Another Country

by James Baldwin

  “Many, many people were,” said Ida. “He was a very beautiful man, a very great artist. But he made”— she regarded him with a curious, cool insolence— “some very bad connections. He was the kind who believed what people said. If you told Rufus you loved him, well, he believed you and he’d stick with you till death. I used to try to tell him the world wasn’t like that.” She smiled. “He was much nicer than I am. It doesn’t pay to be too nice in this world.”

  “That may be true. But you seem nice— you seem very nice— to me.”

  “That’s because you don’t know me. But ask Vivaldo!” And she turned to Vivaldo, putting her arm on his.

  “I have to beat her up from time to time,” said Vivaldo, “but, otherwise, she’s great.” He stuck out his hand to the short man, who now stood behind Ida. “Hello there, Mr. Ellis. What brings you all the way down here?”

  Ellis raised his eyebrows exaggeratedly and threw out his palms. “What do you think brings me down here? I had an uncontrollable desire to see Sammy’s Bowery Follies.”

  Ida turned, smiling, still leaning on Vivaldo. “My God. I saw you down there at the bar, but I scarcely dared believe it was you.”

  “None other,” he said, “and you know”— he looked at her with tremendous admiration— “you are an extraordinary young woman. I’ve always thought so. I must say, but now I’ve seen it. I doubt if even you know how great a career is within your grasp.”

  “I’ve got an awfully long way to go Mr. Ellis, I’ve got such an awful lot to learn.”

  “If you ever stop feeling that way, I will personally take a hairbrush to you.” He looked up at Vivaldo. “You have not called me and I take that very unkindly.”

  Vivaldo suppressed whatever rude retort was on his tongue. He said, mildly, “I just don’t think I’ve got much of a future in TV.”

  “Oh, what an abysmal lack of imagination!” He shook Ida playfully by the shoulder. “Can’t you do anything with this man of yours? Why does he insist on hiding his light under a bushel?”

  “The truth is,” said Ida, “that the last time anybody made up Vivaldo’s mind for him was the last time they changed his diapers. And that was quite a long time ago. Anyway,” and she rubbed her cheek against Vivaldo’s shoulder, “I wouldn’t dream of trying to change him. I like him the way he is.”

  There was something very ugly in the air. She clung to Vivaldo, but Eric felt that there was something in it which was meant for Ellis. And Vivaldo seemed to feel this, too. He moved slightly away from Ida and picked up her handbag from the table— to give his hands something to do?— and said, “You haven’t met our friend, he just came in from Paris. This is Eric Jones; this is Steve Ellis.”

  They shook hands. “I know your name,” said Ellis. “Why?”

  “He’s an actor,” said Ida, “and he’s opening on Broadway in the fall.”

  Vivaldo, meanwhile, was paying the check. Eric took out his wallet, but Vivaldo waved it away.

  “I have heard of you. I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” and he looked Eric appraisingly up and down. “Bronson’s signed you for Happy Hunting Ground. Is that right?”

  “That’s right,” said Eric. He could not tell whether he liked Ellis or not.

  “It’s kind of an interesting play,” Ellis said, cautiously, “and, from what I’ve heard of you, it ought to do very good things for you.” He turned back to Ida and Vivaldo. “Could I persuade you to have one drink with me in some secluded, air-conditioned bar? I really don’t think,” he said to Ida, “that you ought to make a habit of working in such infernos. You’ll end up dying of tuberculosis, like Spanish bullfighters, who are always either too hot or too cold.”

  “Oh, I guess we have time for one drink,” said Ida, looking doubtfully at Vivaldo, “what do you think, sweetie?”

  “It’s your night,” said Vivaldo. They started toward the door.

  “I’d like to mix maybe just a little bit of business in with this drink,” said Ellis.

  “I figured that,” said Vivaldo. “What an eager beaver you are.”

  “The secret,” said Ellis, “of my not inconsiderable success.” He turned to Ida. “I thought you told me yesterday that Dick Silenski and his wife would be here—?”

