Dancing In The Dark

by Caryl Phillips

  Since their return from England, both Bert and George have been discovering something nearly akin to a new city. Long Acre Square was now proudly styling itself Times Square, while a novel subway system from City Hall, in the south, all the way north to 145th Street was enabling New Yorkers of all stations of life to ride either above or beneath the earth. Colored citizens and performers continued to flood uptown to Harlem, and although life at Marshall’s wasn’t what it used to be, Jimmie Marshall was still committed to working out the life of his lease. The pair of them greet a visibly deflated proprietor, and then sit quietly by themselves in the far corner of the lounge. It is clear to all who look on that there is no desire on the part of either man for social small talk, and so despite their fame nobody approaches them. George speaks first. “If we have to go to court, then we go to court. I keep telling you, ain’t no way we can play at Columbus Circle, not after Broadway. It makes no damn sense.” Bert slowly fingers his cigarette. He takes a long draw, then exhales, all the while looking directly at his partner, and George waits patiently until his friend is good and ready to speak. “You know,” begins Bert, “if you don’t mind making our business public for all the world to see, then I guess you must go right ahead. But I’d rather we did this another way. A quieter way.” George leans back in his chair and sighs deeply, but he remains determined that there should be no dispute between the two of them. He watches as Bert jams his cigarette into the ashtray, the frustration of the action betraying his exterior calm. “Bert, if we gotta make public our drawers in order to get rid of this white fool, then that’s what we must do.” Bert watches his friend’s indignation rise. “Man, we’re just looking for a fair shake and we’re not his boys, not then and not now.” George pauses. “Especially not now.” Bert looks at his partner and then slowly nods his head as he reaches for another cigarette.

  George sits alone in the dark. The framed photograph on the mantelpiece of the living room seizes his attention, and he recalls the anxious white man who corralled together the four finely dressed colored entertainers for this promotional picture. The man barked instructions and tried to position the Negro dancers without actually touching any of them, but the more he worked with the chocolate dandies the clearer it became that all four of them were a trifle unsure of themselves. The man was used to people who were keen to strike poses that might satisfy him— snap quickly, one, two, then a third, head held high, hold it, a pose, recline the neck, drape the arm, that’s it, that’s it, good—but these colored dancers moved nervously around one another in his studio. The photograph continues to seize George’s attention. Ada is out rehearsing, and for the first time in many months George finds himself alone in their apartment. Just what did this man see as he peered through his lens? What did he actually witness before he ushered them out of his studio and then dipped their faces into a shallow trough of acid?

  George sits alone in the dark. Beyond this one photograph there are no images of him in their apartment. She does not keep any of him alone, nor does she treasure any of them together. This one photograph only. A beginning, but no story going forward. For the past three weeks Eva has not returned his messages. She was on the road out in the midwest, but he knows that she has now returned to New York City, yet she will not respond to his hand-delivered notes, nor will she take his calls. However, according to the gossipmongers, there are others who are keen to maintain company with sporting George Walker, who these days keeps the newspaper columnists busy with tales of his various enterprises. George stands and removes the photograph from the mantel-piece, and then he sits back on the sofa. Poor Ada will soon be home. A beginning, but no story going forward.

  Although I was too young to have ever met him, I had heard plenty of talk about Mr. George Walker. Apparently he was everything his song “Bon Bon Buddy” suggested, with his high silk hat, fine leather gloves, polished monocle, and malacca cane. The photographs make it clear why he boasted that no white man could ever wear his clothes for there was indeed an exuberant quality to his wardrobe. His physique, although small, was magnificently poised, and Mr. Walker clearly carried himself with a nobility that one generally associates with the more physically striking of the colored prizefighters. It was rumored that his was the first tan box coat on Broadway, and although during our interview Mr. Williams was not able to confirm this tale, my own suspicion was that there was probably some substance to this rumor. His cakewalk was, of course, peerless, and although there were many pretenders, both white and colored, Mr. George Walker was universally recognized as the master of this particular dance.

  When Ada returns home she discovers that George has already set forth on his evening adventures, and the framed photograph has been removed from the mantelpiece and is lying abandoned on the sofa. She takes off her coat and sits before the mirror and begins to comb out the kinks in her hair. Although he may betray her with a chorus line of impressionable girls, she has managed to convince herself that in every other way he remains faithful to her. But tonight this is no longer enough for Ada. She puts down the comb and picks up a pair of scissors. Having hurriedly removed the photograph from its ornate brass frame, she carefully slices the offending image into neat strips.

  They sit together in silence and wait for the clerk of the court to summon them back into the dimly lit courtroom so they can hear the verdict of the judge. Bert knows that he was right, for the business accounts of Williams and Walker have been made uncomfortably public. The deposition from their lawyer revealed that the American tour of In Dahomey, which followed hard on the heels of their success in England, turned out to be extremely profitable. Everywhere the cash register announced success, and these days they each earn upward of $40,000 a year. The judge gasped as he read out loud the details of their earning power, but George reassured his partner that their relative wealth should not prejudice the outcome. Their case does not concern money, it is related to their professional reputation, and all the arguments have been made on both sides. They sit together in silence and wait, and as they do so Bert steals a nervous glance at his resolute partner.

