Another Country

by James Baldwin

  The boy and girl were coming to their side of the room. Cass and Eric crossed over, to stand beneath the red painting. “Or perhaps some things are clear, only one won’t face those things. I don’t know…. Anyway— I didn’t think he’d threaten me, I didn’t think he’d try to frighten me. If he were leaving me, if he were being unfaithful to me— unfaithful, what a word!— I don’t think I’d try to hold him that way. I don’t think I’d try to punish him. After all— he doesn’t belong to me, nobody belongs to anybody.”

  They began walking again, down a long corridor, toward the ladies. “He said these terrible things to me, he said that he would sue me for divorce and take Paul and Michael away from me. And I listened to him, it didn’t seem real. I didn’t see how he could say those things, if he’d ever loved me. And I watched him. I could see that he was just saying these things to hurt me, to hurt me because he’d been hurt— like a child. And I saw that I’d loved him like that, like a child, and now the bill for all that dreaming had come in. How can one have dreamed so long? And I thought it was real. Now I don’t know what’s real. And I felt betrayed, I felt that I’d betrayed myself, and you, and everything— of value, everything, anyway, that one aspires to become, one doesn’t want to be simply another grey, shapeless monster.” They passed the cheerful ladies and Cass looked at them with wonder and with hatred. “Oh, God. It’s a miserable world.”

  He said nothing, for he did not know what to say, and they continued their frightening promenade through the icy and angular jungle. The colors on the walls blared at them— like frozen music; he had the feeling that these rooms would never cease folding in on each other, that this labyrinth was eternal. And a sorrow entered him for Cass stronger than any love he had ever felt for her. She stood as erect as a soldier, moving straight ahead, and no bigger, as they said in the South, than a minute. He wished that he could rescue her, that it was within his power to rescue her and make her life less hard. But it was only love which could accomplish the miracle of making a life bearable— only love, and love itself mostly failed; and he had never loved her. He had used her to find out something about himself. And even this was not true. He had used her in the hope of avoiding a confrontation with himself which he had, neverthelesss, and with a vengeance, been forced to endure. He felt as far removed from Cass now, in her terrible hour, as he was physically removed from Yves. Space howled between them like a flood. And whereas, with every moment now, Yves was coming closer, defeating all that water, and, as he approached, becoming more unreal, Cass was being driven farther away, was already in the unconquerable distance where she would be wrapped about by reality, unalterable forever, as a corpse is wrapped in a shroud. Therefore, his sorrow, now that he was helpless, luxuriously stretched and reached. “You’ll never be a monster,” he said, “never. What’s happening is unspeakable, I know, but it can’t defeat you. You can’t go under, you’ve come too far.”

  “I think I know what I won’t be. But what I’m going to become— that I don’t see at all. And I’m afraid.”

  They passed not far from a weary guard, who looked blinded and dazzled, as though he had never been able to escape the light. Before them was a large and violent canvas in greens and reds and blacks, in blocks and circles, in daggerlike exclamations; it took a flying leap, as it were, from the wall, poised for the spectator’s eyeballs; and at the same time it seemed to stretch endlessly and adoringly in on itself, reaching back into an unspeakable chaos. It was aggressively and superbly uncharming and unreadable, and might have been painted by a lonely and bloodthirsty tyrant, who had been cheated of his victims. “How horrible,” Cass murmured, but she did not move; for they had this corner, except for the guard, to themselves.

  “You said once,” he said, “that you wanted to grow. Isn’t that always frightening? Doesn’t it always hurt?”

  It was a question he was asking himself— of course; she turned toward him with a small, grateful smile, then turned to the painting again.

