This may sound snobbish, though it isn’t; I’m not a native of the United States, but a West Indian, and I must take solace from my philosophy so long as I can earn my livelihood in this country. The rebellion is all out of me, for I know that it is up to me, and that this is the only civilization in the world where a man’s color makes a difference, other matters being regarded as equal. You must admit that there’s food for thought, not necessarily bitter, in the fact that in London I may sit in open lodge with a premier of Great Britain, and be entertained in the home of a distinguished novelist, while here in the United States, which fought four years for a certain principle, I am often treated with an air of personal condescension by the gentleman who sweeps out my dressing room, or the gentleman whose duty it is to turn the spot light on me, if the stage directions call upon him to do.
BERT WILLIAMS
But after Bert diplomatically reminds an unusually quiet George of the reality of the situation as he sees it, he asks his silent friend to help him figure out another question. George, you ever ask yourself why a white man would want to blacken his face with cork, dress down a point or two beneath the lowest of his race, and jig and dance around and pretend he’s a colored man? I mean, try and walk like him, talk like him, make gestures, laugh, strike poses, behave just like how he imagines a colored man does. The fact is they do not like us, George, and they choose not to eat, drink, or live with colored folks, yet they must have some part of themselves that wants to be like us. But not like us truly, but some approximation of us; a strange creature of boundless appetite that they imagine to be us. Tell me, George, why do they want to be like us? But George is still thinking about something else.
The dressing room is where I dress, but it is also the place where I can set my true self to one side and put on the clothes and mind of another. A man I think I know, but despite what I tell George when the two of us are alone, the more I look at the modern world, the fewer of these men I discern. But the audience expects to see this man, and each night in my dressing room I have to find him, breathe life into him, make him walk, and talk, and grin. A wistful, sad, helpless man, but there is no doubt that the audience recognizes him. I slide one finger into the jar and work up a countenance that suggests the triumph of black velvet over my own light ebony. In my dressing room night will triumph over day. I watch my skin become black. But this is not me. Surely the audience understands this. This is simply a person that I have discovered, a person the audience claims to recognize.
And finally George speaks, but he is careful to keep his urgent voice low. Listen to me, Bert, the so-called character that you’re playing is a damn-fool creature who has been created by the white man, and this “smoke” fixes us in their minds as helpless failures. But times have changed now and we should no longer be standing up in front of the white man and delivering simplistic stories with the right amount of darky naivete. I mean, let me ask you, how many of our own people are truly happy to just eat watermelon, or fall over on their faces, or mispronounce the English language? Time to put the cork to one side, Bert. White people are laughing at you, and colored folks in the audience are only laughing to keep from crying. Who is this darky that you give them, Bert? This fool who is easily duped into idiotic schemes, with his gross stories, and jokes on himself? Who is this man whose laziness is such that he only stirs to life when somebody mentions a ghost? This pork-eating, chicken-loving, fat-lipped, big-bellied lover of food who wants to hear music that’s either melancholy, or something that he can jig to with big-foot, clumsy dancing. I told you already, not now, Bert. Not in the twentieth century. You gotta leave that man behind where he belongs, and it don’t matter a damn how much you want to talk about what you do as art, I’m telling you, please cut that colored fool loose.
George announces to the press that Abyssinia will finally open in New York City on February 20, 1906. He informs them that it will be a musical play in four scenes set in Addis Ababa, in Abyssinia, featuring a cast of one hundred performers, spectacu lar lighting effects, elegant costumes, a market scene, a waterfall, and live animals. Bert Williams will play Jasmine Jenkins and George Walker will play Rastus Johnson. An excited George explains that the drama concerns the pair of them escorting a group of colored Americans back to the barbaric splendor of Africa, where they encounter both adventure and danger in a plot that explores the theme of mistaken identity. However, when the production finally opens George is outraged at the critics’ opinion that the production is too long, and they declare that in large part the whole spectacle is pretentious and overblown, and that the live animals steal what is effectively little more than a pageant. Eventually, after thirty-one performances, their disappointed producer claims bankruptcy and the show, being far too expensive to maintain, quickly closes. Sadly, Abyssinia fails to be the artistic and creative breakthrough that George, in particular, so desperately craves, but what aggravates him the most is the claim of the vast majority of the so-called critics that Abyssinia’s greatest failure is that it contains far too little of the colored coon Mr. Bert Williams presenting his celebrated corkface routines.
