The Fugitivities

by Jesse McCarthy

  “Yeah, but they got money and in this world that’s all that counts.”

  “In the short run, yes. In the long run, no. Ask folks around here, they all want money. But there are lots of other things they want too. Lot of folks want to see they family together again. People want to feel respected and useful. Lot of folks want to see a world where children can be children and never worry about nothing bad happening to them. People want a place to honor their dead. Or make something beautiful that will last beyond their own life. There’s all kinds of things.”

  “Then why does it all feel so hopeless?”

  “I don’t know, Teach, you tell me! All I know is that nothing good happens when you have no sense of history. No independent sense of values. When you caught up in the propaganda. Don’t be fooled when they sell you on that ‘We can do anything now’ line. We can have all types of achievement. We always have. But it still don’t shake out for the people. What that tells you is they got us in a funhouse. That tells me, if we’re not careful, we’re going to lose our form. Because it can be lost. You feel me? I’m talking ’bout the things that give us shape, substance, form. You know what I see when I look around? I see black jelly. All this rawness, all this raw energy that’s beautiful but got no direction. Smuckers, motherfuckers. And you know what I think? I think that’s exactly what the Man wants. He don’t want you thinking. He don’t want you knowing too much. Getting your bearings and deciding, on another level, how to live. No. He wants the formless energy of our blackness, seedless, no substance. Without form, without agency, without power.”

  “Black power—right, and how we supposed to get that? We’ve already seen how the Panther picture show ends.”

  “Well, the first thing is to stop abusing each other. The first thing would be committing ourselves to the point where we are incapable of taking each other’s lives—because we need each other and love each other more than any differences that have come between us. We gotta quit playing ourselves. We gotta come together block by block and city by city to to work this thing out. We all agree that doing whatever it takes to change the basic situation is what needs to be done. And that’s where you come in. That is exactly where you have a role to play.”

  “Wait, wait. But why me?”

  “You a teacher, a natural. I’ve listened to how you talk. You have the ability to reach these kids. I can see it.”

  “They didn’t hire me for my ability, they hired me ’cause no one else wants to do the job! They hired me because it looked good on an Excel table in an email someone had to forward to someone with the power to fire them. And, look, man, I don’t even know that I’m good at it!”

  “But you are doing the right thing! Instructing our young men and women. Giving them the understanding they need to get themselves up out of the mess they living in right now, the damn lies and confusion, all the media hype and the garbage that’s being thrown at them and they don’t even have a chance to form their own damn minds! Only reason I’m here is I was lucky enough to have talent. A rare gift, and then lucky to have all the breaks work in my favor. You have gifts too, and you have this great chance to make a way for others. Who’s gonna do it if not you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know…You scared. That it?”

  “Nah, it ain’t that. Like I said I just want to get out. I want out. Isn’t that what you did?”

  “It is what I did. But I also came back.”

  They both paused over this last point, which held different meanings for both of them.

  “Listen,” Nathaniel continued, “why don’t you work with me? You can help me right here in the Bronx. I’ve got a nice program going. We coordinate with the schools, get the kids out playing ball in the sunshine, keep them away from the dope, the gangs, and the guns, all that shit. I could use a young guy like you, smart, fresh, ready to make a difference, to help out a little bit around here, you know.”

  “All that’s fine, Nate. It really is. I really admire your program and what you’re doing, and I do think it’s important and all…but really…why does it have to be me? Why do I have to be the one to do it?”

  “Simple. You have to take responsibility for your blackness.”

  “But…”

  “You have to take responsibility for our people! If the ones like you that have it all won’t do it, then no one will. Can’t you see that?”

  “But I don’t want to! I don’t want to do any of that! I don’t want to be responsible, I just want to live my life!”

  Nathaniel let this go without reply and an uncomfortable silence settled over them. In spite of what he was saying, Jonah thought of his students. He thought of B. and her dreams of getting into a fashion school and all the others who would have to continue without him, who would once again feel rejected and abandoned by the people they were told to trust. There was no way to say it, but he knew Nathaniel was right. He was scared. He just didn’t know what he was scared of or why.

