Infants of the Spring

by Wallace Thurman

  Raymond led the way out of the courtroom. His companions followed him into the street, silent, perplexed, knowing no more than they had on the night before.

  XVI

  Everyone assembled in Raymond’s studio as usual that evening. Raymond took up a collection and sent Paul out for gin and gingerale. Eustace in the inevitable green dressing gown stalked the open spaces of the room, spouting puns, humming spirituals. Stephen was preoccupied and gruff. He continually pushed Aline away from him and when she insisted upon putting her arms around his neck, abruptly left his usual seat on the daybed and sat on the floor beside the surprised Janet. Aline in a huff perched herself jealously on the arm of the wicker chair to which Raymond was seemingly rooted. Bull and Lucille occupied the other wicker chair, wrapped in one another’s arms.

  They were all waiting for Euphoria. She had gone to consult the saffron elegant, who it seemed was her attorney and had been sent by her to defend the luckless Pelham. Until she returned their ignorance of details concerning Pelham’s case was abysmal and irritating.

  Paul returned with three quarts of gin and an equal amount of pale dry gingerale. He placed his bundles on the table in the alcove and sauntered back into the room, taking his usual place on the floor. Simultaneously it occurred to almost everyone in the room that Pelham was not present to mix the drinks. All eyes focussed themselves on Paul, but he ignored their silent request and fumbled for a match with which to light his cigarette. Raymond slumped deeper into his chair. Stephen yawned. Bull scowled. Eustace stopped his meandering.

  “What hoë No ganymede? Guess I’ll have to drix the minks.” He plunged into the alcove and began his task, humming, All God’s Chilians Got Wings the while.

  Conversation was desultory until after the fourth round of drinks and was stimulated then only because Paul happened to twit Eustace about his unpredictable range of voice.

  “Your voice is changing.”

  “Changing?”

  “Urn hum, second childhood. It goes up and down.”

  “That was the song, idiot, not my voice.”

  “Have it your way.”

  Eustace was exasperated. He turned to Raymond:

  “Why will Paul discuss things about which he knows nothing? He’s always talking about my voice and he knows nothing about music.”

  “I know I like Debussy better than Strauss. That George Antheil is a genius and that Ravel is infinitely superior to Schubert.”

  “Preposterous,” Eustace made a deprecating gesture. “There are no modern musicians worthy of a seat beside Schubert.”

  “Here, here,” Stephen interpolated. “You’re a bloody blue stocking.”

  “I know music.”

  “Oh, yeahë I suppose that’s why you sang a hymn by Handel and told Pelham it was an exercise by Brahms.” Paul’s voice was crooningly sarcastic. Everyone laughed except Bull who continued to scowl and Eustace who pulled the cord of his dressing gown more tightly about his waist, and enunciated in his most freezing manner:

  “I never argue with ignorance. Let’s dake another trink.” Then visibly amused by his own witty victory, he began to collect the empty glasses, belligerently singing softly to himself all the while.

  There was a knock at the door and Euphoria was in the room. She threw her hat on the table and leaned against the door.

  “What’s up?” Raymond inquired for all. Euphoria took a deep breath.

  “Well, the sap’s in for it.”

  “Did he really rape her?” Stephen still could not believe it.

  “He says he didn’t. And the doctor says there is no evidence that this is the first time she’s been tampered with.”

  “The hussy,” Eustace muttered disdainfully.

  “They can’t hold him, then,” Raymond was hopeful.

  “They are holding him,” Paul reminded him impertinently.

  “And they’re going to hold him for trial. He’s sunk. You ought to see the stuff he’s written her. It’sawful.” She ran her words wearily together.

  “Was it signed?” Lucille asked.

  “No, but she proved it was his handwriting.”

  “How?”

  “Well, she had him write her a special poem. She had found the other stuff. And with his signed poem she hastened to the police station.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Stephen gasped, as did Paul and Raymond. They all remembered how faithfully Pelham had worked on that poem because the lady was appreciative and anxious to help him gain public honor and prestige.

