Bailey's Cafe

by Gloria Naylor

  When I first got into this business I didn’t think that way. I figured that it was gonna be the answer for everybody else, since it had come as the answer for me. But it was Gabe who cued me in to the fact that running this cafe had done no such thing: My puppy, you still stand on that wharf in San Francisco, America. And the world, it still waits to commit suicide by swallowing a ball of fire. We do nothing here but freeze time; we give no answers—and get no answers—for ourselves or the next man. As a Jew, don’t you think if there was an answer for what has been done to my people, I would have found it?

  Now you gotta understand something about Gabe. When he refers to his people, he doesn’t just mean the refugees fleeing from Europe, he means the whole ball of wax. Even little Mariam. And he’s going a long long way back. For him Hitler was only the latest punk on the scene. But I served in that war and I can’t buy it—pick up a newspaper and they’re still finding graves. We’re talking about a real monster. But Gabe won’t budge on this one. He says, No, we are talking about a human being. I would like to believe you are right, he says; it would allow me to sleep at night since I am confined to this earth. And many do sleep believing that they have arrived at a reason for the unthinkable. They can place this demon they need so desperately to create with the other unthinkable horrors that arise out of their nightmares. They can feel some cleansing as they shed their tears over the photographs of our children who survived with eyes that are beyond saving. I would love dearly to do the same. And Gabe will pull at the edge of his beard then, forgetting that I’m even there as he travels to somewhere that I can’t follow. No, my friend, he was no more than a man. And Hitler had help.

  He means a lot of help. A world of help. Which is why he has trouble sleeping. And Gabe believes life is much too complicated to start pointing fingers; we wouldn’t have enough of them. If that makes him a better man than me, so be it. Having fought in that particular war, I’m entitled to my opinion about the maniac who started it, but on other things dealing with Gabe’s people I let him have his say. The way he lets me have mine.

  He’s a Russian Jew. I’m an American Negro. Neither of us is considered a national treasure in our countries, and that’s where the similarity ends. We don’t get into comparing notes on who did what to whom the most. Who’s got the highest pile of bodies. The way I see it, there is no comparison. When most folks come out with that phrase, what they’re really saying is that their pain is worse than your pain. But Gabe knows exactly what I mean: they’re two different ball games.

  And that’s why we can honestly talk to each other or even get into full-blown arguments on subjects that other people wouldn’t dream of bringing up in mixed company. I don’t pull in his pogroms when he may dispute me on some point I’ve made about lynchings in the South, and he doesn’t pull in Jim Crow when I don’t agree with everything he says about the quotas on Jews. Because there is no comparison. But there are many long afternoons in his pawnshop when two very different people can look each other in the eye over glasses of strong tea and learn. There’s a lot of lip service going around about the brotherhood of man, which is a crock of bull. This man is not my brother. My only brother left home close to forty years ago and I haven’t seen him since. This man is simply someone who doesn’t have to run around trying to guess what I really think about him because I tell him so. And if you’re finding that heartwarming and refreshing, it shows you how far the world still is from anything that even looks like peace among men.

  None of us here had the answer for what was to happen when Mariam’s baby came due. Her situation was a first for everybody. I’m afraid that Eve let her heart rule her head on this one. I’m not saying that Mariam shoulda been kicked back out into Addis Ababa and left to starve, but Eve knew she couldn’t stay here in limbo forever. And we had no idea what an actual birth would do to this street. It’s nothing but a way station, and the choices have always been clear: you eventually go back out and resume your life—hopefully better off than when you found us—or you head to the back of the cafe and end it. But how can Life itself ever begin here? A little snip of a girl bringing a really big question like that, because she got herself born black and a Jew.

