Having eaten the orange, he climbs from the bed, gets dressed, and walks the few blocks through the soot-blackened snow down to George and Aida’s place, where he finds his partner sitting alone and smoking a cigar. George greets him warmly and then announces that he must soon leave for he has to go back to the hospital and visit his wife. He stutters as he reminds Bert what a fine dancer Aida is, and how she is the real star of the company. He asks Bert what he thinks of her number “I’ll Keep a Warm Spot in My Heart for You,” telling him that it was undoubtedly the high point in Abyssinia and that maybe in the future they ought to feature Aida and her dancers more prominently. Didn’t she put the dance numbers together better than anything in a Cole and Johnson show, better than anything Hogan had ever done? “Menelik’s Tribute to Queen Tai Ta,” “The Dance of the Falasha Maids,” and “The Dance of the Amhara Maids.” Who had ever seen choreography like it? George talks, and Bert listens for George likes to talk. George also likes to be right more than any man he has ever met, but he is not right about Aida. She is not the star of the show, nor does she need to be featured more prominently. Aida simply needs a husband, that is all. If she had a husband, then everything would be all right, and good things might well follow from this. But Aida is lying alone in a hospital room while a guilt-burdened George smokes a cigar and talks incessantly to his partner.
George lights another cigar. He stands now and begins to pace back and forth by the window. He insists that their new show, Bandana Land, will be decidedly different, something their public has never seen before. An impatient George stubs out the newly lit cigar, and then he speaks quietly. But let me get this clear, you’re saying that because white folks pay to see us we got to please them, right? Bert nods, for he knows that this is the truth, and although he does not like this fact it nonetheless remains a fact. George takes a seat opposite his partner. George appears to have forgotten that his wife is lying alone in a hospital bed and he is supposed to be visiting with her. But I’m tired of pleasing white folks, Bert. I’m tired and beat. There is a strange lisp to George’s tongue. Bert, a man can kill himself trying to please white folks.
—Your wife getting strong again, honey? I hear she’s the star of the new show?
—I don’t know about star.
—You getting good early notices, George?
—From you?
—You better save your strength with all that talking if you’re looking for good notices from me.
—I hear Jimmie’s soon going to close down the hotel.
—Well, Eva’ll find some other place for us to play. This ain’t the only joint in town.
—I guess not.
—What’s the matter, you don’t want to play no more, is that it? You feeling guilty, George?
—I ain’t feeling no guilt.
—Well don’t you think you should?
—Whose side are you on here?
—You better change that tone, Mr. High and Mighty George
Walker. That ain’t no way to treat a lady, now is it? Well, is it?
—Eva.
—I can hear you. You fixing to end things between us, George? After all this time?
—Eva, she’s not doing so well.
—Now, that’s not what I asked you, George Walker. If Jimmie closes down the hotel it just means that we don’t have a roost at this flophouse, but there’s plenty of other places. Damn, we can even buy a place, now wouldn’t that be swell? A furnished place, maybe up in Harlem …
—No.
—No? George, you better get whatever it is that’s on your mind out into the open before I lose my patience with you. What’s the matter with you? You listening to me, George Walker?
Gentlemen of the Thirteen Club—I have seen in the daily press an announcement of a dinner to take place at the Harlem Casino Café this evening the 13th of February, 1908, [at] which time representatives of the Hebrew race, the Japanese race, the Italian race, and the Irish race will speak on the subject, “Is Race Prejudice a Form of Superstition?” Gentlemen, please explain how it came to pass that your learned society failed to invite a representative of my race to speak at your dinner. Is it possible that you have members who are seeking to emancipate themselves from superstition and yet they fail to be broad[-minded] enough to ask a man of African blood in his veins to be present and to take part in your deliberations? … Gentlemen, please do not misunderstand me in the least. I am not a race agitator, and do not claim to thoroughly understand the questions with which your society deals. Williams and Walker seek to make people happy by giving them a clean-cut show, composed of and acted entirely by members of the African race.
