white girl with the blue eyes, who ate French sentences choppily, like a horse chopping grass--her strange brown eyes so sorrowful at her ignorance they seemed capable of moaning. She is younger than the grandchild he might have had--and more stupid, he adds. But he cannot think of her as a child. As young, yes. But not the other way. She brings the odor of Southern jails into class with her, and hundreds of aching, marching feet, and the hurtful sound of the freedom songs he has heard from the church, the wailing of souls destined for bloody eternities at the end of each completely maddened street.
Her speech, which he had thought untutored and ugly, becomes her; the sorrowful eyes have bruised him where they touched. He dreams himself into her songs. Cashes the check from the story and buys two tickets to Mexico, lies with her openly on the beaches, praises the soft roundness of her nose, the deep brown he imagines on her toes, bakes his body to bring them closer to one. All the love from his miserable life he heaps on her lap.
When he awakes from his dream sweat is on his forehead, where years ago black hair curled and fell. And he is crying, without any tears but sweat, and when he turns his face to the wall he is already planning the wording of his resignation and buying brochures for South America.
8
"Nous buvons le vin," Harriet practices before entering the class, before seeing him. But the lesson for the day has moved on. It is "Nous ne buvons pas le vin" that the professor forces her to repeat before hiding himself for the last time behind his desk.
To Hell with Dying
"TO HELL WITH DYING," my father would say. "These children want Mr. Sweet!"
Mr. Sweet was a diabetic and an alcoholic and a guitar player and lived down the road from us on a neglected cotton farm. My older brothers and sisters got the most benefit from Mr. Sweet for when they were growing up he had quite a few years ahead of him and so was capable of being called back from the brink of death any number of times--whenever the voice of my father reached him as he lay expiring. "To hell with dying, man," my father would say, pushing the wife away from the bedside (in tears although she knew the death was not necessarily the last one unless Mr. Sweet really wanted it to be). "These children want Mr. Sweet!" And they did want him, for at a signal from Father they would come crowding around the bed and throw themselves on the covers, and whoever was the smallest at the time would kiss him all over his wrinkled brown face and begin to tickle him so that he would laugh all down in his stomach, and his moustache, which was long and sort of straggly, would shake like Spanish moss and was also that color.
Mr. Sweet had been ambitious as a boy, wanted to be a doctor or lawyer or sailor, only to find that black men fare better if they are not. The South was a place where a black man could be killed for trying to improve his lot; the laws of segregation kept most black people from ever having decent schools, housing, or jobs. Since he could become none of these things he turned to fishing as his only earnest career and playing the guitar as his only claim to doing anything extraordinarily well. His son, the only one that he and his wife, Miss Mary, had, was shiftless as the day is long and spent money as if he were trying to see the bottom of the mint, which Mr. Sweet would tell him was the clean brown palm of his hand. Miss Mary loved her "baby," however, and worked hard to get him the "li'l necessaries" of life, which turned o
ut mostly to be women.
Mr. Sweet was a tall, thinnish man with thick kinky hair going dead white. He was dark brown, his eyes were very squinty and sort of bluish, and he chewed Brown Mule tobacco. He was constantly on the verge of being blind drunk, for he brewed his own liquor and was not in the least a stingy sort of man, and was always very melancholy and sad, though frequently when he was "feelin' good" he'd dance around the yard with us, usually keeling over just as my mother came to see what the commotion was.
Toward all of us children he was very kind, and had the grace to be shy with us, which is unusual in grownups. He had great respect for my mother for she never held his drunkenness against him and would let us play with him even when he was about to fall in the fireplace from drink. Although Mr. Sweet would sometimes lose complete or nearly complete control of his head and neck so that he would loll in his chair, his mind remained strangely acute and his speech not too affected. His ability to be drunk and sober at the same time made him an ideal playmate, for he was as weak as we were and we could usually best him in wrestling, all the while keeping a fairly coherent conversation going.
