Nine
THE SUN WAS very bright the following morning; there was something almost nice about the polluted air. I had my glass of lukewarm tap water, said my Christian prayers, recited a personal Koran, and kissed the rat-gnawed floorboards of my room. (Nonbelievers, please take note: I was definitely insane, an ambitious lunatic.) I had spent a sleepless night plotting and thinking. Impersonation is an act of courage, as well as an act of skill, for the impersonator must be coldhearted, aware of his limitations. I, however, suddenly realized I had no limitations. I felt good. The sun was shining. Bathed in its warm rays, I became Apollo’s Saturday morning son. My new image had crystallized. An aristocratic image, I might add. The new image was based on The Wig, and was to be implemented by the forethought of Mr. Fishback. It took me a little while to accept the fact that I was going to act upon it, but I did.
Here is the timetable: 10 A.M., perspiring. 10:15, borrowed two cigarettes from Nonnie Swift. Three minutes of cheers; Nonnie had been barred from the Harlem Sewing Circle because of her Creole past. Quarter of eleven, a last status sip of lukewarm water. At two minutes to eleven I snatched Mr. Fishback’s Christmas gift from under the sofa bed: an all-purpose, fake, forged Credit Card, guaranteed at five hundred hospitals in all fifty states. Honored instantly by one thousand fine hotels and restaurants, plus major service stations, and airlines. Car rental agencies also guaranteed. With Mr. Fishback’s dandy all-purpose card, I was going into orbit.
As a result, I found myself at 1 P.M. alighting from a chauffeur-driven Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce on Sutton Place South. In my 14th Street-Saville Row suit (dark, synthetic, elegant) that I’d bought from Mr. Fishback—I was truly together. And the six joints of Haitian marijuana I’d smoked on the way down made me feel powerful. Like Cassius Clay. Like Hitler. Like Fats Domino. Like Dick Tracy. I dismissed the car and driver. They’d done their work, I had my high, and I saw no reason to push my luck.
I walked through Ionic columns and onto the plastic-marbelite-tiled courtyard of the Riverview Tower Apartment Residence (the last stronghold of concentrated capitalists) to receive a sharp clicking of heels from the amazed doorman.
“Bonjour, Mac,” I said, between clenched teeth.
The doorman saluted smartly. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said clearly, opening the entrance door. “Lovely weather for March, isn’t it, sir?”
“Smashing,” I replied, scanning dark clouds. “Is the lift self-service?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pity.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The modern world is going to hell.”
“Quite right, sir. Would you like me to press the elevator button? They were made in Japan. Amazing little gadgets, and I’d be honored if you’d grant me permission to push the button for you.”
“Oh, yes. By all means. Jolly good of you.”
There were tears in the doorman’s eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
“What’s your name, old chap?”
“Abraham O’Reilly, sir.”
“O’Reilly. A fine name. Must remember that.”
“God bless you, sir.”
Joyfully, I waltzed into the elevator and ascended upward, heavenward.
The elevator did not quite reach the ramparts of heaven. It stopped on the ninetieth floor, the penthouse floor.
I got out and felt my feet plowing into a deep shaggy Greek carpet, a sensation not altogether pleasant, but I was determined to maintain my bored-rich-boy expression. I pressed a well-scrubbed finger against the doorbell and waited.
Tom Lacy opened the penthouse door. Tomming a wee bit, he bowed and rolled his eyes. He seemed not to recognize me. Was The Wig that effective?
“Ain’t nobody home. They is in the country,” he said. “Won’t be back till late Monday morning.”
“You’re the man I wanna see.”
Moaning, Tom Lacy looked away. “Mister, I ain’t done nothing and I ain’t buying nothing. Good day.”
“Just one moment, please.”
“Mister,” Tom whined, “I done told you already. I ain’t buying nothing. I gits plenty of good used clothing from the boss, and the mistress throws a few hand-me-downs to the old lady. I got plenty of insurance and a wristwatch that runs jest fine. I’m scared of cars. And as you can see, skin lightener will do me no good and I’m dead set against hair grease and don’t try to sell me no back lot in Westchester, cause I ain’t buying. But come back Monday. They’ll be back then.”
