I watched the eyes of the black men and women, watching the eyes watching us. The eyes held pity and scorn, and a distant amusement—and calculation, for, after all, surrender was not a possibility. You may be blind, the eyes seemed to say, but I can see, and I see you. It is hardly possibile that I have been here with you, for so long, and have endured so much at your hands, and yet, have loved you so much, and washed your naked body so often, spanked your children into what they were able to grasp of maturity (for you were not a model!) watched you when you thought you were safe (and, therefore, had no use for me) opened my door to you when the web of safety broke and sent you crashing down (and what other door would have opened? Your friends are all like you) walked to the graveyard with you, and to the christening, Lord, on the mountain, in the valley, trumpets, trombones, and melancholy, leading you to rock your soul in that one more river, do you now suppose that this density of passionate connection has turned me into nothing more than a peculiar mirror, reflecting only what you want to see? What do I care, if you are white? Be white: I do not have to prove my color. I wouldn’t be compelled to see your color, if you were not so anxious to prove it. Why? And to me, of all people.—But I know why. You are afraid that you have been here with me too long, and are not really white anymore. That’s probably true, but you were never really white in the first place. Nobody is. Nobody has, even, ever wanted to be white, unless they are afraid of being black. But being black is nothing to be afraid of. I knew that before I met you, and I have learned it again, through you.
Perhaps being white is not a conceivable condition, but a terrifying fantasy, a moral choice. Certainly, the punishing climate through which Arthur and I were walking resembled nothing so much as a terrified fantasy, and was the result, incontestably, of a moral choice.
By the time we got to Florida, we had lost weight, were running low on money, and had lost the pianist, a Harlem boy named Scott, to the chain gang. This was in Montgomery, Alabama, an angular town so white that it seems dead, like a bone bleaching in the desert. There are towns like that, towns with colors that stay in the mind: Jerusalem, for example, really is golden, as the sun drops behind those weary, sacred hills. As the sun leaves Montgomery, one is reminded of nothing so much as the smokeless, fiery, alabaster gates of hell.
Scott was a loudmouthed Harlem boy of about twenty-two, ill-equipped for nonviolence, but willing to try it, kidnapped, in Montgomery—I refuse to use the legal word, “arrested”—for spitting on the sidewalk, and, as it turned out, having no money in his pockets. The charge was vagrancy, and, for good measure, due to his loudmouthed, disorderly conduct, and he was sentenced to ninety days. This was at dusk, while we were sitting in the hotel room, waiting for him. We went on to the church, the ministers began calling the police, we got through a quite indescribable night and didn’t find out what had happened to Scott until late the next afternoon. By that time, he was on the chain gang.
A great deal can happen to a man in ninety days, and this is why Scott was not escorted back to the hotel, where he was registered, and where we had the cash to prove that he was not a vagrant. As for the disorderly conduct charge, running off at the mouth a little when accosted by strangers, in or out of uniform, is one of the American’s most sacred attributes. When kidnapped for spitting in the gutter of the alabaster city, Scott said nothing that America has not been applauding for generations, whenever it was said by, for example, John Wayne, or, for that matter, J. Edgar Hoover. Nothing succeeds like success.
We had to raise the bail-bond money, an arbitrary, but far from trifling sum. Arthur wired his agency, and their lawyer—it was the first time I realized that we didn’t have a lawyer—and I wired the magazine, and their lawyer. We hoped that we had intimidated the authorities enough to prevent Scott from following Peanut. But we couldn’t depend on that, either in or out of Dixie, down South, or up South. We had to raise the money, and come back with it in our pockets and hand it to the judge and pick up Scott and limp back north, somehow. For the first time, Arthur would have to pocket his southern honorarium: we couldn’t miss, or cancel, a single date, and so we got to Florida.
We were not unaware, although it could not be said, that kidnapping Scott was a way of menacing Arthur. They were brandishing the popular sign, still waiting, patiently, in various closets, to be brought back into daylight: Nigger, read this and run. If you can’t read, run anyhow!
They, too, remembered Peanut. They didn’t want us to forget him.
And so we arrived at the basement of that church, in the backwoods of Florida, where a Jimmy so thin I hardly recognized him was sitting on a table, wearing an old torn sweater, and eating a sandwich.
I didn’t recognize him, because, for the first time, he reminded me of Julia: and I had just met Ruth. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it was something like that, as though, when I saw him, I blinked my eyes against a sudden, too strong light.
“Welcome to the slaughter, children!”
And we followed him upstairs, into the main body of the church. He sat down at the piano, and Arthur began to sing, and so they began, at last, their time together.
“You think you might be ready to carry me up them stairs now, man?”
“Yes. I think I might be ready.”
“You sure kept me waiting.”
“I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t help it.”
“I was calling you a whole gang of motherfuckers, man.”
“I guess you were.”
