by Claude McKay
“And what do you think of our plan, Lij Alamaya,” said Peixota. “It depends on you.”
Alamaya fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, thrusting his hands in his pockets and removing them.
“Well,” said Peixota. He too was embarrassed. Again his suspicions were aroused. Would Alamaya refuse the publication of the letter? Was he playing fair with them?
“But I have no letter!” Alamaya said in an anguished tone.
“What!” Peixota jumped from his seat. “But you do have a letter from the Emperor. I saw it myself.”
“It is lost,” said Alamaya with a sorry gesture of his hands.
“Good God in Heaven!” shouted the Rev. Trawl. “My good Prince, how could you lose such a precious document?”
Peixota strode back and forth: “But why didn’t you tell me, Lij Alamaya?” His voice was hard, his suspicion stronger than ever that Alamaya might be playing a double role. “When did you lose the document?”
“Soon after my arrival. It was the night of the party at Mrs. Witern’s and Miss Peixota was with me.”
“But how did you lose it there? Was it stolen?” asked Peixota.
“I believe it was. I was asked by Professor Makepeace if I had a souvenir of Ethiopia. But I had nothing. Then I thought of the letter with the gold circlet in its leather envelope, which were both native made. And I showed it to Professor Makepeace. Others were interested to see it. Everybody wanted to talk to me. I had no thoughts of treachery in such a place. When the leather case was returned to me I slipped it into my pocket without looking at it. That was the correct thing, for I had no suspicion that anyone there would want to keep for himself such a very personal thing. Even now I don’t know what to think, whether it was stolen for a political purpose or for the value of the gold.”
“It might be either,” said Dorsey Flagg. “There are so many down-and-outers mixed in with the wealthy comrade snobs at those leftist parties.”
“This is a terrible blow, Lij Alamaya,” said Peixota. “It is worse than the Emperor’s statement. Now I don’t know what we shall do. I wish you had been frank with me and told me when it happened.”
“I couldn’t,” said Lij Alamaya. “A diplomat should not lose his documents.”
“Bad business, bad business,” said the Rev. Trawl. “Only God can save the organization now.”
“It is a very unfortunate situation,” said Peixota. “This week I received one thousand and seven dollars. It was collected from the poor struggling colored people, doing their part for Ethiopia. Over there the soldiers are fighting barefooted with spears and rifles against tanks and machine guns, fighting against gas without a single gas mask. And we have bungled our little bit over here. Now Lij Alamaya, it’s up to you to find a way to save our organization. As you’ve lost your letter, my plan is worthless.”
They sat in an uncomfortable silence. At last Lij Alamaya said: “I am in a tight spot and don’t know what to do. I am sure the Emperor was misrepresented in that news dispatch. But it’s impossible for me to communicate with the Ethiopian government.”
“Couldn’t you do something through one of the European legations?” Dorsey Flagg demanded.
“The Fascists have cut off all communications with Ethiopia,” said Alamaya. “Perhaps we could end all this trouble by coming to some understanding with Newton Castle and Maxim Tasan and amalgamate the Hands to Ethiopia with the White Friends of Ethiopia.”
“Like hell we will!” said Peixota, bouncing up again and walking to and fro. “No working together with those two incorrigible rats. Not me. I’ll resign the chairmanship and let you others carry on. Before I work with them, I’d sooner see the organization in hell.”
“And I’m with you, Brother Peixota,” said the Rev. Zebulon Trawl. “I’m with you every time. When those White Friends attempted to destroy my church, parading and creating a riot in front of it, I prayed to the Lord for assistance and He assisted me. And now that they want to blast our Hands to Ethiopia, I will pray to Him again. And if the Lord won’t help—before I work with those kind of ‘White Friends,’ I’d be like Brother Peixota, I’d sooner be in hell!”
“There’s nothing for me to do,” said Flagg, “for I’m the real cause of all the trouble. When Lij Alamaya speaks of an understanding with Maxim Tasan—Newton Castle doesn’t count—he isn’t including me, because he knows that Maxim Tasan wouldn’t work with me. But one thing I can do. I’ll give up the secretaryship and resign from the organization in order to save it.”
