Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  He strikes out along a new road, trying to get his bearings so that he’ll know how to behave once he arrives. Trying his best not to think about what may await him. All of his business may be there. Perhaps. Wouldn’t bet on it one way or the other. So far this has been a ridiculous, hideous, preposterous day. He no longer knows where he is, where he stands. This sense of confusion disorientation is why—no other explanation—he feels surrender rising in his blood.

  And why shouldn’t he? What has he to show for his efforts? One after another he interviews those instructors whose names have been put forth. From each he gets the same response. No. Always looks so promising at first. Anxious to earn a fee, they hurry him inside their homes, but after he makes his request, they refuse him flatly, impatient for him to go. Turn down good money. So he must try another approach. If money can’t persuade them, perhaps his words can. (His mouth the organ.) He puts forward his case. (Indeed, he has learned that he can make a fine fresh impression when he pushes ahead in order to be the first to say something out loud. No matter what he says.) But they don’t care if Tom is an exception, a rare breed, a nigger like no other. You see, Tom’s skin is definitive. His blindness is end of the road. His idiocy a mockery, an insult—the brutality of fact—to culture and civilization. Perry Oliver tries again, backing up rational speech with firm gestures, raising a finger here and there to underscore a point. A doomed approach. Those who listen and entertain the possibility of Tom’s difference quickly decide this nigger boy is incapable of benefiting from instruction, and even go so far as to warn that I will summon the authorities, sensing a confidence scheme. Some don’t even consider him worthy of formal address. No matter. He knows he has to be prepared for such reactions. Not his place to argue. Silly to worry one’s head about something that can’t be changed, something beyond one’s control. Still, he is upset at this moment, tugging along, heavy with a thousand sensations. His thoughts muddled, only residual traces of the original motive. He needs to restore his confidence, faith.

  When he returns to the apartment for dinner, angry nausea rising up the column of his body, he barely looks at Seven and Tom, who are seated at the table facing each other. He bypasses food (no appetite) and closes himself off inside his room, seeking ease (release) after a rough morning. Gives vent to his confusion, having lost his form, the door shut to Seven and Tom. (He will meet them across supper.) Starts to read his newspaper by candle—drapery shuts the light out—only to put the newspaper aside and reinforce his plans through the tedium of preparation. (Who will I see this afternoon? Who tomorrow morning?) The flat calm of Time that kills in silence. A silence where he is afraid that everything will remain as it is. Not that his fear alters his conviction. (Doesn’t in the least.) To cloak his feelings, he tells himself that the word no is a beginning, not an end. The start of a new conversation. His opponents cannot block his way forever. The knowledge makes him feel strangely fortified, even though his quest is undeniably something of a guessing game. He feels that he is on the right track. His daily failures, stalled efforts, can’t cancel out all that he has achieved up to this point in his life. So he must face the truth of what he hopes to accomplish through Tom, face the absolute nature of his work. In this way he can go out into the world again.

  He makes his way into the parlor. An hour has passed.

  From the table Seven turns his bright splotch of skin toward him and brings word that Mr. Oakley offers to sell us the piano outright, and charge nothing for its delivery.

  Now there’s a thought. (Tom reaches out and chokes Seven’s beaver cap in one hand and starts caressing it with the other.) The price is fair. And perhaps it makes perfect sense to purchase the piano. The apartment has enough space for it. (Right over there.) And it would help to remove Tom from public view. But he has no desire to own a piano. Has sufficient possessions already. No, that is not quite what he has in mind.

  Say nothing, he says. I will speak to him.

  Yes, sir.

  They have nothing more to tell each other. (Why waste words?) He leaves without saying good-bye.

  Out in the street, he admits an important truth to himself. This city impresses him. That is, he is reluctantly impressed by the limits he pushes against in an attempt to expand beyond them. His mental mettle is sagging, although it hasn’t broken yet. Tense to the point of pain, of his beginnings, he is incapable of deciding what to do next and incapable of holding on to whatever he might decide. He is open to suggestions, open to anything and everything, no matter where it comes from. Perhaps Oakley can help. The saloon owner dares to do what others merely promise. He must tell Oakley about the troubles he has been having. He will seek his advice.