Yesterday at Paradise Records, Ltd., in a moment of panic, I tried like hell to bust a gut. Now staring hard at Tom Lacy, staring at his sweaty immobile face, I tried not to bust a gut.
Slightly envious of his brilliant impersonation, I said, “Shit.”
“Mister. I didn’t mean to offend you. I jest don’t need nothing. I is way up to my ears in debt already.”
“Okay, Tom. Can the cat. It’s me. Your boy Les. Ask me in and fix a drink.”
Tom Lacy stared hard at me. Gritting his alabaster-coated false teeth, he let the placid mask of his face change to that of a natural killer.
Just to be on the safe side, I took several steps backward.
“I ain’t in the mood for no jokes. I had to work my ass off to get them bastards to the country.”
“Man, you just ain’t with the happenings. You’re non-progressive.”
“Youyouyou . . .” Tom Lacy shouted.
“Control yourself,” I said. “You’re sweating too hard and might catch a cold.”
His eyes zeroed in on my Wig. Before I could open my mouth, he lunged like a besotted bull, rammed his kinky head into my stomach, and knocked me flat on my back.
“Tom!”
“A little louder.”
“TOM!”
“That’s more like it. Now, do you have any last-minute special requests?”
“Yes. Get your mother-grabbing hands from around my neck. I can hardly breathe.”
“I only asked for last-minute requests, and I’m doing you a favor at that. You were once my friend.”
Tom weighed only a hundred and seventy pounds but his grip was forceful. I could hardly breathe. His hands played a teasing, sadistic game on my neck.
“Tom, old buddy . . .”
“I don’t wanna hear that jazz.”
“Tom, please. I’m flat on my back. Let me up and I’ll explain.”
He groaned. I could see tears mixing with the sweat. His Adam’s apple went up and down like a yo-yo.
“What’s wrong with you?” he shouted.
“Nothing. Tom . . .”
“Have you gone crazy? This ain’t Halloween.”
“Please take your hands off my neck,” I said, struggling for breath.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Tom Lacy sobbed.
“I haven’t lost my mind. Now will you please let me up? I’m getting full of goat’s hair.”
He bit his lower lip and let go. “Les, you’ve taken ten years off my life . . .”
Sobbing immodestly, he rose slowly. I felt like a jackass.
“I never thought you’d do something like this,” Tom said.
“Do what?” I asked angrily. I got up and ran a cautious hand through The Wig. “You must be off your rocker.”
“I’ve known you a long time, Les. I’ve known you since you were born. I was your godfather. I know you were orphaned at an early age and that your life has been nothing but trials and tribulations . . .”
“Tom, what are you getting at?”
“Shut up,” my grieving friend commanded. “Don’t interrupt. I’m trying to talk to you like a father. Yes, trials and tribulations. You were such a good boy. Your dear parents taught you to read and write. You had good manners and went to Sunday School. And you’ve got a sturdy head on your shoulders. I was always proud when I never found your name on the sports page of the Daily News listed among them juvenile delinquents.”
“Tom. You’re breaking my goddam heart.”
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR BEAUT
IFUL HAIR?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Infidel!” Tom Lacy accused in a shaking voice and lunged at me again.
I jumped back quickly. “Listen to me. Please. I’m doing this for the sit-ins. Did you hear me? I’m doing this for the sit-ins.”
“The sit-ins?” Tom Lacy’s dawning smile was absolutely saintly. “Great day in the morning!”
“Yeah,” I grinned. “What a morning.”
“Man, you had me scared to death,” Tom said.
“I was a little uneasy myself.”
Tom wiped his sweaty brow. What would the hero like to drink? Champagne? A little Château Haut-Brion? Or could he whip me up a quick snack? Rossini steak? Creamed eggs in ramekins, slightly gratiné, floating in caviar?
“No. Double vodka on the rocks. Gotta work a picket line this afternoon.”
“Okay, sport,” Tom smiled. “I knew you’d never betray us!”
Settling back in a down-stuffed chair, I said, “How could I possibly betray you?”
“Your parents would be proud of you.”