“Didn’t you think about me? Naw—you didn’t think about me.”
“Oh, yes. I did.”
“What did you think? Did you think I’d just be waiting—like a chump?”
“I—just hoped you’d be glad to see me. I couldn’t think any further than that.”
“Were you glad to see me?”
“You know I was glad to see you.”
“How’d it go in London?”
“Okay.”
“How was Paris? what did you do there?”
“Oh—walked around. Saw some monuments.”
“Like what?”
“Oh—the Arch of Triumph.”
“It’s beautiful, right?”
“Very beautiful. But I wasn’t there long.”
“We’ll go there together?”
“If you want.”
“Oh. You are so full of shit, man.”
“I was only kidding. I wasn’t planning to go without you.”
“You better not. I been waiting, man, a long time, for you.”
And Jimmy turns toward Arthur, who pulls him into his arms. They are in Jimmy’s bed, at the back of the house where Jimmy stays. It is about two o’clock in the morning.
The house is very quiet, as are the streets outside. Jimmy and Arthur are very quiet, too, very peaceful; it is as though each has, finally, come home.
They had been intensely, incredibly aware of each other in the church, but had spoken very little. They had been surrounded, they were busy, Arthur was tense, worried, and exhausted. Behind him was the image of Scott on the chain gang, and, before him, the question of his performance at the rally. There would not be time to eat, or to change. He had known, sensed, that, somehow, he would soon see Jimmy, and had been longing to see him. But he had also been afraid to see him, and it seemed vindictive on the part of fate to have arranged for them to meet under such grueling circumstances, at this moment, and in this place.
Nevertheless, imperceptibly, the atmosphere between them began to ease as they dealt with the music. Each sensed the other, swiftly and precisely: it was, suddenly, quite amazing to realize that they had never before worked together. Without having had an instant to mention the past, they found themselves becoming comrades in the present, and the music, indeed, had already begun to move them into the future: if they could play this way together, they would certainly be fools to lose each other now!
So their anticipation, however reluctantly, increased. Perhaps they were richer than they had thought.
/> We liberated, without, on the whole, recuperating, Scott, and limped back into New York, and Julia called me. She had just seen Jimmy, who; both weary and exultant, had arrived to put his bags down; and Arthur arrived very shortly afterward, to pick Jimmy up. So there were the four of us reunited, though I was not present: and the moment the two younger brothers left her loft, Julia got me on the phone.
It was a Saturday, late afternoon, early evening. I was alone, playing records, and kind of half reading, and thinking of tomorrow, when I would be seeing Ruth. (I had called her. She was going to try to get out of a previous dinner date, and have dinner with me.)
She was to call me back. In the long meanwhile, I was free. I knew that I would not be seeing Arthur or Jimmy tonight. I had no duties of any kind, except to Hall. I had decided that I would not go out. I would telephone for a Chinese dinner, take a shower, and watch television. And I had taken off my shoes and socks and trousers, preparing to go into the shower, when the phone rang.
I was sure it was Ruth. I pad-padded happily over to the phone, and picked up the receiver, looking out at still, cold West End Avenue, absently scratching my belly button, and my balls.
“Hello! What’s the verdict?”
One should never, never do that: never anticipate the voice at the other end, never assume you know to whom you are speaking. The voice I heard sliced me as cleanly as a razor. The sweat suddenly dripping from my armpits slid down my body as smoothly, as crucially, as my blood would have run down, had I been slit from armpit to thigh.
“Hall—?”
I knew her name, and I wanted to call her name, but I couldn’t. For some reason, I grabbed my dick. The houses across the street seemed, with a hostile attention, to tilt toward me.
“It’s Julia.”
“I know. How are you, child?”
“Oh. The verdict isn’t in yet.”
“That wasn’t meant for you,” I said, now feeling very awkward indeed, and wishing that I had said something else, at the very same moment that she laughed, and said, “Oh, I know it wasn’t for me. How are you, Hall?”
“I’ve been worse. I’ve been better.”
My dick began to stiffen under my hand. This frightened me, and made me angry at Julia. Then, insanely, it made me angry at Ruth.
“I’d like to see you, Hall.”
I’d like to see you, too. “Sure. When?”
“Well, I just saw your long-lost brother, along with my little long-lost brother, and so I know you must be tired—”
“I’m not that tired. When did you get back?”
“Oh, around the time that Arthur got back, I guess. But I didn’t know where any of you were.”
“Well, the Lord knows, child, we didn’t know where you were.”
Stop calling her child. It’s none of your business where she’s been, or was.
I began to be frightened. I ached more and more. I had come to the phone anticipating Ruth. My prick was heavy, getting hard, and I did not know if this ache was hope, or memory, nor could I, any longer, tell the difference.
“Well. You always warned me that I might find myself in Timbuktu.”
“Girl, even Timbuktu has got to have post offices, and telegraph and telephone wires.”