  He approaches the saloon. Comes through the door expecting the usual but doesn’t immediately recognize the room. Has it changed, been done over? Patrons waver in one direction then another. He can’t glimpse any pattern in their wavering. Oakley’s nigger is kneeling by the bar stools, hammer in hand, nails between his teeth, installing brass cuspidors. Careful where he places his knees and feet to avoid the many pools of brown spit (tobacco juice) covering the floor around him. The owner is there too, behind the counter, talking to one of the regulars. The scar marring his face seems to have darkened in color, as black as the derby covering his head. Perry Oliver installs himself on a stool near the owner and barges his way into the discussion. (He does not go to extremes. Only right that the sober citizen should put himself before the drunk.) The regular issues no challenge—Perry Oliver has come to stake his claim—only gets up from his seat and ambles off into the smoky gloom.

  He listens to the owner’s offer. He says that it is a fair price, although he knows he has no intention of purchasing the piano. He improvises an excuse for putting off the purchase for a month. The owner accepts. They shake hands on the deal. (String him along for now.) Then he starts in on his difficulties finding a music instructor.

  He is no crier. (Cry and the world will pity you. He wants no one’s pity.) So how does he come to find himself seated at the bar before the owner, drink in hand, spilling liquid onto the counter? Oakley fixes his stare on Perry Oliver’s face, and suddenly the latter feels, he doesn’t know why, like placing himself in the saloon owner’s hands. Perry Oliver goes on talking for a full half hour or more, deliberately throwing in all the details and nuances. He enjoys immensely talking about all this, with the owner seated regally on his stool, silent and motionless, and staring straight into his eyes, something aggressive and challenging in his gaze. At the most intimate passages, he notices that the owner looks a bit embarrassed.

  There you have it. A fair shake is all I want.

  Don’t tease my brain any more on the subject, Oakley says. You allow people to treat you like that. But you do nothing about it.

  Perry Oliver says nothing at first, surprised to see Oakley showing a different side of himself. Not the customary exchange of ideas, man to man. Perhaps the owner is only sounding him out. He proceeds to try to justify his actions, his doing nothing, his tolerance of injustice.

  You’re going about it all wrong. Don’t be diplomatic. Remember that you are dealing with idiots. Diplomacy is beyond their understanding.

  Perry Oliver listens, taking it all in.

  You have to face them head-on. Confront and complain. That’s the only way.

  Later, Perry Oliver will ponder what he had actually heard the owner advise (demand). Was it “complain” or “come plain”?

  Make it clear who’s in charge. And if you have to, give them your boot to lick. To that, he gives Perry Oliver another round. Leaves Perry Oliver this example of everything and nothing.

  But you will not have to go that far, Oakley says. I will save you the trouble. I know someone.

  Seven sits at the table carefully examining every detail of the illustrations of Paul Morphy’s exploits. He would like to be made utterly immobile. To sit forever.

  Tom sits too, his hands moving, feet moving, now his head. Sits, time whizzing ar
ound his urge to move. He begins to speak, to recite, giving back word for word. Fourteen games were played in all, of which two were drawn, and three won by Herr Löwenthal. so great a disproportion evidently proves the practical superiority of the victor. How marvelous, the constant magic of Tom’s memory. His tried-and-true companion. Too incredible for words. And no less grand and impressive after repeated display. Seven sags in his chair, catches his breath. At such moments, Tom belongs to him more completely than ever. A private kitchen (parlor) occurrence that compels him to project himself, safe and sound, into foreign streets and gardens (Hyde Park) and rooms—St. George’s Chess Club, King Street, St. James’s; London Chess Club, Cornhill—Tom and Mr. Oliver silently accompanying him. That’s the way he pictures it. Maybe (his wish) he will travel to such places someday.

  Tom rapidly taps his chin with two fingers. Seven perks up his ears, ready for more. Tom taps his chin again. Will he say more?

  Game twenty-nine, Seven says, prodding him.

  Paul Morphy, Tom said, the American, victorious in thirty-four moves!

  Tom’s voice rolls pleasurably across his thoughts. How relaxed he feels. He tries returning to his journal, to Paul Morphy, but can’t see what’s there. His eyes retain Tom’s image. For now, Tom’s sheer presence will suffice.

