Another Country

by James Baldwin

  The room was growing darker. Bessie sang, The blues has got me on the go. They runs around my house, in and out of my front door. Then the needle scratched aimlessly for a second, and the record player clicked itself off. Eric’s attention had painfully snagged itself on the memory of those unloved, but not wholly undesired, girls. Their texture and their odor floated back to him: and it was abruptly astonishing that he had not thought of that side of himself for so long. It had been because of Yves. This thought filled him with a hideous, unwilling resentment: he remembered Yves’ hostile adventures with the girls of the Latin Quarter and St. Germain-des-Près. These adventures had not touched Eric because they so clearly had not touched Yves. But now, superbly, like a diver coming to the surface, his terror bobbed, naked, to the surface of his mind: he would lose Yves, here. It would happen here. And he, he would have no woman, and he would have no Yves. His flesh began to itch, he felt himself beginning to sweat.

  He turned and smiled at Cass, who had moved to the sofa, and sat very still beside him in the gloom. She was not watching him. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, busy with thoughts of her own.

  “This is one hell of a party,” he said.

  She rose, smiling, and shook herself a little. “It is, isn’t it? I was beginning to wonder where the children are— they should be home by now. And maybe I’d better turn on some lights.” She switched on a lamp near the bar. Now, the water and the lights along the water glowed more softly, suggesting the imminent night. Everything was pearl gray, shot with gold. “I’d better go and rouse Richard.”

  “I didn’t know,” he said, “that it would be so easy to feel at home again.”

  She looked at him quickly, and grinned. “Is that good?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He was about to say something more, something about Yves, but he heard Richard’s study door open and close. He turned to face Richard as he came into the room; he looked very handsome and boyish and big.

  “So we finally got you back here! I’m told it took every penny Shubert Alley could scrape together. How are you, you old bastard?”

  “I’m fine, Richard, it’s good to see you.” They clung together, briefly, in the oddly truncated, shrinking, American embrace, and stepped back to look at one another. “I hear that you’re selling more books than Frank Yerby.”

  “Better,” said Richard, “but not more.” He looked over at Cass. “How are you, chicken? How’s the headache?”

  “Eric started telling me about Paris, and I forgot all about it. Why don’t we go to Paris? I think it would do wonders for us.”

  “Do wonders for our bank account, too. Don’t you let this lousy ex-expatriate come here and turn your head.” He walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink. “Did you leave many broken hearts over there?”

  “They were very restrained about it. Those centuries of breeding mean something, you know.”

  “That’s what they kept telling me when I was over there. It didn’t seem to mean much, though, beyond poverty and corruption and disease. How did you find it?”

  “I had a ball. I loved it. Of course, I wasn’t in the Army—

  “Did you like the French? I couldn’t stand them; I thought they were as ugly and as phony as they come.”

  “I didn’t feel that. They can be pretty damn exasperating— but, hell, I liked them.”

  “Well. Of course, you’re a far more patient sort than I’ve ever been.” He grinned. “How’s your French?”

  “Du trottoir— of the sidewalk. But fluent.”

  “You learn it in bed?”

  He blushed. Richard watched him and laughed.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact.”

  Richard carried his drink to the sofa and sat down. “I can see that traveling hasn’t improved your morals any. You going to be around awhile?”

  Eric sat down in the armchair across the room from Richard. “Well, I’ve got to be here at least until the play opens. But after that— who knows?”

  “Well,” said Richard, and raised his glass, “here’s hoping. May it run longer than Tobacco Road.”

  Eric shuddered. “Not with me in it, bud.” He drank, he lit a cigarette; a certain familiar fear and anger began to stir in him. “Tell me about yourself, bring me up to date.”

  But, as he said this, he realized that he did not care what Richard had been doing. He was merely being polite because Richard was married to Cass. He wondered if he had always felt this way. Perhaps he had never been able to admit it to himself. Perhaps Richard had changed— but did people change? He wondered what he would think of Richard if he were meeting him for the first time. Then he wondered what Yves would think of these people and what these people would think of Yves.

