Dancing In The Dark

by Caryl Phillips

  The corner of 135th and Seventh Avenue is his crossroads. The gentility of the neighborhood remains intact in the architecture, but the spirit of quiet contemplation that is suggested by the graceful curves and stately pillars is being slowly undermined by the energy of the new people. He pays the man, and overtips him a little, for it is late and he is always grateful to a driver who will come so far north when it is unlikely that he will be fortunate enough to find a fare to accompany him back south. He can see number 2309 with its short steep flight of steps leading up to the door. The narrow four-storey property is pinned between identical others, and is distinguishable only by the quality of the drapes that hang in the windows. This short row suggests something not quite grand, but something that is clearly beyond the ordinary, but he will not enter just yet, for his wife will still be at Marshall’s, and he has yet to acquaint himself with the procedure of how to walk comfortably into an empty house. He stands and looks at number 2309, and then decides that rather than aimlessly wander the streets on his aching feet he will take a drink in Metheney’s and have himself a little private contemplation. Mother will understand why her dispirited “Jonah Man” is reluctant to enter the house in its gloomy state, especially as he has just left a dark theater, and she will have no objections to his slipping inside Metheney’s and making himself at home.

  A silk-tongued George suggests to Ada that she looks tired and perhaps she ought to leave Marshall’s and go home. Ada turns and smiles, and she announces to those in earshot that she has a headache and that it is probably time for her to leave, but she has a tight feeling in her chest that her colleagues suspect this to be untrue. Number 107 West 132nd Street is a handsome row house just off Sixth Avenue that is divided into apartments, with a tasteful flight of steps that lead to an elegant wooden door. Ada fishes carefully in her bag for her key, and even though she is far beyond people’s eyes she tries to maintain a ladylike dignity. But her George has humiliated her again, although he always does so with the utmost charm. Before she left Marshall’s he whispered to her that he had a chill and she should set a fire and warm up the apartment. He then informed her that when the drinking and carousing had died down a little he still had some business to conduct with Mr. Jesse Shipp and with the composers, Will Cook and Paul Dunbar, for there were a few numbers that needed touching up ahead of tomorrow night’s show, and with rehearsal time being severely limited they would need to get their work started now. She had smiled at George, and having said good-bye to everybody she reassured her husband that she would have no trouble getting back by herself. “You take your time,” were her final words. Lottie had begged Ada to let her accompany her on the journey back north, but Ada was a proud woman. She told Lottie to go back inside and enjoy herself. Everything would be fine. Once Ada found the key to the apartment, and opened the door and passed inside, she lit a fire and watched in silent fascination as the flames rose. She listened to the wood snapping and breaking loudly under the pressure of the heat. Then Ada looked up and peered out the window and into the empty street, and she caught herself reflected in the glass in this foolish repose and laughed out loud at her stupidity for she understood that once again she was unconsciously hoarding these slights like cards to be dealt on some future occasion, but she already understood that in order for her marriage to work she would have to ignore the pain of her husband’s indiscretions and move on. Ada returned her gaze to the blazing fire, each flame describing a singular dance.

  Bob Cole and Ernest Hogan stand by the bar and watch the In Dahomey company making their noise and swilling their drinks. Although the two colored veterans have not as yet seen the show, they have heard a good portion of what Cook and Dunbar have composed, for the two men tried out their new songs in Marshall’s Lounge. As for the “business” part of the play, well everybody knows that these things are pretty much standard. A little verbal play, some spectacle, plenty of dance, a dash of disharmony, some vestige of tension, and that more or less covers everything. There have been Negro musical comedies before and so, the enviable Broadway location aside, what could be new? However, Cole and Hogan worry, for a success for one does not mean a success for all. The New York theatrical producers are notoriously fickle in their tastes, and they generally like to pocket just one colored man at a time, a man who they believe they can safely rely upon and promote, and George Walker is besporting himself as though he believes that he is that man, running his mouth off to Mr. Jesse Shipp and driving home his points with an erect forefinger. The small dark dandy from Kansas seems to have grown six inches as the evening has progressed, and Bob Cole and Ernest Hogan stand by the bar and order another drink without turning their heads to face the barman. They look straight ahead at the revelry, each man fully understanding what the other is thinking.

  Leaving the Rockies behind at dawn, and setting out now across the vast expanse of the plains. He looks at the sun rising in the east and wonders if he should try to find some sleep. All night he has sat bolt upright and awake while his wife has slept peacefully on the noisy train, but his attention is now seized by the dazzling morning display of golden sunlight beginning to flood the prairie, while far off on the horizon there is a sudden flash of color, like a bird turning wing. It seems a whole lifetime ago that he left Florida and cut a swath across this continent from east to west on a ship with his wife and eleven-year-old son. Now here he is charging back across a land that is wild with large animals and dangerous men, but he feels safe on this train, watching the shifting landscapes of the huge country unfold before his eyes. How different from the small, economically impoverished island that he once called home. Riverside, California, has provided him with a roof and the possibility of making a decent living, but now he is reluctantly quarrying his way to the east coast to see the son that he has not seen in nearly ten years. His wife keeps their boy’s few letters safely tucked away in a heavy book, and she often consults the yellowing sheets, running her finger along the words as she reads and rereads, trying to memorize the sentences as though they are the comforting words to a vaguely familiar song. However, it disappoints them both that as yet their secretive son has failed to send them an up-to-date portrait of either himself or his bride, their daughter-in-law, and they both worry that the gap that has grown up between them during this past decade may yet prove to be as wide and unbridgeable as the country that they are now traveling across.

