by Adi Alsaid
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Being white is a state of mind.”
“Huh? White? I’m Irish. Me ma’s people are from county Cork.”
Joshua laughed. “Black Irish. People see what they want to: curly hair and sugar lips. There’s your one drop.”
One drop of what?
* * *
Joshua gave me a ring on the boat. He had a matching one for himself.
“We’re married now.” He kissed me. “Hello, Mrs. Dulcie Irving.”
I knew we wasn’t. You need a proper ceremony and government papers for that.
“That mean I’m Mrs. Dulcie Irving the Third now?”
He laughed so hard his hat fell off.
* * *
On the boat, we washed daily. Sometimes more. Heaven.
He taught me to dance fancy. Like the Castles. The dresses he bought me flared.
“This is fun,” I shouted as we twirled.
“It is, isn’t?” He was beaming. I could see my smile reflected in his eyes.
* * *
We was on that boat forever.
He give me loads of books, explaining the words I didn’t know: capitalism, audacious, angst, juxtaposition, algebra, discombobulated.
He told me how they come from the Latin! German! French! Arabic!
“Pyjamas was originally a Persian word. Or possibly Urdu. Isn’t that extraordinary?”
“Yes,” I breathed, kissing him, tasting his enthusiasm.
I’d never heard any of those languages, saving German. The Schwartzes on Devonshire talked Kraut.
Joshua had to show me on a map where all those places were, where America was and Australia too, and the giant ocean in between, holding the boat afloat.
Africa, Joshua said, pointing to it, was where black people come from. Europe was white people’s homeland. Joshua pointed to Ireland in Europe. It was tiny. Being from Ireland meant I was also from Europe, which made me white. Except that when we got to Harlem, he wanted me to be black.
I’d never been white or black before. I wanted to stay Irish.
While I tried to read, stumbling over every third word, Joshua wrote. He had a typing machine that was loud as thunder.
The noise did me head in, so I’d go out on the deck with one of his books, read a few pages. Soon I’d be watching the waves, and the book would be in me lap.
Saw a whale that way. Its tail sticking up glossy from the water.
“A whale,” he said when I told him, smiling at this impossible thing. “Did you know that word’s from the Old English?”
There were parts of the boat we couldn’t go. That bothered Joshua. I didn’t care. Where we could go was plenty.
I didn’t need anything else.
Or anyone else.
Joshua was the smartest, handsomest, funniest man I ever met. I tried to talk, smile and laugh like him.
But it was sand copying water.
NEW YORK CITY, 1932
Harlem was everything Joshua said. All the punters was dressed beautiful. New gloves, hats and the shiniest shoes. So many rich people.
And they were mostly black. I’d never seen so many.
“Stop staring,” Joshua said.
There’s hearing, then there’s seeing.
“Well, she’s like me,” I said, nodding at a girl with blonde curls in a navy blue suit with matching hat, shoes and bag. There was a giant blue bow in her hair.
She wasn’t, though. She was fancy and walked like a dancer.
“No, she’s black too. I told you, it’s one drop here.”
“Everyone’s black? Even the ones who look Irish?”
“Mostly. Stop staring.”
* * *
And Joshua’s home?
A bloody mansion. Three stories high! He had his own floor!
Joshua didn’t tell me he was a writer. A writer! I knew he wrote—he had that machine—but who knew that could be your job?
Joshua didn’t tell me his daddy ran a funeral parlour and had investments—no one told me what those were—and his mother wore fur coats. Not one—many—and the best one mink!
His sister was a lawyer, his oldest brother a doctor and the middle one a mechanic.
My sister was dead and me brother out bush and then there was the baby.
I knew he was fancy: the way he talked, the way he dressed, but on the boat we was—we were—we been—in the lower decks, not up top with the snobs.
I’d figured he was down on his luck.
He was not.
He was never gunna keep me.
* * *
I’ll never forget walking in, everything gleaming but the carpets. The wood shone. The walls. The lights hanging from the ceiling.
I was unsteady from the boat, and terrified from the fancy.
An old woman with curly white hair and darker skin than Joshua, in a pretty grey dress, opened the door.
“Josh, baby,” she said, pulling him into her arms, then pushing him back. “Handsome as ever. Who’s this?” she said, turning to me.
The smile on her face slipped.
“This is my wife.”
“Your wife!” she said. “Well, well...” She trailed off, stuck on that one word. “Well, isn’t she sweet?” she said at last, patting my shoulder.
I shook her hand. “I’m Dulcie. Nice to meet ya, Mrs Irving.”
She laughed. “Oh no. I’m not Mrs Irving. I’m Eula. I look after—”
“I’m Mrs Irving,” a beautiful lady on the stairs said. Her steps were silent on the carpet.
She was wearing a fur coat. Jewels glittered in her ears, her hair, around her neck.
Oh no. Why couldn’t Eula be his mum?
“Your wife?” she asked. It sounded like she was asking if I was his dog. “Is that legal?”
“It’s legal here, Mama, in New York State.”
Joshua squeezed my hand.
“You’d best not travel.”
