The Man Who Cried I Am

by John A. Williams

  Suddenly, the larger than life voices, Max’s cold and tired, Minister Q’s quick and angry, were talking about something called King Alfred. Dallas spun and stared at the loudspeakers. The voices boomed on. The two technicians stared past Dallas to his assistant and Barney, and Dallas now turned slowly to look at his assistant, and, when his eyes locked with the gray eyes beneath the straw hat, he knew that his assistant had known about King Alfred all along. Dallas’s thoughts bunched like frightened cattle, then tried to flee down a corridor that was too narrow; they bumped and tumbled into and over each other. Numbly, Dallas watched his assistant reach for the phone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man called Barney edge imperceptibly to block the door. His assistant was talking softly, staring out at Dallas from beneath the lid of his hat. Dallas crumpled up his paper and, cursing, threw it to the floor. He lit a cigarette and listened to the voices of Max Reddick and Minister Q, and knew they would be the last black voices he would ever hear. He thought of the Negro agents out there who believed their operations had only to do with Alliance Blanc.

  The sun was beginning to tilt into late afternoon in Leiden. Gray clouds appeared on the horizon. Max, who had debated but a moment before consigning Jaja’s papers to the fireplace, now touched the pile with a match. He watched the flames reflecting from the sides of the copper pots and pans hooked from the brick facing. Now if something happened (and what could happen? Minister Q had been ready for something like this a long time) there would be no papers and the absence would be a sword of Damocles over the head of the Alliance and King Alfred. No papers and therefore no end; the Alliance and King Alfred, whatever happened, would always know that someone else knew. That fact would gnaw at white men in power for as long as they held it.

  Michelle was using the telephone now, talking to her husband. Max listened to her voice as it came to him from the other room, now rising, now falling; now pleading, now sad; now promising, now resigned. Max stared out at the canal—the waters were now black. In the sky, gray cloud tumbled over gray cloud, and small trees bent before the rising wind, and flapped their leaves. The long conversation with her husband had ended; now Max heard Michelle talking to the French Embassy. The tone of her voice was different; it was that tone all Europeans use to address those beneath their social level. The tone was not haughty as much as it was sure of itself, sure that the message it conveyed would be followed to the letter.

  It was nearly time to go. Max knew fear now. It reached down and dulled the razor-sharp pain that sliced through his lower body. Maybe, even at this moment, he thought in sudden, desperate fright, someone had invented the serum, the pill, the thing that would make cancer obsolete. Now it would do him no good. He took a deep breath. It was done and nobody had invented or discovered anything. It is done.

  Even so Max snapped shut the lock on the case. It was empty, but he would still take it with him. Let the emptiness, when they discovered it, speak for itself. He wanted to see the expression on their faces. In a minute, as soon as Michelle finished her call, he would kiss her on the cheek and leave the house. He would plod through the courtyard, open the gate he had entered so innocently a few hours earlier, and step into the street. What would be there? Who would be there? If there were nothing and no one, he would get into the little German car, fascism on wheels, now so indispensable to too many people in too many places. You bought a VW and you made peace. It was no good saying you thought long and hard about it first. Once you laid down your money and drove away, the pact to forget the past was made. In the car he would pull out the Llama and put it in his pocket; it would make him feel better.

  Alfonse Edwards had waked that morning feeling unusually dull and heavy. He took a cold shower, dressed except for a jacket, then stood looking at the canal, waiting for his breakfast to come up. The night before he had signed for it for seven. In a few moments he heard footsteps thumping over the carpeted steps. He moved to his door and opened it. The boy, bearing his tray, smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Edwards.”

  “Good morning. How is the weather?”

  “The sun is out and it is very fresh.”

  “Fine,” Edwards said. “Just the way I like it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As he was eating, Edwards’ eyes went once more to the plaque on the wall that gave a brief history of his hotel on the Heeren-Gracht. The building had been constructed only a dozen years after the first Dutch slave ship sailed into Jamestown. And here he was—three hundred forty-five years later—and on the side of the descendants of the doers of that deed, trying to undo it. Or trying to prevent the inevitable reaction to that deed which had been the background for so many others. He ripped a piece of brown bread in half and placed half a slice of Gouda on it, then poured his coffee.