“No, Dorsey, you won’t,” said Peixota. “If you resign, I will resign and Trawl will and the entire Executive Committee. We won’t let that white snake get you or run our organization. Better no organization at all than one dominated by him.”
Dorsey Flagg jumped up and grabbed Peixota’s hand. “Fine, Peixota. I love a real fighter. They may destroy the organization, but they can’t lick us. Peixota, you may know very little about the vast network of international political plot and the tug-of-war power politics which is spreading out over the world, even to Harlem to spread confusion among our people. And perhaps you don’t care, but you should. It’s a bigger thing than you imagine and you should know what is really trying to destroy our organization.”
“I guess they will be forcing me to get some understanding,” said Peixota. “It’s a pity I wasn’t college educated like you to understand what is shaking the world to its foundation.”
“I don’t know but you’re better off without it,” said Flagg. “Without it you became one of the solid pillars of Harlem. But with it you might have been only another Newton Castle.”
“Then God saved me from such a calamity,” said Peixota.
They all laughed and the tension was lessened.
Lij Alamaya said: “Gentlemen, I cannot express all that I should like to say. But, please believe me when I say I am sorry. I am miserable because my carelessness has placed us in such a disadvantageous position. I can think of nothing except to go and see Mr. Maxim Tasan. It may be very humiliating for me, but I will go.”
“You may go, but not on behalf of the Hands to Ethiopia, Lij Alamaya,” said Peixota. “We will not discuss our organization with Maxim Tasan. Personally I would sooner see him dead than alive. I don’t know why such a viper should live.”
12
ALAMAYA MAKES HIS SUBMISSION
That evening before dinner, Pablo Peixota was sitting dejectedly at Lij Alamaya’s desk thinking about the future of the Hands to Ethiopia when Seraphine entered very agitated. Her eyes were red and she continually mopped them, which was very astonishing to her father, because he rarely saw her in tears.
“Tell me, Father, is it true you have sent Tekla away, when he is in great trouble?”
“I didn’t send him away, he went himself.”
“Then it’s true. He’s gone. Father, how could you be so mean to him? A poor lonely stranger—”
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t send him away. He left himself to go to the hotel in which he lives downtown.”
“Oh, you’ve made up with him then,” she said in a less distressful tone.
“Made up what?”
“Mother said you had quarreled with Tekla and he was gone and you had washed your hands of him and the organization.”
“Your mother should have told you that the Hands to Ethiopia is in a hole and only Alamaya could have pulled it out, if he had not carelessly lost the Emperor’s letter.”
“It wasn’t his fault, Father. It was just carelessness. I believe somebody played him a trick. I was with him at the party, you remember?”
“What do you mean, somebody played him a trick? Do you know something about the letter? Do you have any idea what happened to it?”
“I mean some person tricked Tekla and stole his letter as a souvenir. Maybe it was some woman who fell for him, for everybody likes him. But it isn’t his
fault, Father. He’s a prince and he had to be courtly and grand when they asked him to show a souvenir.”
“Better he had shown them his tongue,” said Peixota. “He couldn’t have lost that. But he stupidly lost the Emperor’s letter. And never told me, that’s the worst of it. I made myself responsible for him, doing everything to put him over in a big way. Yet he kept back such an important thing from me. It’s sly, like cheating.”
“Please, Father! He told me about it. But there was nothing to be done and we agreed to forget it. I think perhaps that man named Tasan had something to do with it. That night he kind of monopolized Tekla in a familiar way and I even overheard him talking about you.”
“You did? What did he say?”
“He and Tekla were in a little room by themselves and didn’t know I was outside. And that Tasan was all hot about Stalin-white and Trotsky-red or -black or what is it? And he said that Mr. Flagg was a Trotskyite and shouldn’t be on the Committee of the Hands to Ethiopia. And Tekla said, ‘Mr. Peixota won’t stand for the ousting of Dorsey Flagg.’ I remember clearly, Father, Tekla stood up stoutly for you. And I felt so proud I fell in love with him right away, for I love you so much.”
