Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  Then imperceptibly the foxes moved, becoming with no impression of speed twin streaks of red moving past the thicket of green, and he watched their brushes floating dream-like into the undergrowth.

  All this I’ve known, the Senator thought, but had forgotten…. Then in the sudden hush, accented by a pheasant’s cry he felt as though no trains nor towns nor sermons existed. He was at peace. Here was no need to escape nor search for Eden, nor need to solve his mystery. But again he moved, somehow compelled to go ahead….

  Soon the Senator was beyond the woods, his throat throbbing with nameless emotion stirred by the foxes, and he moved with inward-turning eyes—until, high above, where it flashed like a minnow in an inverted bowl of a clear blue lake, a small plane caught his eye and he moved beneath the boughs of a pine tree, watching the plane bank languidly into the sun to write in smoke across the sky:

  Niggers

  Stay

  Away

  From

  The Polls

  And watching the words expand and drift in ghostlike shapes he shook his fist at the sky and ran again, cursing the taut constriction of the sand.

  Following the upward slant of the terrain the Senator found himself approaching a crowd gathered below the terrace of a clubhouse resting on the broad, level surface of a cliff which overlooked a winding river. Below the cliff and atop the river’s farther bank, a flock of grazing sheep were strung out along a rolling meadow, making dark foreshortened shadows against the green, and far below, past the brown-and-gray outcroppings of the meadow’s rocky edge, he could see the dark swirl and sparkle of the river as it flowed past a pile of boulders which protruded white and brilliant in the sun.

  There was a feeling of holiday in the air now, and on the terrace he could see uniformed waiters serving pale yellow melon, frosted drinks, and ices to smiling couples who lounged at tables set in the pastel shades of brightly colored parasols.

  Moving painfully through the fashionable crowd the Senator squeezed past handsome women clad in sports clothing and tweedy, heavily tanned men sporting alpine hats decorated with the feathers of a game bird, silver-mounted brushes of badger fur, or tiny medals celebrating the hunt, and was suddenly aware of the fresh scents the women wore, the fine, smooth texture of their complexions. Then he had pressed to the front of the crowd and found himself leaning against a low barrier that fenced off the broad semicircle of a grassy shooting ring.

  To his right, just inside the barrier, a group of men with guns cradled in the crooks of their arms were looking out to the center of the ring where three workmen knelt in the grass working over a device attached to a length of rubber hosing. The hosing ran back to a truck parked at the rear where it was attached to the storage tank of a mobile air compressor. Other workmen, wearing black berets and blue coveralls, were standing in groups of three at four stations arranged at equal distances across the ring, all marked, like that where the men were working, by stacks of bright yellow dovecotes. They too were looking toward the kneeling, frantically busy men, and back near the compressor truck the Senator could see dozens of dovecotes stacked high on a wagon before which a small, bony horse with docked tail wearing a farmer’s straw hat in which holes had been cut for its twitching ears, dozed wearily between the shafts. Then, as though someone had pulled a switch, the Senator was aware of the throbbing sound made by the cooing of many birds. The dovecotes were crammed with pigeons and he could see the nervous motion of their beaked heads thrusting back and forth between the bars. The air throbbed with the sound of their cooing, reminding him of a crowd of summer passengers looking out of the grill of a trolley car as they commented upon something out in the passing scene.

  And now as the annoyed voices of the spectators began drowning out the noise of the birds, he saw the men drawing erect and heard one of them call out to the men with guns.

  “Okay, gentlemen, it’s now in working order.”

  “And it’s damn well time,” a spectator called; then a bell sounded and the Senator could see a uniformed official wearing a green sun visor stepping across the springing turf and signaling to a marksman who took the firing line and the action was resumed.

  Suddenly, at the cry of “MARK!” the Senator heard a fierce sound like that of air bursting from a punctured tire and saw a surprised pigeon bouncing some twenty feet into the air above the trap, hanging there for an instant of flurried indecision, then taking off on a swift, rising course to the right; and he could see the marksman now, taking his time, his feet precisely placed, swinging smoothly onto and past the rising bird, and at the sound of the shot the bird abruptly folding on its course and as a second shot exploded bursting apart in the air.

