Another Country

by James Baldwin

  “Yes?”

  “About your screen test— you got a pencil?”

  “Wait a minute.”

  He found a pencil on his desk, and a scrap of paper, and returned to the phone.

  “Go ahead, Harman.”

  “You’re not going to the Coast. It’s fixed up for you to do it here. You know where the Allied Studios are?”

  “Yes, naturally.”

  “Well, it’s set for Wednesday morning. Allied, at ten. Listen. Can you have lunch with me tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I’d love to.”

  “Good. I’ll fill you in on all the details. Downey’s okay?”

  “Right. What time?”

  “One o’clock. Now— you still with me?”

  “All ears, baby.”

  “Well, we finally got that meshugena of a broken-down movie star in town and the rehearsal date is definitely set for a week from tomorrow.”

  “Next week?”

  “Right.”

  “Wonderful. God, I’ll be so glad to be working again.”

  Vivaldo came out of the bathroom, seeming unutterably huge in his blank, white nakedness, and walked into the kitchen. He looked critically at the coffee pot, came back into the room, and threw himself into the bed.

  “You’re going to be working from now on, Eric. You’re on your way, sweetheart; you’re going to go right over the top, and, baby, I couldn’t be more delighted.”

  “Thanks, Harman. I certainly hope you’re right.”

  “I’ve been in the business longer than you’ve been in the world, Eric. I know a winner when I see one and I’ve never made a mistake, not about that. You be good now, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He put down the receiver, filled with a fugitive excitement.

  “Good news?”

  “That was my agent. We’re going into rehearsal next week and we’re doing my screen test Wednesday.” Then his triumph blazed up in him and he turned to Vivaldo. “Isn’t that fantastic?”

  Vivaldo watched him, smiling. “I think we ought to drink to that, baby.” He watched as Eric picked up the empty bottle from the floor. “Ah. Too sad.”

  “But I’ve got a little bourbon,” Eric said.

  “Crazy.”

  Eric poured two bourbons and lowered the flame under the coffee. “Bourbon’s really much more fitting,” he said, happily, “since that’s what they drink in the South, where I come from.”

  He sat on the bed again, and they touched glasses.

  “To your first Oscar,” said Vivaldo.

  Eric laughed. “That’s touching. To your Nobel prize.”

  “That’s very touching.” Eric pulled the sheet up to his navel. Vivaldo watched him. “You’re going to be very lonely,” he said, suddenly.

  Eric looked over at Vivaldo, and shrugged. “So are you, if it comes to that. If it comes to that,” he added, after a moment, “I’m lonely now.”

  Vivaldo was silent for a moment. When he spoke, he sounded very sad and gentle. “Are you? Will you be— when your boy gets here?”

  Then Eric was silent. “No,” he said, finally. He hesitated. “Well— yes and no.” Then he looked at Vivaldo. “Are you lonely with Ida?”

  Vivaldo looked down. “I’ve been thinking about that— or I’ve been trying not to think about that— all morning.” He raised his eyes to Eric’s eyes. “I hope you don’t mind my saying— well, hell, anyway, you know it— that I’m sort of hiding in your bed now, hiding even in your arms maybe— from Ida, in a way. I’m trying to get something straight in my mind about my life with Ida.” He looked down again. “I keep feeling that it’s up to me to resolve it, one way or another. But I don’t seem to have the guts. I don’t know how. I’m afraid to force anything because I’m afraid to lose her.” He seemed to flounder in the depths of Eric’s silence. “Do you know what I mean? Does it make any sense to you?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Eric, bleakly, “it makes sense, all right.” He looked over at Vivaldo with a smile, and dared to say, “Maybe, at this very moment, while both of us are huddled here, hiding from things which frighten us— maybe you love me and I love you as well as we’ll ever love, or be loved, in this world.”