GEORGE WALKER
She talks endlessly, but her tirade is really a series of suggestions and complaints loosely strung together and punctuated with gestures, some decent, the remainder an unsubtle appeal to his baser instincts. She insists that men have tried to use her before, but they have failed for she is “hotter than Tabasco.” She laughs out loud, but George starts in and explains to her that these things run their course, and he can’t live with the thought of bringing disgrace on his race should anything happen to Aida, but Eva isn’t prepared to listen. She stomps around the room, tossing back her head like a petulant pony, running her hands through her untamed hair, and spitting out her foul words and kicking the furniture. By the time she finally decides to leave he has long stopped listening to her. The slamming of the door shakes the whole room and only serves to remind him of why they call her “the cyclone.” He goes to the window and discreetly pulls the drape to one side so that he can look down onto Fifty-third Street, where a clearly distressed Eva is walking slowly and with her head lowered. As he gazes down at her he is surprised to feel tears pooling behind his eyes.
Lottie opens the door and informs George that her husband is at Metheney’s Bar. George tips his hat and graciously thanks his friend’s visibly aging wife, but decides that he won’t disturb Bert. There will be time enough to set things straight with his partner tomorrow. He would want to know. Not that he would ever ask, but he feels obliged to tell Bert that this particular chapter has come to an end.
Eva took out a full-page advertisement in all the theatrical newspapers making it clear that if anybody had the temerity to accuse her of having had relations with a well-known, but unnamed, colored performer, then she would sue. She claimed that she was aware of certain unpleasant rumors that were circulating regarding her personal behavior, but she urged her fans to use their intelligence in distinguishing between her stage persona and the Christian moral strictures within which she lived her daily life. She pointed out that she was a happily married woman, and such slander besmirched not only her personal and professional reputation, but that of her loving spouse. The advertisement was featured prominently, as were the news reports that picked up on its appearance. In response she received only favorable notices, all of which praised her courage in distancing herself from such abominable talk. As a result she was received with renewed affection and the “I Don’t Care Girl” enjoyed a sudden upsurge of popularity.
Bert continues to perform nightly in the new Williams and Walker production, Bandana Land, but he does so with a weary spirit for the experience of Abyssinia appears to have taught George very little. His erratic partner seems even more determined than ever to make a pageant as opposed to offering a coherent production, but Bert decides against trying to talk with George for he knows that his words will have little, if any, effect. It is clear, not only to Bert but to others, including Mother, that artistically speaking the two men are moving in different directions for Bert’s queer clothes and quaint colored humor contrasts bizarrely with the bejeweled opulence of George’s vision. Sadly, the two partners no longer share the same stage with ease for George’s desire for swell grace and romance makes no sense when set against Bert’s old-fashioned imitation of a nigger coon.
He continues to soap the man’s face, all the while looking closely at his client’s features, until he los
es sight of the individual beneath the white foam. He sharpens his razor on the strop and then makes a few small movements of his wrist as though carving the air into thin slices. A seated customer suddenly exclaims, “Don’t you know it’s the man’s son you’re talking about?” He tries not to listen to their gossip as he gives the razor a few final strokes against the strop, but what can he do? He knows that this is a barbershop, and that a barbershop is a colored man’s country club, where folks feel free to run their mouths in all directions, but his Bert has bought the shop for him, and in spite of everything, he has his loyalties to his son. This being the case, he knows that eventually he’ll have to say something to these crispy-haired American men for they cannot talk about his West Indian son and expect a big man like Fred Williams to endure much more of this discourtesy. Next comes the water. He likes to rinse his hands one final time before touching a man’s skin, and so he lets the warm water ribbon gently through his fingers. All the boy is trying to do is entertain people; he is trying to make them happy and make them laugh, but the truth is he has never been able to watch his son perform beyond that first time. He takes up the towel and dries his hands as another customer gets his point across. “Making us all look foolish, don’t care what nobody says, the nigger makes us all look bad.” He takes the razor and drags it gently across his client’s face, careful to ensure that his strokes are smooth and true. How many more of these conversations? Damn it, this is his son, and people should respect this, and appreciate the fact that Williams and Walker is an all-Negro organization that employs coloreds and gives them a chance to succeed, and often presents them with a start in the entertainment business. However, whichever way you look at it, a barbershop is not a good place to frequent if you don’t wish to hear talk, and soon Fred Williams had heard enough talk. Eventually everybody knew the story of what happened on the morning Fred Williams finally closed down his barbershop, but nobody ever heard the story from Fred. In fact, according to Billy “Too Fine” Thomas, after Fred was through with his craziness he just took off his smock, tossed it over the back of one of those big old padded leather chairs, and locked the door behind him. Billy “Too Fine” Thomas worked with Fred in the shop as some kind of apprentice, doing the easy cuts, wiping down the counters, and sweeping up hair from the floor, and for years after Fred Williams’s patience finally ran out, Billy could ride three or four free drinks in any bar in Harlem on the back of his story—a story that got bigger with every retelling.
