O, Africa!
Page 25
“Conditions?” Micah asks.
“Yes, following the unfortunate and suspicious death of your colleague—”
“Spiro’s death was an accident!”
“As you wish, Isidor … But what is it that Viennese witch doctor Mr. Freud proposes as it relates to humor? ‘There are no jokes’? Well, as it relates to the Malwiki, it appears there are no accidents. Apparently they believe that every action offers a window onto some secret aspiration. As far as they’re concerned, the prince struck Mr. Spiro down in cold-blooded vengeance. And so it follows: Gods need to be appeased, monsters need their meat.”
Micah, the brother with hands warmer to the mechanisms of power, asks the next question. “What’d they do to the boy?”
“As far as I understand it, Prince Cri was the king’s most favored son,” Bloat begins, drawing the words out slowly, cautious as a barber shaving the neck of a duke. “It really is something out of the Greeks: The sovereign, King Mishi, offered himself in return for the absolution of his firstborn.”
“What are you saying, Sidney?” Izzy asks.
“King Mishi is dead,” Bloat says blithely. “Apparently there was a supremely ambitious court adviser who carried out the action with some alacrity. This adviser—Talli, I believe his name is—has now assumed control of the village. From what I could gather from communiqués on the western coast, things have quite fallen apart, which should make the importation of pirated shipments an interesting proposition to say the least.”
“Mishi …”
“It was me,” Micah volunteers. “It’s my fault. I did it. I swapped out the guns by mistake.”
In his hands Izzy holds a glass of water so tightly it threatens to compact into a diamond. “You?”
“Izzy, you have to forgive me. I was sozzled. It was the night of Rose’s wedding.”
“You did this?”
“Izzy, you have to listen to me for a minute. Everyone was goofing around. I was mucking about in the props crate.”
“You?”
“Oh, I’m afraid the Malwiki’s tale of woe does not end there,” Bloat continues, nodding acceptance to a waiter’s pantomimed suggestion of coffee all around. “This boy, this princeling, guilt-stricken over the death of his father, seeing the destruction his actions had wrought, took his own life, accomplishing it in much the same manner as your American southerners traditionally dealt with unruly slaves. He hanged himself.” At the arrival of these last four syllables, Izzy turns to face the fireplace and vomits, a madras-colored arc landing on the logs with a splash, extinguishing the flames. The fire doused, the dining room takes on acrid smells of ash and bubbling innards, the air filled with dark streaks of smoke as a team of black busboys scurry about the table, busying themselves with shovels and sand and fresh linen.
Micah wraps his arms around his brother, and, though Izzy remains silent, his back spasms in lizardlike bursts, an insensate reptile jerkily making progress up a tree, the spinal column cranking and releasing, cranking and releasing. Micah holds his shuddering brother tight, relieved not to have to engage his face.
“You. You. You.”
“Izzy, I’m so sorry.”
“Micah, you killed us.”
“Oh, now I’m afraid we’ve made a scene.” Bloat holds a white cube of sugar just above his coffee cup’s waterline. He allows the crystals to turn grayish brown as they grow saturated and crumble into the porcelain cup. “You mustn’t take the news so hard, either of you. Consider your time among the Malwiki for what it was. An idyll. A Gauguin adventure. Prospero’s dream. And remember, for the future you must always remember, the road to good intentions is paved with hell.”
FOUR
Awareness. That’s the word that occurs to Micah as soon as the giant black man opens the door. The manservant’s head is shaved, the smooth, round dome and globular shoulders contrasting with the sharp hypotenuse threat of his lapels. For all that visual information, Micah is principally aware of the fact that Troy, the man greeting him, is black—a circumstance that sets in motion a series of cogs and wheels of assumptions and associations prior to any further discovery. Troy, in turn, is aware of the man’s awareness, the pair of them shrouded in mutual awareness that any exchange that occurs between them will proceed from this first predestinating fact. Micah, exhausted by his awareness of all this awareness—this tyranny of awareness—is tempted to turn around and go home.