  Or will it? Tom tugs, knocks, shakes. Utters monotonous sentences about heaven knows what. Agitated, he wants to leave this place. But not everyone can leave a room anytime he feels like it. Nothing happens unless Seven says so. And he isn’t saying so now. Tom will simply have to wait.

  For a good half hour, Seven tries everything conceivable-humming, whistling, helpings of water and tea, further excursions with Morphy—to quiet Tom but to no avail. Tom gets up from the table and makes his way around. Halts an arm’s length away from Seven and stands there thrusting his head in the air like a bull. Seven won’t budge. He lowers his gaze, hardly looking at Tom although Tom hovers around him, trying as hard as he can to attract Seven’s attention. Seven caught in this downward act of looking, witness to Tom’s stubborn demands, the harsh tangle of his speech. Dismayed, half fearing for himself, half wishing this odd distraction shut away. Can’t avoid glancing (in his mind) sidelong at Tom and directly at himself sitting in this chair, beset with choices, weighing departing against staying. He can stand up and oppose his charge, but it is very hard to mold a nigger once he gets riled. So, with labored care, he gets to his feet and fits his beaver cap on his own head and Tom’s furless black hat on Tom’s head, even then determined that they will return before Mr. Oliver does. Restored, Tom hugs him and keeps hugging, as is his wont.

  Soon they are out in the street—it couldn’t have gone any differently—where Tom trustingly puts himself in Seven’s hands. Late afternoon light finds them walking north on the cobblestone road, away from Scaldy Bill’s, Seven hoping to avoid putting temptation in Tom’s ears and mouth. Tom follows him silently. It is only as they are drawing close to the river that words start bursting out of him.

  We are walking, Tom says.

  Yes.

  A constitutional.

  Yes.

  Does the body good.

  Well.

  Does the body well.

  Tom picks up a short branch that has fallen from a tree. He throws it into the field. A few yards later he picks up a stone. He throws it into the field. More finding and chunking as they work their way across the meadows of the city, lack of destination and light-footed energy carrying Seven along, and some immeasurable energy driving Tom. Tom walks and walks and doesn’t seem to be tiring any. In fact, Seven has to work hard to keep ahead of his charge, his ears filled with the unmistakable sound of someone carrying something. It is his own breath that he hears, his lungs struggling to bear and lug weighted air, and his already heavy chest all that heavier for his long solid ribs, like a bulky load of firewood permanently sealed up beneath his skin. If he has any say in the matter they will stop and rest soon.

  Tom, he says, slow down.

  Yes, suh.

  I’m not a sir.

  Yes, sir. But Tom doesn’t slow down.

  Seven stops at the side of the road. Tom keeps walking, right past him. Seven juts forward and catches him by the arm. Let’s wait here a moment. He guides Tom roadside and proceeds to seat himself in the grass. Tom remains standing. So be it. Despite what it seems, Seven is not at odds with himself. Tom’s candid face, his quietly breathing chest, the ease in his movements, all clearly indicate to Seven that no malice, spite, or guile dwells in his body. An unquestionable fact like the hard-packed dirt beneath his buttocks.

  Since they’ve advanced this far, perhaps they should go for a swim. (Can the blind swim?) Or they can simply go and rest on the banks. Tom won’t have to get wet.

  Seven leads Tom through the grass toward the water, where they sit down together on a grassy little knoll, fully within the sprawling ragged shadow (shade) of a large tree, Seven a few feet above and behind Tom. He’s got the best overview of the river. He’s got the best overview of Tom. After he has rested for a while, he gets up and carries a hollowed-out branch down to the river, fills it with water, and drinks himself cool. Refills it and returns to Tom, who upends the branch sluice-like to allow the water to run into his mouth. Drinking done, Tom flings the branch into the water. So they sit. Seven often touches Tom’s face without thought, running his fingers across his cheeks, around his jawline and mouth, and over his eyes, feeling the hardened lumps beneath. Tom remains undisturbed during the touching, as if these are fingers he can’t feel. Seven looks at the water now, but his eyes alight on nothing. Nothing happens, and nothing happens in Seven.

  Shrieks circle out from a small source of noise. Birds. He sits observing them—the circle closing in on those who watch—these airborne creatures grounded some distance off, venturing through the grass and pecking dirt near the base of the tree. So much to see. Sees, placing every stream every river every leaf every branch every tree every stone every bird every blade of glass in its proper place.