  Nathaniel hadn’t meant to get so worked up. “Hey, listen, Jonah. We not gonna solve the world’s problems in a day. And nobody’s saying it’s all on you. Shit, I didn’t mean to make it sound like you the Messiah, cause you damn sure ain’t that!”

  “I know, I’m sorry, I feel confused is all. I want to do what’s right, it’s just that…”

  “Look, man, life will take its course. You’re gonna do what you think is best for you, and that’s okay. I’m just trying to give you some perspective from where I’m coming from. To remind you that at the end of the day we all gonna have to answer for our choices, what we done, and what we didn’t choose to do. I’m just reminding you that you have the choice, the privilege and the choice, to do a lot of good, and if you don’t know, well, now you know. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “But yo—don’t let me catch your faded ass downtown no more. I find out your black ass is still knockin’ back drinks when you supposed to be teaching kids, it won’t be no cops. I will come down and give you an ass-whoopin’ myself! Fair?”

  “Fair. I really do appreciate it, man. Getting me out of there.”

  “Ain’t no thing, I know how to handle that type of situation. It’s always nice to play the famous-ballplayer card on some city cops.”

  Jonah said that he should probably get going. Nathaniel didn’t answer him immediately. He got up with a sigh and moved to the window. He stared out at the sky. It was a marvelous deep blue. The planes were shifting east over Queens; others were coming out of Newark flying up the West Side. So many planes, even now, he thought. Grains of light were prickling the dusk over the five boroughs, and the forked tongue of the Cross Bronx Expressway flickered more brightly. The Harlem River quivered. A line about the riverside from one of the hymns his mother loved came to him. Old ship of Zion. Old songs. Why did they always sound like history calling?

  Nathaniel went into his office and pulled out a small paper envelope. It had lain there in a corner of his desk drawer for a long time. For a long time, he did not know what do with it, or why he had even composed it in the first place. But maybe it was for a moment just like this. He brought the unsealed envelope to Jonah and placed it carefully in his hands.

  “Here, take this with you,” he ordered. “You going anyway, so do me a favor and take it. If you find Laura somewhere down there, you’ll give it to her. Most likely of course, you won’t. And in that case, you can bring it back to me. That way I know I’ll get to see you again. And you’ll remember that you always have a reason to come back.”

  Jonah didn’t refuse. He was moved by the gesture, by the great dignity in this man who had rescued him. It was an intimate gift, and even though it was awkward, he felt that he understood it in light of the stories and conversation they had exchanged on this extraordinary day. He understood that Nathaniel wanted to mark the occasion with some material token of its significance. It was a gest
ure of nobility and hope, and he felt unworthy of its aspirations.

  “I’ll hold on to it,” he said simply.

  They shook on it, and Nate gave him a bottle of water and an extra Advil for the long ride back to Brooklyn.

  When he was alone again, Nathaniel would stare out at the city once more. He would think of what Laura would make of all this if she knew—how this kid had brought back to his mind with such force what they had shared, how close it all still felt, after all these years. But it was getting late. He still had phone calls to make and a late dinner to prepare. He had a group of kids to shepherd and tend to in the morning. The encounter with the lost Jonah would leave him feeling both young and old. Why this pull of remembrance? Why now, when he was past the time of life when it is possible to sincerely believe in new beginnings? But all beginnings are uncertain and hard to see. The coming of the night is not.

  * * *

  —

  Back in the borough of Kings, Jonah pressed his key into the lock and stumbled wearily into the apartment. He knew before he had turned the corner into the living room that Isaac was around. He could hear the soft scratch of a record playing, something mid-century and bluesy. The mournful whine of a trumpet. Isaac was deep in the chair by the window, his chunky Dell laptop casting an eerie moonlit glow on his face.