“You see, that morning I knowed something was wrong with Fred for I could smell the whiskey on his breath, but Fred ain’t no liquor head and it wasn’t like Fred at all, and then when he starts to organize his scissors and blades and everything, he’s banging things down like he’s spoiling for a fight and I figure something must have happened at home with the wife, for most of the worriments that trouble a man go right back to the wife, and most likely he’s dealing with some kind of problem behind closed doors that he got to play out in public, so I don’t say nothing and I swear I just try to stay out of the nigger’s way and so I go through to the back and try to reckon up how I’m going to survive this day, but in the end I know I just gotta watch carefully and see what old Fred does with that temper of his for the man’s just crashing around like a crazy fool, and then when I come back through there’s a customer sitting high up in the chair, been in a few times, but he ain’t no regular, and I don’t even know the man’s name, but already I see that blade going back and forth, back and forth, and then I see the blood for Fred’s cut the man, cut him good, but it’s like Fred don’t notice or something, so I move toward Fred and just at that moment the man cries out in pain, I mean his cheek is cut good and proper, and now the man can feel the blood begin ning to trickle down his face, all hot and flowing, and so he raises his hand and touches his face, then he looks at his hand and he’s fierce angry, shouting and cussing, and just when I’m about to put my hand on Fred’s arm to tell him, ‘Hey, Fred, the man’s bleeding,’ I’ll be damned if the island nigger doesn’t turn and cut me too, doesn’t say a word to me, just a quick movement of his wrist and I’m holding on to my arm and blood pumping through it like I sprung a leak and so I look at the man with blood on his face, and me with blood on my arm, and right there and then I know that old Fred’s come unglued and so me and the customer start to back away from him and move toward the door, all the while keeping an eye on that blade for we both know that anything can happen with Fred for it’s clear that he ain’t through with his cutting for the day, but we both hightail it out of there and leave him to wait for whoever else is dumb enough to venture into Fred Williams’s barbershop, but I know right away that I’m going to have to get me another job, either in barbering or something else, but I don’t much care what it is as long as I don’t have to work with this crazy man for the devil had surely seized old Fred’s soul and good sense had jumped clear out of the man’s head.”
George knocks at the door and waits. He holds on to the railing for his head is spinning, but the news of his new social organization will soon be made public and it is important that he formally invite Bert to participate, for he knows that Bert can be a mighty formal kind of a man. George looks around and notices a few people staring up at him as he stands at the top of the flight of steps. They know who he is, and the tasty suit leaves them in no doubt. He waves and they smile, and then the door opens and a grim-faced Lottie ushers him in and she announces that Bert is in his library keeping company with his books. She speaks with a strange mixture of both pride and contempt, but he has heard this tone before and he therefore tries his best to ignore it. Lottie and Aida remain friends, and this being the case he seldom says more to Lottie than is absolutely necessary, but he knows exactly what she thinks of him. He only has to see the way she looks him up and down, as though inspecting him for some external evidence of the inner taint that she obviously feels disfigures his personality.
Bert rests the book in his lap and looks up as his wife withdraws and leaves the two men alone.
—Everything all right?
—Figured I’d just come by and talk to you for a minute about the social organization.
—Won’t you take a seat?
George nods and carefully closes in the door behind him, but try as he might he cannot disguise the fact that his legs are shaking and his gait is unsteady.
An organization to be known as the “Frogs” was formed Sunday evening at the residence of George W. Walker,107 West 132nd Street. The prime movers in forming such an organization are the leading actors of the race, and it is the intention of the incorporators to make the “Frogs” to the Negro performer, as well as to the members of the race, what the Lambs’ Club and the Players’ Club mean to the white profession…. The Frogs have been formed for social, historical and library purposes with a view to promoting social intercourse between the representative members of the Negro theatrical profession and to those connected directly or indirectly with art, literature, music, scientific and liberal professions and the patrons of arts.