  Especially when set against the austere, and somewhat aloof Mr. Williams, it was clear that many regarded George Walker as little more than a bediamonded Lenox Avenue pimp for, among his many transgressions, it was said that the “chocolate drop” wore silk underwear at a time when most white Americans were still content to sport flannels. However, there was a deeply philosophical side to the man, and there was no doubt about his commitment to the negro race. A somewhat wistful Mr. Williams confirmed that it was in 1906 that his partner stated: “The one hope of the colored performer must be in making a radical departure from the old ‘darky’ style of singing and dancing … there is an artistic side to the black race, and if it could be properly developed on the stage, I believe the theatergoing public would profit much by it.”

  They sit together in silence and wait for the clerk of the court. If only there were some way to talk with Bert about his painful yearning for Eva. By doing so he might at least ease some of the burden from his own beleaguered person, but he senses his partner’s disapproval of this woman in particular and so he says nothing. Bert stares down at his loosely clasped hands, which rest awkwardly on his knees, and George continues to sit silently in his partner’s long shadow.

  …

  Lottie lives for the cherished moment in her sprawling day when she is able to secrete herself in the privacy of the bathroom. She closes in the door and perches on the edge of the enamel tub as the water chuckles from the faucets and the room fills with steam. She eases out of her robe and hangs it on the wooden hook inside the door and dips first one foot, and then the other, into the bathtub until she feels safe enough to slide herself down and under the surface of the water. She lies back and closes her eyes, all the while careful to keep her tightly coiled tufts of hair dry. She lies alone in the bathtub feeling beads of sweat emerge and then melt into her skin, seeing herself from above, imagining floating hair swimming out all
around her. Every day, by herself for half an hour, emptying her mind of uncertainties and worries, and then slowly stepping clear of the water and draping her body in a thick towel and regally padding her way to her room, where, now clear of the water, she feels like a fish incapable of breathing. And then again tomorrow. The locked door and the chuckling water.

  Lottie hopes that one night she might feel a cool tongue against her body, pulling lazy trails of saliva that will be massaged into her skin with the mouth and tongue working as one joyful unit, working slowly, slowly, fly-flicking tongue bruising her in the hollow of her neck don’t stop don’t yes breathe on me face down on me deeper and down hoping that she might wake up damp and exhausted and on the very edge of civilization bearing the gift of another person’s body.

  Her husband enters the bedroom and greets her with a counter-feit smile. He now refuses to take off his clothes in front of her. Mother, I’ll be back. He ambles toward the bathroom clutching an armful of nightclothes, but as he leaves she wonders why he has bothered to abandon his library and return to their bedroom if his performance is to include this insult. She waits, and then he returns, fully covered and ready for sleep, and she understands that once again she will be denied even the most perfunctory of conversations. He does not seem to care that for her it is never really sleep as she is forced to tolerate the high drone of his breathing and privately suffer the pain of a heart that has felt the excitement of her marriage collapse into something that is more demeaning than mere boredom.

  George sits in the leather armchair and listens to a pair of feet climbing stairs that he knows are crooked like unstraightened teeth, and then he hears the heavy sound of the lock turning in the door. Marshall has given her the spare key. She enters and stands before him, her cheeks overrouged, her legs slightly parted, her hands on her hips, her heavy scent hanging between them like a morning fog. To his eyes she is beautiful, a field of flowers that one might gaze upon from a fence, and he is happy for once again he is alone with her. He understands that she does not wish to hear his voice, and she cares little for his wit or his intelligence. He understands that she sees something else, but whatever it is that she sees he suspects that it is not George Walker. Eva pulls up her dress and fumbles for the top of her stockings. He watches and betrays interest. The second stocking is discarded and he stands and goes to her, his hands snaking down her sides before slipping around her so that he can clutch her back and pull her close to him. He inserts his fingers into the untamed mass of curls and pulls his hand like a rough comb and tugs her down onto a wooden chair so he can lean over and press himself into her and push firmly. He wrestles with her as her whole body arches and the words begin to fall from her lips yes Christ yes and he tries now to picture what they must look like, but she shudders and begins to talk to him George and in his mind Ada is nowhere to be found only Eva and as he races faster she begins now to moan at first softly George yes George more George, and a guilty George sees himself as Bert must see him but he can’t stop and why should he stop for he loves Eva and Eva loves him and now the tight high-pitched squeal in her throat yes George and a scream and his hand races to clamp her mouth but she bites and he cries in pain and she gasps and breathes quickly but her breath is soon stilled and frozen for the motion is becoming more frenzied and he pushes harder until everything breaks Christ yes yes and she kicks out and knocks over a small table and as he falls back she slides forward on the chair and her voluminous dress billows in the air and settles about her waist exposing her to his eyes in a way more shocking than the act they have just participated in and he closes his eyes and stands in an imaginary circle of shame knowing that he hangs foolishly, embarrassed by the evidence of his lack of self-control, recognizing that again she has seen what she wished to see and he has failed.

