Dancing In The Dark

by Caryl Phillips

  Fred Williams opens his eyes and sees his American daughter-in-law standing before him with a glass of juice and a plate of toasted bread. The items are balanced on a tray that she cradles in her arms. She holds it like an offering, and he stares at her. No more barbering. She has made it clear that it is fine for him to stay in the house until he regains some peace in his mind, or until his wife returns from California, whichever occurs first, but his daughter-in-law is adamant that there must be no more cutting. He looks at her and realizes that his boy has found himself a good woman, and then he closes his eyes and pretends that she isn’t there, but he listens. He hears her put the tray down on the bed-side table. For a moment she stands over him and he worries that she might say something, but she remains silent. He is grateful that his daughter-in-law does not lean over and try to touch him and gain his attention. He keeps his eyes firmly closed and listens as she leaves the room.

  A heart heavy like a stone, for he now understands that bringing his son to America was an act of foolishness that has allowed the powerful nation in the north to come between them. The country has made a nigger of the boy and there is nothing that he can do to fight this United States of America, which he now understands habitually snatches children from the arms of those who gave them life and encourages them to become people who their parents no longer recognize, but people who their parents cannot stop loving even though they despise the transformation and resent the loss. A heart heavy like a stone, his handsome West Indian son a stage nigger in America, the boy’s own heart leaden with guilt, his mouth stopped up, his words trapped in his head, unable to reach out to father or wife, deaf to everything but the roar of the white audience.

  Tonight we go at each other as though we are animals tearing each other apart. She tries to devour me and I fight her off at the same time as I too try to devour her. Pushing at her, pulling back, and then pulling her on. The orchestra is warming up, playing runs, the blare of the trumpet, the gun rattle of the drums, and there is plenty of noise out there, enough to mask what is going on in dressing room number two with the chair thrust up against the door and the drapes pulled tight. I turn Eva to the side and push her down onto the floor. She tries to get up and I slap her and she cries out so I force my arm into her mouth and she bites the sleeve of my velvet jacket. Bitch. I spit the word at her and she growls at me. Bitch, I say again and a paw reaches out and slashes at my face and as I turn away a single nail catches me and instinctively my hand goes up. She’s laughing now, and she tries to wrestle me off but I go at her and tear at her dress until it rips. I pull out first one breast and then the other, and then I see the fear in her eyes. Bitch. Cut me? Cut George Walker? I press Eva to the floor as though I’m trying to drive her into the basement of the theater. Down on her, pushing down on her until she stops struggling, and the sweat pops onto her brow, each bead independent, and she is defeated. The stage manager knocks at the door and I hear his raised voice. Mr. Walker. He knocks again. Okay, I’ll be there. The sleeve of my jacket is ripped, gashed purple, and I stand up but Eva cannot move. I know that she is wounded, and I can see that her dress is torn and that she is in disarray, but I abandon her and look in the mirror. There is blood on my cheek. Mr. Walker, your call. I wipe the blood with my damaged sleeve and try to rearrange myself. Mr. Walker. She looks at me, her chest heaving with exhaustion, her eyes still hungry. I’ll wait, she says. I’ll be here. Mr. Walker, please, Mr. Williams is in the wings. I look at her and realize that I don’t have the energy to argue.

  “Bon Bon Buddy” by Walker went unusually well.

  NEW YORK SUN

  Bon Bon Buddy, the chocolate drop, dat’s me,

  Bon Bon Buddy, is all that I want to be;

  I’ve gained no fame, but ain’t ashamed

  I’m satisfied with my nickname,

  Bon Bon Buddy, the chocolate drop, dat’s me.

  He looks at George and can see that it is happening again. Something is wrong with George, but his partner is not talking to him about it. Once again, George is forgetting his lines.

  Bon Bon Buddy, the chocolate drop, dat’s me,

  Bon Bon Buddy …

  He wants to ask him, George, why are you looking at me like this? Staring at me as though you have seen a ghost. It is the third prompt that George has taken tonight, and his dancing is entirely graceless. He wants to ask his partner what he can do to help, but instead he looks on helplessly as George begins now to mutter the lyrics to himself.

  I’ve gained no fame, but I ain’t ashamed

  I’m satisfied …

  George?

