by Claude McKay
But La Fleur stood up full of anger, yet trying to hold herself calmly and get Lafala to go, saying it was time for them to eat; for it was the dinner hour they had been spending unconventionally drinking sweet wine before eating because they were feeling sweet. La Fleur had been suddenly put to confusion and was rather helpless. Aslima had never crossed her ways since the day of the famous card game.
“Let’s go,” La Fleur said, “I want to eat.”
“Have some more wine first,” said Lafala.
“Don’t want any more wine,” said La Fleur.
But the cork had already popped and the sweet yellow stuff was foaming in the glasses.
“Oh sit down and drink with us,” said Lafala.
But La Fleur was already making for the door.
“Fleur! Fleur! La Reine Fleur!”10 cried Aslima on a mocking note.
La Fleur had to look back. Since the party of the Paunch, Aslima had never met her full in the eyes much less spoken to her. She looked haughtily at Aslima, but Aslima merely said, “Adieu, Fleur,” and making a low-down naughty sign at her with her finger and shrilling laughter she jazzed a few steps.
The café was filling with habitués straggling in from feeding and as La Fleur pushed her way out without a retort to Aslima a salvo of mocking laughter came from her old admirers, who were quite ready to bait La Fleur in her discomfiture as they had once flattered her in her triumphs. . . .
* * *
• • •
Lafala and Aslima had finished eating in a little food shop on Number One Quay.
“And now what’s the next thing?” he asked.
“That’s up to you.”
“Want to see where I live?”
“That’s alright.”
“Come on, then.”
“Get a taxi.”
Lafala acquiesced and they went off in a taxicab. . . .
Aslima remembered what a dancing dog Lafala used to be, how infectious and tantalizing the jigging of his feet. His long legs then, uniquely handsome though they were, had been just like any other pair of legs to her. But as she looked at Lafala on the bed, the shrunken stumps tapering to the knobs where once were lovely feet, she was moved to a great pity and a great shame.
And she knelt down caressing and kissing his knobs: “Poor man, poor man, and so young, so young. What a pity!”
“That’s a present from you,” said Lafala maliciously.
“But I didn’t send you to stow away!”
“Yes, you did too. You think I was going to hang around here and go to rags like those no-count fellows on the beach? No sir! After you gypped me and skipped I made up my mind to stow away and this was what I got for stowing away: my feet sawed off. Yet here I am with you again. Don’t you think I’m crazy?”
Aslima put her hand over Lafala’s mouth. “Don’t talk about it, darling. You know all we girls treat a stranger like that when we can get away with it. It’s the law of Quayside. But I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry, oh my God! Poor half of legs.” She began to sob.
“Don’t cry,” Lafala laughed. “I can’t stand tears. I got something that must be better than sound feet, alright, for now all the chippies at Quayside are making eyes at me.”
“But how you could dance, darling, all sorts of movements. Oh là-là! Tonight I’m going to be better than I ever was to you the first time you were here. I’m going to be a sweet pig to you. Tonight I’ll show you. I’m going to be a darling pig.”
That night Lafala was very happy. For Aslima revealed herself to him as she had never done before nor to anybody in Marseille. Lafala was so happy that he became afraid of his happiness, for it was the kind of sensation that always started him off like a fever gripping madly and sweating him dry for a crazy season. He never could take love casually as most of his pals. That was his weakness. It had a way of getting him. Some strangely different body captivating and clinging, haunting and tormenting. But this time he wasn’t going to fall that way like an overripe fruit. No, not for Aslima. I never will again for I have never fallen the same way twice.
* * *
• • •
However, in the morning when he handed her money, she obstinately refused it.11
“No, I don’t want anything. Last night I paid you back what I owed you. Now we are quits.”
“But I don’t want to be quits. I never said you owed me anything and I want to see you again. Here!” He pressed the money upon her.
But she wouldn’t accept it. “I don’t want your money. That was why I made you take the taxi, so nobody should see us go off together and Titin12 wouldn’t know I was with you.”
Titin was Aslima’s pimp and reputed to be one of the meanest from Quayside.
“But we must see each other again,” said Lafala.
“We can every day down there.”
“But I mean for another party.”
“We’ll see.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
On his next visit to the Tout-va-Bien Lafala flaunted a large, important-looking envelope, conspicuously displaying the foreign stamps. Although the contents were of no actual value, the letter was highly prized by Lafala. For he had received it through his official representative and it gave him a luxurious feeling of importance.
It was a letter from a solid established banking house which was handling the transference of Lafala’s funds. And it contained slips of accounts paid, balances and transferable bonds. Lafala felt fine to be a little on the inside of great big firm things and being addressed as “Mister” and “Esquire.” That was so different from the vagabond black troubadour days.
Sometimes he tried to get out of his skin to measure himself as he once was against his present state. Marseille was a vastly changed place for him now that he had money. In the air of Quayside there was something romantic, quite different from the realistic atmosphere of the nights he used to jazz through there like any other stoker.1 Sometimes a wave of regret swept over him dampening his heart when the music tickled his upper half and the lower could not respond to it. But that sadness soon vanished under the sensation of the new power that having money gave him.