  Vivaldo said, “I don’t know if I can accept that, not yet. Not yet. As well— maybe. Well, surely.” He looked up at Eric. “But it’s not, really, is it? very complete. Look. This day is almost over. How long will it be before such a day comes for us again? Because we’re not kids, we know what life is like, and how time just vanishes, runs away— I can’t, really, like from moment to moment, day to day, month to month, make you less lonely. Or you, me. We aren’t driven in the same directions and I can’t help that, any more than you can.” He paused, watching Eric with enormous, tormented eyes. He smiled. “It would be wonderful if it could be like that; you’re very beautiful, Eric. But I don’t, really, dig you the way I guess you must dig me. You know? And if we tried to arrange it, prolong it, control it, if we tried to take more than what we’ve— by some miracle, some miracle, I swear— stumbled on, then I’d just become a parasite and we’d both shrivel. So what can we really do for each other except— just love each other and be each other’s witness? And haven’t we got the right to hope— for more? So that we can really stretch into whoever we really are? Don’t you think so?” And, before Eric could answer, he took a large swallow of his whiskey and said in a different tone, a lower voice, “Because, you know, when I was in the bathroom, I was thinking that, yes, I loved being in your arms, holding you”— he flushed and looked up into Eric’s face again— “why not, it’s warm, I’m sensual, I like— you— the way you love me, but”— he looked down again— “it’s not my battle, not my thing, and I know it, and I can’t give up my battle. If I do, I’ll die and if I die”— and now he looked up at Eric with a rueful, juvenile grin— “you won’t love me any more. And I want you to love me all my life.”

  Eric reached out and touched Vivaldo’s face. After a moment, Vivaldo grabbed his hand. “For you, the moon, baby,” Eric said. His voice, to his surprise, was a grave, hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat. “Do you want some coffee now?”

  Vivaldo shook his head. He emptied his glass and put it on the table.

  “Drink up,” he said to Eric.

  Eric finished his drink. Vivaldo took the glass from him and set it down.

  “I don’t want any coffee now,” he said. He opened his arms. “Let’s make the most of our little day.”

  By ten minutes to four, Eric was, somehow, showered, shaved, and dressed, with his raincoat and his rain cap on. The coffee was too hot, he only managed to drink half a cup. Vivaldo was still undressed.

  “You go on,” he said. “I’ll clean up a little and I’ll lock the door.”

  “All right.” But Eric dreaded leaving in the same way that Vivaldo dreaded getting dressed. “I’ll leave you the cigarettes, I’ll buy some.”

  “That’s big of you. Go on, now. Give my love to Cass.”

  “Give my love,” he said, “to Ida.”

  They both grinned. “I’m going to call her,” Vivaldo said, “just as soon as you get your ass out of here.”

  “Okay, I’m gone.” Yet, at the door, he stopped, looking at Vivaldo, who stood in the center of the room, holding a cup of coffee. He stared at the floor with a harsh bewilderment in his face. Then he felt Eric’s eyes and looked up. He put down his coffee cup and walked to the door. He kissed Eric on the mouth and looked into his eyes.

  “See you soon, baby.”

  “Yes,” said Eric, “see you soon.” He opened the door and left.

  Vivaldo listened to him go down the stairs. Then he walked to the window and opened the blinds and watched him. Eric appeared in the street as though he had been running, or as though he had been propelled. He looked first in one direction and then in the other; then, his hands in his pockets, head lowered and shoulders raised, he walked the long block, hugging the sides of buildings. Vivaldo watche
d him till he turned the corner.

  Then he turned back into the room, pale with assessments, with guilt deliciously beginning to gnaw at the rope with which he had tied it, sharpening its teeth for him. And yet, at the same time, he felt radiantly, wonderfully spent. He poured himself another small drink and sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly, he dialed his number.

  The receiver was lifted almost at once, and Ida’s voice came at him: with the force of an electric shock. “Hello?”

  In the background, he heard Billie Holiday singing Billie’s Blues.

  “Hello, sugar. This is your man, checking on his woman.”

  “Do you know what time it is? Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m at Eric’s. We passed out here. I’m just pulling myself together.”

  There was a peculiar relief in her voice. He was aware of it because she tried to hide it. “You’ve been there all night? ever since I left you?”

  “Yes. We came on over here and started talking and finished up Eric’s whiskey. And he had quite a lot of whiskey— so, you see.”

