Seed

by Harlan Ruud

  'Without a scar, he isn't even a man,' I hear my father say. 'He is merely male.'

  'You know her?' I ask, turning sideways in my chair.

  'Well,' he replies, smiling, 'anyone who's here for awhile gets to know of her, anyway. Her name's Grace.'

  His voice is deep, baritone on the verge of bass, with an indistinguishable accent – English, perhaps, or Jamaican? Eastern American? I cannot tell.

  'What are those bones for?' I ask.

  'She has a pack of dogs, apparently,' he replies. 'But – who knows?'

  He leans back in his chair, laughing softly.

  I look down the street and into the empty, lamp-lit plaza, then back at him.

  'What's your name, brother?' he asks.

  'Ulysses,' I reply.

  'Good name,' he says. 'Strong name.'

  He holds out his hand, pulling his fingers together into a fist, and says:

  'I'm YaYa.'

  I raise my hand, bumping my fist to his, and reply:

  'Hey, there, YaYa.'

  He nods his head, resting back in his chair, and takes a sip from his small glass of orange juice. Looking at me, he asks:

  'Where you from, Ulysses?'

  'Hollywood,' I reply.

  'Hollywood? You an actor?'

  'Well,' I reply, 'I'm not really from Hollywood; it's just a metaphor.'

  He looks at me and laughs.

  'So,' he says, 'you're a writer, then?'

  He asks this as if he hopes it to be true.

  'No,' I reply. 'I'm a dancer. I came to Morocco for, well, let's – let's just say here I am.'

  'Here you are,' he says.

  'And you?'

  'Well, it's actually quite a coincidence,' he says, winking. 'Because – I'm from Hollywood, too.'

  'Ah, okay,' I reply. 'A homeboy, then?'

  'That's right,' he says, nodding his head, grinning.

  'Are you a writer?' I ask.

  'Funny you ask that,' he replies. 'Folks usually ask if I'm a musician.'

  I raise my hand and point at the stack of papers on the table in front of him. He laughs.

  'Well, yes,' he says. 'I guess this gives me away.'

  I am tempted briefly to mention that my father was a writer – or rather that he had written and published a book of poetry. I do not.

  'Are you here to –?' I begin to ask.

  'Am I here,' he interrupts, 'to write or to relax? Was that your question?'

  'No,' I lie. 'I can see that you're writing. What you're writing, however, I can't see. Are you working on anything specific? That was my question.'

  He is quiet for a moment, watching me. Then he says:

  'I'm working on a history of American black artists overseas, mostly in Europe but here too, in Africa.'

  'Just artists?' I ask. 'Or writers and –?'

  'Writers are artists,' he says, again interrupting me. 'As are poets and musicians and – and dancers, too.'

  'Are we now?' I reply.

  There is a persistent, if subtle, condescension in his tone that I don like; it reminds me, again, of my father.

  'I think so,' he says. 'Whether you're a dancer or a writer or a singer, you're still taking what's inside and – and saying, Hey, look at this. Look at what I've made.'

  'I guess so,' I reply, shrugging.

  I no longer want to talk to him.

  In the distance, I watch as one of the electric lamps surrounding the plaza flickers briefly and then, with a faint pop, burns out.

  'How long you here for?' I hear him ask.

  Still looking away, I reply:

  'A week at least, maybe longer; I don't know.'

  'Well, I'm going to have to bend your ear before you leave; I'm warning you. I've been here for nearly a month and you're only the third brother I've seen.'

  'I can believe it,' I agree, looking at him..

  'Though I'm concentrating on the more famous of – of our brethren,' he says, 'I'd be interesting in getting your opinion of life overseas – as a man of color.'

  'Life overseas,' I say. 'I see it's over.;

  'Pardon me?;

  'Sorry,' I reply. 'My grandfather used to say that; don't ask me what it means.'

  He smiles.

  I look at the thick twist and rise of his dreadlocks; the Lion of Zion, I think, remembering the name of a song or book.

  'Jimi Hendrix spent a summer here, in Essaouira,' he says. 'That's why I'm here, actually; seems, though, he ate in every single restaurant and slept in every hotel – and everyone knew him personally.'