  “Onesie, twosie, It’s a doosie,” a supercilious voice called behind him, but before he could turn to see who it was, the cry of “MARK!” came again and he was watching a pigeon taking off to the left and halting suddenly as though struck by a baseball bat, its feathers flying, as yet another bird shot aloft on a screeching jet of air.

  Having dropped his final bird, the smiling marksman stepped back with lowered gun and waved as applause and shouts of “Bravo!” erupted from the spectators; and now, as another gunman took the firing line, the action accelerated, moving so swiftly that the Senator had an uneasy feeling that things were getting out of hand. A fateful accuracy marked the match, disturbing him profoundly, as the gunners, coming and going in swift rotation, took continued advantage of second shots and made great slaughter on the grass.

  Suddenly, as a huge marksman wearing baggy seersucker pants took the line, a small, stooped, stiff-necked man appeared, smoking a long cigar. As he came prancing along just inside the ring and waving a sheaf of banknotes about, he yelled, “Heads, gentlemen! I’m taking bets on heads alone!”

  Heads, the Senator thought, what does he mean …?

  “What! Are you kidding?” another man called.

  “Not kidding, sir,” the little man said. “I’m betting a thousand that he leads the next bird so precisely that the pattern alone will take off the head and leave the body untouched.”

  “You’re nuts and you’re covered,” the second man called, and now, as the next pigeon sprang free the Senator watched the huge marksman wave his gun about like a weighted pool cue and, waiting until the bird had leveled, he cut loose shooting from the hip. And now he could see something fly away from the bird to sail across the ring as its body continued a few feet in headless flight and then collapsed.

  There was wild applause and the Senator watched the little man laughing and dancing a jig step as he waved a fist full of money and yelled,

  “Heads today and tails tomorrow! Heads! Heads! Heads! Who’ll bet three grand that he touched nary a tail feather, a breast feather, nor nary a feather in either wing? Speak up!”

  “What’s the bet?” someone called from the rear.

  “No breast! No tail! No wing! And ding-a-ding ding at three thousand bucks a number seven shot,” the little man called.

  “Covered!” the voice called, and as the Senator watched the little man scampering around the ring to where an attendant was picking up the headless bird the betting became furious.

  Returning with the bird now plucked of its feathers, the little man displayed it proudly, pointing to the unblemished state of its skin and collecting his bets with an air of fierce satisfaction.

  “How about you, sir,” he said to the Senator, his teeth clamped fiercely upon his long cigar. “You look like a man of quality, a betting man. Clarence has one bird left in the set and I’ll bet you ten thousand that he’ll turn him over easy, or turn him over slow. He’ll hit him high, he’ll hit him low—tip, tail, wing, or duster—as you please, sir. Just say the word.”

  “No,” the Senator said, “not today or ever.”

  The little man laughed, revealing a set of wolfish teeth. “Smoked you out, didn’t I,” he said, “Four little children and a very nowhere wife, is that it?”

  But when the Senator started to answer he moved
quickly back into the crowd—which was stirring about and roaring so loudly that the Senator quickly lost sight of him.

  Out in the ring the traps were being sprung in no discernable order and the firing becoming so rapid that windrows of ejected cartridge hulls were piling up near the firing line. Rings of sweat showed at the armpits of the gunners’ jackets and the Senator could see waves of heat dancing along the vented gunbarrels. Things were getting so much out of hand that he felt that the officials should do something to restore order, or at least slow the pace, but none were to be seen. And as fast as one stack of dovecotes was emptied of birds the handlers rushed replacements to the traps.

  The Senator’s head felt light now, his nose stinging from the acrid gunsmoke, and he looked skyward with a feeling that the sun had halted just above his head. I must get out of here, he thought, but when he tried to leave the howling spectators pressed in upon him so tightly that he was unable to move.

  Turning his back to the ring, he tried to break free to the rear, to make for the shade of the terrace. But now a woman whose luxuriant auburn hair showed beneath a white leghorn hat with aqua ribbon pressed so closely against him that he could see beads of moisture standing out on the flesh beneath her deep blue eyes. The woman was smiling mysteriously into his face and he could see deep wrinkles breaking through her masklike makeup, revealing a far darker complexion underneath. Then the woman was saying something which he could not understand and as he bent closer to hear he was struck by a blast of disinfectant which was so repulsive that he turned quickly around and backed against the barrier. It’s Lysol, he thought, It’s Lysol!