“I believe I have an appointment with Madam St. Clair,” Micah offers instead, presenting the calling card.
Troy lifts the note to the light, runs his fingers along the calligraphy’s crenellations, and asks in a Japanese-gong baritone who he might say is visiting.
“You the moviemaker mixed up with Ellsworth?” he asks upon Micah giving his name.
“Yeah, I know Bumpy.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Noted, thanks.”
Massive hands spin the filmmaker around, exposing him to 131st Street at noontime. While nighttime Harlem is a place familiar to Micah, in daylight the neighborhood feels foreign, populated by people unknown to him. There are young mothers wheeling broken baby carriages and old ladies trundling grocery bundles, there are children who live and go to school here and young, serious-looking pamphleteers—an entire world of commerce and community and identity independent of the familiar nightclubs that is so alien, so improbable-seeming, as to be otherworldly. Micah doesn’t have time to investigate these thoughts too thoroughly, however, during his patting-down at the hands of the giant. Facing the street—sky casting its stone-colored verdict of agreement with the avenue’s architecture—Micah realizes that he is being frisked for a gun.
“Wait here,” Troy says, opening wide the heavy door and leaving Micah to stand in the vestibule. The expanse resembles the lobby of a midsize hotel or a public library. There are fresh-cut flowers in lead-crystal vases and original oils on the walls, bolts of proscenium velvet and a fountain whose persistent tinkling triggers in Micah a sudden need to urinate. Clattering cutlery and the sounds of service staff moving around in rooms beyond the lobby call Micah’s attention down the hall, and his perspective widens to take in a sliver of sitting room where he can spy maids and menservants dressed in monochrome going about their work. Only they’re white. She’s appointed the place with white servants. The mischief of that.
“This way,” the giant says, stomping back into the lobby. He leads Micah down a series of linked hallways not unlike the network of underground passages that brought the moviemaker to his first audience with King Mishi. Being ushered in to visit another kind of dignitary, Micah allows some spring-heeled jauntiness to enter his step. White servants for a black queen! Worlds within worlds. So many New Yorks, so many Americas, going on everywhere, at the same time. Different rules, different notions of class and wealth, the variety and vulgarity of the national dazzle dream. Just open another set of doors, Micah thinks, registering how the place smells of butter and flour, like a working bakery, familiar smells of Sabbath challah.
Micah has a long-standing weakness for outlaws. His first exposure to the illicit spectrum was at the hands of his Uncle Morty, his father’s older brother, who was some kind of bookie or loan shark. Following some bruising, unspoken family business, Morty was never allowed in the house again, and the boys rarely saw him at all outside Yom Kippur services and family funerals, where he’d walk around handling a fat wad of bills held together with a strained rubber band. He’d peer down at you through bushy eyebrows like two parted curtains when he spoke, no matter what the subject—school grades, ball-game scores, the holidays—making the conversation feel instantly freighted with criminal intent.
“Nice day, huh?” he’d ask conspiratorially, a man with the inside dope on the mechanics of sunshine, a direct line into the managers of clouds. His nephew loved him. And when Micah announced his intention to leave school and go into show business, it was the example of Uncle Morty that Dr. Grand invoked like a curse, an invitation to ruin, Mi
cah’s father pursing his face as he uttered his disgraced brother’s name as if he’d just taken a swig of curdled milk. It was only later that Micah could appreciate the inheritance the man had bequeathed him. Every picture was some kind of gamble, and Micah credited his uncle for leaving him equipped to handle schnorers and sharks, shysters and schnooks, moochers and big shots. Troy waves an arm into the sitting room. “Madam Queen, may I present Micah Grand.”
