The Incident at Naha

by M. J. Bosse

  After class the three of us adjourned to the Chinese restaurant, where we ordered some Shanghai dishes. I don’t know exactly how Virgil managed it, but before the Shrimp Toast came, he had involved Henry in an intense discussion of dissertations and theses and all. He spoke of the precision of the German language for the outlay of facts. He analyzed his own card-file system. He suggested that Henry look at a new bibliographical guide. By this time I was tapping my beer glass impatiently with a spoon, but Henry seemed transfixed by it all.

  Suddenly Virgil said, “Have you chosen a thesis topic?”

  Henry hesitated. Then, drawing his breath quickly, as if making the decision, he said he had chosen one, all right. It was in fact a windfall, an accidental discovery, a nineteenth-century manuscript written by a member of the Perry expedition to Japan. Its significance was racial. Virgil listened intently, leaning forward and nodding and saying, “Really” as if he had never heard of Perry before.

  Under Virgil’s encouragement, Henry’s natural reticence gave way to enthusiasm. Obviously, what fascinated him was the racial incident at Naha. He retold it exactly as our Bostonian had written it, only in his mouth the words sizzled and sparkled, and I swung with Henry’s indignation and excitement. When he finished with this account, he revealed his plans for the manuscript. He was going to prepare an edition of it, then write a scholarly article about the racial incident at Naha. Ultimately he would write a book, using the journal as his springboard into a full-scale study of black military experience prior to the Civil War.

  “I’ve already got the title,” Henry said proudly. “Black Arms: A Study of Afro-American Military Service in the Antebellum Period.”

  “Impressive,” Virgil said, smiling. “And long enough to be scholarly.”

  “Don’t you think I can do it?” Henry stiffened; he was so big sometimes you forgot he was also sensitive. Virgil, lacking a sense of humor, can try to be funny at the wrong times.

  He realized it then. “Look, you have the ability. Of course you can do it.” He reached over and tapped the back of Henry’s hand. Henry was like me; he needed this kind of reassurance.

  Henry relaxed and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been reading Harvey Wish—his American Slave Insurrections Before 1861—and Larry Gara’s articles.”

  “Good,” Virgil said, and I thought of them together in Harlem, Virgil the older boy and Henry hero-worshiping him. There was real emotion between them, and I felt awfully sad, because something fine was going to be destroyed. Maybe it had to be.

  Spicy Beef and Chicken Velvet came, and for a while, during the meal, the two men talked sports. It was as if everything were grooving along. But when the bill came, Virgil said, “I’d like to see this manuscript.” And he added, “That is, if you don’t mind. I can hardly crib from it for Politics in the Reign of Edward III.”

  That caught Henry off guard; he smiled and promised to bring the manuscript to Virgil’s place the next day. Outside the restaurant, we said goodbye to Henry. As we started to walk, I said to Virgil, “You got what you wanted. You really jived.”

  Virgil stopped. “What do you mean?” he said in a terribly severe tone of voice.

  “I mean,” I replied hesitantly, “you found out for certain that Henry’s got the manuscript. When I said you jived, I didn’t mean anything. I only meant you had to do it that way, without making him suspicious. Oh, hell, it’s a mess, isn’t it?”

  Virgil was staring at the sidewalk, hands thrust deep into his pants pockets.

  “But you mustn’t feel guilty,” I told him softly.

  “No?” Virgil looked at me, his face setting in anger. “When he’s trusting me? When he’s got all those dreams and plans? When he’s working for our people? How can I feel anything but guilty!”

  “But you have to do it.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.” I had never seen Virgil so moved or so bitter. It was unlike him to tailspin into such a downer. We walked in silence awhile. “Sometimes,” he said abruptly, “I can’t forgive you for who you are. For what you are.”

  “You mean, white.”

  “I mean exactly that.”

  “That’s pretty discouraging,” I said, feeling both angry and sad. “That’s pretty awful for me.”

  “Sometimes I can’t bridge the gap. Look at me. Sometimes neither can you,” he said.