  But George is not listening. George is gazing into the middle distance as though he can see something that nobody else can see. I take his arm and make like it is part of the show. I pretend that I am taking pity on this poor deluded colored man dressed up as though he owns half the known world, and as I begin to guide George off the stage I try to create some humor. We both stumble for I have to show them that it does not matter how uppity a colored man chooses to dress, he will always be little more than some bumbling fool with no idea of how to control himself. Initially the audience is not sure what is happening, but they soon gain confidence and laughter ensues. I start to hurry now for George’s whole weight is upon me and he is not stepping anymore, and I am dragging him like I am toting a large sack of potatoes. Somehow it does not seem right that we still have to be in the act, and then I see Aida waiting anxiously in the wings with a look on her face that suggests that she is about to scream. She reaches out her hands to help for I am struggling now as George has lost consciousness. As the stage manager brings down the curtain we are deafened by a storm of applause from the audience, who demand more.

  I lay my partner down backstage and feel for his pulse, which, although weak, seems to obey a steady beat. However, before I can do anything further for George I have to remove my face. The stage manager has already called for the doctor, and Aida is propping up her husband’s head, and so I excuse myself. I’ll be back, Aida. I am unsure if she can hear me, but as I move off I notice that the stage manager is following me into the corridor. Mr. Williams? I turn and face the young man. Miss Tanguay. Before she left she asked if you’d let her know how things are. The stage manager pauses. With Mr. Walker, that is.

  I look apprehensively into the mirror and make sure that I have removed every last trace of makeup, and only now do I carefully wash my hands and face. There is an impatient knocking at my dressing room door but I wait until I have toweled off before opening the door. A distraught Aida stands before me and I step to one side so that she can enter. She sits and looks around, and then she lowers her eyes. I know that despite her distress she has waited and given me time to make myself presentable. She looks up now and informs me that a worried-looking doctor is examining George, and he has just suggested to her that George is losing his health. It is difficult to know what to say in reply, so I say nothing, knowing that Aida must now find the courage to continue. She threads her hands together. What’s the matter with him, Bert? George must have spoken to you about it. I asked the doctor but he said that as yet he doesn’t know, but he was lying to me, wasn’t he? I’m George’s wife, and I’ve got a right to know. It ain’t right that after all these years I should still be feeling that others know more about my husband than I do. I look directly at Aida, feeling the sting of her veiled accusation, but I remain as mystified about George’s condition as she appears to be. This is his health, Bert, and it’s important and I have to know. I understand, I say, but the doctor is the man best qualified to answer your questions. Aida lowers her eyes and begins to silently sob. I look away.

  According to Mr. Williams they were in Boston one night, and George Walker was performing “Bon Bon Buddy” when suddenly he began to drone out the lyrics in a thick-lipped manner. Apparently some of the cast members smiled because, to begin with, they believed that Mr. Walker was improvising a new gag, but Mr. Williams knew differently. It was only later that he, and the rest of th
e company, learned just how ill Mr. Walker was. In fact, he had actually suffered a stroke.

  Aida continues to sob, but both she and Bert know that George will still insist on performing every night in Bandana Land. However, despite the optimistic bulletin that the Williams and Walker company will undoubtedly send out to the press in the morning, it is clear to Bert that George’s health is beginning rapidly to deteriorate. The following week Bert instructs the costume department to prepare a George Walker outfit for Aida so that she can deputize in the event of another serious collapse of her husband’s health.

  At every theater on the road, George’s dressing room is decorated with a huge display of roses, but there is never a card and Aida never quizzes her husband as to their origin.

  In a rooming house in Chicago, a few days before Christmas, I sit downstairs with my wife and listen to Aida, who is upstairs singing gentle lullabies to her fragile George. She sings as though serenading a child, and her sweet notes float through the paperthin walls and then down through the wooden floors, and while one might have ordinarily regarded this as some kind of disturbance, Mother and I just sit and listen, transfixed by the beauty of Aida’s waiflike voice. The next morning, after breakfast, Aida wraps George in a blanket and props him up on a chair with a pad and a pen set neatly before him. A newspaper has commissioned George to write the story of his life, and despite his increasing frailty, George’s pen seems to have found wings. For short periods of time it flies back and forth across the page making short, spasmodic movements, and then the pen comes to rest and George looks all about himself, suddenly ashamed that he is no longer able to dress a point or two above the height of fashion. And then, as though keen to expel this sad reality from his mind, his pen finds life and begins again to dart across the page.

  Our payroll is about $2,300 a week. Do you know what that means? Take your pencils and figure how many families could be supported comfortably on that. Then look at the talent, the many-sided talent we are employing and encouraging. Add to this what we contribute to maintain the standing of the race in the estimation of the lighter majority. Now, do you see us in the light of a race institution? That is what we aspire to be, and if we ever attain our ambition, I earnestly hope and honestly believe that our children, that are to be, will say a good word in their day for Bert and me and them.