Seated on a daybed in the center of the salon like a figurine atop a wedding cake, Stephanie St. Clair does not move as the filmmaker is introduced. Her frozen expression brings to mind certain Renaissance portraits, her gaze confident that prolonged examination will only bolster her mystery and power. She is outfitted in a dress that looks applied papier-mâché style, patches of silk and cotton layered in strips like some fabulous mummy. She waits before speaking, allowing Micah to continue to see what his investigation might uncover, similar to the way two boxers afford each other a quiet moment of sizing-up before the start of a fight.
St. Clair’s face follows the formula of every successful business model: It takes in more than it gives out. While the frown lines run deep and the nose wrinkles suspiciously, her dark eyes are wells of delight, dancing with merriment as the filmmaker steps forward and, with a flourish of unexpected gallantry, lifts her wrist and kisses the back of her thin hand. Despite the drabness of the day, the room quickens, attuned to the hostess’s good mood.
“May I offer you a refreshment, Mr. Grand?” St. Clair asks in a lilting voice that defies the cues of English punctuation. “I recommend the pink lemonade.”
“Lemonade’d be fine, thanks.”
“Troy, a pitcher of lemonade and some all-butter cookies,” this last word delivered with the erotic suggestiveness of a wicked stepmother proffering a poisoned apple. Upon the henchman’s leave-taking, St. Clair gestures for Micah to be seated in a nearby armchair upholstered in red fabric that matches the color of the filmmaker’s socks.
“I enjoyed your last picture.”
“Thank you,” Micah says, convincing himself for a moment that this is a visit with a fan. “We were all very proud of it.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Tell me, please, what you’ve heard.”
Micah, uncertain whether playing smart or dumb will earn him honors on this test, begins. “Well, you were born in the Caribbean.”
“European France, but go on.”
“And came to America about twenty years ago.”
“In 1912 to be precise. Seventeen years in your great country. Please continue.”
“And when you first arrived here, you got involved with the Forty Thieves.”
“Mon Dieu, Monsieur Grand! What would a little old colored lady like myself be doing getting mixed up with those ruffians? However would an immigrant woman of color even begin to insinuate herself with one of the Five Points gangs? What a fantastic tale! But, please, do go on with your story.”
“As I understand it, Madam Queen, with all due respect, you’re one of Harlem’s leading numbers runners.”
“Your tale grows more extravagant by the minute!” St. Clair exclaims. “Could you imagine amassing any kind of wealth from playing three little numbers? These are wild rumors that have gathered around me like so many leaves on a lawn. Now, do you know why I summoned you here today, Mr. Grand?”
“I suspect we must have a connection in common, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
“I envy you,” she says, lifting a small trinket, a jade elephant, off the coffee table. “I’ve never been to Africa. I don’t enjoy travel, but mostly because I believe that the struggle remains rooted here, in this country, where we are all”—her pointer finger tick-tocking between them—“both artist and clay.”
“Where’s Waldo?”
“Byron Marcus was a friend for many years.” Accepting a tall glass of lemonade from Troy, who has returned to the room and appears almost balletic balancing and setting a silver tray. “And an admirable businessman, too, before he allowed himself to get mixed up with that devilment. I ask you, Mr. Grand, why bother to emancipate ourselves only to choose to enslave our minds?”
“I’m a moviemaker, Madam Queen. That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“I have never seen a man more broken over his habit than Mr. Waldo.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I was developing a fondness for him.”
“Drink your lemonade while it’s cold.”
Micah, who is not thirsty and needs to urinate, takes a large swig.
“Why so impatient, Mr. Grand? I can assure you, I’m the most interesting person you’ll encounter today!” St. Clair says, taking from her cookie a bite the size of a tiny crack chipped from a porcelain figurine. “Have another sip. Only taste it this time. Think about those little lemons ripening in the sun. The texture of the rind contrasting with the softness of the pulp. The sugary and the tart, the sour and the sweet. Let the drama of the fruit play out over your tongue. Now try again.”
Micah swallows, his head filled with fairgrounds and fireworks and ballparks and circuses, cotton-candy days when his greatest desire was to devour the world.