  I felt tears blinding my eyes and I couldn’t blink them away. We walked in silence again, but suddenly he took my arm; I felt his fingers on my elbow, and we went a half block this way before his hand left my arm and reached down and took my hand.

  “I love you, Virgil,” I said.

  “I love you, Judy,” he said.

  It was the first time he had ever used those special words. There really wasn’t any more to say. We just stood there until he said, “There’s a lot to do, a lot to think about. I’ll take you to Linda’s now.”

  “No, put me in a cab,” I told him. Naturally I didn’t want him in Linda’s neighborhood where Ray Hack might be lurking in the shadows. I said, “No kidding, put me in a cab. You need to be by yourself now and think it all through.”

  Much to my relief, he agreed. He went out into the street and boldly stood there, hailing cabs. Three free taxis zipped by, par for the course, before the fourth finally stopped. When I got inside the cab, Virgil held my hand just for a fleeting moment. “Feed the turtles,” I told him.

  Through the rear window, when the cab took off, I watched Virgil receding into the distance. His slight body, all hunched over in concentration, was moving into darkness. I loved him so much. He was this musical presence in my life, ballooning out like a great, groovy sound to fill all the spaces of my heart.

  *

  All the way to Linda’s I wondered what to do. The romance had gone right out of me, and I felt coldly serious. I thought of calling Smith and telling him that the man who had murdered Don Stuart had nothing to do with the Dong Nai massacre. I would insist that the CIA somehow get this awful bullnecked character off our backs. But calling Smith would be an outright betrayal of Virgil, who obviously didn’t know what to do about Henry. And that was their thing together; they were brothers from a street I had never walked. Anyway, I don’t think Don’s murder was of any importance to Smith; all that he wanted was the Dong Nai evidence. As for Ray Hack, that man was out to destroy anything that might lead to a court-martial. This situation had been set in motion by Don Stuart’s death, but now it was running on its own steam and I doubt if Smith had any control over it anymore. So I decided not to tell him anything about the murder.

  When I got to the apartment, Linda was absolutely hysterical. She paced back and forth, her face pale, her hands clasping and unclasping. At first I was amused by what I thought were familiar antics.

  “Another fat man on a train?” I asked.

  “You!” She turned on me in a fury, her eyes rolling in a way that told me this was no performance. “I knew I was an idiot to take you in!”

  “Linda—”

  “He could come back and kill us!” she wailed dramatically.

  It was several minutes before I could calm her down and piece the story together. Earlier in the evening the doorbell had rung, and a man outside had identified himself as a close friend of mine. Linda, like a fool, had let him into the apartment, and once there, the bullnecked man with the funny ears had been abusive and threatening, and once he had gripped her wrist as if he were going to tear her arm off (Linda’s words).

  “Where did you meet that awful man?” she sobbed. “He could have raped me.”

  “That’s not on his mind these days, Linda. What did he really want?”

  “He wanted to know where you were.”

  “And you told him?”

  “You were out and I didn’t know where. Then he wanted to know who you were with.”

  “And you told him?”

  “I figured you were with Virgil.”

  “And you told him that?”

  “Of cou
rse I did. And he asked why were you staying in this apartment. And I told him you were afraid and Virgil had sent you here.”

  “Oh, God,” I said.

  “Well, it was the truth.”

  “And what did he say to that, Linda?”

  “He asked where Virgil lived. And I told him I didn’t know, and that’s the truth.”

  “Wow.” I blew out my breath in relief.

  “Well, you never have given me your address there,” she said reproachfully. “I thought this awful guy was going to kill me when I told him I didn’t know. Look at the situation you put me in, just because you’re jealous and afraid to give me Virgil’s address.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s true. You’re afraid Virgil might show some interest in me.” Linda was feeling better; she was coming back to her fanciful self. “I have no interest in him, for your information. I promised myself long ago I would never involve myself with a guy who wasn’t a money-maker.”

  “Yes, Linda,” I said. Being rich was another of Linda’s fantasies, struck off from her mother’s dream of a villa on the Riviera.

  “Being with a rich man is just as much fun as being with a poor one.”

  “Yes, Linda.” I was thinking what could I do now about Ray Hack.