  “There isn’t much to tell. You know about the book— I’ll get a copy for you, a coming-home present—”

  “That should make you glad you’ve returned,” said Cass.

  Richard looked at her, smiling. “No sabotage, please.” He said to Eric, “Cass still likes to make fun of me.” Then, “There’s a new book coming, Hollywood may buy the first one, I’ve got a TV thing coming up.”

  “Anything for me in the TV bit?”

  “It’s cast. Sorry. We probably couldn’t have afforded you, anyway.” The doorbell rang. Cass went to answer it.

  There was suddenly a tremendous commotion at the door, sobbing and screaming, but Eric did not react until he saw the change in Richard’s face, and heard Cass’ cry. Then Richard and Eric stood up and the children came pounding into the room. Michael was sobbing and blood dripped from his nose and mouth onto his red-and-white-striped T-shirt. Paul was behind him, pale and silent, with blood on his knuckles and smeared across his face; and his white shirt was torn.

  “It’s all right, Cass,” Richard said. quickly, “it’s all right. They’re not dead.” Michael ran to his father and buried his bloody face in his father’s belly. Richard looked at Paul. “What the hell’s been going on?”

  Cass pulled Michael away and looked into his face. “Come on, baby, let me wash this blood away and see what’s happened to you.” Michael turned to her, still sobbing, in a state of terror. Cass held him. “Come on, darling, everything’s all right, hush now, darling, come on.” Michael was led away, his hand in Cass’ trembling hand, and Richard looked briefly at Eric, over Paul’s head.

  “Come on,” he said to Paul, “what happened? You get into a fight or did you beat him up, or what?”

  Paul sat down, pressing his hands together. “I don’t really know what happened.” He was on the edge of tears himself; his father waited. “We had been playing ball and then we were getting ready to come home, we weren’t doing anything, just fooling around and walking. I wasn’t paying much attention to Mike, he was behind me with some friends of his. Then”— he looked at his father— “some colored— colored boys, they came over this hill and they yelled something, I couldn’t hear what they yelled. One of them tripped me up as he passed me and they started beating up the little kids and we came running down to stop them.” He looked at his father again. “We never saw any of them before, I don’t know where they came from. One of them had Mike down on the ground, and was punching him, but I got him off.” He looked at his bloody fist. “I think I knocked a couple teeth down his throat.”

  “Good for you. You didn’t get hurt yourself? How do you feel?”

  “I feel all right.” But he shuddered.

  “Stand up, come over here, let me look at you.”

  Paul stood up and walked over to his father, who knelt down and stared into his face, prodding him gently in the belly and the chest, stroking his neck and his face. “You got a pretty bad crack in the jaw, didn’t you?”

  “Mike’s hurt worse than I am.” But he suddenly began to cry. Richard’s lips puckered; he gathered his son into his arms. “Don’t cry, Paul, it’s all over now.”

  But Paul could not stop, now that he had begun. “Why would they want to do a thing like that, Daddy? We never ev
en saw them before!”

  “Sometimes— sometimes the world is like that, Paul. You just have to watch out for people like that.”

  “Is it because they’re colored and we’re white? Is that why?”

  Again, Richard and Eric looked at each other. Richard swallowed. “The world is full of all kinds of people, and sometimes they do terrible things to each other, but— that’s not why.”

  “Some colored people are very nice,” said Eric, “and some are not so nice— like white people. Some are nice and some are terrible.” But he did not sound very convincing and he wished he had held his peace.

  “This kind of thing’s been happening more and more here lately,” Richard said, “and, frankly, I’m willing to cry Uncle and surrender the island back to the goddam Indians. I don’t think that they ever intended that we should he happy here.” He gave a small, dry laugh, and turned his attention to Paul again. “Would you recognize any of these boys if you saw them again?”

  “I think so,” Paul said. He caught his breath and dried his eyes. “I know I’d recognize one of them, the one I hit. When the blood came out of his nose and his mouth, it looked so— ugly— against his skin.”

  Richard watched him a moment. “Let’s go inside and clean up and see what’s happening to old Michael.”