  Far to the rear of the crowd now he could hear a husky voice keeping score of the kills while a woman’s voice repeated the count in a shrill Spanish accent, lisping her words and shouting, “Olé! Olé!” as the firing accelerated in pace.

  Closing his eyes against the blazing scene, the Senator plunged the tips of his fingers into his ears, trying to escape the noise. His leg had begun to pain again and he remembered the refreshment that he’d seen the waiters serving back on the terrace. He longed for a cold slice of melon, an iced drink, a bit of quiet. But now an explosion of shouting caused him to open his eyes to a crowd that was leaning over the barrier and shaking its fists in anger. Things had come to a halt, the guns were silent and no birds flying. At first he thought the object of the spectators’ disapproval was an official’s ruling, or some act of unsportsmanlike conduct by a contestant, and discovered instead that the anger was caused by a single slate-gray pigeon.

  Out near the rear of the ring the bird was moving over the grass with the grave, pigeon-toed dignity of a miniature bishop, its head bobbing from side to side as it ignored the shouting crowd.

  Close by, a man cupped his hands to his mouth, screaming, “Flush, you fink! Use your wings!”

  “You’re wasting your time with that one,” another man called. “Where’s the official? Get him over here! Does he consider that a sporting bird? Who the hell bred the characterless fowl? I say Who?”

  “Now wait,” the sun-visored official called from within the ring. “These birds are the very best. Bred for the ring, for hand-launching and for the trap!”

  “Then make him fly, dammit; make him fly!”

  “It’s sportsman’s luck,” the man in the visor called. “Some fly, some fail. We put enough air under these birds to launch a rocket, so if one doesn’t fly it’s just too bad. The gunner simply calls for another bird.”

  “But I want this one,” the gunner called. “He owes me a chance!”

  “He’s right,” a small blond woman called. “Make the buzzard fly! Up in the air … you … you pretentious pouter. We didn’t come here to see you strut or take a dive. Play the game, you’re stalling the match!”

  But the pigeon continued walking.

  Behind the Senator the auburn-haired woman was in tears.

  “It’s a crime,” she called past his ear. “It’s a disgrace. It’s impotence, it’s perversity, a politics of evasion and calculated defiance….”

  Bewildered by her analysis, the Senator watched a soft-drink bottle land and scud across the grass, just missing, and the pigeon turning aside but still refusing to fly. And now a man with leather patches on the elbows of his fawn-colored jacket aimed an empty cartridge hull at the bird and began cursing when it fell far short of the mark.

  “Up, sir,” he called, “into the air!”

  A tall man with the blue eyes and blond hair of a Viking stepped over the barrier and snatched off his yachtsman’s cap, rumpling it in his hands as he addressed the crowd in a cavernous voice:

  “It’s against the rules,” he cried passionately. “The bird should fly! Damn his wings, it’s his profession, his identifying characteristic. The other two birds in the set took off, so why should he be a dirty third? If he continues this outrageous conduct I say let the officials give the gunner permission to lower his sights and blast the craven-souled varmint off the face of the earth!”

  And before the Viking could continue a short-armed fat man whose eyes burned angrily behind yellow shooting lenses bounced into the ring carrying a gun with an exceptional length of barrel, and with cheek pressed tightly against the stock, got off a shot.

  The report was like that of a small cannon and the Senator could see grass and bits of earth fly into the air as the blast lifted the pigeon a foot above the ring. But instead of taking wing, the bird landed on its feet and continued forward, limping now and with a small spot of blood showing on its breast.

  For a moment the crowd was silent, gazing out across the ring in amazement, then the Senator’s ears were blasted by a howl of rage.

  Out in the ring the fat man was in tears.

  “Now I get it!” he cried. “Listen to me. We’ve been betrayed! Some anarchist has slipped a cynical, gutter rat of a New York pigeon into our dovecotes. That’s what has happened. A gutter snipe!”

  “A New York pigeon?” someone called. “What do you mean? Tell us!”