  “Ay God, the girl was clever. Sorry I can’t say as much for Pelham. But why such Machiavellian tactics? Being true to her art, I suppose.” Stephen mused more to himself than to the others in the room.

  “He oughta go to jail and stay there,” Bull growled. “What the hell’s he messin’ with a minor for? They oughta give him life.”

  “Can’t,” Lucille spoke quickly. “There’s really no proof he actually raped her, is there?”

  “Wait’ll you hear the stuff he wrote her. Maybe he didn’t rape her, but there has been some sort of relationship and you must remember she’s under the age of consent. I didn’t know he was such an imbecile. I got to see him at the Tombs. He cried all the time I was there and swore he hadn’t harmed her. I asked him why he wrote her such stuff. Said he was trying to write like Paul.”

  “Good Godë” Paul gasped. “Such blasphemy.”

  Euphoria continued.

  “Pat, the lawyer, saw the poems in prose. They were the worst. Talked about kissing her in secret places and churning butter in the lily cup.”

  “That is plagiarism, eh, Paul?” Stephen inquired, then quoted from memory:

  “Your body is an index of uncut leaves

  Which my searing kisses will burn apart,

  An elusive packet of lilies churned

  By love to make perfume.”

  “Yours was bad enough. I’d love to see Pelham’s. But can’t they see,” he grew serious, “that it’s only what he thinks is poetry.”

  “In the past tense, old dear, with remarks to the effect of what had happened and how much more enjoyable it would be in the future once she had the hang of it. One to three years is what he’ll get.”

  Everyone sobered except Paul, who advanced consolingly:

  “Well, at least we’ll have a trial to go to.”

  “Heartless wretch.” Lucille glared at him.

  “Well,” he made a fanciful gesture with his left hand, “there is nothing we can do about it and I’ve always wanted to see someone I know on trial.”

  “Why don’t you take Pelham’s place?” Eustace suggested.

  “First of all, I haven’t raped anyone, and, secondly, I wouldn’t be so commonplace. When I go on trial …”

  “Which will be soon,” Eustace persisted.

  Paul ignored the interruption. “It will be in the grand manner like Wilde or Villon or Dostoievsky’s near execution. You see, I’m a genius.” And he sipped contentedly from his half empty glass.

  XVII

  Raymond looked up from his book and smiled a greeting as Stephen entered the room.

  “ ’Lo, stranger. Where’ve you been?”

  “Oh … nowhere.”

  “Nowhere,” Raymond laughed. “He stays away all night and half the next day and has been nowhere. Extraordinary.”

  “It really doesn’t matter, does it?”

  Raymond frowned and closed his book.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, Steve?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re a liar. Ever since the night Pelham was arrested, you’ve been acting like a fool. Spit it out.”

  Stephen vouchsafed no reply He merely lit a cigarette and crouched low in one of the wicker chairs.

  Raymond regarded his friend steadily. For some time now he had been aware of a definite change in Stephen’s manner. It had been apparent, as he had just said, from the night of Pelham’s arrest, and had seemed to grow more pronounced as time passed
.

  He was always, it seemed, excessively preoccupied with some personal matter about which he was most secretive and depressed. He seldom as of yore began a conversation, and his only contribution to those begun by others was invariably succinct and gruff. It had been noticed by everyone with whom he came into frequent contact. All had remarked upon his protracted surliness and unusual silence. And Raymond had become sensitively aware of how his friend sat among a crowd, tense, aloof, wary, steadily eyeing each and every individual as if suspicious of some contemplated overt action. Raymond was frankly worried, especially when he noted that Stephen was even evading him, craftily escaping from tête-à-têtes, deliberately foiling every effort Raymond made to indulge in one of their usual gabfests.

  “Steve,” Raymond advanced after a period of reflection, “you’ve got to tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Jesus Christ. Can’t a fellow be tired and moody?”

  “Certainly, but that’s not all. I’ve seen you tired and moody before.”