  He shrugs.

  'Like Elvis,' I reply, 'in Memphis. Elvis ate here. Elvis slept here.'

  'Elvis ate fried peanut butter sandwiches and smoked reefer here,' he adds. 'Elvis died on the toilet here.'

  He laughs; I smile.

  'But because it's Elvis,' I hear a woman say, 'you think it's, God, almost Shakespearean. That's pathetic. Really, it is.'

  I look at YaYa; he is looking at me.

  'So,' I ask, 'you going to write about James Baldwin?'

  'Of course,' he replies. 'I already have. I started with Josephine Baker, then the Harlem Renaissance artists, and worked up to Baldwin and – and Angelou and Gordon Parks and Nina Simone.'

  He speaks, I think, as if certain I am either omniscient or an idiot.

  'I was in Paris before I came here,' he continues. 'Now I'm doing a bit of research on Hendrix – then back to Paris. I want to write a bit about Basquiat; see what I can find about him. I want to go to Ghana, too. And Kenya.'

  'It must be fascinating research,' I say.

  'It is,' he agrees, nodding his head. 'It's – it's a subject that's been written about before but only really as a footnote. What's most fascinating, and what the main theme of the book is, is that it was really black folk who created what we now know as the Bohemian sensibility – in every medium: painting, writing, music, philosophy. The lifestyle. It was a black thing.'

  I watch him as he speaks, envisioning a drop of mercury as it rolls across his dark, smooth forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over his lips, down his chin, back up and, finally, into his mouth. His eyes slowly turn silver.

  'Like rock and roll,' he continues, 'it was appropriated and popularized, mainstreamed, by white people, but Jack Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs, all those guys, they stole everything they became famous for – from Zora Neale Hurston. Read her stuff, then theirs; you'll see.

  I watch him and nod my head. Who cares? I think.

  'There's not a single black writer considered a part – a major part, anyway – of the Beat movement,' he says. 'No. We get Kerouac writing about the sexy rhythm of the ghetto, but that's it. A footnote – and an offensive one, too. A cliché. I realized as much before I started my research, but that's what guided me, inspired me: the need to tell the truth.'

  His tone softens, turning inward.

  'Hell,' he continues, 'Billie Holiday was the icon, the mother, of modern bohemia, but now she's been transformed into – into some dead, black puppet mouthing parlor songs for fags and old white ladies on Central Park West.'

  'Please,' I say, 'don't ever write my epitaph.'

  'Billie gave birth to the Beat writers,' he says, ignoring my comment. 'Like Coltrane did, and Zora and Dizzy, even; they all did. Bessie and Langston and –'

  He stops, abruptly, then says:

  'Paris, modern-day Paris, even, wouldn't be what it is today, at least what it's considered to be, without black Americans. That's the truth, Ulysses.'

  His use of my name surprises me.

  'Malcolm X was banned for life from France,' I say. 'Did you know that?'

  'I did,' he replies. 'I do – I mention it in my book. Because that's where the truly interesting spin comes in. French people are some of the most xenophobic, racist people on the face of the planet. They adore Josephine Baker in her banana skirt, and James Baldwin writing about sex with white folk, but just try being a black man walking along the Champs Elysées at three in the morning.
Then see what comes running.'

  'I've tried it,' I say.

  He smiles.

  'Then you know of what I speak,' he says.

  'I do.'

  We talk for hours, until the café closes, then wander, still talking, through the Medina. It is, I think, as if I have never left Tangier; though obviously less populated, the Medina's streets and buildings are nearly identical: cramped, ancient, crumbling, with narrow, twisting, dead-end streets and darkened courtyards.

  Since liquor is officially forbidden in the Medina, we leave, finding our way to a small, poorly-lit bar near the beach. Other than an elderly Moroccan and two men arguing in Spanish, we are the bar's only patrons.

  We order two Heinekens from the bartender and sit at a table near one of the windows; outside is the Atlantic Ocean, dark, endless.

  As he hands us our Heinekens, the bartender tells us we have exactly one hour before the bar closes.

  'Come back tomorrow,' he says, shuffling away.