  Lying next to her he is filled with remorse. Ada, his wife. Dark star, dancer. Her small breasts are now no more than two stubborn buds that appear to be no longer either sensitive or inviting, and his stiff body stiffens further at her accidental touch, but he knows that her depressed soul has long ago learned to live with this hurt. Lying uncomfortably next to his wife he knows that in a few hours he will witness light filtering through the thin drapes as dawn breaks and the gloomy shadows will start inevitably to define themselves; first the wardrobe, then the chair, then the chest of drawers. Ada. Dark star by which he set a false course.

  Prejudice means that, of course, we can never fall in love or have a romance at the center of our Williams and Walker productions. It is all too easy for a colored show to offend a white audience so instead we pretend that we have no such emotions, and we are all guilty of this pretense, all of us. We accept that the remotest suspicion of a love story will condemn us to ridicule, but my husband, Mr. George Walker, he is trying to change this situation and I am right behind him in his efforts. There are ten thousand things we must think of every time we make a step and I am not sure that the public is fully aware of the limitations which other persons have made on us.

  AIDA WALKER

  Those shaded show girls are led by Aida Walker who used to be Ada Overton. Is the change from “Ady” to “I-e-da” meant to mark a musical advance by Williams and Walker from Negro melody to operatic music? Aida is a lively lightweight, impish, sprightly, and coquettish. Her complexion is half-tone and her hair hesitates between Marcel waves and Afric kinks.

  PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER

  KINKY

  Introduced by Aida Overton Walker

  Kinky, Kinky your skin is kind o’ inky,

  But I love you I do,

  Shady maybe but a perfect lady

  Ev’ry inch of you

  Kinky, Kinky there’s a little dinky hut

  Just built for us two,

  Tarry, marry and it’s there I’ll carry you my Kinky True.

  True.

  Having settled their dispute with their former promoter, George stands on a simple wooden chair and addresses the company. His gestures are neat and confident and he punches the air to make his points. Bert looks up at his partner and realizes that George is committed to every word that he is saying. George believes that they are about to change American theater. He believes that Abyssinia will be ten times the success that In Dahomey was. He believes that the day has come for the Negro to storm the American stage and stake his claim to a position of equality alongside his fellow white performers. He believes that Williams and Walker are giving America both culture and history, and the introduction of Americanized African songs is helping to begin this process of moving away from the old darky stereotype. Slouch Negroes are no longer acceptable. Hell, I ain’t nobody’s uncle, and I ain’t called Tom, cries his partner. George believes, but Bert wonders why George has chosen not to speak with him about his beliefs.

  All that was expected of a colored performer was singing and dancing and a little storytelling ….[ White per-formers] used to make themselves look as ridiculous as they could when portraying a “darky” character. In their “make up” they always had tremendously big red lips and their costumes were frightfully exaggerated. The one fatal result of this to the colored performers was that they imitated the white performers in their make-up as “darkies.” Nothing seemed more absurd than to see a colored man making himself ridiculous in order to portray himself.

  GEORGE WALKER

  George moves toward the conclusion of his speech now, taking them through their own history. Farewell, Tambo and Bones, white men with blackened faces acting out their fantasy of the colored race. Farewell, Jim Dandy, drunken creature of impulse, dancing wildly, putting on airs, racially incapable of self-control. Farewell the forlorn-looking indulgent black, with gross lips, and eyes and legs that move independently of each other. No more “Ethiopian Delineators,” “Sons of Momus,” or “Happy Plantation Darkies.” George insists that In Dahomey has carried them far beyond this, far beyond tambourines and banjos. George insists that they are performers, they are artists, and he expects them to carry themselves as suc
h, and behave with the dignity that is their calling at this point in their history. George insists that America expects.

  Later, when the company has dispersed, Bert resolves to remind his partner that indeed they are performers, but it is the paying audience, and not George’s mythical America, that expects. Mr. Booker T. Washington and Mr. W. E. B. DuBois exist for the purposes of agitation and revolution for the colored race, but Mr. Bert Williams and Mr. George Walker are entertainers, and they have to respect the conventions of the time or face the consequences. It is right and proper that Williams and Walker should develop progressive new material and new dances, but they should also remember that there are many others who are eager to take their place. Too much fighting talk is not going to help anybody, and have not things already improved? They are not doing buck and wing dances or breakdowns anymore, and they are slowly cakewalking their way into history with a talent that has been seared and trained for the stage. He will remind George that it is through hard work and application that Mr. Bert Williams has developed his timing to the point where he knows how to delay and hold back. The audience may think they are watching a powerless man but they are, in fact, watching art. We must understand how to make them feel safe, George. We must see the line. We cross that line, George, then who is going to pay to see us? They feel safe watching a supposedly powerless man playing an even more powerless thing. Williams and Walker have to respect this and simply strive to be the center of laughter, not the object of it. In time an alternative to the counterfeit colored culture that besmirches our stage will emerge, but only in time. Right now nobody will pay to see the colored man be himself, so we must tread carefully. This kind of talk is not going to help anybody, George. It’s just feel-good talk for the company, nothing more to it than that. Later, when the company has dispersed, Bert will remind his partner of the reality of the situation.