  GEORGE WALKER

  George gave his final performance in Louisville, Kentucky, in February 1909, but George Walker was no longer George Walker. No amount of business could disguise the fact that the man onstage with me was a mere shadow of the same man who had stood by my side for sixteen years. The real George Walker had left the theatrical stage a long time ago, but at least officially, Williams and Walker came to an end on that night in Louisville, Kentucky—a long way from the Barbary Coast, a long way from Broadway, a long way from Buckingham Palace. Williams and Walker died onstage in Louisville, Kentucky, in February 1909, but the public were informed that it would only be a matter of time before George Walker returned. Aida now donned the special George Walker costume and sang “Bon Bon Buddy,” but she understood the truth. The doctor had explained, albeit in painful detail.

  General paresis is caused by damage to the brain by the syphilis-causing microorganism … early symptoms of general paresis may include personality changes, memory loss, speech defects, tremors, and temporary paralysis. Seizures may also occur. As the disease progresses, the patient deteriorates both physically and mentally.

  For more than an hour I have listened to George talking, but I have little understanding of what George is attempting to communicate. He remembers events that he locates in the wrong place and in the wrong sequence. Chronology appears to be irrelevant to him, and if it does have meaning there seems to be nothing that George can do to straighten things out. Whatever fame I have achieved has been gained in partnership with George Walker, and I feel guilty that this affliction should have fallen on my partner’s shoulders for him to bear this burden alone. Some days he appears to possess full recall of who I am, while on other days he simply looks at me as though I am not present. When I move, his cloudy eyes sometimes roll, while at other times they remain locked in a ferocious stare. Aida brings in two glasses and a pitcher of water and some cakes and George recognizes her, but he now appears to be incapable of speech for his tongue is flapping but to no purpose. The sun is weak, and some thin rays spill through the open window casting strange patterns of light and shadow on the uncarpeted sections of the floor, and then something seizes George’s attention. In the kitchen I can hear a man talking quietly, as though to himself, and Aida notices my alarm. The doctor, she whispers. The doctor has come to see George, but he is waiting until you have finished your visit. I nod, but Aida ignores me and pours a glass of water, which she hands to her husband. He takes it, but Aida has to gently tip it up to his lips so that he can drink, which he does without spilling any. He seems happy now and he manages to smile at his wife, which appears to lighten her heart. Aida gives him another mouthful of water, which he swallows, and I understand that this is more an attempt to elicit another smile than it is an offering to slake poor George’s thirst. I leave them alone and close in the door, and then I ease down the steps and onto the street. I look behind me knowing that George no longer needs me. It is now the turn of the doctor.

  The next morning Bert eases out of bed having hardly slept a wink. His wife has been awake for some time and he can hear her banging about downstairs in the kitchen. He rubs his eyes and realizes that he will have to make the decision today, otherwise the rumors and gossip will continue to run riot. Mother enters the bedroom carrying his favorite tray, upon which sits a pot of coffee and the newspaper. She sets the tray down on the bedside table and then stands back and waits for her husband to say something to her, but he chooses to say nothing. He stares beyond her to the door and she finally understands that she should probably leave her husband to his own company. He watches the door, and listens to the click as she pulls it in behind her. In order to preserve the dignity of everybody involved he will have to face up to their situation today.

  When my old pal is alright … we will be together again.

  BERT WILLIAMS, VARIETY, MAY 1909

  Mr. Williams remembered that no matter what kind of statements he issued to the press the Broadway gossip remained loud, with most observers believing that Williams and Walker were finished. For a moment Mr. Williams paused and he looked at the untouched cup of tea and the piece of cake that his wife had set before me, but he stopped short of urging me to eat and drink. He could see full well that this cub reporter was too excited to do anything that would get in the way of the interview and so, with a knowing smile temporarily brightening his face, he leaned back and blew out a huge cloud of smoke and then released a perfectly formed smoke ring. He remembered that by May 1909 Bandana Land was over and he decided to take a risk and return to vaudeville as a solo performer at Keith’s Theatre in Boston. The bill included the popular family act the Four Keatons, who were veterans of the east-coast circuit, so it was respectful company. However, it soon became clear to Mr. Williams that he needed more practice as a solo performer for he recalled that he was received with some indifference by the Boston public and he knew that without Mr. Walker he would have to totally rework and sharpen his act. A depressed Mr. Williams left the theater and made his way to a nearby bar, having first ascertained that it was appropriate for him to enter.

  When Negroes were allowed in white saloons at all, they were restricted to the end of the bar farthest from the door. Pops ignored this the night he walked into the Adams Hotel bar in Boston, which was conveniently situated, being directly behind Keith’s Theatre. Bert Williams, who was again on the bill with us, was standing, as required, far down at the other end.