“Well”—and she laughed—“that’s one of the strange things about Timbuktu. Sometimes, it looks like they do. Then when you look again, they don’t.”
“That sounds a little like you and me.”
“Not really. I hear you. But—not really.”
There was a silence. I ached, as helpless, now, as only a grown man can be.
“Do you want to see me tonight?”
I wanted her to say yes. I wanted her to say no. I wanted to get in, or get out.
“No—not tonight. Tomorrow?”
“I—I think I’m tied up for dinner—tomorrow night—”
I started to say, But maybe I can break it, but I didn’t.
“What about lunch?”
“That would be cool.”
“Well—shall we arrange it now, or shall I call you in the morning?”
“We can arrange it now.”
“Okay. Why don’t we meet—oh, on the steps of Carnegie Hall, at one thirty? Then well decide where to go from there.”
“All right.”
“Good-bye, Hall. Have a good night—get some sleep.
“Yes—Julia?”
“Yes—?”
“I’ll be very glad to see you. It was beautiful, hearing your voice.”
She seemed to catch her breath. Then, “I think I may have begun to learn something—in Timbuktu. But you’re the only person I can tell. You’re the only person who might know.”
My ache began to subside, and, yet, began to rise, into another, sweeter, more inexorable sorrow.
“Thank you for that. I’ll be listening.”
“Good night, Hall. Till tomorrow.”
“Good night—Julia?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll always love you, you know. I mean”—I held my breath, I dropped my dick—”no matter what.”
“I think I’ve always known that. Anyway, I know it now. I’ll always love you, too.” She laughed, and it was a laugh low in her throat, but, astoundingly free of bitterness. “No matter what. Until tomorrow, then.”
“Until tomorrow.”
And she hung up, then I hung up. I stripped naked, and took my shower, free, until tomorrow.
Tomorrow was a bright, cold Sunday, with a coldness and brightness peculiar to New York. The sky remains metallic, but raises itself up to where the sky should be: the buildings concede your right to be here, and give you elbowroom. And I walked down West End Avenue, wearing a black Russian fur hat, I remember, and the serious, distinguished, winter garb which Russian fur hats demand, feeling perhaps, within my difficult ease, a leashed panic, but trying to be ready for whatever this tomorrow—as the song says—would bring.
And turned east on 59th Street, walking those long blocks to Columbus Circle, which was filled with the New York Sunday innocence—that is to say, with people who scarcely knew where they were, or why: and crossed the Circle, and continued down to 57th Street, turning east again toward Carnegie Hall, with my heart beginning to hammer, and the brow beneath—within—the band of my Russian hat beginning to be hot and cold and wet.
And waited for the light at Seventh Avenue, a long light, watching the people milling about in front of Carnegie Hall, watching the people on the steps, looking at the unchanging red light, watching the cars speed by, the taxis, and a horse-drawn carriage turned onto the avenue from the Plaza Hotel, a man and a woman and a little girl sat in it, and this carriage clumped down Seventh Avenue, and passed me, crossing 57th Street, and the light changed.
I crossed the avenue. But I was still on the wrong side of the street. It had not occurred to me that I could have crossed the street while I was waiting to cross the avenue. I watched the posters outside Carnegie Hall; apparently, there was a concert there, this afternoon. There were many people on the steps. I looked at my watch. It was twenty-five minutes to two. It could not really be said that I was late. The light changed, and I crossed the street.
She was standing on the top step, near the series of doors farthest from the avenue. She was wearing a gray, belted, cloth coat, with a high collar. She was wearing black, high-heeled boots. She was wearing a stylish black turban, which covered her ears. She had her hands in her pockets.
She did not seem to be waiting for anyone, was not anxiously watching the streets. She stood at a kind of three-quarter angle to me, watching the people coming in and out of the doors, or watching nothing—it was impossible to tell what she was watching—and standing perfectly still, as though she were certain of being found.
I stood at the bottom of the steps for a second, watching her. Then I started up the steps. She turned her head, and saw me.
Welcome is indescribable—rare: it cannot be imitated. When Julia turned her head, and saw me, I knew??
?I knew—that, though I did not mean to her what I had hoped to mean, I meant more to her than I would ever be able to imagine. I surrendered myself to her welcome. Whatever anguish she had caused me I felt being blown away from me by the faint wind around my head and shoulders as I climbed the steps.
Then, I stood next to her, holding both her small, cold, ungloved hands. Drink to me only with thine eyes—that ridiculous song suddenly made sense to me. And I will pledge with mine. Then I took her in my arms, and we kissed each other, like brother and sister.
“How are you?—old, unmarried lady, late of Timbuktu?”
“I’m fine, I’m so happy to see you.”
“Me too.”
Then, we just looked at each other.
“You hungry?”
“I think I must be starving.”
“Where shall we eat?”