  Something happened, then, in her face and in his— in his, wry panic and regret, quickly covered; in hers, an outraged warning, quickly dissembled. They entered the wide, hot street. “Eric saw them,” she said, calmly, “something happened, they couldn’t come.”

  “The kids got into a fight in the park,” said Eric. “Some colored kids beat them up.” He heard Ida’s breathing change; he told himself he was a bastard. “I left them waiting for the doctor.”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” cried Vivaldo, “Jesus! I’d better call them up!”

  “That isn’t what you told me, either,” said Ida.

  “They weren’t very badly hurt,” said Eric, “just bloody noses. But they thought they’d better have a doctor look at them and of course they didn’t want to leave them alone.”

  “I’ll call them,” said Vivaldo, “as soon as we get to a bar.”

  “Yes, sweetie,” said Ida, “you’d better do that. What a terrible thing to have happen.”

  Vivaldo said nothing; kicked at a beer can on the sidewalk. They were walking west through a dark wilderness of tenements, of dirty children, of staring adolescents, and sweating grownups. “When you say colored boys,” Ida pursued, after a moment, “do you mean that was the reason for the fight?”

  “There didn’t,” said Eric, “seem to be any other reason. They’d never seen the boys before.”

  “I imagine,” said Ida, “that it was in some kind of retaliation— for something some other boys had done to them.”

  “I guess that must be it,” said Eric.

  They reached the crowded park at the bottom of Fifth Avenue. Eric had not seen the park for many years and the melancholy and distaste which weighed him down increased as they began to walk through it. Lord, here were the trees and the benches and the people and the dark shapes on the grass; the children’s playground, deserted now, with the swings and the slides and the sandpile; and the darkness surrounding this place, in which the childless wretched gathered to act out their joyless rituals. His life, his entire life, rose to his throat like bile tonight. The sea of memory washed over him, again and again, and each time it receded another humiliated Eric was left writhing on the sands. How hard it was to be despised! how impossible not to despise oneself! Here were the peaceful men in the lamplight, playing chess. A sound of singing and guitar-playing came from the center of the park; idly, they walked toward it; they each seemed to be waiting and fearing the resolution of their evening. There was a great crowd gathered in the small fountain; this crowd broke down, upon examination, into several small crowds, each surrounding one, two, or three singers. The singers, male and female, wore blue jeans and long hair and had more zest than talent. Yet, there was something very winning, very moving, about their unscrubbed, unlined faces, and their blankly shining, infantile eyes, and their untried, unhypocritical voices. They sang as though, by singing, they could bring about the codification and the immortality of innocence. Their listeners were of another circle, aimless, empty, and corrupt, and stood packed together in the stone fountain merely in order to be comforted or inflamed by the touch and the odor of human flesh. And the policemen, in the lamplight, circled around them all.

  Ida and Vivaldo walked together, Eric and Ellis walked together: but all of them were far from one another. Eric felt, dimly, that he ought to make some attempt to talk to the man beside him, but he had no desire to talk to him; he wanted to leave, and he was afraid to leave. Ida and Vivaldo had also been silent. Now, as they walked from group to singing group, intermittently, through romanticized Western ballads and toothless Negro spirituals, he heard their voices. And he knew that Ellis was listening, too. This knowledge forced him, finally, to speak to Ellis.

  He heard Ida. “—s
weetie, don’t be like that.”

  “Will you stop calling me sweetie? That’s what you call every miserable cock sucker who comes sniffing around your ass.”

  “Must you talk that way?”

  “Look, don’t you pull any of that lady bullshit on me.”

  “—you talk. I’ll never understand white people, never, never, never! How can you talk that way? How can you expect anyone else to respect you if you don’t respect yourselves?”

  “Oh. Why the fuck did I ever get tied up with a house nigger? And I am not white people!”

  “—I warn you, I warn you!”

  “—you’re the one who starts it! You always start it!”

  “—I knew you would be jealous. That’s why!”

  “You picked a fine way to keep me from being— jealous, baby.”