  I’M A JONAH MAN

  (Lyrics and Music by Alex. Rogers)

  My hard luck started when I was born, leas’ so the old folks say.

  Dat same hard luck been my bes’ fren’ up to dis very day.

  When I was young my mamma’s fren’s to find a name they tried.

  They named me after Papa and the same day Papa died.

  For I’m a Jonah,

  I’m an unlucky man.

  My family for many years would look on me and then shed tears.

  Why am I dis Jonah I sho’ can’t understand,

  But I’m a good substantial full-fledged real first-class Jonah man.

  A fren’ of mine gave me a six-month meal ticket one day.

  He said, “It won’t do me no good, I’ve got to go away.”

  I thanked him as my heart wid joy and gratitude did bound.

  But when I reach’d the restaurant the place had just burn’d down.

  For I’m a Jonah,

  I’m an unlucky man.

  It sounds just like that old, old tale,

  But sometimes I feel like a whale.

  Why am I dis Jonah I sho’ can’t understand,

  But I’m a good substantial full-fledged real first-class Jonah man.

  My brother once walk’d down the street and fell into a coal hole.

  He sued the man that owned the place and got ten thousand cold.

  I figured this was easy so I jump’d in the same coal hole.

  Broke both my legs and the judge gave me one year for stealin’ coal.

  For I’m a Jonah,

  I�
�m an unlucky man.

  If it rain’d down soup from morn till dark,

  Instead of a spoon I’d have a fork.

  Why am I dis Jonah I sho’ can’t understand,

  But I’m a good substantial full-fledged real first-class Jonah man.

  At the darkest point of the night he wakes suddenly with a dry throat and a vague tapping in his head. A shaft of moonlight stripes the bed and for a moment he studies the interplay of light and shadow before deciding what to do. He knows that it will take him some time before he becomes accustomed to living uptown, above the park in Harlem, but he understands that the woman next to him has made the right decision. Slowly he peels back the sheet and eases himself out of the bed and down onto the bare floorboards. The new carpet has yet to arrive. He stretches and then pushes his aching feet into a pair of slippers that have been deliberately placed beside the bed for this very purpose. Once he reaches the kitchen he nimbly swallows the first glass of water, then he takes his time with the second. He leaves the kitchen and wanders into the drawing room and sits on the sofa. From here he can look out at Seventh Avenue and relish the solitude of a windy night whose peace is broken only by the odd carriage that clips by, or a passing stranger hurrying his way home after an illicit assignation. He draws his feet up and lies back, glass still in hand, and then he reaches over and gingerly places the glass down on the floor beside him. It is light when he opens his eyes, and daylight is streaming through the window and laying a dappled map on the floor. Somebody has placed a blanket over him.

  . . .

  She stands over him and clutches the blanket to her chest. She has never really spoken to her sleeping husband about Florence, but she has expressed regret that her three nieces are growing up with neither a mother nor a father, their only relative being an aunt who they don’t know. And he has listened to her, and encouraged her to bring the girls from East St. Louis to New York City, where they might have something akin to family life, but she knows that despite his protestations this is not what her husband really desires, for family life would be a distraction from his work. She carefully places the blanket over him and then she turns and leaves the drawing room. She had long ago convinced herself that to be touched was not that important, and she had imagined, as was the case with Mr. Sam Thompson, that once they were married he would choose not to press any serious claim upon her body. And being a gentleman, Mr. Williams has chosen not to do so.

  He sits in nigger heaven and looks down at his West Indian son. At first he does not recognize him, and then, when he does, his stomach moves. This bewildered creature with a kinky wig, long ill-fitting white gloves, a shabby dress suit, oversized shoes, a battered top hat, sleeves and trousers that are too short, a mouth exaggerated by paint, this real funny nigger is his son? This coon with big eyeball-poppin’ eyes is his child? He now understands why the boy has suggested that his wife stay at home and recuperate from the seemingly endless train journey. What has happened to his Bert? His Bahamian son who would sit patiently with him for hours and study the manner in which chickens threw dust behind them with their webbed feet. Father and son were inseparable. And then he brought the boy to Florida, and then on to California, in the hope that his child might achieve an education in the powerful country to the north. But this is not his son. This Shylock. This grotesque simpleton shuffling about the stage who seems to be forever trapped in foolish predicaments. This buffoon. This nigger.