  But this was the day. Last night he had had Michelle Bouilloux followed from Paris to Leiden. She had been watched as she left the train, going to her secret home where Ames had spent so much time with her. Then one of the agents from the Embassy at The Hague had taken over; he was still on duty near the house. This morning, together with his Amsterdam contact, Edwards would complete the assignment.

  It had been a long assignment. Africa and then Europe. In Europe there had been the constant suspicion, for every Negro new to a European city was said to be connected with Central. To allay that suspicion there had been the trips, the women, the writing, the fights, talking the jargon. But today that would be over. There would be another assignment after a bit of Rest and Recuperation, perhaps in Frankfurt, before he took on a new one. The new assignment would be another of what the people back home called dirty, filthy jobs. But those jobs protected America in ways Americans were too childish to realize. However, they did expect someone to protect them. From all terrors. The phone rang and Edwards felt a momentary tightening across his lean stomach. He picked it up and snapped off a quiet “Hello.” Then he listened. “I’ll be downstairs in ten minutes,” he said, and he hung up. He put his jacket on. He did not know what to expect from Max Reddick, but the mission was crystal clear. From a corner of his suitcase Edwards lifted a stainless steel object three inches long. It was in a clear plastic container. The object was a high-pressure syringe and when the handle was pushed, a powerful, high-speed jet of Rauwolfia serpentina came forth, penetrating both clothes and skin, and attacked the central nervous system at once, depressing it until death came. The usual autopsy report was death by heart attack. Edwards made sure the plastic container was tight before placing it in his pocket. One agent had killed himself by carrying the syringe without its case.

  Edwards walked quietly downstairs, and gaining the street, walked across it and looked at the canal. The city was just coming awake; ducks were floating around in search of food. He wondered just how many ducks had been killed during the night by the canal rats. He saw the car coming, a small black VW, and moved to the edge of the road. When it stopped he went around and got in, noticing that Roger was wearing dark glasses.

  “Morning,” Edwards said.

  “Morning.” Roger drove off. “He just got up. He’s rented a car, a VW. Light gray.”

  They drove to the Leidseplein and parked. Now the other people would retreat to the consulate and wait. Reddick was theirs; State was bypassing.

  “It’s going to be a nice day,” Roger said.

  “Yes, the weather’s been surprisingly good for a change.”

  Bicyclists went by in waves. More trams rolled by, and cars.

  “There he is,” Roger said.

  “Let’s go. Don’t lose him.”

  They followed Max’s car out Overtoom.

  Max paused a long moment before pulling the cord that opened the gate. He glanced behind him at the house; Michelle was at a window, watching. A white spot. He couldn’t even tell now the color of her hair. He thought, S’long, Red. He pulled the cord and the gate swung open. He stepped into the street, pulling the door closed after him and leaning back against it automatically, to make sure it was firmly locked. He lo
oked up and down. The street was quiet, almost empty. He scuttled across the walk, heart pounding, and hurriedly unlocked the car door. Inside, he relocked it and, flinching from the pain of the sudden sitting, groaned. His fingers were groping under the seat for the Llama. Where was it? Stiff, eager fingers ploughed into car-floor dirt; his heart threatened to tear through his rib cage. Where—? But now his fingers touched heavy metal with hard precise lines, and he pulled the gun out, breathing with relief. He pulled the clip halfway out. Still loaded. A small gun, but that’s what everyone got killed with in New York. Twenty-two’s. A .25 would hurt only a little bit more. He put the gun in his pocket, checked the doors again and placed the case on the other seat. He started down the street and sped quickly through the city, so occupied with watching behind him that he squirted through two red lights. When he gained the main road he shifted into fourth. Better, he thought. That’s better. With the coming of the gray clouds the temperature had dropped slightly and the wind had come up. He felt it tearing at the car. He drove rapidly. A big, black Mercedes rushed up behind him, blinked its lights and then howled past. Max noticed the black-on-white plates. The big “D” to one side. Deutschland.

