He looked at me fixedly, picking up his glass slowly and taking a long swallow.
"Let's put it this way," he said. "How would you like to be the new Booker T. Washington?"
"What!" I looked into his bland eyes for laughter, seeing his red head turned slightly to the side. "Please, now," I said.
"Oh, yes, I'm serious."
"Then I don't understand you." Was I drunk? I looked at him; he seemed sober.
"What do you think of the idea? Or better still, what do you think of Booker T. Washington?"
"Why, naturally, I think he was an important figure. At least most people say so."
"But?"
"Well," I was at a loss for words. He was going too fast again. The whole idea was insane and yet the others were looking at me calmly; one of them was lighting up an underslung pipe. The match sputtered, caught fire.
"What is it?" Brother Jack insisted.
"Well, I guess I don't think he was as great as the Founder."
"Oh? And why not?"
"Well, in the first place, the Founder came before him and did practically everything Booker T. Washington did and a lot more. And more people believed in him. You hear a lot of arguments about Booker T. Washington, but few would argue about the Founder..."
"No, but perhaps that is because the Founder lies outside history, while Washington is still a living force. However, the new Washington shall work for the poor..."
I looked into my crystal glass of bourbon. It was unbelievable, yet strangely exciting and I had the sense of being present at the creation of important events, as though a curtain had been parted and I was being allowed to glimpse how the country operated. And yet none of these men was well known, or at least I'd never seen their faces in the newspapers.
"During these times of indecision when all the old answers are proven false, the people look back to the dead to give them a clue," he went on. "They call first upon one and then upon another of those who have acted in the past."
"If you please, Brother," the man with the pipe interrupted, "I think you should speak more concretely."
"Please don't interrupt," Brother Jack said icily.
"I wish only to point out that a scientific terminology exists," the man said, emphasizing his words with his pipe. "After all, we call ourselves scientists here. Let us speak as scientists."
"In due time," Brother Jack said. "In due time... You see, Brother," he said, turning to me, "the trouble is that there is little the dead can do; otherwise they wouldn't be the dead. No! But on the other hand, it would be a great mistake to assume that the dead are absolutely powerless. They are powerless only to give the full answer to the new questions posed for the living by history. But they try! Whenever they hear the imperious cries of the people in a crisis, the dead respond. Right now in this country, with its many national groups, all the old heroes are being called back to life—Jefferson, Jackson, Pulaski, Garibaldi, Booker T. Washington, Sun Yat-sen, Danny O'Connell, Abraham Lincoln and countless others are being asked to step once again upon the stage of history. I can't say too emphatically that we stand at a terminal point in history, at a moment of supreme world crisis. Destruction lies ahead unless things are changed. And things must be changed. And changed by the people. Because, Brother, the enemies of man are dispossessing the world! Do you understand?"
"I'm beginning to," I said, greatly impressed.
"There are other terms, other more accurate ways of saying all this, but we haven't time for that right now. We speak now in terms that are easy to understand. As you spoke to the crowd this morning."
"I see," I said, feeling uncomfortable under his stare.
"So it isn't a matter of whether you wish to be the new Booker T. Washington, my friend. Booker Washington was resurrected today at a certain eviction in Harlem. He came out from the anonymity of the crowd and spoke to the people. So you see, I don't joke with you. Or play with words either. There is a scientific explanation for this phenomenon—as our learned brother has graciously reminded me—you'll learn it in time, but whatever you call it the reality of the world crisis is a fact. We are all realists here, and materialists. It is a question of who shall determine the direction of events. That is why we've brought you into this room. This morning you answered the people's appeal and we want you to be the true interpreter of the people. You shall be the new Booker T. Washington, but even greater than he."
There was silence. I could hear the wet cracking of the pipe.
"Perhaps we should allow the Brother to express himself as to how he feels about all this," the man with the pipe said.
"Well, Brother?" Brother Jack said.