  Gabe tried to use his little bit of savings to pay one of his cousins to see that she got passage to Israel. And he’s come down pretty hard on the new government for not allowing her into the country under the Law of Return. So she has no knowledge of the Talmud? Moses didn’t know Talmud. Elijah didn’t know Talmud. Would they be barred as well? People who should be our leaders sit over there and play these ridiculous games. Jerusalem was more than a dream come true for them; it was the one chance in the life of civilization for the setting right of at least one wrong. If only there had been a way for the Jews to be given a homeland while the politicians got left where they were. I’m still friends with Gabe because when he starts in on his own people, I don’t take sides, one way or the other. And on this one, he was off and running. And banging down old radios and flinging used overcoats into boxes and sweeping up a dust storm. Puppy, cover your ears, a goy shouldn’t be hearing these things. But they’re worried about the Arabs? Paper will destroy the country. They have a chance to do something good for all Jews and they’re going to drown themselves in paper. In their own stupid prejudices. And then he started sputtering about chickens peeing on their heads, which I guess was some Russian way of saying they were pretty low-down.

  I know that Gabe’s frustration comes out of love for his people and his belief that they have a God-given responsibility to be better than others. A light for the world. But I can afford to be more objective about the whole thing. People are people. And government is government. And Israel isn’t gonna be run any differently from any other country. The first order of business is to make sure they can survive at all, since they got plunked right down in the middle of new neighbors who aren’t gonna be knocking on their front doors with lemonade and pound cake. But inside those borders it’s the same old story: You got your haves and your have-nots. You got those who are gonna be considered inferior to others because of the type of Jew they are, the color of Jew they are, or whatever. But above all, the groups who are in power are going to do whatever they can to stay in power. And that means dancing to the tune of whoever can bring in the most votes—or make the most noise. And there are none of Mariam’s group in there right now who can do either. But I don’t believe that a government like that can afford to keep ignoring protests like Gabe’s—if only to avoid embarrassment. The one thing politicians hate more than a knowledgeable voter is bad press.

  But we knew we didn’t have time to wait for that to happen. Gabe kept trying until he found out about somebody named Rabbi Matthews, who lives in New York. He has other Falasha people in his congregation up there in Harlem, some who still speak her language. And for a while it looked like we’d found someone to adopt her and give the baby a home. And this is where I can get so mad I start sputtering. Gabe is right: When I walk out of this cafe and leave this street, I’m still in San Francisco. He’s up in the Caucasus Mountains. And Eve is in New Orleans. You see, it’s whatever life we’ve come from. And since we can’t ever leave our businesses for any length of time, we’re thinking that the easiest thing is to get some of the regular customers who happen to come in here from Harlem to take little Mariam back out with them. And what I heard is too ignorant to believe. And just guess who I heard it from? (Sister Carrie and Sugar Man, in case you need a hint.)

  —That Matthews is nothing but a fraud. Whoever heard of a colored rabbi? Instead of misleading the Negro people he should bring ’em on to Christ.

  —There’s no such thing as a black Jew. Ain’t being one or the other bad enough?

  —I’m not messing with those people; they …

  —I don’t trust those people; they …

  It was more than disheartening; it broke your heart. I wanted to tell the both of them to get the hell out of my place—and don’t come back. Except it’s not really mine.
No, I’m just the fool who’s forced to stay in here and serve people like that. But I’ll fix their butts. By the time they get through eating their next meal in here, they’ll be in the bathroom yelling for anybody’s god who’ll listen. None of which was going to help little Mariam, and then it got too late to matter. We only had a few hours to wait.

  A lot of things didn’t happen that day. The sun didn’t shine. The pilot light didn’t catch under the grill. The jukebox went totally on the blink. And not one person complained. It was as if they expected it to be a day unlike any other. Eve brought Mariam in about noon. She was all stomach with those little thin arms and legs. It made you sorta sad, what oughta be a woman’s body topped with such a blank young face. Her complexion was a lot healthier, though, than when she first came to us, and she tried to waddle along as best she could as she was led to the rear of the cafe. She seemed almost eager. She’d been crying for days, asking for her mother. And Eve had told her she was going to her village again, and in a way she was.