  “Yes, I know you think it’s against the law to stop drinking as long as there’s anything left to drink. Listen. Has Cass called?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “No. Eric did.”

  “Oh? What did Eric tell you?”

  “What do you mean, what did Eric tell me?”

  “I mean, what did Cass say?”

  “She said she was in trouble. Richard’s found out about them.”

  “Isn’t that awful? What else did she say?”

  “Well— I think that that sort of cluttered up her mind. She doesn’t seem to have said anything else. Did you know anything about all this?”

  “Yes. Richard was here. Has he been there?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, Vivaldo, it was awful. I felt so sorry for him. I thought that you might be at Eric’s, but I said you’d gone off to see your family in Brooklyn and I didn’t have the phone number or the address. It’s very sad, Vivaldo, he’s very bitter, he wants to hurt you. He feels that you betrayed him—”

  “Yes, well, I think it may be easier for him to feel that way. How long was he there?”

  “Not long. Only about ten minutes. But it seemed longer. He said some terrible things—”

  “I’m sure. Does he still want to see me?”

  “I don’t know.” There was a pause. “Are you coming home now?”

  “Yes, right away. Are you going to be there?”

  “I’ll be here. Come on. Oh. Where’s Eric?”

  “He’s gone— uptown—”

  “To meet Cass?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed. “Lord, what a mess. Come on home, sweetie, if Richard’s going to shoot you you don’t want him to do it while you’re wandering around Eric’s house. That would really be too much.”

  He laughed. “You’re right. You seem to be in a good mood today.”

  “I’m really in a terrible mood. But I’m being brave about it, I’m pretending to be Greer Garson.”

  He laughed again. “Does it help?”

  “Well, no, baby, but it makes everything pretty funny.”

  “All right. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “Okay, sweetie. ’Bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He hung up with an exultant relief that no trouble seemed to be awaiting him at home with Ida. He felt that he had got away with something. He stepped into Eric’s shower, scrubbed and sang; but when he stepped out he realized that he was terribly hungry and weak. While he was dressing, Eric’s doorbell rang.

  He was sure that it was Richard, at last, and he hurriedly buckled his belt and pulled on his shoes before pressing the buzzer. He started, idiotically, to make up the bed, but realized that there would not be time, and, anyway, it could not possibly make any difference to Richard whether the bed was made or not. He waited, hearing the downstairs door open and close. He opened Eric’s door. But he heard no footsteps. A voice called. “Eric Jones!”

  “Here!” cried Vivaldo. He let out his breath. He walked to the landing. A Western Union boy came up the steps.

  “You Eric Jones?”

  “He’s gone out. But I can take it.”

  The boy handed him a telegram and a book for him to sign. He gave the boy twenty cents and walked back into the apartment. He thought that the telegram came, probably, from Eric’s agent or producer; but he looked at it more carefully and realized that it was a cable and that it came from Europe. He propped it against Eric’s telephone. He scribbled a note: I’ve borrowed your other raincoat. NOTE CABLEGRAM. He paused. Then he scribbled, It was a great day. And added, love, Vivaldo. He placed the note in the center of Eric’s desk, weighting it down with an ink bottle.

  Then he was ready, he looked about the room. The bed was still unmade; he left it that way; the bottle was still on the floor, the glasses on the night table. Everything was absolutely still, silent, except for the rain. He looked again at the cablegram, which leaned lightly, charged, waiting, against the telephone. Telegrams always frightened him a little. He closed the door behind him, tested it to make certain that it was locked, and walked out, at last, into the unfriendly rain.