I looked into their waiting faces.
"It's all so new to me that I don't know exactly what I do think," I said. "Do you really think you have the right man?"
"You mustn't let that worry you," Brother Jack said. "You will rise to the task; it is only necessary that you work hard and follow instructions."
They stood up now. I looked at them, fighting a sense of unreality. They stared at me as the fellows had done when I was being initiated into my college fraternity. Only this was real and now was the time for me to decide or to say I thought they were crazy and go back to Mary's. But what is there to lose? I thought. At least they've invited me, one of us, in at the beginning of something big; and besides, if I refused to join them, where would I goto a job as porter at the railroad station? At least here was a chance to speak.
"When shall I start?" I said.
"Tomorrow, we must waste no time. By the way, where are you living?"
"I rent a room from a woman in Harlem," I said.
"A housewife?"
"She's a widow," I said. "She rents rooms."
"What is her educational background?"
"She's had very little."
"More or less like the old couple that was evicted?"
"Somewhat, but better able to take care of herself. She's tough," I said with a laugh.
"Does she ask a lot of questions? Are you friendly with her?"
"She's been very nice to me," I said. "She allowed me to stay on after I was unable to pay my rent."
He shook his head. "No."
"What is it?" I said.
"It is best that you move," he said. "We'll find you a place further downtown so that you'll be within easy call..."
"But I have no money, and she's entirely trustworthy."
"That will be taken care of," he said, waving his hand. "You must realize immediately that much of our work is opposed. Our discipline demands therefore that we talk to no one and that we avoid situations in which information might be given away unwittingly. So you must put aside your past. Do you have a family?"
"Yes."
"Are you in touch with them?"
"Of course. I write home now and then," I said, beginning to resent his method of questioning. His voice had become cold, searching.
"Then it's best that you cease for a while," he said. "Anyway, you'll be too busy. Here." He fished into his vest pocket for something and got suddenly to his feet.
"What is it?" someone asked.
"Nothing, excuse me," he said, rolling to the door and beckoning. In a moment I saw the woman appear.
"Emma, the slip of paper I gave you. Give it to the new Brother," he said as she stepped inside and closed the door.
"Oh, so it's you," she said with a meaningful smile.
I watched her reach into the bosom of her taffeta hostess gown and remove a white envelope.
"This is your new identity," Brother Jack said. "Open it."
Inside I found a name written on a slip of paper.
"That is your new name," Brother Jack said. "Start thinking of yourself by that name from this moment. Get it down so that even if you are called in the middle of the night you will respond. Very soon you shall be known by it all over the country. You are to answer to no other, understand?"
"I'll try," I said.
"Don't forget his living quarters," the tall man said.
"No," Brother Jack said with a frown. "Emma, please, some funds."
"How much, Jack?" she said.
He turned to me. "Do you owe much rent?"
"Too much," I said.
"Make it three hundred, Emma," he said.
"Never mind," he said as I showed my surprise at the sum. "This will pay your debts and buy you clothing. Call me in the morning and I'll have selected your living quarters. For a start your salary will be sixty dollars a week."
Sixty a week! There was nothing I could say. The woman had crossed the room to the desk and returned with the money, placing it in my hand.
"You'd better put it away," she said expansively.
"Well, Brothers, I believe that's all," he said. "Emma, how about a drink?"
"Of course, of course," she said, going to a cabinet and removing a decanter and a set of glasses in which she poured about an inch of clear liquid.
"Here you are, Brothers," she said.
Taking his, Brother Jack raised it to his nose, inhaling deeply. "To the Brotherhood of Man... to History and to Change," he said, touching my glass.
"To History," we all said.
The stuff burned, causing me to lower my head to hide the tears that popped from my eyes.
"Aaaah!" someone said with deep satisfaction.
"Come along," Emma said. "Let's join the others."
"Now for some pleasure," Brother Jack said. "And remember your new identity."