  “I’m beginning to think,” she said, “that growing just means learning more and more about anguish. That poison becomes your diet— you drink a little of it every day. Once you’ve seen it, you can’t stop seeing it— that’s the trouble. And it can, it can”— she passed her hand wearily over her brow again— “drive you mad.” She walked away briefly, then returned to their corner. “You begin to see that you yourself, innocent, upright you, have contributed and do contribute to the misery of the world. Which will never end because we’re what we are.” He watched her face from which the youth was now, before his eyes, departing; her girlhood, at last, was falling away from her. Yet, her face did not seem precisely faded, or, for that matter, old. It looked scoured, there was something invincibly impersonal in it. “I watched Richard this morning and I thought to myself, as I’ve thought before, how much responsibility I must take for who he is, for what he’s become.” She put the tip of her finger against her lips for a moment, and closed her eyes. “I score him, after all, for being second-rate, for not having any real passion, any real daring, any real thoughts of his own. But he never did, he hasn’t changed. I was delighted to give him my opinions; when I was with him, I had the daring and the passion. And he took them all, of course, how could he tell they weren’t his? And I was happy because I’d succeeded so brilliantly, I thought, in making him what I wanted him to be. And of course he can’t understand that it’s just that triumph which is intolerable now. I’ve made myself— less than I might have been— by leading him to water which he doesn’t know how to drink. It’s not for him. But it’s too late now.” She smiled. “He doesn’t have any real work to do, that’s his trouble, that’s the trouble with this whole unspeakable time and place. And I’m trapped. It doesn’t do any good to blame the people or the time— one is oneself all those people. We are the time.”

  “You think that there isn’t any hope for us?”

  “Hope?” The word seemed to bang from wall to wall. “Hope? No, I don’t think there’s any hope. We’re too empty here”— her eyes took in the Sunday crowd— “too empty— here.” She touched her heart. “This isn’t a country at all, it’s a collection of football players and Eagle Scouts. Cowards. We think we’re happy. We’re not. We’re doomed.” She looked at her watch. “I must get back.” She looked at him. “I only wanted to see you for a moment.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know when I do. Richard’s gone off, he may not be back for a couple of days. He wants to think, he says.” She sighed. “I don’t know.” She said, carefully, looking at the painting, “I imagine, for the sake of the children, he’ll decide that we should weather this, and stick together. I don’t know if I want that or not, I don’t know if I can bear it. But he won’t sue me for divorce, he hasn’t got the courage to name you as corespondent.” Each to the other’s astonishment, laughed. She looked at him again. “I can’t come to you,” she said.

  There was a silence.

  “No,” he said, “you can’t come to me.”

  “So it’s really— though I’ll see you again— good-bye.”

  “Yes,” he said. Then, “It had to come.”

  “I know. I wish it hadn’t come as it has come, but”— she smiled— “you did something very valuable for me, Eric, just the same. I hope you’ll believe me. I hope you’ll never forget it— what I’ve said. I’ll never forget you.”

  “No,” he said, and suddenly touched her arm. He felt that he was falling, falling out of the world. Cass was releasing him into chaos. He held on to her for the last time.

  She looked into his face, and she said, “Don’t be frightened, Eric. It will help me not to be frightened, if you’re not. Do that for me.” She touched his face, his lips. “Be a man. It can be borne, everything can be borne.”

  “Yes.” But he stared at her still. “Oh, Cass. If only I could do more.”

  “You can’t,” she said, “do more than you’ve done. You’ve been my lover an
d now you’re my friend.” She took his hand in hers and stared down at it. “That was you you gave me for a little while. It was really you.”

  They turned away from the ringing canvas, into the crowds again, and walked slowly down the stairs. Cass put up her hood; he had never taken off his cap.

  “When will I see you?” he asked. “Will you call me, or what?”

  “I’ll call you,” she said, “tomorrow, or the day after.” They walked to the doors and stopped. It was still raining.

  They stood watching the rain. No one entered, no one left. Then a cab rolled up to the curb and stopped. Two women, wearing plastic hoods, fumbled with their umbrellas and handbags and change purses, preparing to step out of the cab.

  Without a word, Eric and Cass rushed out into the rain, to the curb. The women ran heavily into the museum. Eric opened the cab door.