  “Can’t we talk about it later? Why do you always have to spoil everything?”

  “Oh, sure, sure, I’m the one who spoils everything, all right!”

  Eric said, to Ellis, “Do you think any of these singers have a future on TV?”

  “On daytime TV maybe,” Ellis said, and laughed.

  “You’re a hard man,” said Eric.

  “I’m just realistic,” Ellis said. “I figure everybody’s out for himself, to make a buck, whether he says so or not. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I just wish more people would admit it, that’s all. Most of the people who think they disapprove of me don’t disapprove of me at all. They just wish that they were me.”

  “I guess that’s true,” said Eric— mortally bored.

  They began walking away from the music. “Did you live abroad a long time?” Ellis asked, politely.

  “About three years.”

  “Where?”

  “Paris, mostly.”

  “What made you go? There’s nothing for an actor to do over there, is there? I mean, an American actor.”

  “Oh, I did a couple of things for American TV.” Coming toward them, on the path, were two glittering, loud-talking fairies. He pulled in his belly, looking straight ahead. “And I saw a lot of theater— I don’t know— it was very good for me.” The birds of paradise passed; their raucous cries faded.

  Ida said, “I always feel so sorry for people like that.”

  Ellis grinned. “Why should you feel sorry for them? They’ve got each other.”

  The four of them now came abreast, Ida putting her arm through Eric’s.

  “A couple of the waiters on my job are like that. The way some people treat them—! They tell me about it, they tell me everything. I like them, I really do. They’re very sweet. And, of course, they make wonderful escorts. You haven’t got to worry about them.”

  “They don’t cost much, either,” said Vivaldo. “I’ll pick one up for you next week and we can keep him around the house as a pet.”

  “I simply am not able, today, am I, to say anything that will please you?”

  “Stop trying so hard. Ellis, where are you taking us for this business-mixed-with-pleasure drink?”

  “Curb your enthusiasm. We’re practically there.” They turned away from the park, toward Eighth Street, and walked into a downstairs bar. Ellis was known here, naturally; they found a booth and ordered.

  “Now, the extent of the business,” Ellis said, looking from Ida to Vivaldo, “is very simple. I’ve helped other people and I think I can help Miss Scott.” He looked at Ida. “You aren’t ready yet. You’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do and a hell of a lot to learn. And I’d like you to drop by my office one afternoon this week so we can go into all this in detail. You’ve got to study and work and you’ve got to keep alive while you’re doing all that and maybe I can help you work that out.” Then he looked at Vivaldo. “And you can come, too, if you think I’m trying to exploit Miss Scott unfairly. Is it your intention to act as her agent?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have any reason to distrust me; you just don’t like me, is that it?”

  “Yes,” said Vivaldo after a moment, “I guess that’s right.”

  “Oh, Vivaldo,” Ida moaned.

  “That’s all right. It’s always good to know where you stand. But you certainly aren’t going to allow this— prejudice— to stand in Miss Scott’s way?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, Ida does what she wants.”

  Ellis considered him. He looked briefly at Ida. “Well. That’s reassuring.” He signaled for the waiter and turned to Ida. “What day shall we make it? Tuesday, Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday might be better,” she said, hesitantly.

  “Around three o’clock?”

  “Yes. That’s fine.”

  “It’s settled, then.” He made a note in his engagement book, then took out his billfold, picked up the check and gave a ten-dollar bill to the waiter. “Give these people anything they want,” he said, “it’s on me.”

  “Oh, are you going now?” asked Ida.

  “Yes. My wife will kill me if I don’t get home in time to see the kids before I go to the studio. See you Wednesday.” He held out his hand to Eric. “Glad to have met you, Red; all the best. Maybe you’ll do a show for me, one day.” He looked down at Vivaldo. “So long, genius. I’m sorry you don’t like me. Maybe one of these days you ought to ask yourself why. It’s no good blaming me, you know, if you don’t know how to get or how to hold on to what you want.” Then he turned and left. Vivaldo watched the short legs going up the stairs into the street.