I wanted to think but they gave me no time. I was swept into the large room and introduced by my new name. Everyone smiled and seemed eager to meet me, as though they all knew the role I was to play. All grasped me warmly by the hand.
"What is your opinion of the state of women's rights, Brother?" I was asked by a plain woman in a large black velvet tarn. But before I could open my mouth, Brother Jack had pushed me along to a group of men, one of whom seemed to know all about the eviction. Nearby, a group around the piano were singing folk songs with more volume than melody. We moved from group to group, Brother Jack very authoritative, the others always respectful. He must be a powerful man, I thought, not a clown at all. But to hell with this Booker T. Washington business. I would do the work but I would be no one except myself—whoever I was, I would pattern my life on that of the Founder. They might think I was acting like Booker T. Washington; let them. But what I thought of myself I would keep to myself. Yes, and I'd have to hide the fact that I had actually been afraid when I made my speech. Suddenly I felt laughter bubbling inside me. I'd have to catch up with this science of history business.
We had come to stand near the piano now, where an intense young man questioned me about various leaders of the Harlem community. I knew them only by name, but pretended that I knew them all.
"Good," he said, "good, we have to work with all these forces during the coming period."
"Yes, you're quite right," I said, giving my glass a tinkling twirl. A short broad man saw me and waved the others to a halt. "Say, Brother," he called. "Hold the music, boys, hold it!"
"Yes, uh... Brother," I said.
"You're just who we need. We been looking for you."
"Oh," I said.
"How about a spiritual, Brother? Or one of those real good ole Negro work songs? Like this: Ah went to Atlanta—nevah been there befo'," he sang, his arms held out from his body like a penguin's wings, glass in one hand, cigar in the other. "White man sleep in a feather bed, Nigguh sleep on the flo'... Ha! Ha! How about it, Brother?"
"The Brother does not sing!" Brother Jack roared staccato.
"Nonsense, all colored people sing."
"This is an outrageous example of unconscious racial chauvinism!" Jack said.
"Nonsense, I like their singing," the broad man said doggedly.
"The Brother does not sing!" Brother Jack cried, his face turning a deep purple.
The broad man regarded him stubbornly. "Why don't you let him say whether he can sing or not...? Come on, Brother, git hot! Go Down, Moses," he bellowed in a ragged baritone, putting down his cigar and snapping his fingers. "Way down in Egypt's land. Tell dat ole Pharaoh to let ma colored folks sing! I'm for the rights of the colored brother to sing!" he shouted belligerently.
Brother Jack looked as if he would choke; he raised his hand, signaling. I saw two men shoot from across the room and lead the short man roughly away. Brother Jack followed them as they disappeared beyond the door, leaving an enormous silence.
For a moment I stood there, my eyes riveted upon the door, then I turned, the glass hot in my hand, my face feeling as though it would explode. Why was everyone staring at me as though I were responsible? Why the hell were they staring at me? Suddenly I yelled, "What's the matter with you? Haven't you ever seen a drunk —" when somewhere off the foyer the broad man's voice staggered drunkenly to us, "St. Louis mammieeeee—with her diamond riiiings..." and was clipped off by a slamming door, leaving a roomful of bewildered faces. And suddenly I was laughing hysterically.
"He hit me in the face," I wheezed. "He hit me in the face with a yard of chitterlings!"—bending double, roaring, the whole room seeming to dance up and down with each rapid eruption of laughter.
"He threw a hog maw," I cried, but no one seemed to understand. My eyes filled, I could barely see. "He's high as a Georgia pine," I laughed, turning to the group nearest me. "He's abso-lutely drunk... off music!"
"Yes. Sure," a man said nervously. "Ha, ha..."
"Three sheets in the wind," I laughed, getting my breath now, and discovering that the silent tension of the others was ebbing into a ripple of laughter that sounded throughout the room, growing swiftly to a roar, a laugh of all dimensions, intensities and intonations. Everyone was joining in. The room fairly bounced.