  “This awful man,” Linda said, remembering him: “have you ever noticed the bulge in his pants? He’s huge. When he was standing right here, on the exact spot I’m standing on now, I had the feeling that any moment he’d attack me.”

  “Yes, Linda.” I watched her begin to parade. Off came the blouse. Linda was her old self again.

  “This sort of man has a special look in his eyes. Know what I mean? I discussed it only today with a young man I met. He’s a junior executive, actually. I forget the name of his company, but he’s going up in it. He said a girl can easily spot a sex maniac if she knows what to look for.”

  “Yes, Linda.”

  “And I agreed with him.” She was parading in panties then. In some ways I must admit that her body’s better than mine. “And then do you know what he did? He asked me out tomorrow and I’m going. I don’t care if Jack does find out. This young executive, now here’s someone who can interest me. No college professors for me, thank you. He said a man of that sort wears his sex life on his face if a girl is smart enough to spot it.”

  “Yes, Linda.” I moved over to the window and was staring down through the curtains at the street. No one was there that I could see. But what about in the shadows?

  “Are you looking for that prowler? I haven’t seen him tonight. This young executive—”

  “Linda?”

  “Yes?” She swung around, her heavy but well-shaped breasts swaying.

  “Put that chain on the door.”

  *

  The next morning, when Linda had left, I called Mr. Smith. “Smith,” I said, “this is getting to be a real bad scene,” and I told him that Ray Hack had come to the apartment and intimidated my roommate. “He’s getting impatient, and he’s going to find Virgil and I’ve got to know what you’re going to do about it.”

  “Well, obviously there’s nothing I can do about it. Unless—until—”

  “Until he tries to kill Virgil.”

  “He would hardly go that far.”

  “Oh, but he would.”

  “Miss Benton, I really doubt—”

  “You doubt, you speculate, you theorize,” I barked into the phone, “but don’t forget, I’ve talked to him. I’m following a woman’s intuition. For Ray Hack the whole world is full of slants!”

  “What?”

  “Never mind that. What are you going to do about this scene? I mean, it’s your creation, isn’t it?”

  “You mustn’t worry, Miss Benton.”

  “Know what I say to that, Mr. Smith? Fuck you!”

  And I slammed the phone down. I was, like, really scared. I got dressed, using fingers that had all the feeling of being wrapped in cotton. The thing was, I had to see Virgil immediately. So I had blown my cool. So what? I had to be with him no matter what happened.

  The day was hotter than hell, and by the time I reached Virgil’s I was sweating from every pore. On the way I had made a few feeble attempts at diversion—I mean, zigzagging and doubling back and all—but I wondered, as I climbed the stairs to his place, if I had been careful enough. I was, like, in a wild bag, as though I were on Speed, pot, and acid all at once.

  I paused for a moment on the stairway. While pretending to examine fruit on a grocery stand, had I really got a glimpse of a familiar figure slipping around the corner? Bull neck and little ears? Was my imagination playing tricks? Was I learning bad habits from Linda?

  Virgil was not expecting me, because it had been tacitly agreed that he would see Henry alone. “I couldn’t help coming,” I chattered, feeling cold all over even though the apartment was as hot as an oven. “I haven’t been straight with you,” I said, and I poured out the story of Ray Hack. I confessed to plotting with Mr. Smith. “I thought Smith would protect you if I cooperated, only now I’m not sure of him at all.”

  Virgil got me a glass of wine, which I immediately gulped down. He sat beside me on the couch and put his arm comfortingly around my shoulder. “Smith’s had a lot of experience using people. You did nothing wrong.”

  I kissed Virgil and wanted to do more, wanted to love him as if our lives depended upon it, but the bell rang. When Virgil answered the door, Henry stood there, tall and massive, clutching a thick brown manila folder.