  “All right then … you’re the doctor. Treat yourself to a diagnosis.”

  “Perhaps if you’d be more frank I could.”

  “Aw, dry up … will you?”

  Raymond said nothing more at the moment, but his mind remained active. What could be wrong with his friend? One answer suggested itself to him, but he dismissed it immediately and let a more improbable one replace it.

  It was, perhaps, the result of Stephen’s recent hectic relationship with Aline and Janet. Raymond remembered how Stephen, on the night following Pelham’s arraignment, had abruptly deserted Aline and turned to Janet. This gesture had occasioned much speculation, for everyone knew of the rivalry which existed between the two for Stephen’s favors. It had become a community joke which Stephen himself had suddenly squelched for a while by deliberately avoiding Janet and confining his caresses to Aline alone.

  And then, when even Janet had begun to accept her defeat stoically, Stephen had precipitated confusion by vacillating from one to the other like a self controlled automaton. Janet one night … Aline the next. The situation had become comically serious, and because both of the girls invariably confided in Raymond, he had come to bear the brunt of the nervous strain.

  The two girls, hitherto inseparable, despite frequent outbursts of temper such as had followed Janet’s confession to Raymond sometime before, had now developed a positive dislike for one another. Recriminations and harsh words curdled their every moment together. A pitched battle seemed imminent. In vain had Raymond called a peace conference and tried to make them see that Stephen alone was to blame.

  The prize was too valuable to relinquish without a fight, and the vanity of the combatants had been pricked to the bleeding point. It was to be a war until one or the other emerged completely victorious with disposition of the booty settled once and for all.

  The situation had become surfeited with complications. Janet was preparing to move away from Aline’s house. Each had begun telling the state secrets of the other. It was obvious that only a mere gesture was needed to set off fatal fireworks. Raymond appealed to Stephen. And Stephen immediately settled the whole matter by beginning completely to ignore the two of them.

  The new régime, too, had been difficult, but it had at least served to lessen hostilities between the two combatants. Instead of reviling one another, they now joined forces to break down Stephen’s reserve and antagonism. But the object of their affections remained aloof, polite, cold, as if only minutely aware either of their existence or any past relationship.

  It was this comic interlude which Raymond had sought to blame for the change in Stephen, but he was not convinced by his own reasoning, for he knew that Aline and Janet had been but superficial bagatelles in Stephen’s life. He had enjoyed toying with them, enjoyed playing them one against the other. Their emotional reactions to him had been something to observe and analyze. The physical pleasure they had afforded him had been enjoyable, but of no particular consequence. Emotionally, Stephen had not been involved at all.

  There was then something else . . . but. . . the something else which kept insinuating itself into Raymond’s mind seemed too preposterous and complex to be recognized or considered.

  “Steve,” Raymond spoke suddenly, having decided upon a new line of attack, “I found something of yours today.” He pulled several sheets of paper from between the pages of the book he had been reading. “I think it’s well written but slightly cockeyed. Do you remember it?” He handed the sheets to his friend.

  Stephen cast a cursory glance at the first page, smiled contemptuously, briefly, then calmly tore the sheets in half.

  “What’s the idea? I wanted to save that.”

  “For what?”

  Raymond was piqued. His annoyance carried over into his tone of voice.

  “Because it interested me, of course.”

  “You’re nuts,” Stephen replied and proceeded to tear the paper into smaller bits. “All trash, son. All trash. My first impressions of Harlem. Transparent juvenilia. Alice in Wonderland, myopic, color-blind, deaf.”

  Raymond said nothing. He feared to intrude upon his friend’s muttered confidences. Perhaps Stephen would continue and at last reveal his true state of mind. Raymond leaned forward expectantly. Stephen started to speak, but whatever he was about to say remained unspoken, for at that precise moment, Paul and Eustace bounded merrily into the room.

  “We got it. We got it,” they shouted in unison, and holding hands performed a ridiculous ring-a-round the rosy in the center of the room.

  “You’ve got what?” Raymond queried angrily.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know? An’ I mean it’s hot stuff … eh, Eustace?”