"And did you see Brother Jack's face," a man shouted, shaking his head.
"It was murder!"
"Go down Moses!"
"I tell you it was murder!"
Across the room they were pounding someone on the back to keep him from choking. Handkerchiefs appeared, there was much honking of noses, wiping of eyes. A glass crashed to the floor, a chair was overturned. I fought against the painful laughter, and as I calmed I saw them looking at me with a sort of embarrassed gratitude. It was sobering and yet they seemed bent upon pretending that nothing unusual had happened. They smiled. Several seemed about to come over and pound my back, shake my hand. It was as though I had told them something which they'd wished very much to hear, had rendered them an important service which I couldn't understand. But there it was, working in their faces. My stomach ached. I wanted to leave, to get their eyes off me. Then a thin little woman came over and grasped my hand.
"I'm so sorry that this had to happen," she said in a slow Yankee voice, "really and truly sorry. Some of our Brothers aren't so highly developed, you know. Although they mean very well. You must allow me to apologize for him..."
"Oh, he was only tipsy," I said, looking into her thin, New England face.
"Yes, I know, and revealingly so. I would never ask our colored brothers to sing, even though I love to hear them. Because I know that it would be a very backward thing. You are here to fight along with us, not to entertain. I think you understand me, don't you, Brother?"
I gave her a silent smile.
"Of course you do. I must go now, good-bye," she said, extending her little white-gloved hand and leaving.
I was puzzled. Just what did she mean? Was it that she understood that we resented having others think that we were all entertainers and natural singers? But now after the mutual laughter something disturbed me: Shouldn't there be some way for us to be asked to sing? Shouldn't the short man have the right to make a mistake without his motives being considered consciously or unconsciously malicious? After all, he was singing, or trying to. What if I asked him to sing? I watched the little woman, dressed in black like a missionary, winding her way through the crowd. What on earth was she doing here? What part did she play? Well, whatever she meant, she's nice and I like her.
Just then Emma came up and challenged me to dance and I led her toward the floor as the piano played, thinking of the vet's prediction and drawing her to me as though I danced with such as her every evening. For having committed myself, I felt that I could never allow myself to show surprise or upset—even when confronted with situations furthest from my experience. Otherwise I might be considered undependable, or unworthy. I felt that somehow they expected me to perform even those tasks for which nothing in my experience—except perhaps my imagination—had prepared me. Still it was nothing new, white folks seemed always to expect you to know those things which they'd done everything they could think of to prevent you from knowing. The thing to do was to be prepared—as my grandfather had been when it was demanded that he quote the entire United States Constitution as a test of his fitness to vote. He had confounded them all by passing the test, although they still refused him the ballot... Anyway, these were different.
It was close to five A.M., many dances and many bourbons later, when I reached Mary's. Somehow, I felt surprised that the room was still the same—except that Mary had changed the bed linen. Good old Mary. I felt sadly sobered. And as I undressed I saw my outworn clothes and realized that I'd have to shed them. Certainly it was time. Even my hat would go; its green was sun-faded and brown, like a leaf struck by the winter's snows. I would require a new one for my new name. A black broad-brimmed one; perhaps a homburg... humbug? I laughed. Well, I could leave packing for tomorrow—I had very little, which was perhaps all to the good. I would travel light, far and fast. They were fast people, all right. What a vast difference between Mary and those for whom I was leaving her. And why should it be this way, that the very job which might make it possible for me to do some of the things which she expected of me required that I leave her? What kind of room would Brother Jack select for me and why wasn't I left to select my own? It didn't seem right that in order to become a Harlem Leader I should live elsewhere. Yet nothing seemed right and I would have to rely upon their judgment. They seemed expert in such matters.