“How’s the chart coming along?”
Tom frowned sadly. “Not too good, Les. According to this morning’s Times, only a hundred and seventeen died.”
“That isn’t too bad,” I said, accepting the vodka.
“There have been better days,” Tom said, pulling up a comfortable chair, a kind of Chinese rocking chair.
“Of course,” I agreed. “Still, you can’t complain. Anyway, Easter is coming, and after that it will be vacation time all over America.”
“I know. But I like New Year’s Eve better.”
“I heard on the radio this morning that a jet crashed and killed forty-five.”
“Really?” Tom exclaimed. “That’s wonderful. That tops the fire at the old-folks home in Jersey. Only nine of them burned.”
“A woman was strangled in Philly yesterday.”
“Usually there are more sex murders in the spring.”
“That’s true,” I agreed.
Tom was very excited. “Let’s toast to spring.”
“To spring and to death,” I said, raising my vodka glass.
“That’s a great toast. Sure you don’t want me to open a magnum of champagne? Thirty-four. A good year.”
“No. I’ll stick to vodka. Don’t forget, I’ll be out in the cold, picketing until sundown.”
“You are a fine young man,” Tom said quietly. “I’m proud of you.”
“You’re an earthly angel.”
“You’re Moses walking in the wilderness!” Tom said jumping up suddenly. The Waterford chandelier prisms tinkled merrily.
“To spring and to death,” Tom announced rapturously. “We’re making progress, Les. In fifty years there won’t be any white people!”
“There’ll always be white people,” I told him.
Tom Lacy was a stunned Negro man. He seemed to age again. “You really think so?”
“Yes, Tom. They’ll be having babies, you know.”
“I always keep forgetting that,” Tom said.
“But they’ll be a minority by then,” I assured him.
“Oh, that’ll be the day,” Tom Lacy cried. “I come from a long line of human beings, too. My people was Watusi. Cattle barons. I’m seven feet tall in my stocking feet, as you well know. Your folks never talked much about family background. Do you know where your folks came from?”
I polished off my drink and shook my head. “I don’t know exactly. I don’t know much about my family tree. Although I’ve heard we’re descended from the Queen of Sheba, Marco Polo, and Pope Paul the Fifth.”
“That’s mighty impressive. Funny I never heard your ma and pa mention that, or any of your other relatives.”
“We’re very modest.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry,” Tom told me. “Family trees don’t mean much these days.”
“I’m sure happy to hear that.”
Rocking, Tom looked as warm and shrewd as Harry Golden. “Yes. We’re making progress. Finally things are looking up.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Now the Puerto Ricans are getting shit from the fan.”
Tom Lacy had a faraway look in his eyes, and they were misty. “No. It won’t be long now.”
A tugboat droned on the East River. I don’t know why, but I suddenly thought of Abe Lincoln, and Thomas Jefferson too, and all the people who had made me believe in them. I leaned forward in my chair, dead serious, and listened to my godfather’s wisdom.
My godfather shook his weary head. “Lord. I can hardly wait to act like a natural man. I’ve had to Tom so much that it’s hard for me to knock it off. I even shuffle and keep my eyes on the floor when I’m talking to my own wife.”
“I know what you mean. When I’m in a restaurant and leave a tip, I feel as if I’d committed a sin.”
“That’s a fact,” Tom agreed. “It’s like giving myself a tip somehow.”
“By the way, godfather. Could you let me hold fifty?”
“What?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“I ain’t got no money,” my godfather whined. “It takes every cent I get for those charts. I have to subscribe to every daily and weekly newspaper in the country.”
“Have I ever failed to come through? Who went downtown with his little red wagon and got all those old newspapers when you were in bed with the flu last winter?”
“What you need it for?”
“Haven’t I got to eat in all those segregated restaurants?”
“You’re right,” Tom Lacy agreed, reaching for his wallet. “Are you sure fifty will be enough?”
Strutting down Sutton, I perhaps looked like a happy citizen of Manhattan but my real roots were deep in the countryside that had produced people like my dead parents and, yes, Tom Lacy. One day, one fine day, Tom and Aunt Bessie would be proud of me.