  “Good-bye, Eric.” She leaned forward and kissed him. He held her. Her face was wet but he did not know whether it was rainwater or tears. She pulled away and got into the cab.

  “I’ll be expecting your call,” he said.

  “Yes. I’ll call you. Be good.”

  “God bless you, Cass. So long.”

  “So long.”

  He closed the door on her and the cab moved away, down the long, blank, shining street.

  Darkness was beginning to fall. The lights of the city would soon begin to blaze; it would not be long, now, before these lights would carry his name. An errant wind, a cold wind, ruffled the water in the gutter at Eric’s feet. Then everything was still, with a bleakness that was almost comforting.

  * * *

  Ida heard Vivaldo’s step and rushed to open the door for him, just as he began fumbling for his key. She threw back her head and laughed.

  “You look like you narrowly escaped a lynching, dad. And where did you get that coat?” She looked him up and down, and laughed again. “Come on in, you poor, drowned rat, before the posse gets here.”

  She closed the door behind him and he took off Eric’s coat and hung it in the bathroom and dried his dripping hair. “Do we have anything to eat in this house?”

  “Yes. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.” He came out of the bathroom. “What did Richard have to say?”

  She was in the kitchen with her back to him, digging in the cupboard beneath the sink where the pots and pans were kept. She came up with a frying pan; looked at him briefly; and this look made him feel that Richard had managed, somehow, to frighten her.

  “Nothing very pleasant. But it’s not important now.” She put the pan on the stove and opened the icebox door. “I think you and Cass were his whole world. And now both of you have treated him so badly that he doesn’t know where he is.” She took tomatoes and lettuce and a package of pork chops out of the icebox and put them on the table. “He tried to make me angry— but I just felt terribly sad. He’d been so hurt.” She paused. “Men are so helpless when they’re hurt.”

  He came up behind her and kissed her. “Are they?”

  She returned his kiss, and said gravely, “Yes. You don’t believe it’s happening. You think that there must have been some mistake.”

  “How wise you are!” he said.

  “I’m not wise. I’m just a poor, ignorant, black girl, trying to get along.”

  He laughed. “If you’re just a poor, ignorant, black girl, trying to get along, I’d sure hate like hell to tangle with one who’d made it.”

  “But you wouldn’t know. You think women tell the truth. They don’t. They can’t.” She stepped away from him, busy with another saucepan and water and flame. And she gave him a mocking look. “Men wouldn’t love them if they did.”

  “You just don’t like men.”

  She said, “I can’t say that I’ve met very many. Not what I call men.”

  “I hope I’m one of them.”

  “Oh, there’s hope for you,” she said, humorously, “you might make it yet.”

  “That’s probably,” he said, “the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  She laughed, but there was something sad and lonely in the sound. There was something sad and lonely in her whole aspect, which obscurely troubled him. And he began to watch her closely, without quite knowing that he was doing so.

  She said, “Poor Vivaldo. I’ve given you a hard time, haven’t I, baby?”

  “I’m not complaining,” he said, carefully.

  “No,” she said, half to herself, running her fingers thoughtfully through a bowl of dry rice, “I’ll say that much for you. I dish it out, but you sure as hell can take it.”

  “You think maybe,” he said, “that I take too much?”

  She frowned. She dumped the rice into the boiling water. “Maybe. Hell, I don’t think women know what they want, not a damn one of them. Look at Cass— do you want a drink,” she asked, suddenly, “before dinner?”

  “Sure.” He took down the bottle and the glasses and took out the ice. “What do you mean— women don’t know what they want? Don’t you know what you want?”

  She had taken down the great salad bowl and was slicing tomatoes into it; it seemed that she did not dare be still. “Sure. I thought I did. I was sure once. Now I’m not so sure.” She paused. “And I only found that out— last night.” She looked up at him humorously, gave a little shrug, and sliced savagely into another tomato.

  He set her drink beside her. “What’s happened to confuse you?”