With their arms over each other’s shoulders, Rock and Diup, the funny fixtures of Quayside, barged into the café. They had been drinking plenty of new red wine down the docks and were in a mischievous mood.
“Heah’s the jungle kid looking as good as a million,” cried Rock. “And carrying a cane too like them Englishmens.”
“I got a jungle magic here to gag your mouth,” said Lafala. “Takes a Jungle kid alright to put something over.”
“I know youse one ace pardner,” said Rock, “and no hahm meant to you. Ise always a kidding kind a fellah.”
“Didn’t think there was any harm,” said Lafala. “After all I come from the jungle. I was born there and am going right back with a little civilization in my pocket.”
Heavy laughter rolled up from Rock and Diup who remarked “Look out the white ones don’t take it back out your pocket when you get there. Take my advice and stay here where Civilization can protect you and leave jungle Africa to white men. What you want to go back there for? White man don’t like black man with brains nor money near him in jungleland.”
“Going back all the same, Diup,” said Lafala. “And you, Rock, I tell you there are many jungle places better than all your Lynchburgs in the States.2 I’m going back to make good. Put lazy no-count fellows like you two to work.”
“Oh Gawd-an-his-chilluns!” cried Rock. “Jest listen at this swell kid. Ain’t no time gone you was a no-count like us all.”
“Never was a fixture like you,” said Lafala. “I dropped in and fooled around for a little while and then beat it. That was my style when I was a wandering fool. My way of making it before I had this accident.”
“Which just landed you slam bang in a mess a good luck,�
�� said Rock.
“Was as much having a good head to handle my stuff as good luck that got me where I am,” said Lafala. “Every man’s got a chance once if he knows how to use it.”
“Now jest listen to this wise Jungle kid!” Rock said, his eyes popping. “Why, kid, if a chance had evah brushed anywhar near me in all mah lifetime I’d a grabbed it by the tail and nevah turned loose if it carried me way into hell. The chances in life ain’t moh’n a lottery with a million trying and jest ten winning.” Rock held up his hands, his fingers apart.
“What about some wine, Lafala?” asked Diup.
“I think you fellows got enough. However, one bottle of ordinary and no more. I’m not going to spoil you for you ought to pull out of this sort of life.” Lafala smiled. “And I don’t mean to be foolish, even with the small allowance they’re giving me. Negroes spend too much. Always showing off and spreading themselves big on nothing.”
“What you say is alright, Mr. Lafala,” said Rock. “Youse the big boss. Come on,” he called to the barmaid, “bring us that bottle a wine on the boss. Bring it heah and le’s drink to the health of the United States of America, Gawd blastem with long life and prosperity.”
“Let’s drink to Marseille and forget America,” said Diup.
“Fohget the biggest piece a business in this white man’s Civilization!” cried Rock. “Ah couldn’t no moh fohget it than mah piece a black person. Why is only in that country theah’s miracles still working? Now tell me whar in any other part a Gawd’s own wurl a jungle kid like Lafala nor any other poah kid without backing and a pull coulda gotten such a mess a money? Jest look at him setting pretty there with two feets to him as good as any flesh-and-blood ones and the slappiest pair a shoes on them. Why anywheres else perhaps they wouldn’t a gived him a pair a pegs. He woulda been lucky to get away with a long shirt like our fourth cousins in Africa wear and a pair of crutches to lean on.”
The café resounded with a bellyful of laughter, ebony-smooth-and-shining laughter, bronze-sounding laughter, tawny-throated laughter, sweet-money laughter over Lafala and his luck.
Lafala laughed himself weak. The face of the boss of the bistro3 caught color, the muscles relaxing in amusement. The boss was a tall and stout mulatto, a silent sort of fellow, casual-looking, but his sharp eyes and ears received every note of significance. One was never sure to what side his sympathies leaned, but suspected they leaned to the strong and cruel. He was a good man for a bar at Quayside.
A guitar and a mandolin were hanging up behind the bar. A white youngster walked in and, asking the proprietor for the mandolin, he tried his hand at a popular tune.
Lafala was an amateur flutist. He extracted a little black flute from his pocket and joined the mandolinist.
“Come on now,” said Rock to Diup. “Let’s do that split4 that we were betting on the other day.”
Rock shuffled around and flopped to the floor with his right foot out and his left half doubled up. Diup followed suit imitating Rock. They were like two mischievous monkeys. None of them could make the split.
“This heah one got me beat,” said Rock. “I done made all the new stunts in mah lifetime, but I kain’t make this.”
“It ain’t natural to us,” said Diup. “The split is women’s business. God made them natural to split.”
“A woman’s business is anybody’s business,” said Rock. “Ain’t nothing a woman do you can’t find a man to do. If you haven’t a way, make one they say. Every white, black and brown man at Quayside knows that. And the womens know that too.”
“But it ain’t right,” said a little white unprosperous-looking protector. “That’s just what’s wrong with the whole world today. Women trying so hard to do men’s stuff and men doing women’s stuff. God made man and woman different to do different stuff. That’s all.”