“This is my wife, Mama, Dulcie Irving.”
“Hello, Mrs Irving.” I dropped Joshua’s hand to do a curtsy, like I’d seen on the news reels. Joshua steadied me.
Mrs Irving looked me over like I was something bad stuck on her shoe.
I put out my hand—clean, even under the nails—I’d washed that morning. She took it in her gloved one, then dropped it fast.
I bit my tongue to stop meself from telling her I didn’t have no diseases.
She turned her cheek to Joshua. He kissed the air next to it.
“Mama,” he said.
“You look well, Joshua. We’ll eat in, Eula. Two extras for dinner. Cold cuts will do.”
“Will Otis and Jesse join us?” Joshua asked.
Mrs Irving handed her gloves to Eula.
“I asked if Otis will join us?”
“I heard you.”
Eula took her coat. She wore a shiny, tight dress underneath, like a movie star.
“Gorgeous dress, Mrs Irving.”
She winced.
“What did she say, Joshua, darling?” she asked as if I weren’t talking English same as her.
“She admired your dress.”
As she glided down the hall I thought I heard her whisper to herself.
I wanted to yell after her that I’m Irish trash, thank you very much.
* * *
The next night Joshua took me to a salon. It was people sitting in chairs in someone’s house, smoking, drinking, reading out loud, and arguing.
Everyone was older, smarter, fancier than me.
A smiling dark-skinned woman with a wide mouth and freckles on her cheekbones told me her name was Zee. She asked me what kind of writer I was. She was wearing a blue hat and a necklace of red beads.
“No kind,” I mumbled. I can hardly read. “I
’m Joshua’s missus.”
“His wife? Well,” Zee said, like Eula had, only she didn’t get stuck on it. She turned to Joshua, “Married!” She punched him gently on the arm. “To Miss Anne!”
“My name is Dulcie,” I said. They didn’t hear.
“She’s not, Zee.” He smiled at me. “She’s Australian. Irish. Black Irish.”
“Well, isn’t she a long way from home? Your saditty mama must love her.”
“She hates me,” I said. I wondered what saditty meant. I said it a few times, quiet-like, so I could remember to look it up later. Joshua had shown me how.
“As you’d expect,” Joshua said. They laughed.
I was about to sit next to Joshua, but a pretty woman, as pale as me, wearing a fancy hat with feathers, sat there first. She called Joshua darling.
The seat on his other side was taken by a short black man.
Joshua made a little face. I nodded to show him I’d be okay.
I sat on a stool on the other side of the room. Zee sat next to me.
“How old are you, Miss—”
“Dulcie. Just Dulcie. I’m twenty, Miss Zee,” I lied. “Is there going to be dancing?” I asked, though there was no room with the piles of books, magazines and papers cluttering most every surface.
Zee laughed. “Oh, Dulcie, honey, no. What did Joshua tell you this was? We’re here to share our latest scribblings. Speak our hard-fought-for lines into the air. Not a single step and nary a hop.”
The short black man stood up, welcoming us all, joking about everyone.
“That’s George. He runs the Harlem News and writes satirical novels. His wife is like you.”
“Irish?” I asked. I wanted to know what satirical meant.
Zee laughed. “White.”
I’m not, I wanted to say, but Joshua said I was.
“Is she white?” I nodded at the woman leaning in close to Joshua, waving her arms around, sounding like Queen Mary from England. Her bangles clattered, ash from her cigarette at the end of a long holder went everywhere.
Zee looked at me funny. “Very.”
“Darling Zee!” Queen Mary called.
Zee waved. “Very, very. And so is Godmother.” Zee discreetly indicated the woman with tissue-paper skin, dressed in layers of cream lace that went up to her chin and spilled down over her feet. She could be Queen Mary’s grandmother.
The old woman gave me a quick smile, then paid attention to everyone else. Listening, asking gentle questions in a posh movie accent.
“Godmother,” Zee said, waving at the old woman, “is kind to many of us starving writers.”
Zee wasn’t starving. I knew hunger: bones sticking out, hair falling out, eyes too big. No one here was starving, what with their fancy clobber and factory-made cigarettes.
“No hooly-gooly, please, darling,” Queen Mary said.
Godmother’s lips thinned. “She’s making up words now,” she said, so everyone could hear.
Zee’s lips twitched. I bit my cheek to not giggle.
Queen Mary continued talking and waving her bracelet-clinking arms as if Godmother hadn’t said a word.
Why did they hate each other?
Zee looked from the two white women to me, like she thought we belonged together. I bit me tongue to keep from saying, We don’t.
They weren’t trash or confused or Irish or Australian. They had grammar and jewellery and most likely automobiles, fur coats and houses too.
They weren’t the only ones at odds. The air crackled with everyone’s opinions of each other. If I had safety matches I could set it on fire.
Joshua leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretched to the side of the small table stacked with papers, and started to read.
His voice was low but clear. It tickled my ears, making me think about things he’d whisper to me. I blushed.
All eyes were on Joshua, especially Queen Mary’s. I twirled the ring on my finger but no one saw.