  Tom remains unusually silent and still. No humming or singing or fidgeting. A person who doesn’t speak could easily be thinking.

  Do you like to swim, Tom?

  The fish do, Tom says.

  The pecking search for food brings the birds closer and closer to where they sit. Several of them rush Tom’s exposed ankles. Tom kicks his feet, scaring them off, flapping back to the heaven.

  There go the dead arisin, he says.

  Now if that don’t beat all. Seven thought that he had heard everything from Tom.

  They sit for a spell in calm assurance.

  Time to go, Seven says.

  Time to go, Tom says. He hops to his feet. Nature is over, he says.

  They return to the road with Seven in the lead, heading toward a shortcut home. He looks back over his shoulder and sees Tom hurrying off the opposite way.

  Tom, where are you going? He remains there, holding his pose of entreating, thinking that Tom will come directly to him. Tom continues on. Seven rushes and overtakes him. Good lord, what has gotten into this nigger? All this time, time that he has lavished on tracking down some amusement that will keep Tom calm and content. (Approach the other with understanding.) All for naught. Is this a challenge that he detects and that he has to meet? If so, what has fallen to him is more than a decision about direction. He must exert driving force, supply a directive. They will go by the stable—their secret enterprise—even though it is quite a haul from where they’ve found themselves.

  W. P. Howard—the best music professor in the country, Oakley said—lives in a clean quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of the city with houses tall and wide standing apart from squat servants’ houses, and niggers all about busy with upkeep and work. Perry Oliver addresses the opportunity with a solemnity that suggests his very life is at stake. Even Oakley’s introduction and recommendation may not be enough to guarantee Tom’s selection. All he has is a name.

  A name he would rather do w
ithout. Doesn’t want to know it, doesn’t need to. (In fact, later he will almost say, “Please, sir, don’t speak your name in my presence.” Holds his hands up, warding off knowledge. “I promise not to speak mine. Let us talk money.”) The title, Professor of Music, is all he needs; in fact, it is far more appropriate than a name, for which holds the greater importance in the world, what we are called or what we do? True, a name can lift you up by the workings of social convention and ignorance. But Perry Oliver doesn’t buy into the whole principle of name and ancestry, name as designation, the linguistic path back to flesh and blood lineage, noble or otherwise. (A thousand particular stories.) By luck and chance and enterprise any white man can succeed. W. P. Howard is a name he is already trying to forget.

  He arrives at Howard’s house with eagerness in his eyes, in his gait, a pretense that should provide him with the necessary deception of confidence. The decent aspect of the house—large but modest, nothing gaudy or ostentatious or overstated—brings with it the sense of a small promise renewed, revived. Still, he is leery of ringing the doorbell, leery of entering the house, but he must since he is unable to bear the tension of waiting. A nigger answers the door. Seeing the nigger is enough to awaken in Perry Oliver the value of himself as a person.

  The nigger shows him into the house and they proceed down the hall to an open door, where the nigger pauses before entering, Perry Oliver behind him, looking, the open door a box of perspective, a transparent cage that illuminates a man standing in the middle of the room, man and room separating him from what is indistinct and undefined. Looking a visual purification, cleansing after the darkness outside. The man wears a jacket that is well made but long outdated, and the man stands with his feet wide apart and his head lowered. Perry Oliver thinks, is sure, that the man is muttering something under his breath. The nigger enters the room and calls out to the man. Professor Howard. As soon as the man sees Perry Oliver he literally leaps toward his visitor with his hand out in greeting, so that Perry Oliver involuntarily reels back. Howard takes Perry Oliver by the elbow and leads him over to a sofa covered with a green-gold draping, where he sits down himself, then pulls Perry Oliver into an armchair next to him, Perry Oliver easing into the unfolding dimensions of the room. Much smaller than he had at first thought, a full-sized piano taking up almost half the space. So this would be Howard’s studio, small perhaps though certainly sufficient in size for the few students he takes in—according to Mr. Oakley, Howard largely makes his money working on an as-needed basis with the city’s two schools of musical instruction for girls and with other local or county-wide organizations for the training and development of the female sex—and well designed to compensate for its extreme simplicity.