  RAREBACK What in the world did you ask all those questions for?

  SHYLOCK What’s the use of being a detective if you can’t ask questions even if you do know it won’t do no good?

  RAREBACK Well, Sherry, we’ll have to keep our bluff anyway, so we’ll go down to Gatorville, Florida, make old man Lightfoot think we are looking for the box he lost, and if we’re lucky, we may get a chance to get to Dahomey with this emigration society.

  SHYLOCK Say, man, have you got any idea how fast you’se carrying me through life? Ten minutes ago I was a soldier in the Salvation Army. Five minutes after that I’m a detective, and now you want me to be an emigrant.

  RAREBACK (laughing) Stick to me and after we’re in Dahomey six months, if you like it, I’ll buy it for you. I’ll tell the king over there that I’m a surveyor, and you’re a contractor. If he asks for a recommendation, I’ll tell him to go over to New York City and take a look at Broadway—it’s the best job the firm ever did, and if he don’t mind, we’ll build him a Broadway in the jungle.

  At the curtain call, with applause thundering in his ears, Bert looks straight out at the orchestra stalls and bows deeply. He gracefully receives the noisy evidence of their approval. However, as he straightens up at the waist he realizes that his heart is heavy with shame, and try as he might he cannot bring himself to look up and acknowledge his father. Upstairs in nigger heaven.

  Act Two

  (1903–1911)

  He remembers the tall eleven-year-old boy whose father insisted that he still wear short pants, and who stared at the swath of foam that the ship was cutting into the tranquil waters of the Pacific Ocean as it edged a slow passage along the far coast of this new country. Above him the wind charged between the clouds, creating space for the lines of migrating birds who were returning north to where it was still cold and where snow clung stubbornly to the trees. The birds would soon realize their mistake. Back then young Bert discovered that he had no fondness for ocean voyages, and all these years later he remains uncomfortable when presented with only a watery horizon. These days he spends the greater part of his time downstairs in his cabin reading his well-thumbed copy of John Ogilby’s Africa, and his wife is content to sit with him and minister to his needs. Elsewhere on the ship, the members of the Williams and Walker organization seem to be raucously enjoying themselves for he can occasionally hear their revelry, but he prefers some measure of detachment. His wife has assured him that his company will not interpret his absence as a sign of either distance or aloofness, and that they will understand that he needs to rest, and so, during this saltwater crossing to England, he has seldom ventured out on deck. Handsome meals of various meats and vegetables are brought to his cabin on a silver tray, and sometimes, when the moon is bright and the ocean is unruffled, he and Mother will saunter upstairs, and cautiously slipping her arm through his, Mother will anchor herself to her husband and together they will promenade on deck. The white passengers know exactly who he is and they nod as the colored couple stroll by. After all, he is a man who is leading his own theatrical company—a man who has performed fifty-three times on Broadway.

  Later, when alone in his cabin with his slumbering wife, he listens to the intoxicating rhythm of the sea. His toes stir for there is music in the light babbling of the swell as it laps against the hull of the vessel. He and his fifty so-called elite of coon performers have set out on a novel voyage for England, where Williams and Walker will present In Dahomey in the West End of London, and then tour the country with the production. Williams and Walker are doing well, and Bert has moved his parents into their own place and done everything he can to ensure that they feel settled in New York City, and he has made it clear to them that they must stay for as long as they wish. Relations between himself and his father remain somewhat strained, but neither one of them has found a way to address the troubling issue of the son’s choice of career. Embarrassment hovers, like an unwelcome visitor, between the pair of them, but nevertheless the son has bought his father a barbershop business on Seventh Avenue, only a few doors from his own home, and to begin with he would occasionally wander by the parlor for a trim and shave. Having taken up a seat in the waiting area he would look proudly at his father’s hands as they skillfully controlled both scissors and razor, and then it would be his turn to ease his way into the big leather armchair and sit quietly as his father pumped the metal lever with his foot and adjusted the seat downward. Having done so, the older man would tip the chair back, only slightly, but just enough so that the son felt helpless, and then he would produc
e his special pearl-handled razor. For a second the son’s eyes might meet those of the father and the doubt would return. Although neither of them had ever acknowledged the source of the discontent that now existed between them, the son understood that it was probably he who should broach the uncomfortable subject, but by the time he was ready to do so it was generally too late, for his pop’s slick hands would already be at work around the chin and neck, and the nature of the procedure meant that conversation was now impossible. However, whatever frustration his father was suffering from seemed to be safely locked away inside of him, and if silence was the price to be paid for the existence of a perplexing, but loving, peace between them, then the son was prepared to endure silence. Bert looks at his wife, who despite the gentle movement of the ship continues to sleep tranquilly with a hat fastened tightly to her head. He lights a cigarette and reopens his Ogilby, but he notices that his toes continue to dance to the music of the sea and it disappoints him that he appears to be helpless to arrest the nigger in him.