  “Michael can’t fight,” Paul said, “you know? And kids are always going to be picking on him.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to do something about that. He’ll have to learn how to fight.” He walked to the door, with his arm on Paul’s shoulder. He turned to Eric. “Make yourself at home, will you? We’ll be back in a few minutes.” And he and Paul left the room.

  Eric listened to the voices of the children and their parents, racing, indistinct, bewildered. “All kids get into fights,” said Richard, “let’s not make a big thing out of it.” “They didn’t really get into a fight,” Cass said. “They were attacked. That’s not the same thing at all, it seems to me.” “Cass, let’s not make it any worse than it is.” “I still think we ought to call the doctor; we don’t know anything about the human body, how do we know there isn’t something broken or bleeding inside? It happens all the time, people dropping dead two days after an accident.” “Okay, okay, stop being so hysterical. You want to scare them to death?” “I am not hysterical and you stop being the Rock of Gibraltar. I’m not part of your public, I know you!” “Now, what does that mean?” “Nothing. Nothing. Will you please call the doctor?” Michael’s voice broke in, high and breaking, with a child’s terror. “Why, that’s the silliest thing I ever heard,” Cass said, in another tone and with great authority; “of course no one’s going to come in here while you’re asleep. Mama and Daddy are here and so is Paul.” Michael’s voice interrupted her again. “It’s all right, we aren’t going out,” Cass said. “We aren’t going out tonight,” Richard said, “and Paul and I are going to teach you some tricks so kids won’t be bothering you any more. By the time we get through, those guys will be afraid of you. If they just see you coming, boy, they’ll take off in a cloud of dust.” He heard Michael’s unsteady laugh. Then he heard the sound of the phone being dialed, and Richard’s voice, and the small ring of the phone as Richard hung up.

  “I guess we won’t be going downtown with you, after all,” Richard said, coming back into the room. “I’m sorry. I’m sure they’re all right but Cass wants the doctor to look at them and we have to wait for him to get here. Anyway, I don’t think we should leave them alone tonight.” He took Eric’s glass from his hand. “Let me spike this for you.” He walked over to the bar; he was not as calm as he pretended to be. “Little black bastards,” he muttered, “they could have killed the kid. Why the hell can’t they take it out on each other, for Christ’s sake!”

  “They beat Michael pretty badly?”

  “Well— they loosened one of his teeth and bloodied his nose— but, mainly, they scared the shit out of him. Thank God Paul was with him.” Then he was silent. “I don’t know. This whole neighborhood, this whole city’s gone to hell. I keep telling Cass we ought to move— but she doesn’t want to. Maybe this will help her change her mind.”

  “Change my mind about what?” Cass asked. She strode to the low table before the sofa, picked up her cigarettes, and lit one.

  “Moving out of town,” Richard said. He watched her as he spoke and spoke too quietly, as though he were holding himself in.

  “I’ve no objection to moving. We just haven’t been able to agree on where to move.”

  “We haven’t agreed on where to move because all you’ve done is offer objections to every place I suggest. And, since you haven’t made any counter-suggestions, I conclude that you don’t really want to move.”

  “Oh, Richard. I simply am not terribly attracted to any of those literary colonies you want us to become a part of—”

  Richard’s eyes turned as dark as deep water. “Cass doesn’t like writers,” he said, lightly, to Eric, “not if they make a living at it, anyway. She thinks writers should never cease starving and whoring around, like our good friend, Vivaldo. That’s fine, boy, that’s really being responsible and artistic. But all the rest of us, trying to love a woman and raise a family and make some loot— we’re whores.”

  She was very pale. “I have never said anything at all like that.”

  “No? There are lots of ways of saying”— he mimicked her— “things like that. You’ve said it a thousand times. You must think I’m dumb, chicken.” He turned again to Eric, who stood near the window, wishing he could fly out of it. “If she was stuck with a guy like Vivaldo—”

  “Leave Vivaldo out of this! What has he got to do with it?”