“There is bliss all around us if only we awaken to it. That is why I have no sympathy for Mr. Waldo if he chooses to blot out the world like a fool. I have no trouble ridding myself of a sentimental attachment. And I have no compunction when it comes to collections either. Mr. Grand, I’d like you to have a look at this.” St. Clair lifts from the coffee table a heavy embroidered photo album and begins flipping through its pages, each black leaf holding in place with individual mounting corners a smattering of receipts, train and movie ticket stubs, and newspaper clippings that document her exploits. Reaching a page toward the middle, she finds the item she’s looking for. Carefully, she removes a slip of paper from its pinning and passes it to Micah. On the crumpled, coffee-cup-ringed napkin from Mr. Waldo’s Paradise Club is etched a palimpsest of scratched-out names, numbers, and notations that culminate in “Micah Grand, 20% interest in ‘O, Africa’ movie. I.O.U.”
“With all due respect, Madam Queen,” Micah says, returning the napkin to its new owner, “I wouldn’t wipe my mouth with that.”
“Is it true you lost a portion of your next picture to Mr. Waldo in a poker game?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“And it’s true that it was Mr. Waldo who brought this original inspiration to you, is that not correct?”
“Strictly speaking, yes.”
“And a film with the title O, Africa! now exists?”
“Certain sequences do in raw form, yes.”
“How much of the film exists, Mr. Grand? Be precise.”
“Perhaps a third of the picture. All of the location stuff.”
“And this being the first such film to be shot on the great continent of Africa, the footage is imbued with some historic import, is that not correct?”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
“How good is it?”
“Excuse me?”
“How serious an artist are you? Is the picture better than your usual monkey business?”
“It’s good,” Micah says, settling back into his chair. “It’s unlike anything anyone’s ever seen.”
“Now you’ve set my mouth watering, Mr. Grand!”
“That’s just the lemonade talking.”
“Oh, you’re devilish! What would you say the picture is worth?”
“I can’t put a figure to something that doesn’t exist yet.”
“How much does one of your Mr. Till pictures usually make?”
“Let’s see, our biggest hit would have to be Hopping Mad!” Micah says with pride, “and that pulled in about one, one point two million, depending on who’s counting.”
“So let’s extrapolate. You see, all of Mr. Waldo’s former business concerns have fallen to me. It’s now my burden to look after each of those investments.”
“Mr. Grand!” St. Clair says, bursting into helium fits of laughter. “Perhaps you don’t appreciate the full significance of my name. In any queen’s kingdom, tribute must be paid.”
“Feudalism,” Troy contributes.
“I believe you’ve made the acquaintance of Ellsworth Johnson.”
“Bumpy?”
“Don’t call him that,” Troy warns.
“As I understand it, Ellsworth is the picture’s coauthor. I’ve read his poems,” she says, smiling sweetly. “My Ellsworth is a gifted child in so many ways.”
Micah handles the napkin as a new parent might a soiled diaper. “And you’re suggesting this means what exactly? That Bumpy—”
“Don’t call him that.”
“That Ellsworth now owns twenty percent of the picture?”
“Ellsworth is a princeling I took up in my arms like Moses sent downriver. Princes share in the fruits of their queen’s kingdom.”
“Feudalism,” Troy repeats, a man having found religion in a single word.
“Think of it this way: You see that pitcher of lemonade? Let’s suppose you have a batch of lemons and I have a batch of lemons. Maybe your lemons originate from a different region than mine, maybe they’re a little bigger or a little smaller than mine, maybe they’re more or less tart. Maybe even—because of certain accidents of history—you’re able to bring more lemons to market than I can. What that napkin means is that if ever I decide I’m thirsty—or should ever my associates decide that they’re thirsty—no matter where I am, no matter what I’m up to, no matter how full my pitcher might be, I will squeeze your lemons. I’ll squeeze them up! Now, tell me exactly the status of my investment.”