“Well, we’se all jest imitating Gawd,” said Rock. “Gawd done make everything and finish. And since he was so crazy in the head as to make man in his own image we jest nacherally want to make everything that God makes. Get me, pink? I don’t believe in laying down no laws for nobody, for the biggest law-makers are the biggest law-breakers undercover. Come on, split, let us ride.”
And Rock and Diup started splitting again urged on by the cheering laughter of the clients. It was the apéritif hour5 and the habitués6 of the bar began dropping in. The men with girls took tables, but some of the stags, especially the Negroes, stood round the counter.
“Just that way, that’s a good split,” said Rock to the mandolin player. And round and round he went flopping down and up and followed by Diup. And once Diup went down and could not get up.
“Whasmat, pardner? You done split you bone?” cried Rock.
“Wonder where that split stunt comes from?” said Diup still sprawling and looking comically around him. “It’s a bone-breaker and a piece-cutter.”
“I guess it’s American,” said Rock. “All the mahvlous-crazy things them come from America. Theah’s a sweet-eating stuff ovah there they call banana-split full a rich cream. It’s one A-number-one American dessert that everybody is foolish about.”
“Well this stunt must be a banana-splitter,” said Diup.
Aslima entered swinging herself as always from side to side most tantalizingly and seeing Diup in his funny squatting position on the floor she went and playfully kicked his behind.
“Always monkeying, you and that Rock,” she said.
She bounced over to Lafala and ostentatiously began to vamp him. “Play ‘Toujours,’”7 she said, “and I’ll dance the jolly pig.”8
The white lad tuned the mandolin for the piece and began, Lafala joining him, and Aslima started a dance. If you have ever seen a pig dancing before rain, Aslima’s movement was an exact imitation. She struck an attitude as if she were on all fours and tossing her head from side to side and shaking her hips, like an excited pig flicking and trying to bite its own tail, she danced round and round the little circle of the café.
The habitués let loose a salvo of applause. “Bravo! Bravo, Aslima! Carry on! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”
When she passed Lafala she clutched his hair savagely and said “Going to rain tonight.”
“And soak the earth,” he laughed.
As the music finished she pulled herself up with a jerk.
“Halouf!”9 cried a little Arab at her.
“I dance it and you eat it,” responded Aslima.
The Arab rushed at her crying “Me eat pig? You dirty slut.”
But the Negroes at the bar barred his way. Aslima shrugged, dabbing her face with a handkerchief. The Arab didn’t mean to do any harm anyway, but as a good Quaysider he had to show his mettle.
A little after Lafala left the café, his blood warm with carnal sweetness. Aslima had secretly seized an opportunity and made a rendezvous to join him at midnight. And all of Lafala’s thoughts were concentrated upon that hour. In spite of himself, Aslima had stirred him deeply again.
He remembered that he had almost been stirred like that once by a mulatto girl in Cardiff.10 Her color was rich and sweet like a tropical plum. And all the seamen worshipped her. She was a lovely-bodied girl but with a heart-breaking heart. And she used to play with Lafala, teasingly, mockingly, for he was just an adolescent almost innocent among the more experienced seamen. And he did not worship her the way they did, but differently in an adolescent way as if she were an angel. She was the first mulatto girl he ever loved.
Lafala dawdled through his dinner thinking of midnight. He tried to deceive himself to think that it was the assignation only and not the object of it that filled his thoughts. But his eyes without and within could see nothing but Aslima as the “jolly pig,” while his ears were humming with the music of her honey-dripping words: “I’ll be a sweet pig to you.”
A sweet shiver shocked his whole body.
“Oh you’re one black liar!�
� he cried at himself. “You know you’re just crazy about her.”
At a late hour when he returned to the hotel, he tipped the night porter and asked him to let Aslima right up when she came. He sat down in a comfortable old easy chair and removed his corks. Then with his crutches he swung himself over to the bed and pushed between the sheets.
Aslima arrived with the hour. She went to the bed and kissed Lafala, asking him if he liked her new frock. It was a purple thing bordered with that peculiar cerise11 that is so popular among the North African women. The dress harmonized charmingly with her chocolate-brown complexion. Lafala said he liked it and Aslima turned and admired herself in the full-sized mirror of the old wardrobe.
He watched her gestures as she undressed and the thought of Titin, Aslima’s lover, studying her in his place tormented him. So when she came to him he said, “Suppose Titin should see us now!”
“Why think of him now?” she asked. “He doesn’t care what I do so long as he knows that I am doing it for money and not for love.”
“He’s jealous of your betraying his love, eh?”
Aslima shrugged: “I am doing it now with you.”
“Oh no! It’s pity and pride bring you here to me. You know I can’t love you like Titin. I’m just half a stick that you take pity on, but Titin is your whole loving man.”
“Maybe he loves me more than I love him.”
“With a lousy love. Well, I’ve done lots of hoggish stuff in my life, but I’d sooner clean the rusty pipes than be a pea-eye.”12
“That is a métier,”13 said Aslima. “There are many who prefer a pimp.”
“The girls are all crazy about their protectors.”
“Not all. Some of us fight with them all the time. But we put up with them for the life is too tough down here without them. You can hardly do any business. In my country it wasn’t necessary to have protectors.”