  Richard gave a surprisingly merry laugh, and repeated, “If she was stuck with a guy like that, maybe you wouldn’t hear some pissing and moaning! Oh, what a martyrdom! And how she’d love it!” He took a swallow of his drink and crossed the room toward her. “And you know why? You want to know why?” There was a silence. She lifted her enormous eyes to meet his. “Because you’re just like all the other American cunts. You want a guy you can feel sorry for, you love him as long as he’s helpless. Then you can pitch in, as you love to say, you can be his helper. Helper!” He threw back his head and laughed. “Then, one fine day, the guy feels chilly between his legs and feels around for his cock and balls and finds she’s helped herself to them and locked them in the linen closet.” He finished his drink and, roughly, caught his breath. His voice changed, becoming almost tender with sorrow. “That’s the way it is, isn’t it, sugar? You don’t like me now as well as you did once.”

  She looked terribly weary; her skin seemed to have loosened. She put one hand lightly on his arm. “No,” she said, “that’s not the way it is.” Then a kind of fury shook her and tears came to her eyes. “You haven’t any right to say such things to me; you’re blaming me for something I haven’t anything to do with at all!” He reached out to touch her shoulder; she moved away. “You’d better go, Eric, this can’t be much fun for you. Make our excuses, please, to Vivaldo and Ida.”

  “You can say that the Silenskis, that model couple, were having their Sunday fight,” said Richard; his face very white, breathing hard, staring at Cass.

  Eric set his drink down, carefully; he wanted to run. “I’ll just say you had to stay in on account of the kids.”

  “Tell Vivaldo to take it as a warning. This is what happens if you have kids, this is what happens if you get what you want.” And, for a moment, he looked utterly baffled and juvenile. Then, “Hell, I’m sorry, Eric. We never meant to submit you to such a melodramatic afternoon. Please come and see us again; we don’t do this all the time, we really don’t. I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “It’s all right,” Eric said. “I’m a big boy, I understand.” He walked over to Cass and they shook hands. “It was nice seeing you.”

  “It was good seeing you. Don’t let all that light fade.”

  He laughed, but these words chilled him, too. “I’ll tr
y to keep burning,” he said. He and Richard walked to the hall door. Cass stood still in the center of the living room.

  Richard opened the door. “So long, kid. Can we call you— has Cass got your number?”

  “Yes. And I have yours.”

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  “Sure thing. So long.”

  “So long.”

  The door closed behind him. He was again in the anonymous, breathing corridor, surrounded by locked doors. He found his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, thinking of the millions of disputes being waged behind locked doors. He rang for the elevator. It arrived, driven by another, older man who was eating a sandwich; he was dumped into the streets again. The long block on which Cass and Richard lived was quiet and empty now, waiting for the night. He hailed a cab on the Avenue and was whirled downtown.

  His destination was a bar on the eastern end of the Village, which had, until recently, been merely another neighborhood bar. But now it specialized in jazz, and functioned sometimes as a showcase for younger but not entirely untried or unknown talents or personalities. The current attraction was advertised in the small window by a hand-printed, cardboard poster; he recognized the name of a drummer he and Rufus had known years ago, who would not remember him; in the window, too, were excerpts from newspaper columns and magazines, extolling the unorthodox virtues of the place.

  The unorthodox, therefore, filled the room, which was very small, low-ceilinged, with a bar on one side and tables and chairs on the other. At the far end of the bar, the room widened, making space for more tables and chairs, and a very narrow corridor led to the rest rooms and the kitchen; and in this widened space, catty-corner to the room, stood a small, cruelly steep bandstand.

  Eric had arrived during a break. The musicians were leaping down from the stand, and mopping their brows with large handkerchiefs, and heading for the street door which would remain open for about ten minutes. The heat in the room was terrifying, and the electric fan in the center of the ceiling could have done nothing to alleviate it. And the room stank: of years of dust, of stale, of regurgitated alcohol, of cooking, of urine, of sweat, of lust. People stood three and four deep at the bar, sticky and shining, far happier than the musicians, who had fled to the sidewalk. Most of the people at the tables had not moved, and they seemed quite young; the boys in sport shirts and seersucker trousers, the girls in limp blouses and wide skirts.