  'Was that an invitation?' YaYa asks. 'Or an order?'

  'Neither,' I reply. 'It was a cry for help.'

  We raise our bottles in toast, and each take a drink.

  Later, before I fall asleep, I lie with my eyes closed and think about YaYa. Do I like him? I wonder. He is witty and creative, intelligent, but he is also vain and condescending.

  'Nobody hates a black man,' my father once said, 'like another black man. Even white folk won't say the nasty things a brother will say about another brother. And not just about another brother – about the whole black race.'

  I think of my grandfather and his vicious diatribes, and I realize that my father was correct. Like women, I think, who are so much more critical of one another than men ever are.

  'Nobody wants to be free,' my grandfather once said. 'We're jealous of other people's freedom. We see someone who has what we don't – and we hate them. And it's not money or fame that causes the greatest jealousy; it's intelligence. It's happiness. It's pride. Nobody's more unloved than a proud man.'

  I turn on my side, looking into the shadows. From the room next to mine, I hear a man coughing.

  It's true, I think; though I like YaYa, like talking with him, it is his pride, his belief that he is correct, that I do not like. And I do not like it because I want to be the one who is correct; I want to be the strongest.

  I close my eyes and soon fall asleep.

  It is one of the rare times we have had guests. Seated around the kitchen table, with my father and grandfather, are three men I have not seen before. On the table, in front of each of them, is a cup of coffee.

  'Nobody hates a black man,' my father says, 'like another black man. Even white folk won't say the nasty things a brother will say about another brother. And not just about another brother – about the whole black race.'

  The men are silent, watching him.

  'Now, what's done to a black man is a different story,' he continues. 'White folk still win the prize for out and out –'

  He stops.

  Though I am in the living room on the sofa, I can see and hear the gathering of men as they talk. My father turns, looking at me, and tells me to go outside. To my surprise, my grandfather insists that I stay.

  'He needs to hear this,' he says, not looking at me.

  'He's only eleven,' my father says, as if in explanation.

  'Emmett Till was, what, fourteen?' one of the men remarks, looking at me, then at my father.

  'That he was,' my father replies, taking a sip of his coffee. He looks at me. 'Come in here, Ulysses,' he says.

  I stand and walk into the kitchen.

  Leaning against the side of the refrigerator, its surface cool against my bare back, I expect my father to speak to me; instead, the five men begin to talk among themselves as if I am not even there.

  I watch them, and I listen.

  Though their story is one of terror, the men remain calm, emotionless, as they discuss the details. They sit quietly, listening, occasionally shaking their heads.

  What I initially perceive to be their apathy frightens me; each of their faces is dark, still, empty. It is, I think, like looking into the blank, black eyes of monster. Later, as a man, I will understand the nature of this silent rage, but now it leaves me speechless, unable to move.

  'Used a staple gun,' one of the men says. 'Stapled it right to his chest. And left him there, like that, hanging from the telephone pole like some –'

  Transfixed by their description, it takes me a moment to realize that everyone is looking at me.

  'Ulysses,' my father says angrily, about to rise from his chair.

  I look down, realizing with shame that I have wet myself. A puddle of urine between my bare feet, I look up at my father, my grandfather, at the men, and then run from the kitchen.

  'Let him go,' I hear my grandfather say.

  Out of the house, across the yard, and through the trees, I run, stopping finally at the river's edge. I look for a moment into the muddy, quick-flowing water, then close my eyes and jump.

  Paddling to stay afloat, I look into the trees on either side of the river and try in vain to piss into the water. I imagine my father and grandfather, the three men, and I close my eyes, ashamed.

  I swim to the riverbank, crawl from the water, and fall onto the grassy embankment. Turning over onto my back, I look up at the clouds that roll, as if pushed, across the dark, blue sky. A fly lands on my bare chest; I do not swat it away.

  Behind me, in the trees, I hear a man whispering.

  I sit straight, turning slowly to look into the shadowed forest behind me.

  Hanging by his neck from one of the trees is a man. I do not recognize him. He is naked, light-skinned, with a hairy chest. Between his legs is bloody hole; beneath the hole hangs a small, black mass. Stapled to his chest is a piece of paper, red with blood. His hands are missing.