But how far could I trust them, and in what way were they different from the trustees? Whatever, I was committed; I'd learn in the process of working with them, I thought, remembering the money. The bills were crisp and fresh and I tried to imagine Mary's surprise when I paid her all my back rent and board. She'd think that I was kidding. But money could never repay her generosity. She would never understand my wanting to move so quickly after getting a job. And if I had any kind of success at all, it would seem the height of ingratitude. How would I face her? She had asked for nothing in return. Or hardly anything, except that I make something of myself that she called a "race leader." I shivered in the cold. Telling her that I was moving would be a hard proposition. I didn't like to think of it, but one couldn't be sentimental. As Brother Jack had said, History makes harsh demands of us all. But they were demands that had to be met if men were to be the masters and not the victims of their times. Did I believe that? Perhaps I had already begun to pay. Besides, I might as well admit right now, I thought, that there are many things about people like Mary that I dislike. For one thing, they seldom know where their personalities end and yours begins; they usually think in terms of "we" while I have always tended to think in terms of "me"—and that has caused some friction, even with my own family. Brother Jack and the others talked in terms of "we," but it was a different, bigger "we."
Well, I had a new name and new problems. I had best leave the old behind. Perhaps it would be best not to see Mary at all, just place the money in an envelope and leave it on the kitchen table where she'd be sure to find it. It would be better that way, I thought drowsily; then there'd be no need to stand before her and stumble over emotions and words that were at best all snarled up and undifferentiated... One thing about the people at the Chthonian, they all seemed able to say just what they felt and meant in hard, clear terms. That too, I'd have to learn... I stretched out beneath the covers, hearing the springs groan beneath me. The room was cold. I listened to the night sounds of the house. The clock ticked with empty urgency, as though trying to catch up with the time. In the street a siren howled.
Chapter 15
Then I was awake and not awake, sitting bolt upright in bed and trying to peer through the sick gray light as I sought the meaning of the brash, nerve-jangling sound. Pushing the blanket aside I clasped my hands to my ears. Someone was pounding the steam line, and I stared helplessly for what seemed minutes. My ears throbbed. My side began itching violently and I tore open my pajamas to scratch, and suddenly the pain seemed to leap from my ears to my side and I saw gray marks appearing where the old skin was flaking away beneath my digging nails. And as I watched I saw thin lines of blood well up in the scratches, bringing pain and joining time and place again, and I thought, The room has lost its heat on my last day at Mary's, and suddenly I was sick at heart.
The clock, its alarm lost in the larger sound, said seven-thirty, and I got out of bed. I'd have to hurry. There was shopping to do before I called Brother Jack for my instructions and I had to get the money to Mary—Why didn't they stop that noise? I reached for my shoes, flinching as the knocking seemed to sound an inch above my head. Why don't they stop, I thought. And why do I feel so let down? The bourbon? My nerves going bad?
Suddenly I was across the room in a bound, pounding the pipe furiously with my shoe heel.
"Stop it, you ignorant fool!"
My head was splitting. Beside myself, I struck pieces of silver from the pipe, exposing the black and rusted iron. He was using a piece of metal now, his blows ringing with a ragged edge.
If only I knew who it was, I thought, looking for something heavy with which to strike back. If only I knew!
Then near the door I saw something which I'd never noticed there before: the cast-iron figure of a very black, red-lipped and wide-mouthed Negro, whose white eyes stared up at me from the floor, his face an enormous grin, his single large black hand held palm up before his chest. It was a bank, a piece of early Americana, the kind of bank which, if a coin is placed in the hand and a lever pressed upon the back, will raise its arm and flip the coin into the grinning mouth. For a second I stopped, feeling hate charging within me, then dashed over and grabbed it, suddenly as enraged by the tolerance or lack of discrimination, or whatever, that allowed Mary to keep such a self-mocking image around, as by the knocking.
In my hand its expression seemed more of a strangulation than a grin. It was choking, filled to the throat with coins.