Joshua’s story was about working on the boat and white people being mean. Listening was like being back onboard with the waves and the ocean spreading out forever. Almost I felt the floor move.
I reckoned he really was a writer.
It was true, I supposed, that people had been mean, but I’d been lost in loving Joshua, and everything was so much better than Surry Hills—fresh water, food every day, learning words and places—it hadn’t mattered.
When he finished, we clapped.
Beside me Zee nodded. “He’s improved a lot.”
The tall black man with the crooked tie wanted to know about unions on the boat. Were there protections for labour?
The older black woman complained about the missing sense of place. What did it smell like? What were the sounds? Did the air taste like salt?
It tasted like salt out on the deck, but in the mess hall it tasted like cooking and sweat.
They talked about his choice of voice, of pointy views, of cymbals, and words I’d never heard. I stopped listening, daydreaming about dancing at a nightclub because we hadn’t been to one yet.
Godmother talked about hearing the steady beat of Africa in his words. Zee rolled her eyes, but the old woman didn’t see.
The other readers were dramatic, standing up, waving their arms, putting on voices.
I bit my lip not to giggle. Zee did too.
“The year is 1972,” the short black man with the cigar began, loudly.
No, it’s not, I wanted to say. It’s 1932.
His story was about flying automobiles and underground homes. It didn’t make sense.
I wondered if it was hooly-gooly.
* * *
Joshua took me to a rent party at his best mate’s. His friend at the door wouldn’t let me in. If his friends didn’t like me, would Joshua send me away?
“No room for Miss Anne.”
Why did they keep calling me that?
“She’s light.”
“Ain’t no one that light.”
“She’s my wife.”
“If it was just me, but ask Wash what happened last night.”
“She’s not like that,” Joshua said. “She’s poor, from the Caribbean.” Joshua looked at me, then at his friend. “She’s no Miss Anne.”
“My name’s Dulcie.”
His friend shrugged. “Can you lend—”
Joshua reached into his pocket, slid money into his friend’s hand, who nodded his thank you and opened the door. “Fats is on the piano tonight. If anything goes down it’s on you, not me.”
“Sorry, sugar,” Joshua whispered, pulling me into the crowded room of people dancing, screaming, laughing.
Joshua was greeted by most everyone with big handshakes and hugs.
In the Hills, you could go away years, return, and the men would barely nod a greeting.
They looked me over a touch too slow. One woman sucked her teeth. My cheeks burned.
“She’s light,” Joshua said too many times.
They couldn’t see my Irish, just my white.
In the Hills no one was white. We were Irish—Catholic like me or Proddys—or Poms or German or Italian or Aborigines or Chinamen.
I was white now. I was the only one in this room who was.
They didn’t have to say they didn’t want me. They felt the same as Tiny Bruce, Johnno O’Rourke and Tommy Newton did about me and Joshua being together, but they wasn’t loud about it.
I decided not to mind, stretching my mouth into a smile. Soon the thumping piano music made that smile real.
Joshua swung me into his arms, jammed in amongst the other dancers, moving me like he’d taught me on the boat.
We fit together. His smile echoed mine.
He kissed me. It was the first time in public. I grinned. He wouldn’t chuck me now.
“What do you think, Dulcie baby?”
“Of the kiss? It were dead good.”
“Child! Of this party, of Harlem?”
“It’s...” He’d taught me so many words and not a one was right. “I love it.”
He squeezed me tighter.
“Is this jazz?” I shouted.
His smile went wide. “Sure is.”
* * *
Joshua whistled as we walked home, his arm around me, though it wasn’t cold.
“No one thinks I’m black.”
Joshua smiled. “Not yet, but they will. You’ll learn.”
I liked that he was talking about the future, our future.
A couple strolled by. The man lifted up his tall shiny hat.
Joshua lifted his smaller grey one in return.
“Is everyone filthy rich in America or just in Harlem?”
I never saw him laugh so hard.
When he recovered he kissed me. “It’s the poorest neighbourhood.”
I couldn’t believe that. “But your house! It’s a palace!”
We were on his street now.
“See this house?” He turned me to a tall house, much like his parents’. He pointed to boarded windows on the second and third floors.
“We’re the richest family in the poorest neighbourhood. Striver’s Row is crumbling. Hardly any of us left with money. The Crash hit Harlem hard.”
I wanted to ask what the Crash was.
“Look at the garbage piled up there. And over there.”
I’d never seen streets that didn’t have garbage in them.
“It’s as poor here as your Surry Hills.”
“It never.”
“It isn’t,” Joshua corrected. “It is.”
“But the clothes! No one dresses like that back home.”
“People here care more about appearances, but the poverty goes down as deep. Harlem is suffocating on poverty and race prejudice.”
Race prejudice. I would look it up in his dictionary.
“But you’re not. Your family isn’t.”
“Not so far.”
* * *
I saw it after that. The toe-raggers on the street begging, folks with raggedy clothes sleeping in the park, rats almost as big as in the Hills. Not as many though, and none at the Irvings’. Mrs Irving wouldn’t allow it.