  * * *

  Eric saw her at once, standing near the steps, just beyond the ticket-taker. She was pacing in a small circle and her back, as he entered, was to him. She wore her loose brown raincoat and her head was covered with a matching hood; and she played with the tip, white bone in the shape of a claw, of her thin umbrella. The museum was crowded, full of the stale, Sunday museum stink, aggravated, now, by the damp. He came through the doors behind a great cloud of windy, rainy, broad-beamed ladies; and they formed, before him, a large, loud, rocking wall, as they shook their umbrellas and themselves and repeated to each other, in their triumphant voices, how awful the weather was. Three young men and two young girls, scrubbed and milky, gleaming with their passion for improvement and the ease with which they moved among abstractions, were surrendering their tickets and passing through the barrier. Others were on the steps, going down, coming up, stationary, peering at each other like half-blinded birds and setting up a hideous whirr, as of flying feathers and boastful wings. Cass, small, pale, and old-fashioned in her hood, restlessly pacing, disenchantedly watched all this; she glanced indifferently toward the resounding ladies, but did not see him; he was still trying to get through, or around, the wall. He looked toward the people on the steps again, wondering why Cass had wished to meet here; it was only too probable that these sacred and sterile halls contained, blocking a corridor or half-hidden by a spinning mass of statuary, someone that they knew. Cass, resignedly lit a cigarette half-turning in her small, imaginary cage. People now came crushing in through the doors behind him, and their greater pressure spat him past the ladies. He touched Cass on the shoulder.

  At his touch, she seemed to spring. Her eyes came alive at once, and her pale lips tensed. And her smile was pale. She said, “Oh. I thought you’d never get here.”

  He had surmounted a desperate temptation not to come at all, and had half-hoped that he would not find her there. She was so pale and seemed, in this cold, dazzling place, so helpless, that his heart turned over. He was half an hour late. He said, “Dear Cass, please forgive me, it’s hard to get anywhere in weather like this. How are you?”

  “Dead.” She did not move, merely stared at the tip of her cigarette as though she were hypnotized by it. “I’ve had no sleep.” Her voice was very light and calm.

  “You picked a strange place for us to meet.”

  “Did I?” She looked unseeingly around; then looked at him. The blank despair in her face seemed to take notice, in the far distance, of him, and her face softened into sorrow. “I guess I did. I just thought— well, nobody’s likely to overhear us, and I— I just couldn’t think of any other place.”

  He had been about to suggest that they leave, but her white face and the fact of the rain checked
him. “It’s all right,” he said. He took her arm, they started aimlessly up the steps. He realized that he was terribly hungry.

  “I can’t stay with you very long, because I left the kids alone. But I told Richard that I was coming out— that I was going to try to see you today.”

  They reached the first of a labyrinthine series of rooms, shifting and crackling with groups of people, with bright paintings above and around them, and stretching into the far distance, like tombstones with unreadable inscriptions. The people moved in waves, like tourists in a foreign graveyard. Occasionally, a single mourner, dreaming of some vanished relationship, stood alone in adoration or revery before a massive memorial— but they mainly evinced, moving restlessly here and there, the democratic gaiety. Cass and Eric moved in some panic through this crowd, trying to find a quieter place; through fields of French impressionists and cubists and cacophonous modern masters, into a smaller room dominated by an enormous painting, executed, principally, in red, before which two students, a girl and a boy, stood holding hands.

  “Was it very bad, Cass? last night?”

  He asked this in a low voice as they stood before a painting in cool yellow, of a girl with a long neck, in a yellow dress, with yellow hair.

  “Yes.” Her hood obscured her face; it was hot in the museum; she threw the hood back. Her hair was disheveled on the brow and trailing at the neck: she looked weary and old. “At first, it was awful because I hadn’t realized how much I’d hurt him. He can suffer, after all,” and she looked at Eric quickly, and looked away. They moved away from the yellow painting and faced another one, of a street with canals, somewhere in Europe. “And— no matter what has happened since, I did love him very much, he was my whole life, and he’ll always be very important to me.” She paused. “I suppose he made me feel terribly guilty. I didn’t know that would happen. I didn’t think it could— but— it did.” She paused again, her shoulders sagging with a weary and proud defeat. Then she touched his hand. “I hate to tell you that— but I must try to tell you all of it. He frightened me, too, he frightened me because I was suddenly terribly afraid of losing the children and I cannot live without them.” She moved one hand over her brow, uselessly pushing up her hair. “I didn’t have to tell him; he didn’t really know, he didn’t suspect you at all, of course; he thought it was Vivaldo. I told him because I thought he had a right to know, that if we were going to continue— together, we could begin again on a new basis, with everything clear between us. But I was wrong. Some things cannot be clear.”