  Now Max sped around a long curve. Coming out of it he seemed to see, bent low in front of a red VW, Professor Bazzam, book in hand (instructions?) peering inside the hood. Max started in fright and swerved out of his lane, then roared back into it with tires screeching. When his car was steady a moment later, he peered into the rear-view mirror and saw, he thought, the VW again, but now the hood was down, closed tightly upon a pair of frantically kicking legs and feet which were shod in knob shoes. The one weakly wriggling arm and hand were slowly being drawn into the hood. In the hand a book waved back and forth. Suddenly it was gone.

  Well, son, you almost am no more!

  Saminone! Where you been, baby? I thought I’d lost you.

  Son, I ain’t been nowhere. Right here, right on.

  Yeah, well how’s your momma?

  Boy, this ain’t no time for foolin’! You gonna git it! Them people waitin’ for you black ass, an’ they gonna cut it a duster!

  Ain’t they, though, ain’t they?

  You drivin’ mighty fast, boy. Is you in a hurry?

  Shit, Saminone, I’m only doing the limit. That’s all.

  Yeah? Look here, boy—was it worth it, all this? T’day, t’night, it’s gonna be you an’ them worms—maybe you an’ the eels—lotsa water ’round here, you know.

  Will it hurt?

  Nothin’ like you been hurt, Max.

  Well, fuck it then. I’m gonna have me some company.

  Ooo-weee! A eel feast! A worm banquet! That old Sam is comin’ out, ain’t it, Max?

  Saminone, do eels and worms like black meat better than white meat?

  Heee. Don’t s’pose it matters, long’s they eatin’.

  It isn’t right.

  Whut?

  You know.

  Well, son, itsa same for all you goddamn ams, y’know.

  Aw, kiss my ass.

  Move you nose. Haw, haw! Capped you! You capped!

  You square, old-timey motherfucker, you haven’t capped anybody.

  Max, how come you flips up so nasty all the time?

  To hell with that. Just tell me I am.

  You am whut?

  Tell me!

  Damn, Max, boy, you knows I can’t tell you no sucha thing.

  Bastard. You can tell me. Now you can tell me.

  You don’t wants me to lie, does you?

  Never mind. I know I am.

  Then why you keeps on botherin’ me?

  Go on, get the hell away from me.

  You knows you can’t get rid of the Saminone.

  All you ever want to do is remind me that I am black. But, goddamn it, I also am.

  Whut you done done was a black act. No white man’d ever do that.

  Survival!

  Shit. You jus’ evil.

  So’s your momma.

  Easy, tiger.

  Why are you so quiet? Why don’t you say something, Saminone?

  Max, sonny boy, there just ain’t no more to say.

  Max was steering with one hand and with the other wiping away the saliva that had formed upon his lips. Now, waves of nausea tugged at his stomach. He felt blood flowing lightly, but steadily and more than pain, he felt embarrassment. Like a broad, he thought. He opened his mouth and sucked in great gulps of air.

  Europa 10 through western Holland is a narrow, well-tended four-lane highway. It flows over flat land except where there are long but gentle inclines which soon slant back down to sea level or below and continue on.

  Max drove up one of those long gentle inclines and saw a sign:

  The turnoff to Buitenkaag was at the crest of the incline. Max could see grass and a grove of small elm trees. He made a sudden decision to pull off the road and rest. Change the cotton. Take a pill. He snapped over the wheel and careened off Europa 10. Braking gently as he rushed downhill, he pulled up on the grass between the trees. Overhead and to his right, a lone car rushed toward Amsterdam under the deepening gray skies. Max shut off the ignition and silence, except for the wind, fell upon him.