Aida tries to speak with Lottie, but the more tight-lipped Lottie becomes, the more Aida opens up until Aida eventually tells her what she realizes her friend probably already knows. George and the wild white girl. She knows about this, doesn’t she? Lottie nods slowly, understanding that she will have to confess, otherwise the conversation can go no further. Has Lottie ever met the woman with George? Lottie shakes her head and wonders if Aida has forgotten that she has done what Bert wished and retired from the stage. Lottie’s theatrical circle is shrinking. Has Lottie ever spoken to the woman? Again she shakes her head. The two colored women fall silent. Aida seldom walks the few blocks to visit with her, so when Lottie opened the door and saw the clearly sleep-deprived Aida standing before her she knew that something serious was troubling her friend. Aida has chosen her time well for the house is quiet and Lottie is alone. Does Bert know about the woman? To this Lottie can honestly answer that she does not know. Has Bert said anything to her about George? There is no reason for her to admit that conversations between herself and Bert are probably even less satisfactory than those between Aida and George. There is no need for her to divulge that she long ago learned not to probe the closed mind of her strange second husband. No, Bert has said nothing to her about George. He has said nothing to her about anything. He keeps himself to himself. She smiles at Aida, whose hurt is both public and private, but she has no advice to offer the poor woman, who, luckily, does not appear to be asking for any. So she decides to offer Aida some tea, and Aida nods and then, remembering her manners, she smiles.
Aida has been circling the Harlem streets for two hours, peering intently through the windows of various bars and cafés, loitering outside of the barbershops, even looking in the churches, but he is nowhere to be found. She is careful to make sure that her body language does not suggest that she is harboring any unease, but it is not until she begins to pass the same people for a second, and then a third time, their puzzled faces eloquent, that she eventually realizes that it is time for her to go home and wait in the privacy of their apartment.
Alone in bed, with the drapes drawn back. The unbearable lucidity of insomnia descends upon Aida. As night reaches, and then passes, its perfect pitch, she watches the slow light begin to bleed through the black; then through the blue-black; and then finally flood the sky. A new day.
. . .
Lottie feels guilty, for she failed to offer her friend any form of comfort or support. She has always known Aida to be a confident, unbreakable woman, and up until this moment her role has been to step aside and let Aida become Aida, and not interfere with her friend’s desire for attention, and her quest for fame. But something has gone terribly wrong. Shortly before dawn, before daylight streaks the sky, Lottie rolls from her empty bed and proceeds to put on her robe.
Tonight Metheney’s is quiet and he sits in his corner, after his performance, after his
day is done. He thought about buying flowers, or some chocolates, a gift of some kind to rekindle the bond between himself and his wife, but unable to decide exactly what he should purchase, he chooses, in the end, to buy nothing. These days Mother looks at his books the way he imagines a jealous wife looks at another woman. It might be easier if she could find the words and say something to him, but so far she has chosen to remain silent. George, on the other hand, continues both to talk and to agitate, and he has informed his partner that he intends to form a social organization of Negro entertainers; he has also spoken to Bob Cole and Ernest Hogan and to some of the other performers, but of late things have not been easy between Williams and Walker and their colleagues, who, jealous of the well-established prominence of the Williams and Walker team, have begun to question their talent and commitment to the race. In fact, since the closure of Abyssinia things have not always been easy between Williams and Walker. Clyde D places another drink before him, but as ever, he says nothing to Mr. Williams. The dreams have returned and he cannot sleep. Last night he once again chose to sleep on the sofa in his library, but the noise of traffic in the street was distracting and he found it difficult to rest. Scrape off the black. This strange phrase circling in his mind. Scrape off the black. And in the morning his wife entered the library with the newspaper in one hand and a robe tied tightly at the waist, and as she set down the newspaper she looked through her husband as though he was not present. He wanted to talk to her, but he understands that in order to do so he will have to travel west and then east and then south, and back to a place and to a time when he was not yet two people. The one pitying the other.