We never felt anything of Mr. Sweet's age when we played with him. We loved his wrinkles and would draw some on our brows to be like him, and his white hair was my special treasure and he knew it and would never come to visit us just after he had had his hair cut off at the barbershop. Once he came to our house for something, probably to see my father about fertilizer for his crops because, although he never paid the slightest attention to his crops, he liked to know what things would be best to use on them if he ever did. Anyhow, he had not come with his hair since he had just had it shaved off at the barbershop. He wore a huge straw hat to keep off the sun and also to keep his head away from me. But as soon as I saw him I ran up and demanded that he take me up and kiss me with his funny beard which smelled so strongly of tobacco. Looking forward to burying my small fingers into his woolly hair I threw away his hat only to find he had done something to his hair, that it was no longer there! I let out a squall which made my mother think that Mr. Sweet had finally dropped me in the well or something and from that day I've been wary of men in hats. However, not long after, Mr. Sweet showed up with his hair grown out and just as white and kinky and impenetrable as it ever was.
Mr. Sweet used to call me his princess, and I believed it. He made me feel pretty at five and six, and simply outrageously devastating at the blazing age of eight and a half. When he came to our house with his guitar the whole family would stop whatever they were doing to sit around him and listen to him play. He liked to play "Sweet Georgia Brown," that was what he called me sometimes, and also he liked to play "Caldonia" and all sorts of sweet, sad, wonderful songs which he sometimes made up. It was from one of these songs that I learned that he had had to marry Miss Mary when he had in fact loved somebody else (now living in Chi-ca-go, or De-stroy, Michigan). He was not sure that Joe Lee, her "baby," was also his baby. Sometimes he would cry and that was an indication that he was about to die again. And so we would all get prepared, for we were sure to be called upon.
I was seven the first time I remember actually participating in one of Mr. Sweet's "revivals"--my parents told me I had participated before, I had been the one chosen to kiss him and tickle him long before I knew the rite of Mr. Sweet's rehabilitation. He had come to our house, it was a few years after his wife's death, and was very sad, and also, typically, very drunk. He sat on the floor next to me and my older brother, the rest of the children were grown up and lived elsewhere, and began to play his guitar and cry. I held his woolly head in my arms and wished I could have been old enough to have been the woman he loved so much and that I had not been lost years and years ago.
When he was leaving, my mother said to us that we'd better sleep light that night for we'd probably have to go over to Mr. Sweet's before daylight. And we did. For soon after we had gone to bed one of the neighbors knocked on our door and called my father and said that Mr. Sweet was sinking fast and if he wanted to get in a word before the crossover he'd better shake a leg and get over to Mr. Sweet's house. All the neighbors knew to come to our house if something was wrong with Mr. Sweet, but they did not know how we always managed to make him well, or at least stop him from dying, when he was often so near death. As soon as we heard the cry we got up, my brother and I and my mother and father, and put on our clothes. We hurried out of the house and down the road for we were always afraid that we might someday be too late and Mr. Sweet would get tired of dallying.
When we got to the house, a very poor shack really, we found the front room full of neighbors and relatives and someone met us at the door and said that it was all very sad that old Mr. Sweet Little (for Little was his family name, although we mostly ignored it) was about to kick the bucket. My parents were advised not to take my brother and me into the "death room," seeing we were so young and all, but we were so much more accustomed to the death room than he that we ignored him and dashed in without giving his warning a second thought. I was almost in tears, for these deaths upset me fearfully, and the thought of how much depended on me and my brother (who was such a ham most of the time) made me very nervous.
The doctor was bending over the bed and turned back to tell us for at least the tenth time in the history of my family that, alas, old Mr. Sweet Little was dying and that the children had best not see the face of implacable death (I didn't know what "implacable" was, but whatever it was, Mr. Sweet was not!). My father pushed him rather abruptly out of the way saying, as he always did and very loudly for he was saying it to Mr. Sweet, "To hell with dying, man, these children want Mr. Sweet"--which was my cue to throw myself upon the bed and kiss Mr. Sweet all around the whiskers and under the eyes and around the collar of his nightshirt where he smelled so strongly of all sorts of things, mostly liniment.