  He opened the door and reached for his pills and cotton. As he put his feet on the ground, he wished he were someplace where he could give himself another shot and lay down. At that moment there was for him no luxury like that of lying down. A gust of wind coughed across the fields and the trees leaned and their leaves flapped in frenzy and Max heard an alien noise brought, it seemed, by the wind itself; and he whirled, dropping the pills and cotton, and tugged frantically at his pocket where the gun was, pushing against the car door which was pressed against him by the wind. Before the black VW had stopped, Max recognized Roger and Edwards, and thought without surprise, Of course! Disarmingly he put toward them that face which had attracted the hurt and wounded all his life, the face for the Marys and Boatwrights, the Reginas and Sheas, the Harrys. That face as they flowed toward him, their car engine still running. Max could almost count their steps. Gripping his gun he thought, This is the final irony. The coming of age, Negro set at Negro in the name of God and Country. Or was it the ultimate trap?

  “Roger!” he cried out in fury and the wind burst over them in a mighty gust and Max, aiming the gun at Roger now, noticing their surprise (the face he had put on helped, intangibly, yet mightily); heard Roger shout, “Max man! Hold it! We just want to talk to you, man!” but fired at him low, once, twice, and saw him fold and start down, caught his shocked voice saying “Damn, man!” Soft, awful sound, his body hitting the ground while Edwards as if lifted by the wind came at him, smoothly, dark, long, uncoiling, and Max threw up his free hand to ward off the bright flash of silver which nevertheless grazed him, and in that same windblown, overcrowded second Max cleared his gun to fire at Edwards, aiming high this time, to shoot him right in the mouth, to stop up that mouth for good; but suddenly Edwards flying past him now, silver glittering in his hand, Roger in his final bounce upon the ground, the wind began to shriek in Max’s ears and the running car engine became an army of snare drummers and Max felt the world closing in on him fast, pounding and squeezing him as he tumbled forward now, puzzled and frustrated and fearful, screaming, “Maggie! Maggie!”

  Roger was pulling himself toward the car whimpering, “That fucker, trying to be a hero, a motherfucking hero. He was shooting for my balls!”

  Edwards quickly pulled Max’s body into his car and bent him over the steering wheel. He opened the briefcase. It was empty. Then with swift, practiced fingers he went over Max’s body. Practiced fingers probe the rectum, separate the testicles, feel the penis for hidden objects. Edwards did not find microfilm; he found the wad of blood and pus-filled cotton; he found the morphine. Now he understood the syringe and needle. Without hesitation, he attached the needle to the syringe, then withdrew the morphine. He pushed up Max’s sleeve and hit the big vein in his arm. Like the old days with the Narcotics Department he though
t, still moving swiftly. Jazz musicians in Europe dying of overdoses administered by agents tired of chasing them. Better than heart attacks. There were getting to be too many people found dead of “heart attacks.”

  Edwards closed Max’s car door and returned to his own car, kicking dirt over the trail of Roger’s blood.

  “C’mon,” Roger called. “Hurry up, man. I’m hit bad.”

  “Where?” Edwards asked.

  “I don’t know. Near my balls. Did he get my balls? Look.” Roger removed his hands. Edwards looked. “Did he?”

  “I can’t tell. Let’s get going anyway.”

  Within a minute they were back on the northbound lane to Amsterdam. Angrily Edwards considered the papers. He’d have to stop and call and get Roger into other hands. Then he’d have to get back to Leiden. The woman. Goddamn it, he thought, and it might not even end there.

  It was late afternoon now and Margrit Reddick was still sitting at the outdoor table of the American on the Leidseplein. She toyed with a Campari. The wind had died and great patches of blue sky were chasing the gray clouds. The factories and shops were closing and traffic streamed all around the Plein. Max would enjoy watching the female cyclists, she thought. That pert one with her knees going in every direction, good Dutch legs showing way, way up. Margrit smiled. She looked at the fountain with its two fish with crossed tails spouting water from their mouths and christened them Max and Maggie. From now on there will be no more spouting water. Two lovers, a black man and a white woman, moved past the front of the hotel and their movements caught at her. Life could be good; life was good. Max had come back. He needed her; one look told her that, but as ill as he might be she needed him more.