Under the chuckling water I can see nothing, I can hear nothing, and I can feel nothing. Except, of course, heat. I am warm and I feel the rush of hot blood pumping through my twice-married body. Eventually I lift my head clear out of the water, and narrow my eyes. A crazy wash of white everywhere, and steam. I feel dizzy, but these days I prefer peering at the world through half-open eyes.
The bathroom is full of strange people who stare at me. But how is this possible? I live here. Why are these people looking down at me as though I have carried out some act of which I ought to feel ashamed? No, I am not ashamed. Leave. Please leave my bathroom. All except my husband. Where is my husband? My father-in-law places a hand upon my arm. I know who he is, I am not stupid. I recognize my father-in-law for he is the only other man in my life, but he too must leave. Where is my husband? I feel my father-in-law’s grip tighten and I push him from me. His wife catches him before he tumbles to the ground. Where is my husband?
Are you all right, Mother? My husband leans over me. His face is gentle and kind, like it used to be when we sat in the small, concrete park in the dark shadow cast by the solitary tree. I can see that he cares, but I cannot speak. Bert, I know your heart is heavy with problems that you feel you cannot share with me. I understand. My poor husband. A new husband, different from Mr. Thompson, and the whole world appears to sit heavily on this sad man’s broad shoulders. Perhaps if he could see me in the water, perhaps if he could see me underneath the water, then he would understand that hot blood still pumps through my body, that I am still in his life. I have not left. I have gone nowhere. I swear this was not an attempt to drown myself, it was an accident. I can lift the world for him. I can lift the world for you, Bert. Perhaps if he saw me in the bathtub then he would come to bed at night. This is all I ask, that he begin again by sharing a bed with me at night.
I have no desire to be like Aida. I have no desire to discover myself dancing with increasing fury. Shamed, and finding life impossible and still so young. I wish to travel through life with my husband by my side. The two of us walking hand in hand and moving gently, but purposefully, toward my husband’s goals. This is all I wish for. This alone would satisfy me. Aida with dark circles under her eyes, abandoned on 132nd Street, undone by the whiteness of winter. Between us two husbands straying, one in mind, one in body, although it is unclear to me which is the greater betrayal. A long time since the photograph, the four of us, each in our own way excited, each in our own way consumed by nerves. Tension shooting through us like gunshots. I watched the man move them around. Hold it. And now this way and hold it. My handsome Bert. I cried the first time I saw him perform.
Shut the door, Lottie. Thank you. It helps keep out the cold. And you know you don’t have to stand on no ceremony with me. Take a seat, girl, and thank you for stopping by. And I’m glad you’re feeling better after fainting in the tub like that. Lottie, I see George at the show same as you do, but that’s about all for I don’t seem to be able to find him up here in Harlem. Seems like everybody else knows where to find him. I know, Marshall’s. But I hear that place ain’t what it used to be, and that it’s fixing to close down. It troubles me that he would be wasting his time down there. I’m sorry, I haven’t even offered you a drink. You sure? Things haven’t got to the stage where I don’t know how to entertain, but you must tell me if I ever get that way. If I ever get so bad that I lose my manners. Now that would be a sad situation, don’t you think? Well, if you’re sure. Did Bert talk to you about how things are? With George, I mean. You know it’s not in my nature to pry, but I’m just wondering if things are fine between himself and George. I got no reason to think otherwise, but I suppose the truth is I’m just looking for clues. Just looking for something to help me understand what’s become of my own life. I think George loves me, Lottie. No, that isn’t true. I know he loves me, but it just makes everything that much harder to understand. Why so bold? Why not creep around a little like most of them? Why does he have to do me like that, Lottie? What have I done to him to make him do me like that? No, you only just got here. No, please. Sit. Or maybe we can take a walk together? But don’t leave me just yet. You know, I got liquor if it’s liquor you’re needing. Lottie. What’s happening, Lottie?