How the hell did it get here, I wondered, dashing over and striking the pipe a blow with the kinky iron head. "Shut up!" I screamed, which seemed only to enrage the hidden knocker. The din was deafening. Tenants up and down the entire line of apartments joined in. I hammered back with the iron naps, seeing the silver fly, striking like driven sand against my face. The pipe fairly hummed with the blows. Windows were going up. Voices yelled obscenities down the airshaft.
Who started all this, I wondered, who's responsible?
"Why don't you act like responsible people living in the twentieth century?" I yelled, aiming a blow at the pipe. "Get rid of your cottonpatch ways! Act civilized!"
Then came a crash of sound and I felt the iron head crumble and fly apart in my hand. Coins flew over the room like crickets, ringing, rattling against the floor, rolling. I stopped dead.
"Just listen to 'em! Just listen to 'em!" Mary called from the hall. "Enough noise to wake the dead! They know when the heat don't come up that the super's drunk or done walked off the job looking for his woman, or something. Why don't folks act according to what they know?"
She was at my door now, knocking stroke for stroke with the blows landing on the pipe, calling, "Son! Ain't some of that knocking coming from in there?"
I turned from side to side in indecision, looking at the pieces of broken head, the small coins of all denominations that were scattered about.
"You hear me, boy?" she called.
"What is it?" I called, dropping to the floor and reaching frantically for the broken pieces, thinking, If she opens the door, I'm lost...
"I said is any of that racket coming from in there?"
"Yes, it is, Mary," I called, "but I'm all right... I'm already awake."
I saw the knob move and froze, hearing, "Sounded to me like a heap of it was coming from in there. You got your clothes on?"
"No," I cried. "I'm just dressing. I'll have them on in a minute."
"Come on out to the kitchen," she said. "It's warm out there. And there's some hot water on the stove to wash your face in... and some coffee. Lawd, just listen at the racket!"
I stood as though frozen, until she moved away from the door. I'd have to hurry. I kneeled, picking up a piece of the bank, a part of the red-shirted chest, reading the legend, FEED ME in a curve of white iron letters, like the team name on an athlete's shirt. The figure had gone to pieces like a grenade, scattering jagged fragments of painted iron among the coins. I looked at my hand; a small trickle of blood showed. I wiped it away, thinking, I'll have to hide this mess! I can't take her this and the news that I'm moving at the same time. Taking a newspaper from the chair I folded it stiffly and swept the coins and broken metal into a pile. Where would I hide it, I wondered, looking with profound distaste at the iron kinks, the dull red of a piece of grinning lip. Why, I thought with anguish, would Mary have something like this around anyway? Just why? I looked under the bed. It was dustless there, no place to hide anything. She was too good a housekeeper. Besides, what of the coins? Hell! Maybe the thing was left by the former roomer. Anyway, whose ever it was, it had to be hidden. There was the closet, but she'd find it there too. After I was gone a few days she'd clean out my things and there it'd be. The knocking had gone beyond mere protest over heatlessness now, they had fallen into a ragged rumba rhythm:
Knock!
Knock-knock
Knock-knock!
Knock!
Knock-knock!
Knock-knock!
vibrating the very floor.
"Just a few minutes more, you bastards," I said aloud, "and I'll be gone! No respect for the individual. Why don't you think about those who might wish to sleep? What if someone is near a nervous breakdown...?"
But there was still the package. There was nothing to do but get rid of it along the way downtown. Making a tight bundle, I placed it in my overcoat pocket. I'd simply have to give Mary enough money to cover the coins. I'd give her as much as I could spare, half of what I had, if necessary. That should make up for some of it. She should appreciate that. And now I realized with a feeling of dread that I had to meet her face to face. There was no way out. Why can't I just tell her that I'm leaving and pay her and go on off? She was a landlady, I was a tenant—No, there was more to it and I wasn't hard enough, scientific enough, even to tell her that I was leaving. I'll tell her I have a job, anything, but it has to be now.
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