  “Hey man, I don’t mean to get all on you and shit, but rent is due to-morrow.”

  “You’re right. My bad, I’ll get on it.”

  “Oh, and before I forget, you got another letter from that French girl—excuse me, pardonnez-moi, from your mademoiselle.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Yeah, I put it on the desk in your room. You musta put something special on her, boy—she’s really feelin’ it, you got her jonesing for you long-distance. I mean, how many times she gotta write you before you go over there and do something about it?”

  “Nah, man, it ain’t even like that.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s it like then?”

  “Man, I don’t know. If I did, I would tell you…Hey, is this Miles?”

  “Nah, this Booker Little. My uncle Darren played trumpet for a while, knew all about the music. Always told me Booker was his favorite. No one knows how great he was, or how great he might have been ’cause he died so young. ’Bout our age, come to think of it. Cut some beautiful records before he left, though. Contributed his one little piece to the edifice, to the tradition. Played his part. See, I knew you would like this one.”

  “Oh yeah, how’s that?”

  “It’s all about you, chief. It’s called ‘Man of Words.’ And that’s you, brother; just listen to that there…Now that’s a blues for ya. A blues for the man of words.”

  PART TWO

  Era bom

  Aquele tempo em que eu vivia junto de você

  Aquele tempo que se foi

  —ELZA SOARES

  I’m writing to you from the Hotel Rubens in Antwerp. Mariam came to visit me here last weekend. She wanted to party, so I took her out clubbing and we took ecstasy together. I’m still trying to process the whole experience. At one point we were dancing, touching each other’s faces and laughing hysterically in a kind of feverish game. The music was shit but it didn’t matter because I felt lucid and uncomplicated and happy. I didn’t want it to stop. At first, I wasn’t sure if Mariam wanted to go as far as I did. Only that we kept having this magnetic sense of wonder at each other’s bodies. It was so hot and there were too many creeps trying to hit on us, so we left and walked back to my room. I never felt so beautiful. It wasn’t just the sex, it was this energy ringing inside of me, this need to tell Mariam things I’ve never said before. I think I may have frightened her a bit. We didn’t sleep at all, just stayed up in our bathrobes talking for hours. When it was light out, we went looking for breakfast pastries and ended up walking together through Nachtegalen Park in a cool leafy blur. I had this overwhelming desire to tell Mariam that I loved her. It’s so hard to know what it would mean to be worthy of that word. I wondered whether our experience was honest, or if rolling together had created an artificial paradise that would evaporate as soon as she got back to London. I still have this unshakable worry that I’m not on Mariam’s level. She always knows exactly what she wants. It’s what makes her so hot. But she is so confident that it’s hard for me sometimes to assert myself. I can tell she thinks she has to educate me. It angers me because I can show her things too. It’s just that I’m too much in my head, always composing instead of playing. I’m under no illusion that Mariam couldn’t get any lover she wants. But I don’t want to be settled for. I don’t want to be the one she’s with just because I’m smarter than her other girlfriends—because I read books and they just watch television. I want her to want me because I’m desirable in every way. But should I have to prove it? If that’s what it takes, I need time. But that’s the problem. I don’t know if I have enough time before she loses patience or interest in me. And then I’ll lose her. If things don’t work out, it will be my fault. Do you think I’m afraid of letting myself truly have what I want? Am I sabotaging and dodging the very thing I seem to be pursuing? I ask you because I know you will answer me in your own sweet way by talking about something else. It’s funny how the two of us are alike and also so different in our muddles. No one knows you like I do. I hope it’s okay for me to say it like that. I feel like you will understand. You and I have this ability to talk across the world to each other, across everything that makes us so distant. I will always value that. But I also know there are some things that are only mine to discover, and some that are only yours. I need to find out what I really believe. I’ve got to find out about living for myself. I want to know how much of this world can be mine. I want to live all that I can. And if you still love me, you’ll understand this, and you will know how to think of me no matter what.