“I’ll shake up this town if it’s the last thing I do,” I vowed to the sky, serene and gray, watching a train of pigeons wing down on the balcony of an apartment building. Their drippings looked like some rare melting metal.
The wind was receding. I walked over to the parklike promenade of Sutton Place South. Freshly planted trees (each tree discreetly sporting a name tag) lined the promenade. I glanced at the expensive trees and then looked down at the sewer waters of the East River.
Lester Jefferson was at peace with himself.
Hadn’t I been trying since day before yesterday? Goodness. Plotting and thinking, plotting and thinking. And hadn’t every happening bounced right back in my face? Ding-dong-doom.
There had been one moment: The Deb. She had made me feel warm, alive, ambitious. She had taken a piece of my heart without knowing it. With the crisp fifty neatly stashed in my jacket pocket, I knew what I wanted most was to see her.
“Mister,” I heard a voice behind me call.
I turned and saw an apathetic-looking middle-aged Negro, a man.
“Could you spare a cigarette, Mister?”
“What are you doing over here?” I said severely. “Don’t you know beggars aren’t allowed over here?”
“I ain’t no beggar,” the man said. “I’m a runaway slave.”
“Don’t give me that shit. You half-assed con man. Slavery was outlawed years ago. Centuries ago.”
“You’re wrong,” the man said in a quiet voice. He unbuttoned his tattered trousers. “Look at this if you don’t believe me.”
Around the man’s waist was a flexible chastity belt at least ten inches wide. Engraved letters on the belt read: “I paid good money for this sturdy black man. He belongs to me and not to God.”
“No,” I screamed and started running.
“Wait,” the slave cried.
Frightened, I halted at the promenade’s entrance. A bronze plaque marked the entrance:
Life is worthwhile, for it is full of dreams and peace, gentleness and ecstasy, and faith that burns like a clear white flame on a grim dark altar.
I
got the fifty from my suit-coat pocket and gave it to the man—not because I was frightened or generous or worried about sleepless nights—I gave the man the fifty because he looked like a slave. I knew he was a slave. I have a genius for detecting slaves.
“Thank you and may God bless you,” the slave said.
“You’d better get something to eat and a room,” I said.
Then I turned off Sutton Place South and walked up 54th Street and up First Avenue toward home, toward Harlem.
Ten
IT WAS SATURDAY NIGHT. The sky was starscaped, and homespun rib-tickling brotherly love had settled over the city. You felt it even at the frontier gate, above 96th Street, leading to the Badlands of Harlem. The air was different too, with a strange smell rather like mildewed bread. And I, too, managed to be happy (courtesy of Mr. Fishback’s Christmas gift): at the end of the evening, The Deb had come home with me.
Now while Saturday night turned into cold Sunday, I copulated like crazy. My groin ached.
“You’re too much,” I said.
“Wheel” The Deb somersaulted and wiggled her toes. “You’ve made me extremely happy, Mr. Jefferson.”
“Do Debs really like that?”
The gyrating Deb moaned.
I wiped my forehead, watching The Deb’s rhythmic buttocks. “Wanna be a slave, baby?”
“Yes. Come on, lover. It really moves me.”
“Take it easy, little woman.”
“Please. It drives me out of my gardenia-picking mind.”
“I’ve had enough,” I sighed.
“Don’t you wanna make me happy?”
“Yes,” I said slowly, trying to play a cool hand.
“Ain’t I been good to you?”
“Yes,” I admitted, feeling clammy, feeling that I was playing a losing hand.
“Then move me, sweetie,” The Deb teased. “I ain’t dead. I can be moved.”
“No,” I said firmly.
The lyrically pretty Deb pouted. “Finky-foo. I’m just beginning to enjoy myself and you treat me like this. I can’t help it ’cause I got kinky hair.”
“Your hair has nothing to do with it.”
“Yes, it does,” The Deb cried. “You foreigners’re always hot after us colored girls and then you throw shit into the game. Why don’t you go to Africa and get the real thing? And as far as I’m concerned you can take your fine fine self right back across the sea.”
The Collected Novels of Charles Wright Page 19