I was very good at bringing him around, for as soon as I saw that he was struggling to open his eyes I knew he was going to be all right, and so could finish my revival sure of success. As soon as his eyes were open he would begin to smile and that way I knew that I had surely won. Once, though, I got a tremendous scare, for he could not open his eyes and later I learned that he had had a stroke and that one side of his face was stiff and hard to get into motion. When he began to smile I could tickle him in earnest because I was sure that nothing would get in the way of his laughter, although once he began to cough so hard that he almost threw me off his stomach, but that was when I was very small, little more than a baby, and my bushy hair had gotten in his nose.
When we were sure he would listen to us we would ask him why he was in bed and when he was coming to see us again and could we play with his guitar, which more than likely would be leaning against the bed. His eyes would get all misty and he would sometimes cry out loud, but we never let it embarrass us, for he knew that we loved him and that we sometimes cried too for no reason. My parents would leave the room to just the three of us; Mr. Sweet, by that time, would be propped up in bed with a number of pillows behind his head and with me sitting and lying on his shoulder and along his chest. Even when he had trouble breathing he would not ask me to get down. Looking into my eyes he would shake his white head and run a scratchy old finger all around my hairline, which was rather low down, nearly to my eyebrows, and made some people say I looked like a baby monkey.
My brother was very generous in all this, he let me do all the revivaling--he had done it for years before I was born and so was glad to be able to pass it on to someone new. What he would do while I talked to Mr. Sweet was pretend to play the guitar, in fact pretend that he was a young version of Mr. Sweet, and it always made Mr. Sweet glad to think that someone wanted to be like him--of course, we did not know this then, we played the thing by ear, and whatever he seemed to like, we did. We were desperately afraid that he was just going to take off one day and leave us.
It did not occur to us that we were doing anything special; we had not learned that death was final when it did come. We thought nothing of t
riumphing over it so many times, and in fact became a trifle contemptuous of people who let themselves be carried away. It did not occur to us that if our own father had been dying we could not have stopped it, that Mr. Sweet was the only person over whom we had power.
When Mr. Sweet was in his eighties I was studying in the university many miles from home. I saw him whenever I went home, but he was never on the verge of dying that I could tell and I began to feel that my anxiety for his health and psychological well-being was unnecessary. By this time he not only had a moustache but a long flowing snow-white beard, which I loved and combed and braided for hours. He was very peaceful, fragile, gentle, and the only jarring note about him was his old steel guitar, which he still played in the old sad, sweet, down-home blues way.
On Mr. Sweet's ninetieth birthday I was finishing my doctorate in Massachusetts and had been making arrangements to go home for several weeks' rest. That morning I got a telegram telling me that Mr. Sweet was dying again and could I please drop everything and come home. Of course I could. My dissertation could wait and my teachers would understand when I explained to them when I got back. I ran to the phone, called the airport, and within four hours I was speeding along the dusty road to Mr. Sweet's.
The house was more dilapidated than when I was last there, barely a shack, but it was overgrown with yellow roses which my family had planted many years ago. The air was heavy and sweet and very peaceful. I felt strange walking through the gate and up the old rickety steps. But the strangeness left me as I caught sight of the long white beard I loved so well flowing down the thin body over the familiar quilt coverlet. Mr. Sweet!
His eyes were closed tight and his hands, crossed over his stomach, were thin and delicate, no longer scratchy. I remembered how always before I had run and jumped up on him just anywhere; now I knew he would not be able to support my weight. I looked around at my parents, and was surprised to see that my father and mother also looked old and frail. My father, his own hair very gray, leaned over the quietly sleeping old man, who, incidentally, smelled still of wine and tobacco, and said, as he'd done so many times, "To hell with dying, man! My daughter is home to see Mr. Sweet!" My brother had not been able to come as he was in the war in Asia. I bent down and gently stroked the closed eyes and gradually they began to open. The closed, wine-stained lips twitched a little, then parted in a warm, slightly embarrassed smile. Mr. Sweet could see me and he recognized me and his eyes looked very spry and twinkly for a moment. I put my head down on the pillow next to his and we just looked at each other for a long time. Then he began to trace my peculiar hairline with a thin, smooth finger. I closed my eyes when his finger halted above my ear (he used to rejoice at the dirt in my ears when I was little), his hand stayed cupped around my cheek. When I opened my eyes, sure that I had reached him in time, his were closed.