  —A

  11

  Closing your eyes when a jolt of turbulence rocks the cabin makes it worse. When the sucking feeling in his chest came, the temptation was to go dark, but he refused. Below the belly of the plane was the black Atlantic. According to the in-flight map, the little islands of Cape Verde and the tip of Africa at Dakar were somewhere out his window. They were crossing the great slave-shipping lanes now, cruising swiftly over the swollen past, the vast stretch of black-and-blue veins that sealed the fortunes of the Americas. In the greatest empire the world had ever seen, he had paid two hundred dollars for a tourist visa at the Brazilian Consulate on Forty-Second Street.

  Jonah put down his book. At his side, Octavio was snoring peacefully, his eyes covered with an airline-issued sleeping mask. A paisley tie was flicked back over his shoulder and splashes of a lasagna dinner bloodied his shirt; on his lap, a weathered copy of the war diaries of José Martí was propped up on its pages like a general’s tent.

  Jonah had paid for the airfare with money from Uncle Vernon’s will, but how long would the rest last on the ground?

  A stewardess came up the aisle. There was another jolt, stronger this time, and Jonah flinched. His eyes were squeezed shut. He prayed, in the most secular way, for time to pass. Into his unpeaceful mind came a vision. At first, he thought it was the spirits of the holds, of the drowned, rocking the plane. But this struck him as an absurd, primitive fear. The spirit level, if it existed, wouldn’t stand a chance against the computer-assisted engineering of Boeing. So why then, of all things, was he moaning? Why did his moaning seem not his own as it swelled? He felt a cold heat starting in the pit of the stomach and rising up through his chest. Let it be. A surrender of the body, the pure flame giving up. For a moment it was the peace of weightlessness. And then, against every conviction, he felt them as they passed through, rushing onward in a shimmering grotesque and clanging with languages he had no tongue for. They passed eastward into the night leaving behind a cavernous emptiness. Their fading cries, sending for him, sounded like warnings. Against what? The unavoidable, f
or it was too late. She was already upon him, moving out of the roiling depths, a giant shadow living within the shadows. Her great rim closed in overhead and the ocean gave way to a living hold. A home within the darkwater.

  He came to in a fright. The plane was still. He was safe. Around him rows of bodies were slumped in their cushioned seats, absently focused on pale screens. There was a soft ping. Seatbelt lights.

  * * *

  —

  On the ground, Rio de Janeiro was a new world. Verdant pockets of lush floral beauty smashed into the concrete of mid-century bank towers, which in turn towered over baroque colonial ruins. The street life was teeming, overflowing, hot; a bouillon concentrated in the countless outdoor bars, cafés, and hole-in-the-wall eateries where raucous Cariocas gathered around glasses of beer served bem gelada from tall garrafas sweating in their cold sleeves. Jonah noticed the abdundance of popcorn carts, little trolleys in the zany intersections attended by sad-faced men. The sound of Portuguese was almost unbearably sweet, like a caramelized French. Jonah scrambled to jot down lists of words as they came up—pipoca, “popcorn”—but the new language poured easily through Octavio. He churned it right back out, a bit choppy, but alive to its unique rhythms and intonations.

  Octavio had directions for how to get to the apartment where Barthes was staying, but they were clearly wrong. Someone had cherry-picked the intelligence. A thrashing rain started coming down and it was getting dark, so they ducked into a bar to wait out the worst of it and give Octavio some time to try and formulate a better plan. Plump men idled at the counter, scanning the street front or watching the mounted television in the corner. Jonah watched the flickering box, inferring content from the images. Commentators were shouting hysterically over soccer replays. Then a news segment came on about an upsurge of violence. A “pacification” operation was in effect across the city and state in support of the Pan American Games. The toll was apparently high, several police injuries and many deaths among the traficantes, drug dealers. Octavio had figured out how to get a telephone card and ducked out to use one of the Skittle-colored booths to call Barthes. He came back with a confident swagger, proud that he had gotten them back on track.