  He opens his eyes, looking directly at me, and says:

  'Emmett Till was only fourteen.'

  I open my mouth, screaming. I do not stop until my father, kneeling at my side, grabs me by the shoulders, then hits me twice across the face.

  'Ulysses!' he yells. 'Why are you screaming? What is wrong with –?'

  I pass out.

  The next morning I am awakened by a knock at the door. It is YaYa telling me to get out of bed. I look at the small, digital travel clock next to me; it is nearly noon.

  'C'mon, dancerman,' he calls out. 'Get dancing.'

  I look at the closed door, not moving, and tell him I will meet him downstairs, at the café, in a half hour.

  'Make it fifteen minutes,' I hear him reply. 'We have a lot to do today.'

  I listen as his footsteps disappear down the hallway. One, I silently count, two, three, four, five, six, seven. I stop at twelve.

  Throwing off the blanket, I sit up, stretching, and look at the clothes spread out on the bed across from me. I stand, walk to the sink, and brush my teeth. I wash my face and comb my hair, then pat it down. I get dressed.

  For the next six, nearly seven, hours, I am questioned by YaYa about my life as a dancer, especially my time in Paris, Brussels, and Amsterdam. After lunch, we continue our conversation as we walk: through the Medina, along the beach, out into the nearby countryside.

  'People think better when they walk,' he explains.

  Much, but not all, of our conversation he tapes, using a small handheld recorder that he holds between us. He asks if the recorder bothers me; I tell him it does not.

  Though I have told him of my previous two times in Essaouira, he stops frequently to point out particular sites of note. He takes me to the ruined pavilion buried in the sand near the beach and tells me that it was the inspiration for Jimi Hendrix's 'Castles in the Sand.'

  'I know that,' I say.

  'A lot of people don't,' he replies.

  'And a lot of people do,' I remark.

  He looks at me as if in sudden recognition, and smiles; it's a response that I grow accustomed to as the day wears on. />
  As we walk through the high, stone walls of the Medina on our return to the hotel, he invites me to dinner.

  'As payment,' he says, 'for letting me bore you.'

  ''I'd prefer money,' I reply.

  He laughs heartily, slapping me on the back.

  It wasn't a joke, I think.

  We agree to meet at eight o'clock in front of the hotel. Returning to my room, I stretch across the bed and close my eyes. Yawning, I kick off my shoes and turn sideways, resting my hands beneath the pillow.

  I am startled awake soon thereafter by a sudden, loud knocking. Disoriented, I open my eyes and turn my head up toward the ceiling.

  What time is it? I wonder.

  I look at the clock on the table next to the bed; it is exactly eight o'clock.

  I turn my head, looking at the door.

  'Come in,' I say.

  The door slowly opens; Maggie, wearing a dark red dress, stands in the doorway, smiling.

  I sit up.

  'Don't you know,' she says, 'no rest for the naughty?'

  I look at her.

  'Keep the lips,' she says, entering the room and shutting the door behind her.

  She walks to the foot of the bed, puts her hands on her hips, and looks at me.

  'What?' I ask.

  She smiles.

  'If you've eaten your tongue,' she says, 'don't eat your lips; you'll need them.'

  I say nothing.

  'Oh, forget it,' she says. 'I was just trying to be original. I was – well, I was going to ask if the cat got your tongue, but, well, it's been said before.'

  She sits on the bed next to my feet and puts her hand on my leg. I pull away.

  'Ulysses,' she says, 'what's –?'

  She becomes silent, watching me.

  'Well,' she eventually continues, 'I'll wait for you, then.'

  'Wait for me?'

  She crosses her legs, resting her arms on her knees, and looks at me.

  'You have a lot of explaining to do, mister,' she says.

  I shift my position, putting my feet on the floor.

  'I have a lot of explaining to do?'

  'Yes,' she replies, 'you do. But if you –'

  'What the fuck happened to you?' I interrupt angrily. 'It wasn't very –'

  I pause for a moment and then ask:

  'How did you find me?'