  Earlier that morning Eve had set everything up. The eucalyptus trees. The juniper. A steep-sloping mountain in the background. The air drifting from the back smelled like damp moss and thin lines of sunshine filtered in under the doorjamb. All of that effort drained her and, I guess, so did the worry of what lay ahead. Eve had hunched over a cup of coffee, looking older than I’ve ever seen her.

  —I had no choice, Eve said; she can’t do it for herself. And I think I have it all about right.

  But I wondered if she was going to deliver the baby out in the open countryside.

  —No, but the last is something only she can do. I’ll just have to try and time it so she’s back there by the first contractions, and then that hut she needs will appear. But all of this is so tricky, Bailey; I’ll have to cut her before her water even breaks. You know, she’s sewed up like a …

  I knew and didn’t want to hear about it. I’m sorry I was so abrupt with Eve; nobody else had the courage to take this job on. And for all we knew, when that baby gave its first cry, this whole street could have just faded away. Sure, we’d have been thrown back to those same hopeless crossroads in our lives, but she’d have been doomed out there in endless space. And there I was only dreading the thought of having to hear Mariam screaming.

  —No, this girl has been through enough, Eve said. I can’t do anything about the blood, but there’s a way to alter the pain.

  I never dreamed that she meant lights. Sparkling. Shimmering. Waves of light. We could see them even from the front of the cafe. Besides the few customers, everyone who lived on the street was gathered inside. And I mean everyone, even strange little Esther. She’d squeezed herself into the darkest corner of the room, sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her bent knees. But even her face was in awe. Silvers. Pearls. Iridescent pinks. They now sprayed out into the sunless room and hit the ceiling. The walls. The floor. Glowing copper. Gilded orange. And all kinds of gold. Sequins of light that swirled and spun through the air. Cascades of light flowing in, breaking up, and rolling like fluid diamonds over the worn tile. Emerald. Turquoise. Sapphire. It went on for hours. I looked over and there were tears streaming down Gabe’s wrinkled face: God bless you, Eve. And finally only the muted glow of a cool aquamarine. Then we heard the baby’s first thin cry—and the place went wild.

  Nadine hugged me so tight she almost lifted me onto my toes. Then Gabe grabbed me, whirled me around, and we started to dance. He could kick pretty high for an old goat. Miss Maple took his other hand and the three of us were out in the middle of the floor, hands raised and feet stomping. People were up on tables and cheering. Someone was banging on the counter with my spatula. Someone tore open a sack of rice and was throwing it into the air. I didn’t give a damn. Jesse had her skirt raised in the throes of a mean flamenco. And, wonder of wonders, Esther smiled. But I think it was Peaches who started to sing. I know she has the best voice, and the spiritual started off high and sweet. You could hear it even above the mayhem. As everyone could still hear the lone cry of new life.

  Anybody ask you who you are?

  Who you are?

  Who you are?

  Anybody ask you who you are?

  Tell him—you’re the child of God.

  One voice joined in. Another voice joined. And another.

  Anybody ask you who I am?

  Who I am?

  Who I am?

  Anybody ask you who I am?

  Tell him—I’m a child of God.

  Soon we were all singing, a bit ragged and off-key. But all singing.

  Peace on earth, Mary rocked the cradle.

  Mary rocked the cradle and Mary rocked the cradle.

  Peace on earth, Mary rocked the cradle.

  Tell him—was with the child of God.

  You see, folks, that’s why almost a whole hour passed without it dawning on us that we hadn’t found out if it was a boy or a girl.

  It turned out to be a boy. A little frail, but they both made it through fine. As it was her custom, she kept the baby out there with her until today. Eve brought him into the cafe this morning because it was time for him to be circumcised. Gabe made sure we did the whole thing to the letter. He placed a clean pillow on the counter for the baby. He was standing in as the father, and he was to perform the operation. I thought my days of being a mohel were over, he said and winked. I had to stand in as the honorary sandek, the godfather. And Miss Maple took the role of the other male guests to help me respond to the blessing. Don’t worry, Gabe said; God will forgive you for not being Jews. As the old man looked down at the baby, his face became solemn and his words echoed deeply inside of me. Only an absolute fool would have missed the point that this ceremony was about survival:

  —I am ready to perform the commandment to circumcise my son, even as the Creator, blessed be He, hath commanded us, as it is written in the Law: And he that is eight days old shall be circumcised among you, every male through the generations.