“So Maxim Tasan was plotting and trying to corrupt Alamaya from the very start!”
“Yes, Father, and if I had known it was so important I would have told you everything. But you’ll forgive Tekla for my sake. I love him, Father. He’s so charming and with grand ways, just like you, Father. It’s the first time I’ve felt a big feeling of love.”
“My dear Seraphine, how can you fall in love with Alamaya? I am not sending him away, for I haven’t the power. I wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt you. But he is here only on a special mission; he may be recalled tomorrow. It will be better for you to put him out of your mind altogether.”
“But I love him, Father. If you wash your hands of him, you must wash your hands of me too. If you send him away, I will go with him.”
“But I’m not sending Alamaya away, Seraphine. This is just too trifling when there are so many heavy things on my mind.”
“Trifling, Father! Do you believe my love for Tekla is trifling?”
“Seraphine, won’t you go and talk to your mother? She may be—”
“But I did talk to Mother and she told me you said you were washing your hands of Tekla and we both would be separated.”
“I said nothing about that.” Peixota put on his overcoat and said: “Tell your mother I have gone out and not to wait for me for dinner.”
• • •
At that time Maxim Tasan and Newton Castle were leaving Lij Alamaya’s hotel. They had invited Alamaya to join them in a few rounds of drinks. But Alamaya had refused. He would have been drinking to their triumph over him. The poor young Ethiopian was terribly softened up. And when they left he locked the door, threw himself facedown on the couch and cried.
Newton and Maxim entered a bar on Broadway, where both together could be served without creating an incident. They chose a table that was set a little apart where they could talk with enough freedom. Newton appeared more nervously emphatic in his manner since Sunday when the Senegambians left him in his underwear and Delta had to hurry down to bring him another suit. Before his wife arrived the superintendent had removed the gag from his mouth and the experience had apparently made him more loquacious. He felt as if he had earned his medal as a hero of the cause. He talked unceasingly, agitating his hands.
“Now that we have Alamaya on our side and he’s going to work with the White Friends, we must see that he doesn’t keep up his contact with Peixota and Dorsey Flagg and their gang.”
“Yes, but we mustn’t push him too hard at first,” said Tasan. “He’s a sensitive kid and may turn mulish and kick us to hell away from him, without giving a damn.”
“You’re right. He’s got an independent streak,” said Newton. “I’ll never forget Friday night when he suddenly threw off his coat and gripped Dorsey Flagg’s hand. It was a good act.”
“Sure he’s independent enough, or he wouldn’t have been interested in the Soviet idea. If we ever corral him and break him down in body and spirit, he’ll be a riot.”
“And now as far as Newton Castle is concerned the Hands to Ethiopia can go and crawl through the sewers of New York,” said Castle.
“Is that intended to be profanity or obscenity, Professor?” Tasan laughed like dry leaves shaking in a little breeze.
“Both. That gangster Peixota, he thinks he is a big bug and I’d like to swat him with a Soviet brick bat.”
“Now, that’s wholesome revolutionary opinion,” said Tasan, “but it isn’t when you want to dump the Hands to Ethiopia in the New York sewer system. It’s a people’s organization and we need the people. The leaders may go stink in the sewers as far as we are concerned, but we need the people. And that’s why we must go slow with Alamaya. He can help us there.”
“He might help us more in Ethiopia.”
“What do we care about Ethiopia, that savage-feudal state? The Emperor is a tyrant worse than Ivan the Terrible. Mussolini will soon clean up for him. Alamaya can help us with the colored people here who think of Ethiopia as a sort of Canaan.”
“Canaan is right,” said Castle. “There is a Zionist streak in the hearts of the colored people. It isn’t really a Back-to-Africa Promised Land that they yearn after like the Jews’ desire for Palestine, although they did support the Back-to-Africa movement. It is more of a spiritual hankering after a Land of Beulah.1 And that explains the amazing interest of the masses in Ethiopia. It’s the ancient Ethiopia-shall-stretch-forth-her-hand-to-God of the Bible that is stirring them up. My God, just imagine wasting all that splendid mass feeling on the jungle Empire of Ethiopia when it could be put to work for enlightened Soviet Russia.”