  “Hell, it’s sabotage,” the fat man said. “New York pigeons are simply awful! They walk along the subway tracks, hitchhiking on freight trains! They fornicate on the hoods of moving cars and in the air. It’s treason!”

  Whereupon he snatched off a shoe and sent it arching over the ring where it missed the pigeon and struck a blue-clad handler, who now stood glaring at the crowd.

  “Now, you watch it, Mac,” the handler called. “Respect the working man!”

  “Respect?” the fat man called, “you don’t need respect, you get paid. And if you were earning your pay you’d give that stupid bird a goose so the match could continue. Instead, you make us speeches about the rights of labor!”

  The fat man was speechless, his face red with anger, but as he started out toward the handler a tall, distinguished-looking man in a white deerstalker’s hat grabbed him and pushed him back. Then, raising his arms for quiet the tall man called out, “My advice is to have the handlers wring the bird’s neck and end this impasse! Any way we look at it, a bird such as that is a disgrace. It’s a disgrace to the breed and to the sport. It’s a bloody spoilsport, a cringing dog-in-the-manger! A malicious nigger in the woodpile! A vengeful ghost at the wedding! In other words, it makes everything go bad. So I say, let’s wring its neck and immediately after the shoot I shall call a meeting of the governing board to see to it that in the future all such birds are black-balled….”

  “There’s no need to wait,” the fat man said, slamming a shell into his weapon. “I’m taking no more crap from this walking …” But just as he raised his gun to fire a woman ran forward and knocked him off balance, causing the gun to discharge into the air and sending the fat man back upon the grass with a bump, where he sat cursing the woman.

  Watching the pigeon’s progress, the Senator felt that he was suffocating. He felt responsible for the pigeon’s life but was unable to do a thing about it. Flashes of blue-green appeared above the ring now as the crowd began lobbing Coca-Cola bott
les at the bird; but still the pigeon refused to flush, and its orange-ringed eyes seemed to look straight at the Senator as, skirting both the bottles and the bodies of its fallen fellows, it continued with calmly bobbing head toward the barrier. He watched the iridescent play of the light upon its gorget and the slow pulsing of blood from its breast with painful feelings of identification which were interrupted by a sudden silence: The bird had stopped its stroll and was extending its wings.

  “Now! At last,” the Viking called, “he’s found his courage! He’s about to take off, so careful, Mr. Marksman, careful!”

  Thinking, Oh, no! Not after resisting this far, the Senator strained forward, seeing the pigeon’s head come around and the remoteness of its orange-ringed eye as the bird plucked a single feather from its breast and released it with a sharp snap of its head. Then with a series of short, hedge-hopping spurts it covered the remaining distance to the barrier, where it paused, calmly preening itself for a moment, then, turning its back to the crowd, it dived with set wings below the cliff.

  As the bird dropped from sight the Senator seemed to fall within himself, and as he struggled to keep his feet he was aware of a sudden darkening of the sun and looked up to see, at the point where the pigeon had disappeared, a huge hatch of flies boiling up from the river and swarming above the ring, where once again the birds were flighting before the guns.

  Perhaps for you there’s safety in darkness, the Senator thought. Perhaps a few will have a chance….

  But already the flies were thinning out, swarming veil-like in broader circles, and as they boiled above the ring he heard an explosion of shrill cries and watched the arrival of a virtual aerial circus of small, sharp-winged birds.

  Pouring down as from a net released high in the sky, a flock of swallows began swooping and wheeling between the booming patterns of the guns as they attacked the flies, bringing the air alive with graceful motion. Plunging and climbing, banking and whirling, skimming and gliding, the hunting birds filled the air with high-pitched, derisive cries as they executed power-dives and Immelmanns, sideslips and barrel rolls and dazzled the Senator with the cool, audacious miracle of their flight. Not a single swallow was struck by the flying shot, and as they swirled above the ring it came to him that the swallows were contemptuous of both the pigeons and the guns, and there, braced between the auburn-haired woman and a man in a wide planter’s hat, and feeling the dank, steaming wetness of their bodies against him, he watched the swallows swoop and soar in grace, moving invulnerable among the doomed and falling rockdoves….