NEW YORK AGE
He sits in Bert’s library and looks at his friend and wonders if Bert even remembers those nights in the mountains of Colorado. They had dreams back then, and they were determined and talked often of the future, but these days Bert never speculates about the future. In fact, these days Bert seems reluctant to talk on any subject, and he hardly ever mentions Bandana Land. Bert appears to have effectively passed business responsibility to George, for he does not seem in the slightest bit interested in either Williams and Walker or the Frogs, and for some time now George has felt that they ought to talk frankly but he knows that Bert is uncomfortable sharing his feelings. George understands that the situation with his father must be making life even more difficult for his partner, for people are talking, and the more people talk, the less poor Bert seems to want to open up. Of late, Bert seldom leaves his home unless he is going to the theater, or unless he is visiting Metheney’s, but George suspects that, in his
mind, Bert travels.
I used to go over [to Europe] every summer and study pantomime from Pietro, the great pantomimist. He is the one artist from whom I can truthfully say that I learned. He taught me gesture, facial expression—without which I would not have been able to do the poker game stunt that was so popular…. I played a good deal of pantomime in Europe. I did the Toreador in the pantomime version of Carmen and many other parts.
BERT WILLIAMS
But George knows that Bert travels only in his mind.
The poker game was the most famous stage act that Mr. Williams ever performed, and I had read that he included it for the first time in Bandana Land where he played the part of Skunton Bowser, who takes up the deck of cards while heavily under the influence of applejack. I wanted to ask Mr. Williams about the origins of the act, for he claimed to have discovered his technique for the routine while studying with “Pietro” in Europe. However, although I read everything that I could find, I found it impossible to discover anything about this Mr. Pietro. Even more puzzling was the fact that nobody I questioned had any memory of Mr. Williams ever doing any studying in Europe. When I found myself privileged to be sitting opposite Mr. Williams I had second thoughts about raising this puzzling quandary. Instead, I asked him about the big hit song of the show, “Late Hours,” which he sung while performing the famous poker game routine. Mr. Williams was happy to talk to me about the song.
The hard-drinking man gratefully accepted another whiskey from George and then settled back to tell his late-night tale. “You see,” he began, “I hear Mr. Bert got the idea while the two of you were playing in Lincoln, Nebraska, some time back. Seems like he went to see an old friend in the hospital and the guard said to him, ‘Would you like to walk around with me and see the place?’ Mr. Bert accepted the invitation and the guard first took him to see the patients that were almost ready to leave the hospital. Then the guard took him to another part of the hospital where the patients were very ill. Apparently there was one fellow in a room alone. Evidently, his mental illness was due to gambling, playing poker. In his room was a table and a chair, and the fellow was in there all alone, talking to himself and acting as though he were in a poker game, for he would go through the motions of having a drink, looking around the table, and smiling at the other players. He would reach in his imaginary pile of chips and throw in his ante, looking around to see if everybody was in, then smile again. He would shuffle and begin to deal around and after he had finished dealing, he would pick up his imaginary hand and look at each player after they had discarded, to see how many cards they wanted. All this time he would have a smile on his face as if he believed he had the best hand, and as each player asked for cards, his smile would get broader, and he would put up fingers to show he understood how many. Then, when one of the imaginary players stood pat, his smile would begin to vanish. When the deal was all over, the betting would start. Each player would call or pass. When it was up to him, he would look at his hand, put it down, pour a little drink from his imaginary bottle, and look again. Then he would push in the last of his chips and call. After the showdown, he had the second-best hand. He would stand up, brush off his pants, and go back to his bunk, place his elbows on his knees, and, leaning on his hands, shake his head slowly. I reckon that it’s from this fellow that your Mr. Bert learned that particular routine. I believe he picked up plenty by just watching ordinary folks. That’s all. Just watching ordinary folks, then adding his own feel to it.” George smiled and signaled to the barman to bring another whiskey.
Dancing In The Dark Page 13