  They continued their senseless prancing. Stephen abruptly left his chair, jammed his hat onto his head, and started for the door.

  “Nay, nay, milord,” Eustace barred his way. “List ye to the revelation. Tell ’em, Paul.”

  ”Gentlemen,” Paul made a mock bow, “having considered the scarceness of food in our cupboard, Eustace and I went into a huddle and held a seance. The spirits were kind enough to reveal to us a plan whereby we can thwart the wolf. We’re going to give a donation party.”

  “A what?” Raymond growled.

  “A donation party. We’ll invite everyone we know … and those we don’t. The price of admission will be groceries. Isn’t that grand?”

  Stephen muttered something under his breath, pushed the jubilant Eustace aside, and left the room. The door was viciously slammed. He could be heard stomping down the stairs.

  “Mercy,” Eustace exclaimed, “my nervesë What’s wrong with him?”

  “Ah, let him go,” Paul said. “Aren’t you for our party, Ray?”

  “I’m for any damn thing. But for Christ’s sake, get the hell out of here and leave me alone.” No one moved. “Didn’t you hear me say get out? Now scram.”

  He stretched out on the bed, face downward. A moment later the door was slammed again, and there was the soft swish of silk as Eustace followed Paul down the stairs.

  XVIII

  It was the night of the Donation Party. For ten days preparations had been made. For ten days Raymond’s typewriter and the telephone had been overworked, bidding people to report to Niggeratti Manor on the designated night. The wolf must be driven from the door. Paul had scuttled through Greenwich Village, a jubilant Revere, sounding the tocsin. Euphoria and Eustace had canvassed their Harlem friends. Barbara had been called in for a consultation and departed ebullient, a zealous crusader. A large crowd had been assured. The audacious novelty of the occasion had piqued many a curiosity. And of course there was promise of uninhibited hijinks.

  Ten o’clock. Only a few guests had arrived, laden with various bundles of staple foods. Eustace’s studio and the nearby kitchen were to be the focal points for the party because in the basement there would be fewer stairs for the drunks to encounter, and more room for dancing.

  Ten-thirty. The Niggeratti clique, supplemented by a
few guests, had gathered around the punch bowl on the kitchen table. The concoction, fathered by Eustace, was tasty and strong.

  “OI Mother Savoy has surpassed herself tonight,” Paul murmured between drinks.

  Also on the table were a half dozen bottles of gin, and Raymond noted that it was to one of these that Stephen was clinging tenaciously.

  “Have some punch?”

  “No,” Stephen answered Raymond shortly and continued to gulp down glass after glass of straight gin.

  “Go easy, Steve. The night’s young.”

  “What of it?” He walked away from the table and leaned against the wall in a far corner of the room.

  Before Raymond had time to consider his friend’s unusual behavior, a host of people boisterously invaded the room, dropping packages, clamoring for drinks.

  “Two cans of corn,” someone shouted.

  “Pound of sugar here.”

  “Some yaller corn meal. Hot ziggitty.”

  “’Taters. ’Taters. Nice ripe ’taters.”

  “Wet my whistle, Eustace. I lithp.”

  Samuel emerged from the crowd and taking hold of Raymond’s arm pulled him aside. It was the first time they had met since their quarrel some weeks before. Samuel was contrite, anxious for a reconciliation. He had reasoned to himself that he had been too quick to lose his temper. People like him—people with a mission in life— must expect to be the recipients of insults and rebuffs. How could he help others when he could not control himself? Samuel felt that he had betrayed his purpose in life by reacting positively to Raymond’s drunken statements.

  “Ray, I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “For what happened.”

  “Oh, that. Forget it.” Raymond turned away and rejoined the exuberant crowd centered around the kitchen table.

  “Ray.” It was Paul. “Meet a friend of mine.”

  By his side was a grinning black boy.

  “Ray, this is Bud. He’s a bootblack, but he has the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen. I’ll get him to strip for the gang soon.”