  She laughed— again he heard that striking melancholy. “Living with you! Would you believe it? I fell for that jive.”

  He dragged his work stool in from the other room and teetered on it, watching her, a little above her.

  “What jive, sweetheart, are you talking about?”

  She sipped her drink. “That love jive, sweetheart. Love, love, love!”

  His heart jumped up; they watched each other; she smiled a rueful smile. “Are you trying to tell me— without my having to ask you or anything— that you love me?”

  “Am I? I guess I am.” Then she dropped the knife and sat perfectly still, looking down, the fingers of one hand drumming on the table. Then she clasped her hands, the fingers of one hand playing with the ruby-eyed snake ring, slipping it half-off, slipping it on.

  “But— that’s wonderful.” He took her hand. It lay cold and damp and lifeless in his. A kind of wind of terror shook him for an instant. “Isn’t it? It makes me very happy— you make me very happy.”

  She took his hand and rested her cheek against it. “Do I, Vivaldo?” Then she rose and walked to the sink to wash the lettuce.

  He followed her, standing beside her, and looking into her closed, averted face. “What’s the matter, Ida?” He put one hand on her waist; she shivered, as if in revulsion, and he let his hand fall. “Tell me, please.”

  “It’s nothing,” she said, trying to sound light about it, “I told you, I’m in a bad mood. It’s probably the time of the month.”

  “Now, come on, baby, don’t try to cop out that way.”

  She was tearing the lettuce and washing it, and placing it in a towel. She continued with this in silence until she had torn off the last leaf. She was trying to avoid his eyes; he had never seen her at such a loss before. Again, he was frightened. “What is it?”

  “Leave me alone, Vivaldo. We’ll talk about it later.”

  “We will not talk about it later. We’ll talk about it now.”

  The rice came to a boil and she moved hastily away from him to turn down the flame.

  “My Mama always told me, honey, you can’t cook and talk.”

  “Well, stop cooking!”

  She gave him that look, coquettish, wide-eyed, and amused, which he had known so long. But now there was something desperate in it; had there always been something desperate in this look? “But you said you were hungry!”

  “Stop that. It’s not funny, okay?” He led her to the table. “I want to know what’s happening. Is it something Richard said?”

  “I am not t
rying to be funny. I would like to feed you.” Then, with a sudden burst of anger, “It’s got nothing to do with Richard. What, after all, can Richard say?”

  He had had some wild idea that Richard had made up a story about himself and Eric, and he had been on the point of denying it. He recovered, hoping that she had not been aware of his panic; but his panic increased.

  He said, very gently, “Well, then, what is it, Ida?”

  She said, wearily, “Oh, it’s too many things, it goes too far back, I can never make you understand it, never.”

  “Try me. You say you love me. Why can’t you trust me?”

  She laughed. “Oh. You think life is so simple.” She looked up at him and laughed again And this laughter was unbearable. He wanted to strike her, not in anger, only to make the laughter stop; but he forced himself to stand still, and did nothing. “Because— I know you’re older than I am— I always think of you as being much younger. I always think of you as being a very nice boy who doesn’t know what the score is, who’ll maybe never find out. And I don’t want to be the one to teach you.”

  She said the last in a venomous undertone, looking down again at her hands.

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Go on?” She looked up at him in a strange, wild way. “You want me to go on?”

  He said, “Please stop tormenting me, Ida. Please go on.”

  “Am I tormenting you?”

  “You want it in writing?”

  Her face changed, she rose from the table and walked back to the stove. “I’m sure it must seem like that to you,” she said— very humbly. She moved to the sink and leaned against it, watching him. “But I wasn’t trying to torment you— whenever I did. I don’t think that I thought about that at all. In fact, I know I didn’t, I’ve never had the time.” She watched his face. “I’ve just realized lately that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, certainly more than I can swallow.” He winced. She broke off suddenly: “Are you sure you’re a man, Vivaldo?”