Two o’clock in the afternoon and Aida is sitting in the window seat held spellbound by the winter storm. Outside the snow is still falling and the naked trees are standing to attention, and as the snowstorm strengthens in intensity it becomes more alluring. She watches the flakes buzzing wildly in the early afternoon light, and she notices passersby protecting their faces, scared of being cut by the whirling blades of sleet. She gently arches her neck and takes the morphine straight from the bottle, a smile on her face, the sound of a waterfall in her ears, and she looks forward to a new dawn. She has covered all the mirrors with drapes so that she can travel through what remains of this winter day without being seen.
George bursts into Metheney’s and rushes over to him. He looks up, and because his friend’s waistcoat is exactly level with his eyes he can see that it is uncharacteristically spotted with food. The rest of his costume is unmarked. Pants, jacket, cravat, spats, this is dapper George with his diamond rings and matching stickpins. This is the Bon Bon Buddy. George blocks what little light leaks through the begrimed windows. Bert gestures to his partner to sit down, but George remains standing with his mouth hanging imprudently half open. Something is wrong but he waits for George to unburden himself. He has no desire to force the issue in any way, but George simply stands and looks down at him and he sees the clouds beginning to roll behind his friend’s eyes. He reaches up and takes George’s clammy hand into his own.
He looks around the crowded and chaotic hospital waiting room and it occurs to him that it must always be like this. After all, people get sick without regard to the time of day or night. George has talked incessantly all the way to the hospital, but now, as they wait in the airless room, he seems to have become a little calmer. I guess the accident is my fault and I got to change. He looks at George, who leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees and then, cupping his hands, he drops his tired chin into the ten-fingered basket. I got to start looking out for my Aida, and I guess I don’t have much choice in the matter. Anything happens to her on account of me, then it’s just going to bring disgrace on all of us. Bert looks at his distressed partner and slowly
nods, and then he turns from his friend and listens as George begins to jabber idly to himself with his newly pronounced lisp.
Aida appears to be peaceful. She is draped in white with her eyes shut tightly against the electric light, and her thin arms on top of the hospital sheet and straight like two dark arrows. She looks like an angel, and George cannot take his eyes from her. The doctor encourages him to move forward, and so he pulls up a chair and sits and stares as though he is gazing upon his wife for the first time.
Alone at night, outside the hospital, Bert decides to walk home through the wintry streets, and under a sky that is choked with stars. From a fire escape, a few stories above his head, a huge chunk of ice plunges to the sidewalk and explodes in a constellation of crystal bullets. He stands frozen for a moment, his breath clouding in the frosty air, and then he continues on his route, carefully picking his way through the slush so that the melted snow does not climb up and into his shoes. He keeps the brim of his hat low, but glances at the street-lamp faces of those who hurry by at this midnight hour. Near the corner of Fifth Avenue he sees a single early daffodil laboring under the weight of this late snow and he looks around himself and then stoops to pluck it. He will give this to his wife, who he knows will be unable to find any sleep until her troubled husband returns home safely.
Bert sleeps next to his grateful wife. In the morning Mother brings an orange to the bed, and then the newspaper. She asks whether he thinks she ought to visit with Aida, but he assures her that Aida will be fine. George is attending to her. Mother’s mouth falls open, for she cannot disguise her surprise, but she says nothing. He opens the newspaper, but as soon as his wife leaves the room he rests it down.
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