  *

  He wore jeans and a brilliant red shirt which sort of dramatized his dark, majestic face. Beautiful. When he saw me, however, Henry scowled. I told them I would make coffee, which kind of established my right to be there. From the kitchen I could see the two men sitting at the dining table. One was like a mountain, the other like a slim tree. Between them lay the yellowed pages of the manuscript, and I could understand Virgil’s feelings as he sat there staring at it. I mean, it actually existed: it was real, and not simply a weird collection of microfilm strips. Virgil fingered the edges of the yellowed pages, then looked at the first one.

  “Where’s the introduction?” he asked Henry. “I mean Don’s introduction.”

  “So you know.”

  “Yes.”

  I couldn’t look at them, I was so tense. I stared down at the sink or glanced at the brown liquid pumping up in the coffeepot. I couldn’t look at them.

  “So you know a lot.”

  “I do, Henry. For example, you kept that movie date with Don. On Don’s calendar he had written done, meaning he had kept the appointment. Then at the Chinese restaurant you said you hadn’t seen him in weeks. I never understood the contradiction, until recently.”

  “Okay, I’ll be straight with you, brother. I saw him, all right. But instead of the movie, we went to a bar and rapped. He’d been drinking earlier with Martin and he was drunk, so he told me everything. When I heard about Naha, I knew I had to have it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because only a black man could interpret it. Know what I mean? Whitey couldn’t do justice to it. I asked him could I work on it, make an article of it, and he promised to consider the idea.”

  “But he was drunk.”

  “Stoned.”

  “And on Sunday, when you went to his place to talk about it, he had changed his mind?”

  “He kept jiving, kept saying the manuscript was important, as if anything important couldn’t be entrusted to a nigger.”

  “He wouldn’t have said that.”

  “But he was thinking it. You know it, Brother.”

  “Not him,” Virgil said. “He simply wanted to work with a manuscript he had gone to considerable trouble and expense—that counted with Don—to get hold of.”

  “Generous Mr. Charlie—”

  “But it was his, Henry.”

  “Ours! I told him, ‘Look, let me have just that section on Naha—I’ll acknowledge the debt, and you do the rest—but let me do that, let me writ
e that up,’ and he said it belonged together, as a whole, and I said, ‘Man, if you got any heart, let me do that; I’ll pay for it, and not only in an academic acknowledgement. I’ll pay money. By God, I’ll pay you what you want, and if I don’t have enough money now, I’ll get it; I’ll work for it.’ And he sits there smiling. He says, ‘I like you, Henry, and Virgil believes in you, in your talent.’ That paternalistic jive—you know, that Kentucky Colonel tone—and I could feel something filling up inside me and I tried holding it back. But he keeps jiving about planning the project ever since Japan and about its importance, about the diplomatic consequences—”

  “He meant Perry’s meeting with the Russians?” Virgil put in.

  “What does it matter, man? I didn’t ask. I was sitting there feeling this thing filling me up and I couldn’t control it and I knew I ought to get out of there and think awhile and talk later, but I just couldn’t move out of that chair. He goes on smiling and telling me I’m a great guy, but this thing was his and not mine, even though the man at Naha was my color and died for it! And I just waited too long, sitting there while he jived in that tone, and all of a sudden I was doing it, 1 was leaning over and hitting him. He went off the chair, and when he got up I saw these blue eyes wide open and white fear in his face, and I couldn’t help it, I went after him, going for that white fear, and this time I gave him a chop with every thing behind it. A whole life behind it.”

  I waited, but they were silent in there, and only the bounce of coffee against the glass top of the pot was audible. I turned from the sink and glanced into the room. Henry was sitting there staring at his hands. So I turned off the coffee and took it and cups to the table. Henry didn’t even look at me. Then Virgil started talking in a low, calm voice. “You found the manuscript, washed out the coffee cup you’d used, and got out of there. Later, when you heard we were playing detective and Judy said we had some evidence, you came here and searched.” Henry sat there staring at his huge hands. “You worried about a second or a duplicate copy,” Virgil continued, and when Henry nodded, he went on. “If Don had given anyone such a copy, he had probably given it to me. That’s what you figured. When you found nothing here, then all you had to do was wait a few weeks, just to make sure a copy didn’t turn up elsewhere, and then find someone who would swear to having owned the manuscript. The Feeler was perfect.”