“But it could be very interesting as a social study—from an anthropological or a psychological angle,” said Tasan, “especially as there is such a large admixture of persons of European blood in your group.”
“Yes, and some of those are the most chauvinistically African in their ideas,” said Castle. “I don’t think I ever did tell you about Mrs. Arzell, one of the tops in the Colored Women’s Clubs. She was presiding at a meeting sponsored by one of the Apex lodges—the Apex is the women’s division of the Elks. And she said that since an Ethiopian prince had arrived as an envoy to the Aframericans, the colored women should demand the sending of an Ethiopian princess to represent the Ethiopian women.”
“A Princess of Ethiopia! That’s not a bad idea,” said Tasan, and he vigorously scratched his flanks and laughed. “We might find them a princess as a diversion. She may go over better than the prince.”
“Are you serious?” asked Castle.
“Sure I am. We Marxists can do anything. We have exterminated kings and princes to gain our ends and we have resurrected and honored them when it suited our purpose. The prince cuts a pretty sorry figure now. I think we should have a Princess of Ethiopia. I’ll see what can be done about it.”
Castle said: “I think it’s better to forget the fantasies and think about settling our score with the four Harlem horsemen of the Trotskyite Apocalypse.”
“Who are the four?” said Tasan.
“Pablo Peixota, Dorsey Flagg, ‘Professor’ Koazhy and Sufi Abdul Hamid. And dangerous as Flagg is, I believe Peixota to be still more dangerous, for he’s a wealthy man, nigger-rich.”
“What was that last word?” Tasan asked.
“It’s a Harlemism,” said Castle. “I’ll explain. We have some wealthy persons in our group who look like millionaires to the average type of colored people. But in the white world our wealthy ones would be just comfortably fixed persons with a tolerable income. So we of the elite call ours nigger-rich.”
“That’s interesting,” said Tasan. “So this Peixota person is nigger-rich. Shouldn’t be so hard to handle. Couldn’t we plant
something on him? Make him out to be a pervert or pimp or anti-Semite?” Again he scratched himself with the vigor of a dog full of fleas.
“He’s a respectable married man, more solidly so than you and I,” said Castle. “And the anti-Semite tag wouldn’t work any more than the Fascist label is working on Dorsey Flagg. The Harlem folk may hate a mean Jewish landlord or an Italian bar-keeper. But you can’t get them steamed up over such issues as anti-Semitism and Fascism. My people are not like white people. I’m ashamed of them, they’re so goddam unintellectual.”
“Then can’t we expose the bastard as a pervert or degenerate? We’ve smeared a lot of undesirables with that and railroaded them into oblivion.”
“There’s a skeleton in every closet in Harlem. Look here, Maxim, you may be an expert in getting hold of people and pushing organization. But what works like magic with one group may not with another. A skeleton in a colored closet may be like a fetish or a mascot, when in a white closet it may haunt you to death and destruction.”
“Harlem is a freakish spot, anyway,” said Tasan.
“It is full of freaks,” said Castle. “Take Professor Koazhy and his glittering Ethiopian uniform and his West African name. And Sufi Abdul Hamid, who posed as a Guinea fetisher and mind reader. And Pablo Peixota was a policy king2: now he’s a big realtor and a pillar in Trawl’s church. Just think of it—a man who made his money skinning his people.”
“But you’re too goddam moral to be a Marxist, Castle,” said Tasan. “The whites do a lot of skinning of your people and their people, too. Life is one big skin game. What’s the difference between a policy game and a stock exchange game, except that under bourgeois law, one is illegal and the other is legal?3 Comrade Stalin was marked for the leadership of the Bolsheviks and the World Proletariat when he robbed a bourgeois bank. His physical courage and daring set him high above Trotsky and his apocalyptic logic.”