  The foreskin was taken very quickly. But he’s a feisty number, and did he squall. You can tell this boy is gonna be a fighter. After Gabe cleansed the wound, he continued:

  —Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us by Thy commandments and has commanded us to make our sons enter into the Covenant of Abraham our father.

  And then we had been rehearsed for our part:

  —Even as the child has entered into the Covenant, so may he enter into the Law, the nuptial canopy, and into good deeds.

  I’m gonna tell you, it was really touching. And that’s what I like the most about Gabe’s faith: nothing important can happen unless they’re all in it together as a community. After that I felt like this baby was really a part of me. Like I had a special responsibility to have him grow up a decent and good man. As his honorary godfather, I couldn’t think of him having a better start than to give him my own father’s name. But it turned out his honorary papa was planning on doing the exact same thing. And with personalities like ours, there was no way we could have come to a compromise. Somebody’s name would have to be first, now wouldn’t it? Before Miss Maple had to separate us from fisticuffs, Providence stepped in; it seems both of our fathers were named George.

  So the baby’s arrival didn’t make this street disappear. I still have this place and it looks like I’m going to keep it for a while. But with the celebrations over and things settling down, we had a chance to reflect on what it all means. The times they are a-changing. If the world outside is becoming such that life itself can be brought forth in limbo, then one day, much too soon, I’m gonna start seeing young children walk through that door. Children who have lost their futures. (The children who survived with eyes that are beyond saving.) I don’t know about you, but I shudder at the stories they’ll have to tell.

  And believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to give you a happy ending to what happened today. I want to wrap it up by saying that after we gave George his name we took him back to his mother, a
nd after Mariam follows her custom by staying out there with him for a month, she and the baby will eventually make their way to Rabbi Matthews. She’ll meet kind and patient people who understand her ways and who know that she will need guidance to raise her son. So they’ll find her a man in her faith to marry. A man who’ll take the boy as his own, love him as much as his own; because they will go on to have other children. Mariam and that man won’t have a perfect life together—no life is perfect—but it will give them the most that you can expect from any marriage. Someone to grow old with in comfort and peace. Yeah, I’d almost cut off my right arm to be able to say something like that. But after Eve tried to return the baby to Mariam, she was met with a wall of water. In Eve’s absence Mariam had tried to create a running stream to bathe in. And the void out back produced exactly what her childlike mind called up: endless water.

  Of course, we won’t be raising the baby on this street. And if our prayers are answered, once he leaves us we’ll never see him again. I have a customer who shows up occasionally, every six months or so. Irene Jackson runs a shelter for homeless boys. She takes her work so much to heart that whenever she can’t turn a child around, it drives her close to the brink. She’s a hard woman, but decent and fair. She’ll make something worthwhile out of this boy—or break both their backs trying. But Wallace P. Andrews isn’t run like a prison. Doesn’t look like one either. You’d mistake it for a college campus if you didn’t look too close. Gardens. A baseball diamond. I know it sounds like I’m trying to convince you that we’re doing the right thing, but I’m really trying to convince myself.

  You see, I know what Irene Jackson thinks of what goes on at Eve’s. She falls into the camp that believes it is not a boardinghouse. And when she finds out that’s where Mariam was living, and that we don’t know the identity of the father, no matter what else we say she’ll come to one conclusion. And it bothers me that the little boy will grow up thinking that about his mother. He should know that when he was born the world lit up with lights. But what else can we do? The whole nature of this place runs against a customer ever walking in here who’d be in a position to adopt him. What we have here is your classic damned-if-you-do-and-damned-if-you-don’t. A perfect situation for this place, huh?