  He wiped his forehead with his wet handkerchief and the three of them sat in silence for a moment. Then, “I’m going to call Cass,” Vivaldo said, and rose and walked toward the phone booth in the back.

  “I understand,” said Ida, carefully, “that you were a very good friend of my brother’s.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I was. Or at least I tried to be.”

  “Did you find it so very hard— to be his friend?”

  “No. No, I hadn’t meant to suggest that.” He tried to smile. “He was very wrapped up in his music, he was very much— himself. I was younger then, I may not always have— understood.” He felt sweat in his armpits, on his forehead, between his legs.

  “Oh.” She looked at him from very far away. “You may have wanted more from him than he could give. Many people did, men and women.” She allowed this to hang between them for an instant. Then, “He was terribly attractive, wasn’t he? I always think that that was the reason he died, that he was too attractive and didn’t know how— how to keep people away.” She sipped her drink. “People don’t have any mercy. They tear you limb from limb, in the name of love. Then, when you’re dead, when they’ve killed you by what they made you go through, they say you didn’t have any character. They weep big, bitter tears— not for you. For themselves, because they’ve lost their toy.”

  “That’s a terribly grim view,” he said, “of love.”

  “I know what I’m talking about. That’s what most people mean, when they say love.” She picked up a cigarette and waited for him to light it. “Thank you. You weren’t here, you never saw Rufus’s last girl friend— a terrible little whore of a nymphomaniac, from Georgia. She wouldn’t let him go, he tried all kinds of ways of getting away from her. He even thought of running away to Mexico. She got him so he couldn’t work— I swear, there’s nothing like a Southern white person, especially a Southern woman, when she gets her hooks into a Negro man.” She blew a great cloud of smoke above his head. “And now she’s still living, the filthy white slut, and Rufus is dead.”

  He said, hoping that she would really hear him but knowing she would not, perhaps could not, “I hope you don’t think I loved your brother in that terrible way that you describe. I think we really were very good friends, and— and it was an awful shock for me to hear that he was dead. I was in Paris when I heard.”

  “Oh! I’m not accusing you. You and I are going to be friends. Don’t you think so?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Well, that settles it, as far
as I’m concerned.” Then, smiling, with her eyes very big, “What did you do in Paris all that time?”

  “Oh”— he smiled— “I tried to grow up.”

  “Couldn’t you have done that here? Or didn’t you want to?”

  “I don’t know. It was more fun in Paris.”

  “I’ll bet.” She crushed out her cigarette. “Have you grown up?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “any longer, if people do.”

  She grinned. “You’ve got a point there, Buster.”

  Vivaldo came back to the table. She looked up at him. “Well? How are the kids?”

  “They’re all right. Cass sounded a little distraught, but she sends her love to both of you and hopes to see you soon. Are we going to hang around here, or what are we going to do?’

  “Well, let’s have supper,” Ida said.

  Vivaldo and Eric looked at each other for the briefest of seconds. “You’ll have to count me out,” said Eric, quickly. “I’m bushed, I’ve had it, I’m going to go home and hit the sack.”

  “It’s so early,” Ida said.

  “Well, I just got off a boat and I’m still vibrating.” He stood up. “I’ll take a rain check on it.”

  “Well,” she looked at Vivaldo, humorously, “I’m sorry the lord and master isn’t in a better mood.” She moved herself out of the booth. “I’ve got to go to the little girl’s room. Wait for me upstairs.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Vivaldo, as they climbed the stairs into the street, “I’d really looked forward to sitting around and bullshitting with you tonight and all, but I guess you really better leave us alone. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Of course I understand,” said Eric. “I’ll give you a call next week sometime.” They stood on the sidewalk, watching the aimless mob.

  “It must feel very strange for you,” said Vivaldo, “to be back here. But I hope you won’t think we’re not friends any more, because we are. I care a lot about you, Eric. I just want you to know that, so you won’t think I’m putting you down gently, sort of, tonight. It’s just one of those things.” He stared outward, looking very weary. “Sometimes that girl gets me so I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”